Silver Linings, стр. 34

“Never mind, babe.” He smiled at her and turned to the older pilot. “You finish the inspection on that Cessna?”

“Yeah, boss. No major problems.”

“Check out that fuel line on the Beech?”

“It's fixed.”

“Keep an eye out for corrosion?”

“Sure, boss. Like always.” Derek winked at Mattie and added conspiratorially, “The man's a damn tyrant when it comes to maintenance.”

“You want to get caught out over the water with corroded equipment, that's your privilege,” Hugh said. “But do it in someone else's plane. Not one of mine. I can always find more pilots but good, reliable aircraft are hard to come by.”

Ray grinned widely at Mattie. “Don't worry, his bark is worse than his bite. Most of the time, that is.”

Mattie smiled back. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Hugh looked at her. “I'll bet you're ready to do some shopping, aren't you, babe? There's a couple of stores farther down the street. Why don't you go have a look while I finish checking up on things here? I'll be along in a few minutes.”

“Fine.” Mildly irritated at being sent off as though she were a child who was too young to hear an adult conversation, Mattie turned on her heel and strode toward the door.

“I think she's mad, boss,” Derek observed.

“She's been under a lot of stress lately,” Hugh explained.

Two doors down from Abbott Charters Mattie saw a window display that included jeans and short-sleeved shirts. She went inside and made her selections quickly. There was not much choice.

When she reemerged a few minutes later she walked across the street to take a closer look at the wide variety of boats bobbing in the harbor. There were several sailboats, a few fishing boats, and one large cruiser that had Abbott Charters printed neatly on the bow. Apparently, Hugh was in the boat as well as air charter business. An astute businessman covering all the bases.

She strolled along the waterfront for a short distance, taking in the picturesque setting with a weird sense of déjà vu. This would have been her home if she had come here a year ago. Somehow it all looked exactly as it should, as it had in her dreams and fantasies.

She leaned over the concrete balustrade and found herself staring into the uncovered stern section of one of the boats. For a second she could not believe her eyes.

She was looking straight down at a half-finished painting. It was sitting on an easel that had been set up in the aging boat amid a welter of brushes, paints, coiled ropes, and fishing gear.

The painting was incomplete, but it was stunning.

The artist had obviously taken the lazy, sun-drenched scene of the main street of St. Gabriel as his starting point. But the painting had gone far beyond a mere reproduction of the quay, bars, and faded storefronts that lined the waterfront. This was no tranquil scene of a picture-postcard island paradise. It was a primitive, incredibly sensual image of savage beauty.

In the half-finished painting the jungle behind the town throbbed with both unseen menace and a sense of life in its rawest form. The beautiful waters of the harbor threatened the tiny outpost of civilization yet somehow held promise for the future.

The painting was at once a universal statement on the human condition and a compelling landscape scene. It was a work of art on several levels, totally accessible to a wide variety of viewers.

And Mattie knew immediately that she could sell it for a small fortune back in Seattle. Perhaps for a very large fortune if she shrouded the painter in enough mystery.

All of her instincts as a businesswoman snapped to full, quivering attention. Like a hound on the scent, she hurried down the dock steps and peered through the windows of the boat's cabin. She had to locate the artist, and she hoped like hell he was not already represented by another dealer.

She leaned down to call into the cabin. “Anybody home?”

There was no response.

She waited impatiently for a moment or so. When there was still no sign of life, she glanced at the name painted on the hull of the old boat and tried again.

“Excuse me. Is anyone home on board the Griffin?”

“Don't go holdin' yer breath waitin' for an answer from ol'Silk, lady. He's already up at the Hellfire. Won't be back till Bernard rolls him out the door sometime after midnight.”

Mattie glanced down the dock and saw a grizzled old man crouched over a coil of rope. His skin looked like leather and his eyes had a permanent, sun-induced squint. He was wearing a pair of old pants that hung precariously on his scrawny frame and a cap that looked as if it might once have been decorated with a military insignia.

“Hello,” Mattie said politely. “I'm looking for whoever painted that picture.”

“That'd be Silk, all right. He's always fiddlin' around with those paints o' his. 'Cept when he's busy workin' or drinkin', o' course.”

“Of course. And I take it he is now drinking?”

“Yup. Take a look at the time. Dang near four o'clock. Silk always heads for the Hellfire at three sharp on Wednesdays. Real regular in his habits, Silk is.”

“Thank you for the information,” said Mattie, turning. “I'll try the Hellfire. Is it up there on the water-front?”

“Yup. But I don't reckon you want to be goin' in there, ma'am.” The old man eyed her skeptically. “Silk can get a might difficult to manage once he's had a few. Specially when it comes to females. Silk likes females and he don't get a shot at very many around here. Just an occasional tourist.” The man spit a wad of chewing tobacco into the harbor. “None of us gets much shot at females. Not many females get this far. They usually stop in Hawaii. Worse 'n livin' in a dang monastery.”

“Really? If that's the way you feel, then why do you choose to live way out here?”

“Used to it, I reckon. What you want with Silk?”

“I just want to