“But it doesn’t bring back any memories?”
“No. Hell, honey, I can’t even remember what I did for a living.”
She smiled sadly. “Want to see?”
When he nodded, she motioned him to the other side of the front room and opened the door. She flicked on the light and he stepped into a small study filled with the trappings of an artist. Tubes of paint lay on small tables, beside cans of turpentine, lacquer and old paint rags. A half finished nude adorned one of the heavy easels. There were a few water color sketches laying around as well as several oils.
“Want to see some of your favorite models?”
[p71]
He nodded numbly, and she drew open a drawer in the table and pulled out four fairly large oil paintings done on commercial painting boards.
The first two were of Beth, one a nude and the other a semi-nude, with only her lovely breasts exposed. The second two paintings were of a girl who was not familiar at all. In the first picture, a portrait, she was seated before a table, contemplating a vase of flowers. A rather good looking girl with jet black hair and a soft, warm looking face. The next painting was of the same girl, but this time she had been painted as a Hawaiian dancer and her skin was a trifle darker. She was a pretty girl, but her face and nicely formed body didn’t ring a bell.
“Who is she?” He asked.
“Her name is Janet Holman. She lives about four or five miles from here, on her father’s farm.” Beth nodded toward the green filing cabinet in the corner. “You have her file over there with your records. Doesn’t any of this ring a bell, darling?”
“No.”