Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  The door shuts with a firm click and instantly the noise of the crowd is reduced to a dull hum. Back here the relative quiet is unsettling. The hall has that strange sense of abandonment peculiar to offices after hours, when a place usually bustling with people is reduced to a deserted shell. I start toward the copy room and realise I’m on tiptoe; I force myself to walk normally.

  ‘John?’ The door is slightly ajar but the room is in dark­ness. I look over my shoulder at the empty hall, check that the elevator is not moving, then push the door wider.

  ‘Alex?’ As light filters in from the hall, I see John straightening up from behind the copier. ‘I heard the gallery door open but I wasn’t sure if it was you, so I was just being extra cautious. I have absolutely nothing to report.’

  ‘I, on the other hand, have heaps to report but not now. You’d better get out there and I’ll see you in twenty minutes or so.’ I check the hall again, both ways, then step into the copy room and pull the door to. ‘Were you expecting Sue this evening?’

  John pulls his head back and frowns. ‘No.’

  ‘I thought I saw her in the crowd, just before I came to meet you.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Trust me, that is the last thing I would be kidding about right now. If it is her, I don’t think she saw me. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe I’m just frazzled. I just thought I should mention it before you go out there.’

  ‘Right. I’ll see you in twenty minutes, but if anything happens before then, I’ll be watching the door from the gallery. Just wave and I’ll come. And I’ll try to bring someone with a bit of clout.’

  ‘If I signal, you’ll still have a few minutes to round someone up. But don’t mess about looking for anyone in particular.’

  ‘Of course not.’ John pokes his head around the door jamb, looks both ways and then eases out, pulling the door behind him so that it’s only open a couple of centimetres. There’s a brief burst of noisy chatter as the door to the gallery opens, then silence descends.

  If I stand right next to the copy-room door, I can see about half of the elevator doors and more importantly, the call buttons and the indicator panel. I check my watch – 7:50. The best time for the forger to act will be when the launch party is in full swing, which means any time in the next hour. After that, the crowd will thin and it will be harder to slip away, or a member of staff might decide to pop along to their office for some reason, and downstairs the caterers will be more relaxed and likely to notice something out of place. Either way, the risk of discovery will increase the later it gets.

  After ten minutes of standing still and quiet in the dark, I’m starting to debate the wisdom of wearing the red heels, not to mention this whole crazy plan. I shift my weight from foot to foot, then start flexing my feet, trying to ease the burning sensation in my calves. It doesn’t work, so after once again applying my eye to the crack in the door and seeing only a deserted hall, I step out of my shoes with a sigh. From somewhere out of my sightline there is a soft click, the sound of a door closing. My heart rate takes an immediate leap; I had expected the person to come from the gallery, not back here. What if they’d been watching and knew I was standing in the dark of the copy room, nowhere to go?

  I’m holding my breath and have to try to exhale without puffing loudly. I can’t see anything. Should I step back from the door in case it’s suddenly pushed open, or should I try to see who’s out there? I dither in the darkness, not moving. Then a shadow moves across the opposite wall of the hall, at first huge and grotesque, then shrinking and darkening as the person approaches. Quietly, I ease my upper body away from the door, still keeping sight of the elevator. Someone steps into view and presses the call button with an un-manicured hand. The person’s back is to me and all I can see is a blonde ponytail, narrow shoulders in a navy jacket, matching trousers and Converse sneakers. The elevator pings and the doors part; navy suit steps into the car. I lean forward, trying to see more. The doors start to close but the person is turning to face the front, and in the last moment before the doors thump home, I see a face. Holy shit. Fiona.

  ***

  Pulling the copy room door open, I watch as the light above the elevator skips slowly to the right, lands on three, and stays there. I bolt down the hall and pull open the door to the gallery, simultaneously stepping through and craning my neck to look for John. It’s only when I stand on tiptoe that I realise I’m not wearing any shoes. It gives me a momentary start, but there’s no time to worry about it. There’s also no sign of John. People are thronging the room, a strange pattern of currents and riptides as those moving through are forced to circumnavigate the shoals of conversational groups more interested in gossip than art. I try waving a hand over my head hoping that John will see it and others ignore it, but there is no corresponding wave.

