Chapters (65)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty–one
- Twenty–two
- Twenty–three
- Twenty–four
- Twenty–five
- Twenty–six
- Twenty–seven
- Twenty–eight
- Twenty–nine
- Thirty
- Thirty–one
- Thirty–two
- Thirty–three
- Thirty–four
- Thirty–five
- Thirty–six
- Thirty–seven
- Thirty–eight
- Thirty–nine
- Forty
- Forty–one
- Forty–two
- Forty–three
- Forty–four
- Forty–five
- Forty–six
- Forty–seven
- Forty–eight
- Forty–nine
- Fifty
- Fifty–one
- Fifty–two
- Fifty–three
- Fifty–four
- Fifty–five
- Fifty–six
- Fifty–seven
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Becky Masterman
- About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
Anniversary surprises be damned. With my brain fuzzy as if I’d just taken some mind-bending drug, I put the break-in on temporary hold, hung up the phone without being sure if I said good-bye, and drove the few minutes down to the framing shop, hoping there were no cops lurking on a side street to make up their ticket quota by end of month.
At the drive into the shopping center I pulled hard right with only the tiniest squeal of the tires, parked, ran into the shop, and had to cool my jets behind a customer who was picking up another job. I waited while Drew packaged the newly framed work in brown paper. I waited while he rang up the charges and took the guy’s credit card. I ground my teeth and waited while the two talked for a few minutes about the weather. People in Arizona usually aren’t in a hurry except for those instances of road rage, where we rank fifth in the country. I remained quiet, my heart idling. I’m working on patience.
When the other customer was gone after exhausting his discussion of the merits of the unseasonable coolness in relation to global warming, Drew gestured me over to his workbench, where a pencil sketch lay next to a handwritten letter. The cardboard backing where it had been sandwiched was faded on the outside and darker in the middle where the sketch had rested. That alone told me it was pretty old. Pretty authentic.
“Nice sketch,” he said, rubbing his ink-stained fingers over his beard as if to muffle the words he felt he had to say. Like I’d done it myself and it was crap. I don’t know where Carlo found it, but the fifties hoodlum look was unmistakable, that long thin face ending in a pointy chin, and the narrowed eyes, one slightly higher and more slitty, that I had seen in so many photographs. As Capote himself had described it more capably, “composed of mismatching parts as though it had been halved like an apple, then put together a fraction off center, the eyes at uneven levels and of uneven size.” In the lower right-hand corner were the initials P.S.
I failed to stifle a gasp. “Do you recognize who this is?” I asked, ever curious about the extent of the younger generation’s cultural illiteracy.
“Looks familiar. Maybe from a television program?” He seemed embarrassed, more and more certain that I had done it myself and wanted recognition for it.