PREVIOUSLY IN THE PORTRAIT
Lois Lane has been murdered. As he investigates her life and death, new Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent is interviewing some who knew her. A portrait of her seems to change after each interview, reflecting what he has learned about her. The more he learns about Lois Lane, the greater the mystery of what she was involved in and what caused her death.
AND NOW:
When Lucy Lane stepped off the elevator and into the Daily Planet newsroom, heads turned to observe her entrance. She was known by most of the news crew, who found her amiable manner refreshing. That she shared her sister’s good looks met with universal male approval, especially since she good-naturedly responded to their obvious appreciation. Because of recent events, the mood on this occasion was a somber one so there were no whistles or remarks, and she smiled only faintly as she waived a general greeting and walked to Perry’s office.
Clark, finishing his transcription of the Scardino interview, had been aware of her when she entered Perry’s office. Just as he turned off his computer, he saw the two of them emerge and watched them walk toward him. He stood as they approached.
“Ah, Lucy, I want you to meet Clark Kent. Clark, this is Lucy Lane, Lois ‘sister. Clark, here, is going to write about Lois and maybe, help find out who...what happened. I know it’ll be hard, honey, but it’d be real helpful if you’d just talk with him about your sister. He didn’t have the good fortune to know her, so he really needs to find out what she was like.”
Perry had his arm around Lucy as he finished, and when she nodded affirmatively, he squeezed her shoulders. “Clark, why don’t you take Lucy into the conference room so you two can have a little privacy. Lucy, when you’re finished, you come say goodbye, now, you hear.” And he turned to walk back to his office.
Clark saw that the girl in front of him was working hard to control her emotions. As a diversion, he asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Looking up gratefully, she replied, “Yes, that would be great.”
He didn't want to send Lucy into the conference room alone, where she would confront the portrait, so Clark took her with him to the coffee machine. “How do you take your coffee?” he asked.
“Cream and sugar,” she replied. And then followed in an undertone, “Not like Lois.”
“Lois liked her coffee black?”
“No, she used artificial cream and fake sugar. She worked out a lot, but she still worried about calories anyway...except for chocolate.” Lucy’s answers were low and subdued.
“She liked to stay fit?”
“Yeah. She was in the gym almost every day. And she studied Tae Kwan Do. All the messes that she seemed to get into, she needed to be able to take care of herself.”
Without her realizing it, Clark had ushered Lucy into the conference room and seated her at the table where she toyed with her coffee cup. Deflecting her attention from the painting, he sat next to her, continuing to ask questions and making notes on a pad.
“What kind of messes did she get into?”
“It was always about some story she was after. I didn’t pay a lot of attention except when she’d get herself almost killed.”
“You worried about her?”
“I loved her; of course, I worried about her.” For the first time Lucy became animated in her response. “She was my big sister. When our parents’ marriage started coming apart, she looked after me. After they divorced, all we had was each other. But lately, I felt like I needed to look after her.”
“You thought she was in danger?”
“Not in the way you think. She wouldn’t have let me get involved in her work. But I did think she was in danger of throwing away her personal life.”
“She was having problems in her personal life?”
“She didn’t have a personal life. It was all about working, following a story, getting the scoop. She had her eyes set on winning a Pulitzer Prize and nothing else mattered. She never just relaxed or had a little fun.”
“Was she dating anyone?”
“She didn’t have dates; she had interviews. Not that she didn’t wish she could find someone special. I kept telling her there was a super guy out there who’d make her happy, but she always said she didn’t have time for it.”
“Someone said she was involved with two men, Dan Scardino and Lex Luthor.”
“Work, it was all work. She and Scardino were investigating something together, and Lex Luthor is the third richest man in the world. I don’t care how many times she went out with him, he was just another interview.”
“A lot of women would have been excited to be asked out by the third richest man in the world.”
“Money didn’t interest her, but what makes him tick did. He resonates power, and I think she found that fascinating.”
“Some would call it an aphrodisiac.”
“I don’t think Lois was interested in him that way.”
Lucy had confirmed Scardino’s story, and Lois Lane was not involved in a relationship with Lex Luthor. Clark was pleased, almost elated...except that these emotions he was feeling were about a dead woman. He avoided looking at the portrait even though he very much wanted to.
“When she left the Planet the day...that day, she was planning to take some time off. Do you know what she was going to do, if she was going away anywhere?”
“She told me she had some thinking to do, a decision to make, but she didn’t say what it was about or if she was going away.”
“Perry said you were bringing over some files she left at your apartment?”
“Yes. I don’t know what they were. She said not to let anybody but Perry see them.”
“Do you know what was in them?”
“No, she warned me not to look at them. That it could be dangerous for me to know. Like I said, I stay...stayed out of her investigations. I didn’t look.”
Clark covered her hand with his. “I’m sorry to have to ask these questions. I can only imagine how hard it is for you, but do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”
Tears filled Lucy’s eyes, but she answered. “I wish I did so it would help find that...whoever did it. But I don’t. It had to be somebody from her investigations. Anybody who knew her personally...well, she could be prickly, but underneath she was loyal and loving. You had to love her in spite of her prickles.”
