The Artists Association had packed their building for the showing of unusual oil techniques by a favorite local. He was told the crush was unprecedented for a Thursday evening. Some came to see the man accused of killing his girlfriend in a lovers’ quarrel, others to report on the strange and unexplained behavior of the notorious, a few to appreciate the artist’s unusually dark talent with a brush. Jordie, dressed in his traditional black, was surrounded by well-wishers and the curious in the far corner of the large showcase room. Ron was still gnawing on the code he couldn’t decipher. He smiled at Cass when she walked into the room. She was flitting from room to room talking up the interest in her son’s work, selling more canvasses than the efforts of the association’s rep, the board of regents, and the art critic from the Boston Globe put together. Allen sauntered up to the spread of refreshments and plowed a furrow through the crab dip with a rippled chip. “Where’s Annette?”
