The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [62]
“You’re even more vicious than usual tonight,” Jean said admiringly.
“Mike’s sartorial tastes have always offended me,” was the reply.
Michael glanced up from his sketch to survey his friend with contempt.
“Anybody who would wear a pink flowered shirt and a string of blue love beads has got no business criticizing my clothes.”
“What about me?” Jean asked, to avert another uproar. “You haven’t made any suggestions for me.”
Andy’s face softened as he looked at her.
“Come as a saint,” he said. “Almost any saint would do.”
Michael made an odd choking sound.
They broke up early, by mutual consent. José had some complex scheme for a costume, which demanded immediate action, and the others planned to track down Ted and Dana, to tell them about the party. Jean had been hoping they would go their respective ways before she made her move; but they lingered, and finally she was forced to action. She hailed a taxi.
Andy greeted this gesture with rude comments about the rich and the rich by association. Jean’s retorts were weak, but this was one promise, made to Jacqueline, that she intended to keep.
Michael closed the taxi door for her. As he withdrew, Jean felt something flutter down into her lap. The sheet of paper had been folded several times, but she knew it must be one of Michael’s sketches. The light was poor, so she didn’t try to look at it.
It was still early; Jacqueline would not be back from a conventional dinner for some time yet. But as Jean nerved herself for the entrance into a darkened hall, she realized that the apartment was not deserted. The foyer was lit, and there were sounds from the kitchen. She hesitated, holding the elevator door open. Then footsteps shuffled down the hall. Jacqueline’s appearance matched her dispirited shuffle. She was wearing a faded cotton robe and her face had sagged into weary lines.
Jean stepped out and let the door close.
“What are you doing back so early?”
“It was a business dinner,” Jacqueline said, with an odd twist of her mouth. “You took a cab?”
“Yes. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Jacqueline dropped into a chair.
“I don’t think I’d better,” she said.
Jean sat down, and the poodle came trotting across the floor and flung himself down on her feet. The French doors to the balcony were open; a breeze drifted in, bringing with it the scent of pines and the soft sea-sound which was the rustle of branches in the wind. The sounds and smells and sensations blended into a unique whole which would always recall these Italian nights, just as the sun on a hot street lined with old houses would always summon up the nostalgia of Rome on a summer day. I don’t want to lose this, Jean thought. And I will; it will be lost in nightmares unless…
“Then you haven’t changed your mind,” she said. “About Albert’s death.”
“No. Did you think I was running out on you? I ought to be insulted.”
“I didn’t really think that. In fact, I wondered whether the lieutenant’s visit might not be more than coincidental.”
“Look,” Jacqueline said wearily. “I’m not being mysterious for the fun of it. There are reasons. Just don’t worry. You’ll be all right…. What’s this?”
“One of Michael’s sketches, I think. He gave it to me tonight.”
Jacqueline raised an inquiring eyebrow and Jean nodded. Jacqueline spread the paper out on the coffee table. The sudden tension of her shoulders roused Jean’s curiosity. She leaned over to see the sketch.
It was brilliant, one of the best things Michael had ever done—and one of the most terrifying. It was done in a manner quite different from his usual broad, quick technique; the figures were small, the detail precise. And it stopped Jean’s breath for a moment, because the subject was so similar to the one she had been sketching that day.
Like hers, Michael’s drawing showed a row of stiff Byzantine saints. Or—Sinners? There were seven of them. The faces were exquisite little portraits, but it was the detail of costume and symbol that made Jean start to wonder.
As people will, she looked first at herself. Her initial reaction was