  I’ve been jostled toward the centre of the room and now all I can think about is getting back. I have to stop the elevator on this floor, and now it looks as though I have to confront Fiona on my own. Using my elbows to some advantage, I squeeze my way back to the perimeter of the room, then turn for one last look. I see him. John is standing right next to Man Proposes, half facing this direction, and this time I wave both hands and jump up and down. His head snaps fully toward me and he gives a sharp nod and starts to move, then stops and glances over his shoulder. For a moment he seems to list in my direction but then he turns away and reaches both arms to hug someone. Sue returns his embrace, her face appearing over John’s left shoulder and her eyes shooting venom and triumph straight at me. To one side of her, a polar bear raises its jaws to the sky. I turn and fumble with the door, knowing I’m on my own.

  Just as I’m stepping through, someone grabs my arm. John, I think, but when I turn, relieved and happy, it’s Monty who’s standing in front of me.

  ‘I saw you pop out of here just now, Alex. Not much of a party person I gather? I can introduce you to a few people if you like. I hear you’re one of us now, and it’s always good to make yourself known to certain Melbourne matriarchs and families.’ He lets go of my arm and picks an imaginary piece of lint from the lapel of his perfectly cut suit.

  ‘Monty.’ Momentarily thrown, I can’t think of what to say to him, then I realise I have my witness, even if John is a lost cause. ‘Do you have a moment?’ Without waiting for an answer, I pull him through the door.

  ‘Alex!’ Monty’s voice has taken on a silky tone.

  ‘Don’t go getting any ideas, Monty, this is strictly business.’ I drag him down the hall to the elevator; the number three is still lit up, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. ‘Here’s the deal.’

  I proceed to tell Monty the short version of everything that’s been going on: the fake Whiteleys, Meredith’s death, Fiona, the lot. He stares at me with an expression that slowly morphs from polite disbelief to open incredulity.

  ‘Look, if you can’t get your head round it, all you have to do is wait here with me. In a few minutes, she’ll be coming back down in this elevator with the paintings. We’ll stop it on this floor, the doors will open and you can see for yourself.’

  ‘I’ve heard stories about you, you know.’ He says it gently, like he’s trying to calm a child after a nightmare, and his look travels from my face down to my bare feet. My temper flares.

  ‘I’m sure you have. Which ones? The simple tale of a shit-stirrer? No, I presume from your tone you’ve heard the nut-job versions. Well fine, I’m crazy, so humour me for a few more minutes, then you can call for backup.’

  I take a step away from him and fold my arms. I’d like to get my shoes, but it would look like an admission of something, so I stand firm, trying to look haughty while desperately hoping Monty doesn’t bail. From somewhere deep in the elevator shaft, machinery groans to life. We both look up at the indicator and see the light behind the three flick out. I reach over and smash my fist onto the down arrow, then back away. Mon
ty looks at me and then presses the down arrow before falling into line next to me.

  ‘Really?’

  He shrugs. ‘I always push the button for myself.’

  The number two is briefly illuminated and the rumbling sound of cogs and cables grows louder. Number one lights up, the elevator pings and time is momentarily suspended. Then the doors part.

  Fiona stares at us and we stare back, then she tosses her ponytail. ‘Hey Alex, hey Monty.’ It comes out high pitched and her voice cracks at the end.

  ‘Fiona. Working late?’ I gesture behind her to a trolley and its shrouded occupants.

  She looks over her shoulder. ‘Um … yeah. Just a couple of things scheduled for cleaning. I thought I’d get them all set up for tomorrow.’

  ‘Why have you got them covered like that?’ Monty asks. ‘You know you shouldn’t be doing that.’

