The Case of the Nude Portraitist

I was minding my own business in my office when she came in.

"Detective H. East?"

"That's me," I replied.

Her beautiful countenance appeared troubled.

"I inherited this business from my father, Henry East. I'm his daughter, Honey."

"I'm sorry, I heard Detective East was very good. I had no idea..."

"I'm as competent as any male P.I. I'm a crack shot and a judo expert. Does the fact that I wear a brassiere, disqualify me..." I gazed at her ring finger. She wore an impressive rock and a diamond-encrusted wedding band, "Mrs.?"

"Mrs. Carver," she paused a moment, "Actually, this may be better. I want you to tail my husband, I suspect that he is having an affair."

"You could get anybody for that. I'm not a run-of-the-mill P.I. job. My rates are a hundred dollars a day, double on weekends. Tell me about your husband Mrs. Carver."

"While I respond to Mrs. Carver, I didn't take his name when we married. I'm still Audrey Reeves. August Carter and I are quite progressive in many areas, I'm still a stickler for fidelity, however. Oh, flirting with the pretty little things he paints is one thing, taking them up on their flirting is something else again."

"Your husband is an artist?" I asked.

"Yes, perhaps you have heard of him, he works under the nom de plume of "Augusto."

That name did ring a bell. He's been in all the Sunday supplements. "The master of the sensual nude," "the genius of the gentle gender," and a host of other platitudes. There was a retrospective of his works at the big art gallery downtown.

"Yes," I replied. "I've heard of him."

I paused and stated, "Given the nature of your husband's work and his subjects, isn't your stance a bit, shall we say, unrealistic?"

"I'm NOT talking about a simple roll in the hay! He's gotten serious about someone. I'm not going to take that lying down! I need proof that it is serious and who she is. August and I did not have much money when we married. We couldn't even afford wedding bands. I was his first model. He began selling paintings, then he started getting big commissions. These rings were a fifth-anniversary present. I've always been at the center of his universe, and I'll be damned if I play second fiddle now. I've warned him that if any of those girls began to eclipse me, I'd take him for everything he has."

"Are you positive there IS another fiddler?"

"I'm almost positive!"

Her lovely features lost their tension.

"I need definite proof before I can file for divorce. If I'm wrong, August will accuse me of being a hysterical judgmental woman and everything will blow up in my face. I've had some mental troubles in the past. If I am wrong, August will claim that I am insane and have me committed. Then he can take up with the new fiddler, with impunity."

"Mrs. Miss? Reeves, it isn't that easy to commit someone."

"You don't understand. August has rich and powerful friends. Since becoming famous, he has courted the elite of society, powerful people, doctors, lawyers, and psychiatrists! Unless I have irrefutable proof. I will be considered insane and locked away for years."

"But he loves you," I returned.

"Yes, but what if he loves HER more than me?"

"That's what your money will find out."

After she supplied a photo of her husband as well as the make and model of his car and its plate numbers, along with a check for a week's work, I escorted her out of my office. The first thing I did was drive over to the gallery in downtown LA and take in Augusto's oeuvre. "Sensual" doesn't begin to do his work justice. These women were luminous, assured, and sexy as hell. I could see why his painting raked in big bucks. The retrospective was arraigned in chronological order. I encountered my client, the lovely Audrey Reeves, years younger, in all her naked glory as well as a surprising number of minor starlets whom I recognized from the movies. There were even some society wives clad in just earrings and their wedding jewelry. Any man who could make a woman look this glorious was bound to attract attention from his subjects.

I noted that Augusto was scheduled to appear at the gallery shortly. I stood out of view and waited. Augusto in person was strikingly handsome, far more attractive than his studio portrait, with greying temples and a taut physique. In his wake was a stunning brunette with an astounding bustline and cat-like green eyes. I'd seen here picture among the works displayed, at the very end. It struck me that the mysterious woman with the midnight tresses was a younger, sleeker, more stacked version of Audrey Reeves. "Why are men such pigs?" I asked myself. I studied their interactions. He and the pneumatic brunette were friendly, but not overly so. If they were intimate partners, they certainly didn't show it in public. This case was going to take work.

