The Masterpiece

by Fiona Davis

  “We’re thrilled to have more volunteers.” Adelaide picked up a pen. “What kind of work would you like to do for us? We have several options, including helping stuff envelopes for our mailings, inputting data, or assisting with outreach.”

  “Whatever I can do to help save Grand Central. All three, if necessary.”

  “You’re enthusiastic. I’m not surprised, after seeing your daughter’s remarkable photos.”

  “She really captured it. Since I work there, I see firsthand the beauty of the place.”

  “I wish there were more people like you in this city, ready to step up.”

  “I was at the press conference. It sure feels like there’s a groundswell of support.”

  “We can only hope the appellate judge in the case takes that into account.” Adelaide checked her calendar. “Can you start on Saturday? We’re planning to hold a couple of demonstrations outside the terminal over the new few months, and it’ll be a brainstorming meeting.”

  “You bet.”

  Out in the reception area, they shook hands. “Oh no, I forgot my umbrella.” Virginia held up one hand. “I’ll grab it and be right back.”

  She popped back into Adelaide’s office, pulled out a large, unmarked envelope from her purse, and laid it on Adelaide’s chair, where she couldn’t miss it. Sealed inside was the yellow manila folder, proof of Penn Central’s creative accounting. She could only hope that Adelaide understood the significance of the figures.

  Virginia plucked her umbrella from the floor and left, closing the door softly behind her.

  * * *

  The first of March came in like a lamb, the sky a bright winter blue. Slightly buzzed after sharing a farewell mimosa with Xavier and Finn at Bemelmans, Virginia considered what to do next, the whole Saturday wide open in front of her. Ruby had served them, proud of her skill behind the bar, and they’d all hugged and kissed good-bye. Xavier and Finn were off to Europe and their next adventure, and Virginia was sorry to see them go. Even though Finn was due back in the summer for another long gig at the Carlyle, she’d miss her daily dose of her brother’s silly wit and quiet strength.

  After that dismal meeting in the Oyster Bar, Chester had surprised Virginia by writing to her upstairs neighbors on his firm letterhead requesting any and all receipts relating to the fire damage. In response, they’d dropped their demands considerably, and Virginia and Ruby had moved back into their apartment a couple of weeks ago. Virginia relished every nook and cranny, happy to have a home again, except the blank space on the living room wall, where she’d hoped to hang the watercolor.

  “Hey, Virginia.”

  Virginia turned to see Ryan standing beside her on the sidewalk. He squinted in the bright morning light. “That scarf looks grand on you.”

  She pulled it closer around her neck, surprised by the compliment. “Thanks.”

  “What way are you going?”

  She pointed south. “I thought I’d stop by the Museum of Modern Art.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you for a bit.”

  They fell into step through the early-morning crowds, mainly older folks wandering down Madison. A bike zinged past her on the sidewalk, and Ryan took her by the elbow and pulled her a little closer to him. “Careful, there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m glad we have some time like this. I’d been hoping to talk with you.” He shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

  She frowned, thinking of Ruby, who was relying on the bar income to pay for her photography classes. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, not at all.”

  But something was off. She couldn’t tell what. Ryan buzzed with a nervous energy and had a spring to his step that she hadn’t seen before.

  “How’s Ruby doing?” she asked.

  “Great. Really good.”

  “I wish her father would give her a break. Chester seems to think that she’s slumming it by working in a bar.” She turned to Ryan. “I don’t think that, of course. I’m thrilled she’s working and happy.”

  “I understand his concern. I come from a proud line of publicans, so to me it’s about carrying on a tradition. America needs more gathering places, like pubs. It offers a sense of community that otherwise we don’t have, wandering about in our own little worlds, disappearing into our flats at night.”

  “I like that. A very refreshing take. My father would’ve certainly agreed.”

  “Of course, there’s always a group of drunks getting plastered in one corner.”

  “As long as they pay.”

  Ryan laughed. “That’s right. As long as they pay.”

  They wandered along, chatting about the neighborhood and what the city had been like when Virginia was young.

  She pointed up at the skyscrapers of Rockefeller Center as they turned west. Her volunteer work at the Municipal Art Society had given her a new appreciation of the city’s skyline. “Those were built during the worst years of the Depression and put forty thousand people to work. They hired out-of-work artists to decorate the lobbies. Imagine all those families who had enough to eat because of this?”

  “A first-class piece of architecture,” agreed Ryan.

  “What do you think about this fight for Grand Central?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t thought much about it, to be honest.”

  Time for the soapbox. “Grand Central has to be saved. It’s an important part of old New York. I’m involved with the Municipal Art Society to do whatever I can to help.”

  “What are you doing for them?”

  Probably best not to mention that she’d slept with the enemy in order to steal financial documents. Adelaide had never asked about the envelope Virginia left behind after her interview. Maybe she knew it was smart to be circumspect, or perhaps Virginia had overestimated the documents’ importance. In any event, the subject had never come up. “I’m handing out flyers, mailing out press releases. Jackie O’s involved as well, you know.”

