Deep Night

by Ambrose Ibsen

  15

  He managed to smuggle the painting out of his office without having to field questions from the others in the building. This was no small feat, as the booksellers on the first level had been buzzing about their shop, and the accountants on the second had begun adjourning for lunch. From the rear lot of the Otterbein, Cosloy's studio was only minutes away even in mid-day traffic. Tucking the picture into his back seat, the detective started downtown, and though he hit a number of red lights on the way, he found himself parked out front with a few minutes to spare.

  Finally, a few minutes past one, a thin man in a sweater vest came around the corner and unlocked the door, pausing as he did so to flip a little plastic sign on the glass from its CLOSED position to OPEN. No sooner had this man retreated into the shop was Ulrich on his heels, painting in hand.

  The studio was small by any measure, perhaps twenty by twenty feet, and was fronted by two long panes of blacked-out glass intended to give the space a kind of mystique. As the detective pushed the door open, it gave with a little jingle and announced his entrance. Lights were kept stylishly dim, and the walls were filled with the artist's work—at least twelve compositions in total. Towards the back were a chair, easel and small table cluttered with paints and brushes, where the artist likely worked whenever inspiration struck. It was there that Ulrich found the man in the sweater vest, staring strangely at him from over the edge of a fresh canvas.

  “Howdy,” said the detective, starting further in. “I take it you're Stephen Cosloy?”

  The man stood, setting down a tube of blue paint, and gave a quick nod. “And you are?” Cosloy's eyes lingered on Ulrich's face only a moment; his gaze preferred the painting tucked under the detective's arm.

  “The name's Harlan Ulrich. I'm a private investigator.” He held out the painting so that Cosloy could see it clearly. “Do you have a minute? I'd like to ask you a few questions about this painting.”

  The artist hesitated a moment, then started from his easel. “What's this about?” He studied the painting narrowly as he approached, arms crossed. Cosloy looked to be somewhere in his thirties. His light brown hair was giving way to grey, and he wore a thick mustache that bordered on Nietzschean levels of enormity.

  As Cosloy drew near, Ulrich handed the painting over and turned to admire one of the nearby pictures on the wall. “I take it you're familiar with this one?”

  “I am,” was the artists reply as he stared down at it. He winced a little as he looked it over; from the moment he'd begun to study it, his brow had remained furrowed.

  “A client of mine purchased it recently. I understand you did this piece for a Mr. William Villefort a few years back, and that its subject is one of his properties?”

  “That's right,” replied Cosloy. “Why do you have it? Did Villefort really sell it off?”

  “His wife did,” said Ulrich with a smirk. “He and the missus aren't getting along right now, you see.” Craning his neck and looking down at the painting in Cosloy's hands, he continued. “Now, how long ago would you say you painted this?”

  The artist shrugged. “I don't remember exactly. Two, maybe three years.”

  “I see. Do you remember much about the setting depicted? Whereabouts this property is?”

  Cosloy took a moment in answering. “It's a bit remote, as I recall. Forty minutes away, maybe?” A pause. “There was a pond behind it. Pearson Pond, I think it was called. But that's all I remember. If you want an address or something you'll have to ask Villefort.” He returned to the painting, lips descending into a frown. “Now, may I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  Cosloy looked up at him. “What the hell is that?”

  Ulrich didn't even have to look at what the artist was pointing to to know he was talking about the figure with the red umbrella. “Yeah, that. I was about to ask you about it, as a matter of fact. I take it that little flourish isn't your work?”

  “Hmmph.” Cosloy all but thrust the painting back into Ulrich's hands. “I'm a little offended you'd even suggest that.” He returned to his chair, dropped into it and crossed his legs. “It's ruined. Tell me, who did that—your client?” His face went from pale to pink, then to red. “I'd have been happier if you'd brought it to me drenched in piss. What kind of imbecile would try and add something to one of my finished paintings?”