I bided my time at the exhibit until Augusto and Miss Statuesque had finished signing autographs and giving interviews. Miss Statuesque, behaved like a glorified secretary, refilling Augusto's wine, organizing the autograph line, and sweet-talking the critics and the press. For all I knew, she could be just that, a very beautiful and sexy secretary. Still, something about their interaction nagged at me. When they left together in a classic Thunderbird, I trailed them in my white convertible. He dropped her off at the front of a luxury apartment building near the beach. They exchanged a goodnight kiss that could have set of sprinkler systems if a smoke detector had been anywhere in the vicinity! She entered her apartment. Alone.

I trailed Augusto home to the beautiful bungalow he shared with Audrey. She greeted him at the door, clad in a short diaphanous robe, a martini in one hand. Augusto kissed his wife. This osculation would not have set off any fire alarms.

Saturday morning donned grey and overcast. Although, if I read things correctly, the sun would burn all that off by noon. I thought I might find something incriminating in Augusto's studio. I dressed in a neat sand-colored top and navy skirt. As always, my.22 was in the garter holster about my right thigh. My dad had taught me the ins and outs of B&E. Not because he expected me to follow in his footsteps, but rather, to guarantee that no lothario ever locked me away someplace without me being able to escape. I took my tools and parked my convertible a block and a half away from Augusto's studio. I was inside within moments.

Just as I located the file cabinet, but before I could open it. The door swung open behind me and in strolled Augusto!

"The door was unlocked," I alibied as I slid my burglary tools into my brassiere. Fortunately, he didn't notice that sleight of hand.

"No problem, he returned. You're early I like that."

"Early?"

"Certainly. You ARE the blonde model I requested from the agency?"

"Of course!" I vamped.

"Excellent! You can get undressed behind that screen. You can wear the robe until I decide on the pose. Then we take some reference photos and get to work on the oils."

"Oh!" I spoke.

How the hell was I going to get out of this one? I thought dismally. No matter how I sliced it, there was no way I was getting out of this studio without Augusto seeing everything! What artist, especially one as wealthy and successful as my client's husband, started work at six A.M. on a Saturday? I sighed heavily and stepped behind the screen. The robe did not cover much, but it was better than nudity.

"My, but you are a pretty one! What's your name?"

"Helen. Helen North."

"Where are you from?"

"I'm a California girl, Sir."

"Actress?"

"Sometimes." Like now! I added silently.

He put me through a few paces and tried me out before a series of backdrops.

"Lose the robe, Helen."

I placed the robe over the arm of a chair. For the next six hours, I sat in that chilly studio without a stitch on. I shuddered at the thought of Mark Storm of the L.A.P.D. finding out about this painting or the Polaroids in both color and black and white and the stills on conventional film Augusto had developed while he was working. Mark Storm wants to domesticate me. He wants me to quit the P.I. game and become his little wife and turn out brawny sons. Sometimes the idea elates me, other days it is horrifying! I can't quit the P.I. game until I bring the person to justice who killed my father. Otherwise, his death in a rain-drenched alley was meaningless.

I will say that Augusto did make me feel pretty good about myself. He extolled my beauty in a really classy and sincere way. I imagined that he flattered all his subjects like this. I could easily, under other circumstances, see myself falling for him. He was talented, patient, gallant, sophisticated, and handsome. Everything a girl looks for in a guy.

At noon, Miss Statuesque barged into the studio carrying three bagged lunches. We stared at each other. She gave me the once over as I reclined in the nude. Our stares assessed each other. I knew, from seeing her portrait that I compared well to her. I think she thought the same thing.

"Lunch time!" she exclaimed. She and Augusto exchanged a chaste kiss. They behaved differently in front of an audience. That meant either they were careful, or that I was reading too much into that seemingly red-hot kiss. I put the robe on and shared lunch with Miss Statuesque, whose name was Rita Evans, and Augusto. I paid particular attention to how they interacted. There was nothing lovey-dovey about their behavior. There was lots of respect and mutual admiration. Maybe Audrey Reeves really was seeing phantoms. I was sure the answer was in his files. I'd have to try again at dawn on Sunday.

At one P.M. I was back in my clothes. Augusto set three one-hundred-dollar bills in front of me. I scooped them up and placed them in my purse. I certainly had earned them! No sooner did this happen than the phone rang.

"What do you mean you've been in the hospital since six A.M. and only now have been permitted to use the phone? Then WHO is the woman who modeled today?"