  “Jackie, right. You two good friends?”

  She batted at his arm. “You’re teasing me.”

  “I like the way you light up when you talk about this. It’s good to have a passion.”

  “True.”

  When they reached the Museum of Modern Art, Virginia stopped. “Here’s my destination. Where did you say you were going?”

  “I didn’t, exactly.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “What are you seeing?”

  “The Georgia O’Keeffe exhibit.” She paused. He seemed a little lost, like he needed company. “Do you want to come in?”

  “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Not at all.”

  Ryan followed after her, insisting on paying for her ticket. The woman behind the counter flirted with him, but he didn’t flirt back. He was a very good-looking man, Virginia noticed. His hair was white but thick and wavy, and his face was still unlined.

  Inside the exhibit hall, Ryan stood frozen in front of one of the paintings, an enormous jack-in-the-pulpit flower. “Oh my.” He swallowed. “It’s very . . .”

  “No. It’s not.” Virginia tried not to blush, and laughed when she couldn’t stop.

  “How can you say it’s not?”

  She parroted the review she’d read in the newspaper earlier that week. “O’Keeffe dismissed the sexual interpretations of her paintings. She saw all these enormous buildings going up in New York and decided to paint her flowers as big as well. It got people’s attention, startled them.”

  “So you’re saying that Rockefeller Center inspired this?”

  “I bet it did.”

  Virginia continued her lecture, unable to stop herself even though she sounded like one of the speakers from her preservation committee days. “O’Keeffe rejected the notion that she was a ‘woman’ artist. After all, no one calls Rembrandt a ‘man’ arti
st.”

  “That is a very good point.”

  They made their way through the exhibit chronologically, pointing out the works they loved. Virginia adored a set of mannequins wearing clothes that O’Keeffe had sewn herself: loosely draped wrap dresses, paper-thin white linen shirts, and austere wool suits. Comfortable and elegant.

  They reached the end of the exhibit, where a few old books were splayed open in a glass case.

  “Virginia, I did want to ask you something today.”

  Was he going to ask her on a date? Was that what this was? She still hadn’t been able to determine how old he was. The white hair made it difficult to ascertain. But did it matter, in the end? He seemed like a nice enough boy.

  Ugh. Boy. No doubt about it, Ryan had a boyish air to him that made her want to reach over and fix his collar, which was sticking up on one side, rather than toss him over a couch like she had with Dennis.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, defensive. “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to date Ruby.”

  Not what she was expecting. She rested one hand on the display case to steady herself. “What?”

  “I know this is strange and possibly uncomfortable for you, with my being older than she is.”

  If he knew the least of it. She’d been worried that he was going to ask her on a date, acting like a schoolgirl, when in fact he wanted to date her daughter. Humiliation was a possible reaction. She tried it on, breathed it in, but for some reason it didn’t stick.

  Ruby and Ryan. “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-six. I know this hair makes me look like I’m about to retire, but I’m not. It’s a family trait. Happened to my dad as well.”

  “Let me see your driver’s license.”

  He pulled it out of his wallet and held it up for her to inspect. Indeed. Born in ’49.

  She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of her vain mistake, relieved by the fact that it really didn’t bother her. Ryan was a good man. Her daughter was smart. They’d figure it out.

  She stared down at one of the books in the display case. “Huh.”

  “Are you all right?” Ryan moved closer. “I’m sorry for the way I’m handling this. But I wanted to be forthright, not hide about.”

  She waved a hand in his direction but didn’t look up. “No, no. I appreciate it.”

  The label in the display case said it was an old yearbook from Georgia O’Keeffe’s high school. She read the caption out loud. “‘A girl who would be different in habit, style, and dress.’”

  “A modern lass, that Georgia,” Ryan said.

  Virginia barely heard him. She stared at the name under the photo, leaning in close to make sure she was seeing it correctly.

  Georgia Totto O’Keeffe.

  How odd. She’d assumed Totto was a nickname but had never questioned what for. What if the connection to an artist wasn’t a coincidence? She thought back. Totto had been the one who’d mentioned the art school was haunted. What if Totto was the one going through crates? But why would he do that?

  Then she remembered the black-and-white photo of Clara Darden she’d seen in Janice Russo’s office. The long neck and translucent eyes. The two could be brother and sister, easily, and Totto was the right age to have been Clara’s sibling or some kind of relation.

  Confusion and elation ran up Virginia’s spine.

  What if Totto was the ghost of the Grand Central School of Art?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  March 1975

  Virginia showed up early to work on Monday, greeted the evening shift, and offered to take over for the supervisor. The early-morning commuters knew where they were headed, for the most part, so she busied herself by climbing up through one of the missing glass panels in the ceiling and up onto the very top of the information booth, not caring who saw her. From there, she had easy access to the four-sided clock. Taking great care not to disturb the face of the clock, she rubbed the brass sides with cleaner until they shone, before climbing back down and stowing away her cleaning supplies.

