Finally, Ulrich was released. The wee small hours were nearly spent by then, and it was well past five when he finally staggered down the road, to the abandoned barn, and made it to his car.
Ulrich walked up to the thing, noticing at once that something was wrong. It looked shittier than usual—and that was saying something. All four of the tires appeared to be flat, and there was a hole in his hood where a bullet had entered and wreaked havoc on his engine. Though he knew how this would end, he got behind the steering wheel and tried to start it once or twice.
The engine didn't budge.
Despite the hour, Ulrich left the dusty barn and cycled through his contacts. Placing a call, he looked up at the lightening sky and waited for an answer.
One finally came after several rings. “H-Hello?” Nancy sounded like a groggy mess.
“Hello, Nancy. It's me, your favorite detective. You wouldn't happen to be on your way back to Tanglewood, would you?”
She groaned. He heard her sitting up in bed, probably checking the time. Eventually, she replied, “My alarm's not even set to go off for another hour. What's this about?”
“I've just wrapped up the case, and let's just say things got exciting. Trouble is, I'm stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. My car's had it. I don't suppose... you could swing by and grab me on your way home, could you?”
She loosed another groan—louder this time. “W-Where are you?”
Ulrich gave her the address.
She flopped out of her bed with a heavy sigh and could be heard to shuffle into the bathroom. “I'm gonna be a few hours.” With that, she ended the call.
Ulrich paced about the field, body aching for the night's adventures. Looking back in the direction of the Villefort place, then to his car, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and said, “Well, Gloria? It's done. You happy now?” He panned across the field, the street. There was no one sitting in his back seat, no specters with red umbrellas leering around the corner of the barn. “Not even a thank-you, huh?”
With time to kill, the detective went digging around in his car for something to entertain himself with. He happened upon a thermos half-filled with cold coffee and downed it for an energy boost, then played some music on his phone. On a morning like this, having just survived a life-threatening ordeal, Sinatra sounded especially sublime. He kicked up clouds of dust as he marched about the field, humming along with “The Best is Yet to Come”.
Nearly three hours later, Nancy finally arrived for him. She pulled up in front of the barn and helped Ulrich push his car out into the open, so that a tow truck driver would be able to find it and drag it back to town later. They took a few moments clearing his vehicle of valuables, and it was then that Nancy—hitherto zombie-like in her sleepy movements—snapped to attention.
She'd been rifling around in his back seat and had taken hold of the painting. “Hey, look at this.”
Ulrich shut the passenger side door and walked over to her with a stack of CDs in hand. “What is it?” He glanced down at the painting and noticed it at once.
The figure was gone.
What Nancy held just then was nothing but a landscape, precisely as artist Stephen Cosloy had intended it. There was no trace remaining of the eerie figure in the foreground, nor of its trademark red umbrella. It was like it'd never been there in the first place.
“How did you do that?” she asked, touching the canvas in disbelief. “She's not there anymore.”
“I didn't do it,” he replied, joining her in poking the piece. “I guess she was just able to finally move on.”
“Huh.” Carrying the painting to her car, Nancy set it in her trunk and then hopped into the driver's seat. “So, what ended up happening? Looks like there's a bunch of cops hanging around that property. You found her body, I take it?”
Ulrich put on his seatbelt and then leaned back in his seat. “Where to begin?”
26
“So, Laura killed them both?” Nancy gripped the steering wheel tightly. “I didn't see that coming.”
“Neither did I,” replied Ulrich, peering out his window. They were getting close to town now, the scenery becoming more familiar. They'd spent the bulk of the drive discussing the end of the case, and Nancy seemed genuinely stunned by how things had fallen together.
“And to think, this all began with a painting!” she said. “It's really something—her not being in it anymore. I'd come to expect her in the scenery—now that she isn't there it's almost creepier!”
Ulrich chuckled. “Well, the only reason she'd stuck around in this life at all was to get someone's attention. She wanted someone to look into her murder, to set things straight and make sure justice was really served.”