I quickly made a beeline for the exit and ran all the way back to my car. Rita gave chase but I pulled away before she rounded the corner. She cursed at me as my car pulled away.

Sunday, I was up at the crack of dawn. As before, I got into Augusto's office. This time I got into the file cabinet. In Rita's file, there were nude pictures. There was also a file marked "Helen North" which contained nudes of me. Much as I wanted to, I could not abscond with my file because it would give the game away that I had been in the office. If Augusto started asking around, I would not be hard to find, especially if he hired one of my male rivals! All the files had nudes in them. All the nudes were poses and extra shots from portrait sessions. What did I expect to find? Everything was "incriminating" but none of it was of any use. Just when I was about to seal the drawers in frustration, I discovered a ledger under the hanging files. I examined it. The ledger contained sales figures and destinations for his various portraits, mostly signed prints. I looked at the sales figures. Something seemed off. The prices he was getting for prints and originals seemed a lot higher than the price stickers on Augusto's works for sale at the art gallery. I know Augusto was famous and all, but even superstars have their upper price limits. I took some photos of the ledger entry with my spy camera and then placed it back where I had found it. I left Augusto's office no closer to the question of how close he was to Rita Evans and with a whole new set of questions.

I spent the rest of Sunday at the beach with Mark Storm. He started in on his old refrain immediately. I tried to distract him from proposing for the umpteenth time to ask him about his work.

"Oh, I have a million problems but I'm not a dizzy female private eye with a penchant for losing my clothes."

That made me angry.

"Have you noticed, Mr. Detective that I lose my clothes in the pursuit of justice as a P.I. but that I never lose them around you!"

He wore a sour expression for the rest of the day. True, Mark had saved my life more times than I can count. He is big and ruggedly handsome. But what do I really see in him? If I slid his wedding ring on, I would begin to die. There'd be no place for me in our marriage. I'd be HIS wife, the mother of HIS children, and he'd only see to HIS needs between the sheets. Stil, there was so much history between us. I thought back to the flattering, beautiful words of Augusto the day before. If Mark owned a tenth of Augusto's charm and sensitivity, I'd happily walk down the aisle next to him in a heartbeat. But Mark was nothing like Augusto.

On Monday, I burned up the phone lines, pretending to be a buyer for a fancy New York gallery interested in buying some of Augusto's work and re-selling it. The prices were high, but not as high as in Augusto's ledgers. I decided to call Augusto's studio and try the same thing. Rita answered the phone.

"What gallery did you say you are calling from?"

I told her.

"I've never heard of it and neither has Augusto. What's your address? I spouted the location of a hotel I had stayed in in Manhattan once.

"That doesn't sound right. Who is this?"

I slammed the phone down. Strike out that approach.

Running out of leads, I spent Tuesday through Thursday scouting out Augusto's studio. Rita came and went. Augusto came and went. Sometimes they arrived and left together, but not often. She sure was behaving like a secretary. On Thursday afternoon I noted what were clearly some paintings ready for shipping. They sat on the curb. I decided to see where they were being shipped to. Later I could trace them and hopefully find out how much they sold for. I snuck up to the parcels. Weirdly, all of them bore identical addresses of the same warehouse in Brooklyn, New York. Why send five parcels to the same address in five different boxes? That made no sense.

Bent over as I was, I didn't notice the figure creeping up behind me. I felt a sudden pinprick in my neck. The world spun and went dark and deathly silent. When I came to, my hands were cuffed together and wired to a hook in the ceiling, Fetters were around my ankles. Rita Evans was glaring at me. Two bruisers whom I did not recognize stood on either side of her.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Helen North! What's a "model" doing carrying this around?"

She waved my.22 under my nose.

"For protection. L.A. is a dangerous city."

"That doesn't wash, sister. Why were you checking out those packages?"

"I collect postage stamps and wanted to see if I had those in my collection!"

"Yeah, this isn't getting us anywhere," She turned to the bruiser on her left, "Strip her Rocco!"

"I be delighted boss!" he said with a grin of very bad teeth. He produced a switchblade. It snicked open.

"Don't flinch, Doll. I'd hate to cut you."

