Through my fingers, I saw Hrundig stiffen. His hand was now gripping the sword tightly.
Angela—bless the girl—made her own desperate attempt.
“It must be someone else!” she piped. “Just a passing resemblance.”
“It’s Gwendolyn,” rumbled Greyboar. “There isn’t another woman in the world who looks like that. Besides, the paintings are perfect. Every detail. Even got—you remember, Ignace, that time you bit her when you were kids?—even got that little ragged scar on her left knee.”
Suddenly, Jenny charged forward and planted herself before the strangler.
“You behave yourself, Greyboar!” she admonished. “We’re having a pleasant afternoon and I won’t stand for anything spoiling it!”
“That’s right!” cried Angela. A moment later, she was standing next to Jenny, wagging her finger in Greyboar’s face. “We won’t stand for any of your roughneck ways!”
Benvenuti started laughing. Everyone stared at him.
“What’s so funny?” demanded the girls.
“You are,” he replied cheerfully. “You look like two mice lecturing a bear on table manners.” He shook his head. The gesture expressed admiration combined with wonder.
Greyboar’s face suddenly took on an actual expression. The Stare vanished, replaced by a peeved frown.
“I’d like to know why,” he grumbled, “everybody seems convinced that I’m about to turn this place into a slaughterhouse.”
“There’s a bit of a body count in your past,” said Hrundig.
“That’s business,” replied the strangler. A glance at Hrundig’s hand, followed by an irritated shrug. “Oh, stop clutching that stupid sword, Hrundig. There’s no need for it, and it probably wouldn’t do you much good if there were.”
“I imagine not,” replied Hrundig. “Still—Benvenuti is my friend.”
Greyboar looked up at Angela and Jenny—or, I should say, looked straight at them, for even seated his eyes were on a level with theirs. Suddenly, he grinned.
“Benvenuti’s right. You do look like two mice lecturing on protocol.”
The girls flushed. Greyboar took a deep breath and gazed up at the ceiling. “It was quite obvious that Gwendolyn never posed for those paintings, Ignace, so you could have saved us that ridiculous suggestion.”
“Worth a try,” I muttered.
Still staring at the ceiling, Greyboar sighed. “Ignace, not everyone in this world is as hot-tempered, choleric and pugnacious as you. Nor, Jenny and Angela, am I quite the homicidal maniac you seem to think I am. But, even if I were, I still wouldn’t have done anything about those paintings.”
His gaze dropped; he glanced toward Benvenuti’s private room. “Only one person in the world scares me,” he muttered, “and that’s my sister. I imagine she’d take it badly, if I was to go out and do something like choke her former boyfriend on the grounds that he had sullied the family name.” He grimaced. “Real badly.”
He looked at Benvenuti, now, and for what seemed like endless seconds they stared at each other. I understood that stare. Two men, both of whom in their own way loved a woman, simply acknowledging that fact. I found myself swallowing. There were times—now and then—
When I found myself missing Gwendolyn. A lot.
The Cat came back into the room. She wasn’t doing her usual drifting, though. She headed straight for Benvenuti. For an instant there, I could almost follow her progress.
“Is that it?” she demanded, pointing at the tablet on the chair.
Benvenuti nodded. The Cat picked up the sketches and studied them. Then she studied the artist.
“You’re good,” she pronounced. She looked back at the sketches. “Is that really what I look like?” Then, without waiting for an answer: “It’s exactly what I feel like.”
She transferred her stare to Greyboar. “You should see the portraits he has in the other room. They’re wonderful. They really are. Not at all like the crap on the walls out here. The funny thing is, the woman in the paintings looks kind of like you, except she doesn’t look like a gorilla.”
“My sister, Gwendolyn,” rumbled the strangler. Abruptly, he rose.
“Well, I believe our business here is done,” he announced. “The Cat’s happy, which is what matters.”
Then—I almost laughed, here—Greyboar actually nodded very politely to the artist. Almost like one of your real upper-crust salon-type bows, that was.
“I thank you, Benvenuti.” Greyboar hesitated, adding: “Someday, if you’d like, come visit me at The Trough. I—would like to hear about Gwendolyn.”