  But even this didn’t help alleviate her nervous exhaustion.

  Last night she’d hardly been able to sleep, not only because of what she was about to do but also because Ruby had wanted to talk about Ryan into the wee hours, after the bar had closed for the night. Virginia supported her daughter’s decision to date him but entreated her to stay independent for a while longer. Not to rush into anything. Sure, Ryan seemed like a lovely man, but she had her whole life ahead of her. That morning, Virginia left before Ruby woke up, eager to get to work.

  Terrence arrived first, arching one eyebrow at her promptness—usually no one was in before Terrence. Soon after, Doris and Winston sidled through the door, arguing whether The Stepford Wives was boring or brilliant.

  Finally, Totto showed up, balancing two coffees, handing one to Terrence.

  Virginia tried to stay cool, as Ruby would say, and not stare, but she couldn’t help it. His hair was messy, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. She’d assumed early on that he and Terrence were brothers, as they shared the same slim builds, gray hair, and height. They bickered all the time. She’d been corrected by Terrence but hadn’t considered the matter further.

  Totto’s back was to Virginia as he settled in, adjusting his timetables, lining up his pencils just so. Imperceptibly, his shoulders stiffened. He straightened up and looked about, one hand covering the O’Keeffe exhibit brochure that Virginia had left there.

  They locked eyes.

  “What’s this?” Totto’s voice trembled, but he covered it with a cough.

  “I went to a fascinating exhibit this weekend.” Virginia spoke louder than necessary, so her voice traveled across the booth. “I learned a lot.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. For example, I learned what Georgia O’Keeffe’s middle name is.”

  Doris tore off a bite of her egg sandwich. “Georgia O’Keeffe? Love her.”

  Winston’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “She’s the one that draws enormous lady parts, right?”

  “That’s enough, everyone,” said Terrence.

  Virginia made her way past Doris until she was right behind Totto. “Totto is her middle name,” she whispered. Totto tried to ignore her, but she pressed in closer. “Right?”

  “What about it?”

  “We should talk.”

  Totto stood. “Terrence, I’m going to help Virginia with some boxes.”

  Totto led the way to the elevator at track 23. Virginia’s heart pounded as loudly as her footsteps, as they walked toward the art school without speaking. Her hunch had been right. Totto pulled out a key ring, fiddled with it, and then opened the door.

  She’d found her ghost.

  Inside, Totto headed to the back storage room, the one with all the crates. He stood in the middle of it, his hands on his hips, surveying the mess of crates, some opened, some shoved to one side, the assortment of artwork pinned haphazardly on the walls. He plonked down on one of the crates and let out a harsh laugh, before putting his head in his hands, overcome.

  Virginia perched on an old wooden chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe we can help each other.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “I think you do. Who are you really, Totto?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “You’re related to Clara Darden.”

  Totto threw back his head and laughed.

  Something about the movement caused all the pieces to finally shift into place. The smooth white neck. No Adam’s apple.

  Totto wasn’t Clara Darden’s brother.

  Virginia studied Totto with new eyes. A woman, not a man. The suit did a lot to conceal her shape, but the hands and neck should have given it away weeks ago. Her wrinkled, mottled skin masked the delicate
bone structure of her face.

  “You’re Clara Darden.”

  “I am.” She raised her head, glaring. “Where’s my watercolor?”

  Virginia sidestepped the question. “How did you know I had it?”

  “I heard you in the booth, on the telephone, setting up an appointment. You mentioned me and Levon Zakarian. I realized that you’d found it, somehow. After months of me digging through these crates, you’d breezed right in and plucked it out from under me.”

  “How did you get a key?”

  “From when I taught here, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Surprisingly, it still worked.”

  “You sent me threatening letters.”

  “Which you ignored.”

  “I had to find out more about the painting.”

  “You thought it would make you rich.” Venom dripped from Clara’s voice.

  This wasn’t going the way Virginia had imagined. She’d lost the upper hand. “How do I know it’s really yours? Levon Zakarian is the painter, according to the rest of the world. Do you have proof?”

  Clara turned to Virginia, hate in her eyes. “One of my illustrations is on the back of the watercolor, signed and dated at the bottom. The illustration is the basis for the watercolor, which was a study for the oil painting. Follow the clues, Sherlock.”

  “Why didn’t you just sign the oil painting with your own name?”

  She leaned back on the crate, her arms braced behind her, head cocked. “We decided to keep it anonymous at first. Me, Felix—my art dealer—and Levon. The Depression was in full force, no one was buying, especially from a woman illustrator, and we figured a big revelation would attract attention.”

  “Everyone assumed Levon was the artist, because he was on the train to the Chicago exhibit with Felix when . . .” Virginia drifted off, unable to finish the sentence.

  “When it crashed.” Clara spat out the words. “A flash flood took out a bridge, and the train fell into the river below.”

  Virginia didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”