With a laugh and a sneer, he sliced away the top button on my blouse. I wore my most defiant look while Rocco cut away the second button, then the third. The last of my buttons rolled away into the darkness beyond the halo of light I was secured in. My blouse fell open, I felt the cold air of what I assumed was a basement on my torso. The thug cut up each arm and down the back of my blouse. Its remains fluttered to the floor. Rocco cut up each side of my skirt and then tugged it away. I hung there in just my underwear.

"Oh, baby!" spouted Rocco.

"Very nice!" opined the other thug.

"Last chance, "Helen"" said Rita in a taunting voice.

I remained mute. My brassiere joined my cutoff clothing on the cement floor.

"Man, oh man!" said Rocco.

I had to close my eyes as my lacy panties were cut away. I was completely naked with no way to shield myself.

The thug on Rita's right held up with something nasty looking.

"Clyde here is going to beat you for a few hours with this implement. It won't leave a mark on your lovely skin, but it will tear up your insides. If you are still unwilling to talk after that, Rocco will open your jugular vein and that will be that." Rita smiled as she finished speaking.

"How does all this tie in with Augusto?"

"You don't ask the questions, Blondie, you answer them!"

she faced the bruiser with the hose.

"Start to work, Clyde."

"Sure, thing boss, once I collect my souvenir."

"The floor is yours, big guy."

Clyde disappeared for a moment and returned with a jar in his hand. He then bent in front of me and spread the contents of the jar over my most intimate area. The stuff hardened almost immediately. Clyde then took out an unusual knife. I recognized it from my dad's hunting trips. It was flensing knife, used to take pelts of small animals!"

"Don't flinch, gorgeous!" said Clyde with a wink. Slowly, deliberately, almost gently, he used the knife to remove the hair on my pelvis. I held my breath, too terrified to even breathe. After several minutes of intense work, Clyde said, "WOLLA!" and waved under my nose what my body had been wearing a moment before. This was the worst violation I had ever endured.

"I love natural blondes!" said Clyde with gusto as he set down my "pelt" and picked up the weighted hose.

"I'm a private eye!" I screamed.

"Who hired you?" asked Rita as she stayed Clyde's hand.

"Augusto's wife. She thinks you and he are involved in a torrid affair, and she wanted proof."

Rita laughed out loud at that.

"That dumb bitch! Yeah, her husband nails me from time to time but, at heart, Augusto is a one-woman-man, and that woman is Audrey!"

"But..." I sputtered.

"That's not what this is about," continued Rita. "Oh, it started out that way, but you discovered something, didn't you? Something that made you curious about Augusto's shipping habits? Right?"

I made no reply. Rita nodded at Clyde and the weighted hose crashed into my ribs knocking the air from my lungs.

"Shall we continue, "Helen'?"

"Yes," I sputtered when I caught my breath. "People are paying too much for Augusto's

work."

"Well, aren't you A-one detective! You have no idea why though, right?"

"Not a clue!"

"Should I beat the truth out of her boss?" asked Clyde.

"No, I think she's. telling the truth, she is clueless. Jab her and cut her down Rocco. We'll let Sister Margaret, make this little problem disappear."

Rocco came forward with an evil-looking needle. He buried it in my posterior, and I was once again out like a light.

I awoke naked between soft, scented sheets. A hard-looking middle-aged woman was looking down at me.

"Welcome back to the world of the living."

"Where am I?"

"Safe in the arms of Sister Margaret."

"You're a nun?"

The older woman chuckled, "I was once. My house is a sisterhood of less sacred women."

"I'm not following you."

"The world's oldest profession, dearie. You work for me now."

"Hold on!"

"Of course, if you don't want Sister Margaret's aid, we do offer a rather inexpensive funeral service, a single.45 caliber bullet."

That silenced me.

"You are a beautiful girl. You should bring in lots of business."

"But..."

"I run a clean house. No louts are allowed in, medical check-ups every week, Mondays off. We supply costumes, linens, and prophylactics. We also put aside a third of your earnings and invest them. In a few years, you'll have quite the nest egg. That money will give you a nice down payment on a house in the suburbs. You can land yourself a decent guy and have a passel of kids and recall your days here fondly when he inevitably disappoints you."

"There must be some mistake..."

"Mistakes are what landed you here, honey."

"But I can't be a prostitute!"

"We prefer the term "working girl," and sure you can. At its best, it is simply wonderful, at its worst, it's just boring."

"You don't understand!"

"No blonde one, YOU don't understand. Frank! Get in here."