  ‘Well I was just …’ Fiona waves a hand vaguely toward the paintings, her unfinished sentence hanging in the air between us.

  ‘In any case, you should have two people handling the trolley. I’ll help you get it to the conservation labs.’

  Fiona suddenly lunges for the control panel in the elevator, but I was expecting something and I thrust my arm and shoulder between the closing doors. As they recoil, I watch Fiona’s face, waiting for her next move. Her eyes are darting from side to side, but there’s no way she can get past me and Monty.

  ‘Why don’t you show us what you’ve got under there, Fiona?’ I jut my chin in the direction of the trolley.

  She shakes her head rapidly.

  ‘We know they’re fakes. Did you paint them? They’re very good.’ I risk a quick glance at Monty.

  ‘I think we’d best have this conversation out of the elevator, don’t you?’ Monty’s tone carries all the authority of a privileged upbringing, of someone used to having others do his bidding. But Fiona doesn’t move, so he steps forward. I don’t know if he meant to pull or usher her out of the elevator, or perhaps he intended to go for the paintings, but it doesn’t matter, because Fiona sees her chance. She grabs his extended arm and pulls, causing Monty to stumble forward as she darts around him. He sprawls into the trolley of fakes as Fiona sprints down the hall, away from the exhibition gallery.

  ‘Crap. Get the paintings out of the elevator and then get help. Find John!’ I yell at Monty as I start after Fiona.

  I put everything I have into running, pumping my arms as much as possible in my fitted jacket. At least I’m not wearing heels, although my bare feet aren’t as good as her Converse. Fiona rounds a corner a few metres ahead of me.

  ‘Stop, Fiona!’ I don’t really expect her to take any notice. I swing round the corner and hit my knee hard on something that yields, but by then I’m crashing out of control. I stumble across the hall, ricochet off the opposite wall and manage to regain my balance, but my momentum is shot. It takes me a moment to realise that Fiona pulled open the door of a cupboard holding fire equipment and I ran straight into it. I look up and see Fiona at the far end of the hall, glancing back at me as she pulls open another door. I start to run again just as she disappears from view, but now I’m mad. It only takes a few seconds and I’m wrenching the door open and throwing myself through into the unlit room beyond.

  The door closes with a thump that reverberates strangely, telling me I’m in a large space. There’s a faint glimmer of light coming through tall windows, and far overhead, a strange iridescence. It reminds me of looking at centuries-old paintings over the altars of dimly lit churches, hints of glowing colour vaguely glimpsed in the feeble light of dozens of flickering candles. I adjust my focus, trying to peer into the room, but I can’t see anything or anyone, so unless there’s another door close by, Fiona must still be here, standing in the dark, listening and waiting. I put my hands out in front of me and start to walk slowly forward.

  ‘Fiona? I know you’re here.’

  Nothing.

  ‘This is stupid. Monty will be here soon with other people, and both of us have seen you and know about the fakes. Why don’t you just stop this now and tell me your side of things?’

  I stop moving and concentrate on listening, feeling as though I’m stretching my ears out into the gloom. Somewhere ahead and to my left, I think I hear breathing. I adjust my path. At that moment, there is a loud crack of thunder, and for a brief instant it’s as though the roof is on fire, a butterfly’s wing dancing with colour. We’re in the Great Hall and Leonard French’s stained-glass ceiling is being spectacularly backlit by the storm breaking over Melbourne. I can’t tell if Fiona’s still in the same place, or if she’s used the deeper darkness following the flash to move, so I get ready for the next bolt of lightning. When I see her I’m going to run at her and hope I don’t smack straight into one of the steel columns supporting the ceiling, or part of the Son et Lumière art installation. The lightning comes quickly, not as bright as the first, but enough for me to see Fiona staring straight back at me.

  I’m moving before the flash of light has completely faded.

  ‘Alex, Fiona, stop.’ The familiar voice comes from behind me and with a sigh of relief I obey.