  “That's actually what I'm trying to find out,” replied the detective, tucking the picture back under his arm. “My client purchased the painting as-is, and Mrs. Villefort claims to have no knowledge of this little addition, so I reckon it was a recent job. I just had to verify that you didn't recognize it—that it wasn't your work.”

  Cosloy shook his head vehemently. “Hell, no.” He motioned at the room around him. “Take a look around—does that look like my style?”

  “I didn't think so. The landscape is beautifully done—incredibly detailed. The figure in this painting looks completely out of place.”

  The artist fumed in his seat for close to a minute. Teeth grit, he picked up one of his brushes and fussed with it. “I don't understand why someone would trash one of my works this way. You know, that painting took me days. Villefort paid good money—and a lot of it—for me to paint that.” Finally, he ran a hand through his hair and spared a curt laugh. “So, is that it? You came by today to show me this hack-job and ruin my mood?”

  “Sorry about that,” said the detective. “I'll get out of your hair. Thank you for your time.”

  Cosloy stood. “If you do figure out who ruined the painting, be sure to let me know. I'll have a few choice words for them.” He followed the detective to the door and then began batting off a number of light switches. The studio went dark. Pushing open the door, the artist waved Ulrich out.

  “Closing up shop already?” asked Ulrich, glancing down at his watch. “It's only been fifteen minutes since you opened, no?”

  Cosloy shuffled out onto the sidewalk, fiddling with his keys. “Let's be frank, I'm not in the mood to work, having seen that. I'd been hoping to work on a new picture today, but then you came by and sucked the joy out of it. Suddenly, I'm not feeling very inspired.” Locking the door, he sulked off amidst the detective's apologies.

  Must be nice to only work when you feel like it. These creative types sit around and wait for inspiration to strike; maybe that's why they all go hungry, thought Ulrich. Returning to the car, he stowed the painting and started the engine. Before pulling away, he took a few moments to jot something new in his notebook.

  As expected, Ulrich hadn't learned too much from the artist. The eerie figure on the canvas hadn't been his doing, and he didn't remember the precise location of Villefort's second property. He had recalled the name of the adjacent pond however, and it was this detail that the detective took down before returning to the Otterbein building. Pearson Pond. If he could find that body of water on a map, he could strike out towards the Villefort property and have a look around.

  More and more, that seemed to be his only remaining option.

  16

  Ulrich left the door to the office open. It was only the occasional draft from the hallway that kept the space from becoming overwhelmingly hot and stuffy. Fanning himself with a legal pad and clicking through the last of the search results, he shut his laptop and rested his sweaty brow on it.

  The day's interviews had brought him new information, but acting on that information was proving to be a real pain in the ass.

  For starters, there was the matter of William Villefort. Ulrich had tried twice now to call the number Laura had given him, and twice now he'd been forwarded to the man's full voicemail. Moving on, the detective had tried to learn more about the mistress, Gloria Ramos. He did manage to find a twenty-something by that name living in Ohio, but the phone numbers that came up in his searches were all old and disconnected. The only useful result he dug up was a social media profile, but luddite that he was, he didn't have a profile of his own and didn't know how else to access hers. Finally, the mat
ter of Pearson Pond had proven a dead-end. It was possible that Ulrich had misspelled it, or that Cosloy had given him the wrong name, but repeated searches brought up no hits for a “Pearson Pond” in or around Tanglewood, Ohio.

  He was in a bind.

  It was when his frustrations had reached a fever pitch—and he'd been weighing an afternoon run to Peter Cat for a change of scene and an espresso—that someone stopped by the office.

  Emma, from the second floor, knocked and stood in the doorway with a box of donuts in hand. “Heya, Mr. Ulrich. Hope I'm not interrupting anything. I'm just on donut duty today. Can I interest you in a treat?”

  Ulrich was thankful for the distraction, and cleared his sole folding chair for her. “That sounds lovely,” he said. “Maybe a sugar kick will help me figure things out.” He peered into the offered box of treats and selected a chocolate cake donut. Taking a bite, he set the pastry down on a sheet of printer paper and returned to his seat with a sigh.