“Yeah, but...” Nancy frowned. “But do you suppose that this is really justice? It isn't like Gloria had entirely clean hands in all of this. If she was plotting with William to get rid of his wife, then that's pretty serious stuff. She doesn't exactly come out looking squeaky clean in all this.”
“Maybe not,” conceded the detective, “but it's out of my hands now. Who's good and who's evil isn't for me to decide. They'll appoint a jury for that.” He hiked a thumb towards the trunk. “So, I guess this means you'll be able to hang that painting back up in your living room, huh?”
She shot him a sharp look. “Hell, no.”
“What? But it's one-hundred-percent ghost-free now!”
Nancy shook her head. “I want nothing to do with it. Ghost or no ghost, that thing isn't coming back into my house. You can keep it if you want.”
Cutting through the early morning traffic, Nancy eventually wheeled into the detective's apartment complex. “I really can't thank you enough,” he said as she threw the car into park. “I appreciate the lift.”
“I should be the one thanking you,” she said, offering a smile. “You went above and beyond, Mr. Ulrich. You didn't just solve my case—you took a killer off the streets. And that means something to me. This is my hometown, after all.” She laughed, running a hand through her brown hair. “It's kind of funny, but when we first met, I wasn't sure what to make of you. To be honest, even when you came back to my shop and offered to take my case, I wasn't certain I should hire you. You seemed... excuse me for saying so, but you seemed really rude and lazy. I had my doubts initially, but now I see differently. I see you for who you are.”
Actually, your first impression wasn't far off the mark, lady, was what he nearly said. Instead, he thanked her.
Nancy helped him with his things and wrote out a check for the remainder of his fee. When he'd brought everything inside, she got back into her car and pulled away. He watched her leave, waving from the sidewalk.
The detective slept for the rest of that day, except when the police rang him with various questions. Now and then, someone with such-and-such a department would ask him to clarify things, to repeat details he'd already given a dozen times. A day of sleep left him more or less refreshed mentally, though at his age, the aches and pains that accosted him were going to take more time to heal.
He took care of a few things that evening after waking. First, he arranged for a tow truck to haul his car out of the barn to a local garage. Next, he ordered enough delivery food for two people and—when he'd paid up on his Netflix subscription—set about demolishing as much of his queue as possible before sleep finally took him again, chopsticks in hand and sweet and sour sauce staining his lips red.
Late the next morning he received a call from the head mechanic at Folsom's Garage in town. He called with news of an estimate. Though Ulrich had expected to pay a goodly sum to get the old car working again, he hadn't been quite ready for the figure proposed. His car was an old one—parts for its engine weren't so easy to come by as once, and all four tires couldn't be patched, and so would need replacing. Work could begin as soon as Ulrich furnished payment; till then, the owner would be happy to let the clunky sedan fester in his lot.
There was nothing for it. He needed a vehicle. What kind of detec
tive didn't have a car? Sherlock Holmes probably didn't have a car, come to think of it, he thought. But he probably had a buggy or a horse, at least. He wasn't entirely sure; he'd never delved extensively into Conan Doyle's oeuvre. Whatever the case, it didn't matter: He needed to be mobile and so his first stop that morning was the garage. He paid the owner of Folsom's the required price and was assured that work would take less than two weeks. Till then, he'd have to rent a car or take the bus to get places outside of walking distance.
This left him with a problem, though.
An immense problem.
Running the numbers, he found he couldn't afford his office rent anymore—the cost of repairs had left him about two-hundred dollars short. The sum he'd earned from Nancy's case had been generous enough, but in the end it wasn't going to be sufficient to save him. Cursing his luck, he left the mechanic's and went wandering down the street, wondering how he might rummage up the extra funds. He slapped at his forearm, looking for good veins, and tried remembering where Tanglewood's blood banks were located.