  I turn and see the irregular bob and weave of a torch moving toward me. Monty has come through and found some back-up. I was starting to wonder if I’d trusted the wrong person, but he’s sent help. I assume Monty is babysitting the fake Whiteleys.

  ‘Wait right there.’

  I look over my shoulder for Fiona, but she’s still hidden in the shadows, so I turn back and wait for Barbara Cottrell to join me.

  ‘Barbara! I’m so glad Monty found you. Did he fill you in?’

  ‘He told me about Fiona and the fake Whiteley paintings.’ She plays the torch quickly across my face and I have to squint and look away. ‘You might have confided in me sooner.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ll explain everything later. But right now we need to get Fiona to come back with us.’

  ‘I told you my team sticks together. We could have dealt with this days ago if you’d simply come to me.’

  I frown and look over my shoulder, trying to see where Fiona might be. ‘There was so much going on, and … Look, I’m sorry but …’ I gesture toward the body of the Great Hall. The kaleidoscopic ceiling still dances, but the lightning is further away, dimmer and more intermittent.

  ‘Fiona. Enough.’ Barbara projects her voice into the caliginous depths.

  I stare at her, eyes wide. I know Barbara is used to people obeying her every command, but really. Then Fiona appears out of the darkness and I give an involuntary gasp. Her pale face and hair show first, reminding me of a Northern Renaissance portrait, but then she is next to me and the ethereal qualities are gone.

  ‘Seriously? After all that, Barbara Cottrell calls and you just come?’ I stare at Fiona.

  She gives me a look I can’t quite read, sadness and fatigue but also something else, something that makes me suddenly wary. Maybe Fiona’s not quite rational. And she had me fooled for days, not to mention John. The thought of John makes my chest ache.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say.

  ‘Just a minute.’ Barbara holds up a calming hand. ‘How many paintings?’ she asks Fiona.

  From somewhere behind Barbara I think I hear a soft thump, but when I look at Barbara and Fiona, they seem unaware of any sound.

  ‘The two Whiteleys, plus a Matisse and a Chagall.’ Fiona hangs her head, but I’m not buying it.

  ‘Was that the first time? Those paintings looked pretty damn good for a first go.’ I try to keep her talking while I listen for any more noises, hoping it might be Monty; it would be better if Barbara and I weren’t the only ones to witness Fiona’s confession.

  Suddenly I remember the hero piece of Son et Lumière is something that projects sound. If we’re close enough to it and Monty is in the room somewhere, maybe he’ll be able to hear Fiona speaking. I picture the la
yout of the exhibit in my mind and try to overlay that with where I think we’re standing, based on the last flash of lightning and the hulking, indistinct shapes around us. The installation should be behind Fiona, and I take a couple of steps toward her, trying to make it seem as though I’m pursuing an answer to my question.

  Fiona backs away a little, then looks at Barbara, who nods. ‘Tell her,’ Barbara says, also moving to close the distance between the three of us.

  ‘This is the third time for the Whiteleys.’ Fiona pauses. ‘But I’ve done a Rothko and a Pollock.’

  My jaw drops and I gape at her in the half-light. Even if she’s selling the fakes under market value, we’re talking about big money. There’s a lot at stake and I feel even more uncomfortable standing here with this woman.

  ‘What about Meredith?’ The words are out before I can stop myself and the air seems to crackle, as though the storm is still upon us. I move forward again.

  ‘She was only meant to get sick.’ Fiona’s voice is low and whiney. She takes a small step back. I hope it’s enough.

  ‘She found out about you? So you poisoned her,’ I push.

  ‘I just wanted to scare her.’

  ‘How did you even get her to swallow it?’

  ‘I just put a tiny bit in her coffee. She always had so much sugar.’

  I feel chilled listening to her. It’s unreal to be having this conversation, but I’m hoping the longer this takes, the more chance there is of help arriving.

  ‘How did Meredith find out?’

  ‘Saw me with the red paint a few weeks ago. I told her I was just practising the techniques of different artists.’