The Tattooed Potato and Other Clues Read Free

drawers. Dickory noticed a slight but unmistakable tremor in his right hand.
    “I’m sure you’ve learned to be better organized after your walk home.” He had known about her missing purse and jacket all along. Avoiding his stare, Dickory opened the top box and removed a huntsman’s coat. Garson moved toward the door. “I’m going down to work. I’ve got to finish my lawyer’s portrait so I can begin painting Cookie Panzpresser. I’ll be back later to find out how observant you are.”
    Trying to memorize the inventory as she unpacked, Dickory separated the men’s costumes from the women’s and arranged them in a vague historical sequence. In the middle of the third carton, between a lumberjack shirt and a red feather boa, she found her jacket and shoulder bag.
     
    “How’s it going?”
    Dickory jumped. “Fine,” she replied, stooping to pick up the ruffled parasol that had fallen to the floor. “I’m nearly finished.”
    Garson inspected the closets and drawers, then leaned against the wall. Ice cubes clinked against the glass in his hand. “Now let’s see how observant you are. I’ll give you three questions, and if you answer them correctly, the job is yours. No, don’t turn around, just keep doing what you’re doing.”
    She was kneeling on the closet floor, lining up high-buttoned shoes, beaded slippers, and fur-trimmed boots.
    “Do you know the difference between a primitive painter and a creative artist?” Garson asked.
    Surprised, Dickory spun around. She had expected to be questioned about the costumes or the house or the Panzpresser Collection or Fragonard.
    “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to be a question; I’m just explaining the rules of the game.” Dickory returned to the shoes. “The difference is this,” Garson explained, “the primitive painter meticulously draws in every brick on a building because he knows the bricks are there. But the creative artist can suggest bricks with a few strokes of his brush. The creative artist is concerned, not with facades, but with the inner structure, with the truth of what he sees.”
    Dickory polished the toe of a cowboy boot with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She had meticulously drawn every brick in her Magic Marker street scenes.
    “Seeing the structure behind the facade, seeing the truth behind the disguise, that’s what I mean by being observant,” Garson said. “Remember that in answering my questions. Understand?”
    “Yes.” That sounded simple enough.
    “All right, then. In one word, only one word, describe Isaac Bickerstaffe.”
    “Who?” Dickory stalled for time.
    “Isaac, the man who lives under the front stoop.”
    “Oh.” Dickory sat back on her heels and closed her eyes. She shuddered at the remembered features of the misshapen giant.
    “Take your time,” Garson said between sips of his drink. “But remember—one word, the most important word.”
    Isaac Bickerstaffe seemed too big to squeeze into one word. “Scarface” didn’t indicate his size, neither did “one-eyed.” On the other hand, “huge” or “giant” didn’t indicate his scars. Or his scariness. “Monster,” that was it.
    “Monster,” Dickory said.
    Garson shook his head. “You disappoint me. Poor, gentle Isaac a monster? That is not only inaccurate, it’s uncharitable. The word for Isaac is ‘deaf-mute.’ ”
    Now Dickory remembered the flying fingers, the vacant stare. Shamed by her stupidity, she stood up as her hopes for the job crashed down around her. She decided to fight for another chance. “Deaf mute is two words,” she challenged.
    “One word,” Garson replied. “Deaf-hyphen-mute.”
    “But Isaac Bickerstaffe is more than just a deaf-hyphen-mute.” This was her last try.
    Garson stared into his empty glass. “Yes, Isaac is also brain-damaged.” There was compassion in his voice, but when he looked up his face wore the same blank mask. “Ready for the next question?” He pointed a shaky finger at the shoes.
    Again