“Thank you, Lucy; I’m so sorry for your loss. If there had been a way to avoid putting you through this....” There was a moment of silence. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
Lucy stood and looked at the portrait. “That doesn’t show what she was like underneath, you know. It doesn’t show her vulnerable side or her caring side. It’s all about work. That’s not the way I want to remember her.”
Clark walked her out of the conference room, and she went off to say goodbye to Perry. Unable to avoid it longer, he let the portrait draw him. Funny that Lucy couldn’t see the wistful sadness that he saw, the longing for personal intimacy that softened her eyes giving them shadowed depths. He jerked his gaze away. This was crazy! It was the portrait of a dead woman. He was reading too much into the flat canvas. He turned to his desk to write up the interview with Lois’s sister.
A few minutes later, Lucy re-appeared, making her way to the elevator with a slight wave of goodbye to the many eyes that followed her. Perry stood in the door of his office watching until she disappeared into the elevator; then, he motioned to Clark to join him.
The two men entered the editor’s office where Perry retrieved some files from his desk and gave them to Clark. “This is what Lois left with Lucy. They look like they’re about one of her investigations. I don’t know what; she didn’t always tell me what she was onto. I’m entrusting these to you because they could have something to do with her murder. Read them tonight and bring them back in the morning. Depending on what’s in there, we may decide to turn them over to Henderson. If we do, you’ll pick up some points with him.”
“Thank you, Mr. White. From what I learned today, it could well be that this investigation is what got her killed.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
“No, sir. I don’t have anything definite yet. It’s just a hunch that I have to follow up on.”
“But you’ll fill me in when you have something concrete?”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
“You getting to know her any better?”
“I know she wasn’t afraid of looking under rocks. That seems to be one thing that everyone agrees on. But I’m getting a lot of conflicting opinions about her. It’s hard to pin her down.”
“She was a woman, Clark. How much experience have you had with them?”
Clark flushed. “I’ve dated. I’ve had girlfriends.”
“I’m not talking about girls. I’m talking about women. Women are not easy to figure out; they like to keep you guessing, surprise you. Lois was always a surprise. You never knew what she was up to. Not only was she a woman, but she was special, unique. You’re not ever gonna know everything there was to know about her.”
“I know. She’s a riddle, and just when I think I’ve found an answer, the question changes, but that just makes her more intriguing.”
“Now, you’re finally getting it, son. Go to it.”
++++++++++
Clark stood in front of apartment 105, juggling the key and several file folders while trying to steady a large, flat, wrapped package. He had covered the portrait with unused newsprint to provide protection for it while in transit. Apprehension was making it difficult to fit the key into the lock, an exercise he would normally perform readily. Why did he feel this way? He’d visited crime scenes before. He’d never been bothered by them. Why should it make a difference that this was the scene of Lois Lane’s death? He didn’t even know her. <Not true, Kent. You’re getting to know her only too well, and it’s bothering you, isn’t it? You don’t want her to be dead.> <Shut up, I’m not listening to you.> Clark succeeded in turning the lock and pushed open the door of the apartment. <You can’t ignore me for long. Sooner or later->. A distant voice interrupted Clark’s thoughts, “Help, I’m being robbed!”
Clark quickly leaned the portrait against the wall and dropped the folders on a coffee table set between two loveseats. He started toward a closed window, then stopped. It was still light outside. He couldn’t go flying off in broad daylight to rescue someone. Much as he wanted to help, he couldn’t risk revealing to the world that Clark Kent had unusual powers. Being dissected in a laboratory like a frog was not one of his career goals. He was going to have to figure out some way to use his powers to help without exposing his identity, but for now, he would have to choose, carefully, the moments when he could respond. This moment simply wasn’t one of them.
He looked around for the telephone and called 911 to report what he had heard. After completing the call, he went over to a window and opened it. The air in the apartment felt stale and heavy. When he had entered the apartment building at 1050 Carter Avenue, he had stopped to let the superintendent, Mr. Tracewski, know who he was and what he was doing there. The super had told him that, although the electricity and telephone were still working, the apartment had been closed and the heat turned off He wanted to freshen the room for a few minutes, even though the cold November damp would also seep in. He would turn on the radiator later.
Clark let his eyes wander around what had been Lois Lane’s home. A complete, though small, kitchen, some unusual wall decorations, two facing loveseats with a coffee table in between, an antique collector’s cabinet near the entryway. It was small with a paneled base; above were glass doors guarding polished wood shelves that held three gold and acrylic objects. He walked over to examine them; they were Kerth awards.
Resuming his survey of the apartment, he noted two vases containing what were probably fresh flowers a couple of days ago, and several small green plants on a table near the window. Lois liked plants and flowers. <Lois! You’re on a first name basis, now, are you?> <Quiet. I told you I’m not listening to you.> Near the kitchen was a large tank with a few brightly-colored fish swimming frantically in all directions. Clark looked for a shaker of food, which he found next to the tank, and sprinkled some in the water. The occupants gratefully converged on it with mouths open. Lois had plants and fish to talk to, but no roommate.
