House of Ashes

by Loretta Marion

  Along with a healthy commission. “You’re a peach, Lu.”

  “Remember that sentiment when the bank forecloses on your house.” She let the thought sink in before ending with, “You’re the boss.”

  * * *

  At nine o’clock, the phone rang again. I thought it might be Lu, but it was Zoe’s voice singing into the phone.

  “Good morning, little sister. How does it feel to wake up knowing you’ve taken the art world by storm? A sellout! And this your first exhibit.”

  I didn’t respond immediately.

  “Don’t be mad. Lu was so excited last night. She had to tell someone, and it was too late to call you. What with the time difference and all, telling me was the next best thing. You would have called me anyhow to tell me, right? I could hardly sleep last night. This is such wonderful news. When will you get your check? Will it be enough to pay off the mortgage?” She was chattering away, not even pausing to let me answer.

  “You’re making me dizzy, Zoe. How many cups of coffee have you had already today?” It was only six o’clock out there.

  “Can’t I be excited for you? Fortunately, Oliver had an early tee time, so he’s up too.”

  “Congratulations, Cassie,” Oliver called out from a distance.

  “He wants to know when we’ll get a Cassandra Mitchell original.”

  “You already have one,” I reminded her. “The portrait of Fiona?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll be sure to show Oliver one day.”

  “Where is it? Tucked away in the attic somewhere growing mold?” It was still a sore subject.

  “Let’s play nice today, okay?”

  “Sorry. Oliver still in the room?”

  “No, he’s headed for the shower.”

  “Just wanted to check if everything’s okay between you two. The last time we spoke, you seemed a little upset.”

  “We’re fine. But let’s not talk about it now. I want to hear all about last night. Who was there? What were they wearing?”

  “This wasn’t the Oscars, Zo-Zo.”

  “Sue me for wanting to share your special night.”

  My first reaction, which I managed to stifle, was to shoot back with “If you truly wanted to share my special night, you’d have been here. We’d be having this conversation in person, over coffee at Mama’s old oak table.” But the shame from my kiss with Brooks was keeping me in check.

  “Then let me start at the beginning. Lu was absolutely dazzling.” I delivered a fairly detailed account of the evening, listing everyone in attendance that she would remember, describing what they wore. We talked of all her friends, who had changed, who looked the same.

  “I presume Brooks was there?” She slipped the question in.

  “Of course.” I tried to make my voice equally as casual, which was difficult. Thank goodness we hadn’t started Skyping yet. She’d see right through me.

  “How does he look?” She was killing me.

  “As handsome as ever.” I needed to get off the subject of Brooks but was grasping at straws for a new topic. “Let’s see, who else was there? Mr. Stanfield and Miss Peeper. Edgar Faust. He wrote about The Bluffs years ago for his book about Cape Cod lore. Do you remember that?”

  “Barely.” Her tone had gone oddly chilly.

  My call waiting beeped, and not a minute too soon. “Lu’s calling.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her I hadn’t yet agreed to the sale.

  I transferred to the incoming call. “Guess who just called me from California?”

  “Oh.” She paused. “Sorry about that.”

  “You know I would have told her anyway. Only it would have been smarter to wait until the offer had actually been accepted.”

  “Cassie, trust me when I say that I couldn’t have conceived of it not being accepted.”

  “That’s fair. Let’s hope it works out because I don’t want to have to deal with Zoe flipping out if this falls through.”

  “She’s not the only one you’ll have to answer to.”

  “I know how hard you’ve worked putting this exhibit together for me. But as you said last night, before this offer even came in, the show already had the makings of a success.”

  She sighed. “You’re right. But I haven’t given up yet. It’s arranged. They’ll be out to your house in ten minutes.”

  “They?”

  “Well, here’s the thing. Michael Bernard, the man who made the offer? He’s not the actual buyer.”

  “Who is then?”

  “A man named J. Aaron Welkman. Michael’s his personal assistant.”