They're never going to pay two-hundred bucks for a few pints of your blood! You've got B-positive blood—that's just about the commonest type there is! Now, if you were filled with a better vintage—some of that AB-negative—they'd pay top coin for that. Now, think! How are you going to scrape together a few hundred bucks in a day's time?
Mr. Harden was planning on coming by the next day to collect the office rents personally from everyone in the Otterbein building. The clock was ticking.
27
The afternoon was overcast and Harry had chosen music to match. Peter Cat was nearly empty of people, but filled with the mellow playing of Miles Davis on Kind of Blue. A young couple conversed over lattes near the entrance; in the back, crunching the iced cubes that remained after his tea, was an old man—possibly the same old man that was always there, reading newspapers.
Approaching the counter with a limp, Ulrich sat down and spared Harry a weary smile. “Kind of Blue today, huh? It's like you knew I was coming.”
Harry, having just finished refilling the bean hopper on the espresso machine, chuckled. “Just continuing my exploration of Bill Evans' work. You know he played on this one, too?”
“I didn't.”
Harry ran a test batch of beans through the machine and into his palm, studying the consistency of the grind. “Feeling blue today, huh? That case of yours causing you headaches?”
“No, that's all over with,” replied Ulrich, glancing at the menu. “How's the Ethiopian Yirgacheffe? Is that new?”
Harry's body language changed all at once. Propping himself up on one elbow, he spread out over the counter. “It's all finished, you say? The case you were working? So, what happened?”
For fun, Ulrich had taken intermittent looks at the local news over the past day. The double murder dominated the headlines, though there'd been no mention of him in any of the stories he'd watched or read. The authorities hadn't named Ulrich in their press statements, and so far, no journalists had reached out to him with questions. It was a shame; being a newcomer in town, he could have used the visibility.
“It was a crock,” said Ulrich. “Not the kind of thing I'd signed up for at all. Don't suppose you've been keeping an eye on the news, have you? You know that vicious double murder they've been going on about?”
Harry nodded, eyes narrowing with evident interest.
“I might've been the guy who cracked it.”
The cafe owner slumped, drew away from the counter with a roll of his eyes. “Oh, screw you, Harlan. If you don't want to talk about it, fine, but don't take me for a ride.” He motioned to the menu. “What'll it be, then?”
“Hey, I'm serious,” insisted the detective, thumbing his tie. “You don't think I'm double murder material?”
Harry cracked a grin. “As one of the victims? Sure, you'd do all right.”
“I don't know why I come here,” muttered Ulrich. “How about you do your job and fix me one of those Long Blacks?”
“Coming right up.” Harry prepared the drink and set it down before Ulrich daintily. “For the heroic detective,” he added with an exaggerated wink.
Kind of Blue wound on and Ulrich found himself staring at the bottom of an empty cup. Asking Harry for a refresher, he looked out through the front window, into the street. It was beginning to mist outside. Where the hell are you going to get the money? When Harry presented him with his second beverage, Ulrich picked it up and chanced a steaming sip. Maybe if you stopped drinking so much expensive coffee you'd be able to make your bills...
The smooth espresso met his tongue. Rich notes of chocolate and stone fruit thrilled his palate. The warm brew cascaded into his empty stomach, filling him with a pleasant warmth, and the caffeine ignited a spark behind his tired eyes.
No, that's bullshit. There has to be another way.
“Why so blue, then?” asked Harry, peering into the dairy refrigerator. “Lady troubles?”
“No,” Ulrich was quick to reply with a laugh. “Nothing like that.”
Stepping out from behind the counter and doing a quick sweep of the floors with his broom, Harry paused. “Say, in that case of yours, weren't you looking into the artist, Stephen Cosloy?” He threw up a hand, adding, “Don't give me flack for asking. It's just I'm a big fan and I was worried he might end up in trouble or something. Was he up to no good?”