Looking back into the sitting area, he observed that the loveseats didn’t look very comfortable. He tried one. They weren’t. She must not use them very much. Torture couches to hurry the departure of unwanted visitors? A deterrent for over-enthusiastic suitors? Decorator pieces in a place where she spent as little time as possible? Inspector Henderson had said that someone was with her when she was killed. Was she entertaining him on those couches? She, in her negligee, and he in...what? Slacks and sport shirt? T-shirt and boxers? Pajamas and robe? Just a robe? A towel? Nothing? <You don’t like that idea, do you? Maybe they were in the bedroom instead of on the couch? Did you think of that? Or do you want to think of that?> Clark said aloud, “Stop it. This woman is nothing to me. It’s just a story,” and he went in search of the bedroom.
He found nothing unusual there. A large bed (he didn’t want to dwell on why it was so large), a bedside stand, a mirrored dressing table topped with bottles and jars, a small chair, a chest of drawers, and a closet with double doors. In one corner stood Lois’s luggage, packed and waiting for a trip never taken. The adjacent bathroom held a clothes hamper as well as the usual fixtures.
These were the two most intimate rooms inhabited by Lois Lane, and, in spite of the stale air in the living room, they felt cool and fresh. Clark breathed deeply and thought of cucumbers just picked for his mother’s cucumber and tomato salad. It was Lois Lane’s scent, the essence within her aura. Her Self. Suddenly Clark felt like an intruder. He shouldn’t be here. <Why are you rushing back to the other room? This woman is dead! Privacy doesn’t mean anything to her anymore.> He turned his mind off. He would not get caught up in a ridiculous argument with himself. Time to get back to business.
He looked dubiously at the couches, but saw no alternative. He piled the loose cushions from one sofa onto the other and sat with his back to the kitchen. It wasn’t too bad this way. He picked up a file folder and opened it.
Inside, on top, was a Daily Planet article about a drowning victim found washing around an anchor stanchion of the Hobbs Bay Bridge. The police were asking for help in identifying him. The next article identified him as a chemist who had worked for STAR Labs until recently. Lois had written questions to be investigated and answered. Why was he fired? What had he been working on? Friends, coworkers? Suicide? Why? How long had he been dead? Witnesses? There were notes from some interviews, but there was nothing that stood out as anything but routine.
The second file had information about a dead body that had been thrown into a construction dumpster at a building being restored in the Hobbs Bay reclamation project. The police were trying to identify it. Subsequent articles identified the victim, as a promising high school athlete who had died elsewhere and been brought to the site. The coroner’s report gave the cause of death as an overdose of amphetamines. The body showed no signs of long-term drug abuse. Just another young man whose first mistake turned out to be his last. Another set of similar questions completed the report. Why had he taken drugs? Were his friends involved? Where did he get the drugs? Where did he die? Why was he brought to the construction site dumpster? Who would know about it and have access to it? There were, as yet, very few answers to the questions. As in the previous file, there was nothing that made this death extraordinary.
The third file contained data about amphetamines, steroids, designer Ecstasy, and insulin - apparently the research Jimmy had done. Was this just scattershot information gathering or had she put something together?
He sat back. It had been a long day, and he was tired. His mind was having a hard time keying on whatever it was she was investigating. He should have brought some food, or something to drink. Henderson had told him that forensics was finished with their work, so he could make himself at home if he wished. He wondered if she had any tea.
He went into the kitchen and looked through the cupboards. He found a box of orange pekoe, not his first choice, but apparently all that was available. There was a kettle on the stove, but he didn’t need it. Filling a mug with tap water, he dropped in a tea bag and, lowering his glasses, concentrated his gaze on the cup. Seconds later, the water bubbled. He replaced his glasses, dunked the tea bag for a couple of minutes, dropped it into the trashcan and returned to the couch with cup in hand.
He sat back on the cushions and sipped the steaming brew, feeling the tension slowly drain from his body. What a day it had been. So many people, so many versions of Lois Lane. His brain careened from one to the next. Which one was the right one? Or were they all right? What kind of story had she been on to? How did those three files tie together?
He looked at the shrouded painting, rose, removed the wrappings, returned to the couch and studied the portrait.
He saw the woman Perry and the others had talked about. The maddening, pushy, nosy, curious, hard-edged professional who was also an inspiration, beautiful, caring, warm, naturally sensual, a good friend as well as being independent, bold, headstrong, and unpredictable. He thought Perry was right to say that he would never find out everything there was to know about Lois Lane. But he wished he could. The riddle had become a mystery that he would be willing to spend a lifetime solving. She was the most exciting, fascinating woman he had ever come across...and she was dead! He’d waited all his life to find her, looked for her all over the world...and he’d found her 36 hours too late.
Was this his fate? Was he meant to be nothing more than a deus ex machina, the god from the machine come to earth to save the day and then retreat to limbo until he was needed again; to defend and protect, but never find personal happiness?
He stared, sadly, at the painting for along time, his heart a stone in his chest. After a while, his eyes gradually closed, his head fell back, and he dropped into restless sleep.
++++++++++