  “Did you bring Beardsley today?” she asked, glancing under his desk.

  “Afraid not. He's probably peeing on my bed as we speak.”

  Emma rummaged through the box herself and fished out a chocolate donut hole. Popping it into her mouth, she surveyed the cluttered room and then sized him up. “So, what's the matter? Stumped on that case of yours?”

  “You could say that,” replied the detective. “A bit of a dead-end. I'm looking for someone, but the only lead I've got is his girlfriend's social media profile. Trouble is, I'm too old for all of that and I don't have an account. The site won't let me see her details unless I join up. It's all Greek to me.”

  “Oh?” Emma leaned forward, wiping her hands against her navy dress and setting the donuts aside. “What site is it? I might be able to look at her profile.”

  “You think so?” Ulrich opened his laptop and waited a few moments for it to sputter back to life. When he'd accessed the browser, he pulled up the results on Gloria Ramos again and clicked on the link to her social media listing. Turning the computer around so that Emma could see it, he said, “It's this one.”

  Emma's eyes lit up at once and she reached for the keyboard. “Gloria Ramos. Hm. She looks pretty! Sure you're not trying to access her profile just to creep on her pictures?” She giggled, and with a few strokes she keyed in her details and turned the screen back towards him. “Voila, you're in.” She sat back, helping herself to another donut hole contentedly. “Just log out when you're finished, OK?”

  “Thank you! You don't know how much I appreciate this.” He took another bite of the donut. “And thanks for the snack, too.”

  “No problem. Happy to help.” Emma stood to take her leave. “Lemme know if you need anything else, Mr. Ulrich. I can even help you set up your own profile later, if you want.” She retrieved the box of donuts and started back down the hall.

  Ulrich watched as the woman's profile loaded. His clunky computer took its sweet time, but eventually the page came together, revealing sections pertaining to her personal history, work history, a list of friends and various photo albums. Though he knew little about such sites, he clicked around for a few minutes and familiarized himself. Some of Gloria's details were still off-limits; only accounts on her friend's list could see everything. Even so, Ulrich was able to access a fair bit of information using Emma's sign-in.

  He wasn't sure where to start, or whether the profile would give him much to work with, but he dug in anyhow. Like most young women her age, Gloria Ramos had a lot of photos on her page. The detective scrolled through them one by one, chuckling at the funny faces she made in some, at the flattering angles she sought in others. She was pretty; tall and slender, with wavy black hair down to her shoulders, and quite the dresser. Even in the more candid shots, she always looked well made-up, ever-ready for her close-up.

  He cycled through a few of her albums. Trips to the club, get-togethers with friends and other occasions were documented there, her smiling face beaming in each setting. Here and there, Ulrich came across a photo of Gloria with various men; one, in particular, looked to him like William Villefort, though the shot had been blurry and taken from the side, so he couldn't be certain.

  It was another photo, deeper in, that made him take pause.

  Posted just over a week previous—one of the most recent photos in the entire collection—was a picture of Gloria standing in the rain. The setting wasn't clear at once; at first, all Ulrich could make out was a smear of green and grey to her back. She was smiling, but had her head down as she braced herself against the wind and mist.

  Things came into focus the longer he stared at the picture.

  There was a house to her back; only a portion of it was visible, but he felt sure he'd seen that grey exterior somewhere. A now-familiar hedge, too, could be seen.

  What had drawn his eye to this particular photo in the first place, though, was the red umbrella she held. Gloria was hunched beneath it, both hands gripping the handle tightly.

  Ulrich wiped at his eyes, felt his mouth go dry. He coughed, nearly choking on donut crumbs, and sat back. Taking in the photo from further away, his pulse suddenly shot up and a chill crawled down his spine.

  He'd seen this photo before.

  Well, not quite.

  But the scene was uncannily familiar.

  Here was a woman taking shelter beneath a red umbrella, in front of what appeared to be William Villefort's other property.