  “Did you meet this Mr. Welkman?”

  “No. But you will.”

  “Why aren’t you coming too?”

  “They had their own condition, which was a private meeting with you. Maybe they want to sweeten the offer and cut me out of the deal.”

  “You know I would never do that.”

  “I’m not worried, at least not about that. But how do you feel about two strangers coming out to the house with you there alone?”

  “I have Whistler to protect me.” Although it was a bit unsettling.

  “Maybe we should call Brooks and let him know just for the sake of caution.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. He had a little too much to drink last night, and we should let him sleep it off.”

  Lu hesitated but ultimately gave in. “Okay, but check in with me after you meet with them. If I haven’t heard from you in an hour, I’m going to drive out there myself.”

  I waited for my guests on the porch; when Whistler began his normal warning routine of barking viciously, my stomach lurched as a black Lincoln Navigator with darkly tinted windows drove toward the house. Maybe I should have let Lu call Brooks after all.

  A man I vaguely recognized from last night got out of the driver’s side while Whistler continued growling and pacing in front of the vehicle. I didn’t call him back. It was better for my visitors to think him threatening.

  To avoid Whistler, the man—presumably Michael Bernard—walked behind the SUV to assist an older gentleman in sunglasses, whom I assumed was Mr. Welkman. I wondered why he required assistance; he was not a frail man—quite the opposite, he was in decent physical shape. Then Whistler did something totally unexpected. He stopped snarling and with ears laid back flat to his head and his tail doing a low wag, he slowly approached Mr. Welkman, then dropped to a down position.

  “Hey, fella.” The older man pulled something from his pocket and Whistler licked greedily at the extended fingers. “Good boy. Up.”

  But instead of sitting up, the dog rolled onto his back and whimpered delightedly as the man stooped down to offer a tummy rub.

  So much for my protector. I walked toward my guests, stunned.

  “I’ve never seen him take to a stranger so quickly. What’s in those treats?”

  “Secret recipe.” He patted his pockets. “I’ve always had a way with animals, especially of the canine variety. I even managed to charm a pack of dingoes once long ago.”

  I dipped my head. “Pardon?”

  “You heard right. He said ‘dingoes.’ ” The younger of the two shook his head as if he himself didn’t believe it. “Aaron’s a regular Dr. Doolittle. You should see him with a congress of baboons.”

  “Baboons? My, you keep strange company.”

  “May I introduce myself? I’m J. Aaron Welkman, but you can call me Aaron.” He reached his hand out as the other man guided him toward me.

  “Cassandra Mitchell.”

  “Pleasure. This is my assistant and good friend, Michael.”

  We both nodded cordially to each other. Aaron removed his sunglasses, and it was immediately obvious what his condition was. “I’m not blind yet. Low vision is what the doctors say. Macular degeneration is a most unpleasant disorder, particularly for those who enjoy drinking in the beauty of this world.”

  “Aaron was a photographer of some renown be
fore his sight began to fade.” Michael said this in obvious admiration. “If you’ve ever flipped through a National Geographic magazine, you’ve probably seen his photographs.”

  “Impressive. Now I understand the reference to baboons.” Lest he think I was making light, I rushed to add, “I’m sorry for your sight loss. As an artist, I can’t imagine how devastating it would be to have to give up my passion.”

  “Fortunately, I am able to live vicariously through others. I’ve passed the baton to my protégé here.” Aaron patted Michael’s shoulder. “As for your own passion, it is a special talent, Ms. Mitchell.”

  “Or so you’ve been told?” I looked directly at Michael as I said this.

  “Might we go sit somewhere?” Aaron suggested, ignoring my comment.

  “Of course.” I motioned for them to follow.

  Traitor that he was, Whistler stayed close to Aaron’s side until he was seated in the living room, where he rested at the older gentleman’s feet to receive the treats so generously being doled out.

  I chose the settee opposite from the two men, who were sitting either side of the fireplace.

