The Burnt Orange Heresy

"Well?" she said.

"Well, what?"

"I'm waiting for the explanation, that's what. You said you'd explain, what are you waiting for?"

"I've been thinking things over, Berenice, and I'm beginning to come to my senses. You really don't think it would be a good idea, do you, to send that painting to Mr. Cassidy?"

"That's your business, James. It isn't up to me to tell you what to do, but if you're asking me for an opinion I'd say no. But as you said, I don't know all there is to know about what it is you're trying to do-so until I do, I'll keep my long 'middle-western nose' out of your business."

"I apologized for that, sweetheart."

"That's all right. I know that my nose fits my face. What does bother me though is that I've been more or less forced to think that you set fire to Debierue's house."

"Me?" I laughed. "What makes you think I'd do something like that?"

"Well, for one thing, you didn't show any surprise," she said shrewdly, "when I told you about the news of the fire on television.

"Why should I be surprised?' His vifia in France burned down, too. It does surprise me, however, that you would think that I did it."

"Then tell me that you didn't do it, and I'll believe you."

"What would my motive be for doing such a thing?"

"Why not give me a simple yes or no?"

"There are no simple yes or no answers in this world, Big Girl-none that I've ever found. There are only qualified yes and no answers, and not many of them."

"All right, James, I can't think of a valid motive, to use one of your favorite words, 'valid; but I can think of a motive that you might consider valid. I think you've faked an article about some paintings that Debierue was supposed to paint, but didn't paint. You looked at the paintings he did paint and didn't like them, probably because they didn't meet your high standards of what you thought they should be, so you burned them by setting fire to the house. You then invented some nonexistent paintings of your own and wrote about them instead."

"Jesus, do you realize how crazy that sounds?"

"Yes, I do. But you can show me how crazy it is by letting me read the article you wrote. If there's no mention of that weird orange-"

"Burnt orange-"

"All right, burnt orange painting in your article, then you can easily prove me wrong. I'll apologize, and that'll be that."

"That'll be that, just like that?' And then you'll expect me to forgive your wild accusation as if you'd never made it, right?"

"I said that I might be wrong, and I sincerely hope that I am. It's easy enough to prove me wrong, isn't it?' What I do know though, and there's nothing you can ever say to persuade me that I'm wrong, is that Debierue never painted that picture in your hotel room. You painted it. It was still wet when I touched it-including Debierue's signature. And the only reason I can possibly come up with for you to do such a thing is because you want to write about it, and pass it off as Debierue's work. I-I don't know what to think, James, the whole thing has given me a headache. And really-you may not believe this-I actually don't care! Honestly, I don't! But I don't want you to get into any trouble, either. Arson is a very serious offense, James."

"No shit?"

"It isn't funny, I'll tell you that much. And if you did set fire to Debierue's house, you should tell me!"

"Why?' So you can turn me in to the police for arson?"

"Oh, James," she wailed. Berenice put her face into cupped hands and began to cry.

"All right, Berenice," I said quietly, after I had let her cry for a minute or so, "I'll tell you what I'm going to do." I handed her my handkerchief.

She shook her head, took a Kleenex tissue out of her purse, and blew her nose with a refined honk.

"You're right, Berenice, on all counts," I continued, "and I might as well admit it. I guess I got carried away, but it isn't too late. Setting the fire was an accident. I didn't do it on purpose. The old man had spified some turpentine, and I accidentally dropped my cigarette and it caught. I thought I'd put it out, but apparently it flared up again. Do you see?"

She nodded. "I thought it was something like that."

"That's the way it happened, I guess. But painting the picture was another matter. I don't know how I expected to get away with it, and the chances are I would've chickened out at the last minute anyway. What I'll do is throw the picture away, and then rewrite the article altogether, using the information I've actually got."

"He told us lots of interesting things."

"Sure he did."

There was a dirt road on the right, leading into a thick stand of pines. I made the turn, shifted down to second gear, but kept up the engine speed because of the sand.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to drive back in here well off the highway and burn the painting."

"You can wait until morning, can't you?"

"No. I think that the sooner I get rid of it the better. If I kept it I might change my mind again. It would be possible, you know, to get away with it-"

"No, it wouldn't, James," she said crisply.