“Oh, him?” Ulrich took a sip of his drink. “No, I just had some questions for the guy. I was looking into a painting of his—hell, it's complicated.” He gave his cup a little shake and downed the remainder. “Funny you say that. I ended up getting to keep a painting of his. I'm not fond of it and now it's just sitting around in my apartment.”
“You have an original Cosloy painting?” asked Harry, leaning on the broom handle. “Really?”
“Scout's honor. Not a fan of it, though. I was thinking of getting rid of it. It's gloomy and there are just too many associations with the case.”
“Don't just get rid of it! Why don't you bring it over? I'd love to take a look. I've always wanted one of his paintings for my own home, but they're too expensive. If you're looking to sell it, I may buy it from you.”
“You'd want to buy it from me?” asked Ulrich. “It's back at my place—I could grab it real quick. But what's he usually charge for his stuff?”
Harry's brows waggled. “Depends. I've seen certain pieces go for several thousand at auction. We're not talking Picasso prices here, but his work can command quite a lot of money if you find the right buyer.”
“No kidding?” Ulrich stood up. “Tell you what, I'll be right back.” He exited the cafe and began jogging down the street just as the mist picked up.
Without a ghost clinging to it, Beardsley had warmed to the painting. Ulrich found the cat nestled up next to the frame, asleep, when he burst through the door. “Sorry!” he told the cat, lifting the picture off his bed and thus depriving the animal of a headrest. Beardsley had left orange and black hairs all over the canvas, and Ulrich spent a few moments picking them off before finding a plastic bag large enough to house the thing and shield it from the mist outside. With the painting in tow, he locked his door and raced back out into the gloomy afternoon.
“Those trees! They look as though they've been taken from real life, Harlan! Do you know what goes into that—the intricacy of the brushstrokes? This is Cosloy's genius—he does this work better than anyone.” Harry marveled at the painting, taking it in from every which angle. He held it out in front of him, then set it on the counter and peered down from above.
“You like it?” asked Ulrich. “As I understand it, this was a private commission that Cosloy did for some wealthy patron.”
“Don't say?” Harry went rummaging around behind the counter and produced a pair of reading glasses. With these, he began a fresh examination of the canvas, delighting in its minutest details and caressing the frame. “So, the one who commissioned it sold it off? But then... how did you end up with it?�
� he asked the detective.
Here, Ulrich could only shake his head. “That's... that's a very long story.”
Pursing his lips and removing the glasses, Harry toyed with the frames. “So, how much do you want for it?” He pressed a finger to his cleanly-shaven chin, adding, “It isn't stolen, is it?”
“Stolen? What do you take me for?” Ulrich took a look at the painting, considered what he could get for it elsewhere. Probably, if he hauled it to some local auction, he'd earn a tidier sum. In the end, it was doubtful that the eventual winner of such an auction would take as much joy from the thing as Harry did, though. “I dunno, maybe two-hundred and a few coffees?”
Harry took a fistful of Ulrich's shirt and drew him close. “Just two-hundred? I don't care if it is stolen—at that price I'd take such a secret with me to my grave!” He all but leapt over the counter in seeking out his checkbook. Scribbling out a check for two-hundred dollars, he said, “Take this, and I'll set you up with free coffees for a good long while.” He flung the check at the detective and then took the painting into his arms like a lover. “Oh, I know right where I'll hang it. It's going in the foyer—there's plenty of light there, and I'll see it every time I walk into the house.” He gave Ulrich's hand an energetic shake. “Bless you, Harlan. You're a class act!”
Harry stowed the painting behind the counter for safe keeping and poured Ulrich another coffee. When the detective had finished his drink and the owner had spent another half hour chattering about the genius of Stephen Cosloy, Ulrich took his leave and headed straight for the bank to make his deposit.
28
The rain had started falling the previous afternoon and hadn't let up since. Thankfully, the showers had come on the back of a cold wave, which made his third-story office a more habitable temperature.
Deep Night Page 17