  “I made you a generous offer, Ms. Mitchell.” Aaron got right down to business. “Are you prepared to accept it?”

  I hesitated, prompting Michael to utter an offensive insinuation. “Unless you’re holding out for more?”

  “The offer was more than fair, even beyond generous. Initially, I was prepared to accept it because it is extremely tempting. But I cannot ignore the mystery surrounding your interest.”

  “Are you suggesting Aaron is trying to deceive you?” Michael’s insolence sharply contrasted to his well-mannered first impression.

  Aaron held up his hand. “Please, Michael.”

  “The word I used was ‘mystery,’ which doesn’t imply you’re being unscrupulous. I simply don’t understand why someone would offer more than the value of the collection for a complete unknown. Especially—and please don’t take offense—since you can’t even see them.”

  “I understand your misgivings. But I assure you, I only wish to purchase your paintings as a gift for someone who holds dear to their heart this area of Cape Cod. I trust Michael’s eye on these matters. I know he sees in them what I would have seen.”

  “But why would you need to purchase the entire collection? Some of the paintings are near duplicates.”

  “This isn’t the first time Aaron has given a newcomer a break,” Michael explained. “He scooped up every photograph in my first exhibit.”

  “Well, in that case, I appreciate the confidence and the compliment. However, what I don’t understand is why you’d pay over the asking price. Do you see why I might be troubled by the motivation behind such a significantly higher offer?”

  “What I see is a breakout artist with a chip on her shoulder.”

  “I’m begging you, Michael,” Aaron admonished his assistant.

  At the same time, the fireplace flames suddenly flared as if doused by a shot of kerosene. Aaron hadn’t noticed, but Michael sent me a nervous, questioning look as he moved his chair away. I comforted Whistler, who had abandoned his post at the hearth for the safety of the settee.

  I took the eruption as an alert from Percy and Celeste, but I was already a step ahead.

  “Gentlemen, I’m not so easily fooled.” If they’d played this game six months ago, no doubt I would have accepted the offer without question.

  “I beg your pardon?” Aaron’s brow had bunched, but Michael’s complexion was becoming red and blotchy.

  “I feel like I’m in the middle of a not very-well-acted good-cop/bad-cop routine.” Michael’s expression morphed from indignation to embarrassment.

  “I’m afraid the jig is up for us.” There was a subtle slump to Aaron’s shoulders as he said this. “We underestimated you, Ms. Mitchell, and for that I’m sorry.”

  It was a backhanded apology; his regrets were only for the failure of their ploy. It burned me that they’d just assume I’d fall for their little act.

  “Might we start again?” Aaron held out his hands in appeal. “I am still serious about this transaction.”

  “And I’m still serious about wanting to understand the nature of your interest.”

  “You must believe me, the less you know, the better for everyone involved.” He did not state this as a threat, but more as a resigned truth.

  “That sounds rather ominous.”

  Aaron rubbed his forehead. “There is no danger to you no matter what you decide about selling the paintings to me. But for others?” There was a subtle lift to his shoulders. “I can say no more on the subject.”

  “May I at least have a day or two to think it over?” I needed to buy some time.

  “We’re leaving today,” Michael protested mildly, and then he offered for clarification, “We have to be in Boston for some business concerns. We’re scheduled to fly out on Thursday morning.”

  “I’m confident we can conclude those dealings by Wednesday,” Aaron interjected. “Does that give you enough time for thoughtful consideration, Ms. Mitchell?”

  Four days was more than I could have hoped for. “I promise to have an answer for you by then. Shall I call you?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Michael and I will plan to return here on Wednesday afternoon.”

  I was positive Aaron was not the type of man to give up easily. He’d have another plan of attack at the ready if my answer was not to his pleasing.

  The two men stood, and Whistler followed suit, wagging happily. When we arrived at the Navigator, Aaron reached into his pocket and retrieved another morsel.