  It was, more or less, the exact same scene depicted in Nancy's painting. The figure in the painting wasn't so detailed as to be readily identified with Gloria Ramos, but the broad strokes of the thing fit her well enough, as did the setting.

  He wasn't sure how long he stared at it before finally shutting his laptop. Stepping out of his office, he filed down the hall, to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and tried to rein in his heart. The donut, which had tasted so sweet only moments ago, was now climbing back up his throat.

  Harlan Ulrich believed in a lot of things. He'd believed in Santa Claus till the ripe old age of fifteen, when his disappointed mother had been forced to break the news to him. Though he wouldn't admit it outright, he believed in horoscopes. After all he'd been through in his line of work, he had no trouble believing in the supernatural, too.

  But one thing he didn't—couldn't—believe in, was coincidence.

  The figure in the painting—was it Gloria Ramos? And, if so, did that mean that she was...

  Ulrich stumbled back into his office and stood dazedly in the doorway for a time. Daylight was wasting; this was a substantial bit of the puzzle but he hadn't yet gathered all the pieces. He collected his things, locked up.

  It looks like you have a name for your ghost, now.

  Ulrich shuffled down the stairs, trying to make sense of this new development. If Gloria Ramos' spirit was the one that clung to the painting—the one that had been appearing each night—then what had happened to her? It seemed obvious; she had died, very recently. More likely, she was murdered, he thought. It didn't make sense for a spirit who'd gone naturally and peacefully to stick around after death.

  Perhaps in death Gloria had been trying to fill the living in on her fate, to expose her murder.

  But who was the culprit?

  What if it's the man she ran away with? This seemed the clearest conclusion.

  Ulrich hadn't yet met William Villefort, hadn't even been able to get ahold of him. He'd presumed the man was difficult to get ahold of because he was stepping out on his wife and didn't wish to be bothered.

  The truth was possibly much darker than that. There was every possibility that William Villefort wasn't merely a philanderer, but a murderer—and if that was the case, he sure as hell wasn't going to take a detective's calls.

  Ulrich had no choice. He would have to seek the man out. The only place he knew to do that was the property depicted in the painting, the one near this Pearson Pond he'd failed to locate in his researches.

  Who could he ask about ponds in the
area? It occurred to him that he could reach out to Laura Villefort for the address—though she'd likely curse him out. What's more, the detective didn't want to telegraph his visit to the place to anyone closely involved with the case. It would be wiser to maintain the element of surprise.

  Would Harry know anything? Emma? He meditated on this while descending the stairs. Arriving on the first floor, he staggered into Page Turners, bypassed a number of shelves cluttered with books, and then paused.

  Glancing at the little handwritten signs at the end of each bookshelf, Ulrich wondered if the booksellers didn't offer a volume filled with local maps or a good road atlas.

  He wondered, too, if he could bear to deal with Deborah long enough to purchase one.

  The manager set down the newspaper she'd been reading and cleared her throat. “Oh, look who it is,” she muttered to her husband, giving her wiry hair a toss. With her aquiline nose raised high in the air, she watched the detective wander about her shop beneath hooded lids.

  Finally, Ulrich made his way to the counter, forcing a smile. Richard returned it with warmth, whereas his wife continued to stare down her nose at him. “Hey, folks,” said the detective. “I wonder if you can help me...”

  “Help you?” Deborah nudged her pudgy husband with her elbow, debuted a patronizing smirk.

  “Whaddya need, Mr. Ulrich?” asked Richard.

  The detective hiked a thumb at the stacks. “I'm looking for a book...”

  The booksellers exchanged a glance. “A book?” echoed Deborah. Her mirth ebbed away at once and she took to kneading her veiny hands. “You want to purchase... a book?”

  “That's right. Have you got a book of local maps, or a road atlas?” Ulrich pulled out his wallet. “I'm in a bit of a rush. You see, I need directions to a particular spot. My web searches turned up a big, fat blank, so I'm looking for something more old fashioned.”