  “Good boy.” The dog devoured the treat before darting off for a romp in the meadow. Aaron winked in my direction. “Bribery is the key.”

  “I’ll remember that next time I find myself surrounded by a congress of baboons.”

  He was amused but then became serious in his final petition. “I do hope you will decide in my favor.”

  As he held out his hand, the signet ring he was wearing caught the sun. In that brief glimpse there was a familiarity to it, but I was unable to manage a closer look because Aaron grasped my own hand firmly.

  “I promise to consider it carefully.”

  Michael helped Aaron into the vehicle and closed the door. He turned to me and said, “Please don’t let our little attempt at trickery have a bearing on your decision.”

  “It’s forgotten,” I lied, sensing something else at play. I was dying to know what lay at its root.

  I watched them drive off, but as I walked up the front porch steps to make the promised call to Lu, Whistler started barking another alert. A gray Avalon came into view at the curve of the drive.

  “Who was in the fancy ride I just passed?” Daniel asked, receiving an affectionate greeting from the dog. I folded my arms across my chest as he approached.

  “A buyer from last night’s exhibit.”

  “So I presume it went well?” He seemed genuinely pleased.

  “Better than I could have predicted.”

  “That’s because you don’t have confidence in your talent.” He stepped up onto the porch, my heart quickening as he drew near.

  “Maybe my work would suffer if I was conceited.” I took a casual step back, and he leaned against the railing to give me berth, folding his arms in a mimicking gesture.

  “There is a difference, you know, between confidence and conceit. But you may be right. Your work has an aura of vulnerability.”

  “Listen to you, Mr. Art Critic.”

  “What can I say? The Sunday Arts section of the Globe is a wealth of information. Besides, I know what I like, and I liked what I saw last night.”

  “Thanks.” I didn’t ask why he’d left without saying hello. I didn’t want him to think I cared. But I did care and had been hurt. “I assume you’re here to see me on that other matter.”

  “Yep.” He yawned, making me wonder if he’d driven out from Boston or was crashing at his friend’s cottage in E
ast Falmouth.

  “I’m sorry for texting at an ungodly hour.” I was grateful he’d answered last night after Cindy had identified the mascot.

  “No problem. I haven’t been sleeping well lately anyhow.” He offered a sad smile. “But we were able to access enrollment information for Temple University.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “The FBI is a twenty-four/seven operation. Unfortunately, there are no records of an Ashley or Vince Jacobson having gone to school there.”

  I sat down on the porch rocker, feeling as if all the air had been knocked out of me.

  “Don’t lose heart yet.” He sat in the other rocker. “I emailed their photo to the Philadelphia office. The campus is located in the heart of the city, so it will be easy for them to send someone out to see if anyone recognizes or remembers them. Is there anything else you can recall? Names of friends or professors?”

  “Their apartment was very close to a fire station. Whistler was terrified when the alarm sounded. He bolts whenever he hears a siren.”

  “Ah. So that’s why he disappeared that night?” He gave me a meaningful look, which made me flush hotly with the memory of the first time he’d stayed the night and the fire alarm ringtone of my cell phone that had sent Whistler cowering in the guest room.

  He was jotting notes in a small notebook. “Anything else?”

  “They frequented a tavern called Johnny-something which served a microbrewery beer called Dog Fish Head, one of Vince’s favorites.” I suddenly felt disloyal to Brooks. I’d forgotten to pass along this information after I’d found the beer again at the package store.

  “I’ll have one of the research people conduct a search, see if they can come up with some type of geographical match.”

  “Thank you for doing this,” I told him. “I mean it.”

  He flipped the notebook closed and reached over to caress my cheek. “I miss you.”

  I missed him too. But I didn’t trust myself to say the words and only took his hand in mine and nodded.

  Whistler, who’d presumably been involved in his favorite pastime of chasing chipmunks at the side of the barn, came running in the direction of the driveway as a Whale Rock Police Cruiser rounded the curve.