The Black Painting

by Neil Olson

  A hundred feet to their right, the front door opened. And there she was, as if Teresa’s thoughts had conjured her from the mist. Audrey. She wore the same clothes from yesterday, but with an old green coat over her T-shirt. They waited for her to look in their direction, but she skipped down the steps and toward her car without a glance left or right.

  “What’s she doing up at this hour?” Teresa wondered.

  James shrugged, but he watched his sister carefully.

  Audrey jumped into the Lexus and gunned the engine to life. Without waiting for it to warm up, she spun around the drive and out through the opening in the rhododendrons and was gone. It was only then that Teresa realized Philip’s car was also missing. Philip had gotten Miranda from the train yesterday, and James and Kenny had taken a taxi, so the drive was now empty of vehicles. Despite James standing beside her, Teresa had a panicky sensation of being abandoned on this foggy point of land. In this house of the dead.

  “Where is she going?”

  “It’s no use trying to figure out Audrey,” James said in resignation. “Be happy she’s gone for a while.”

  His words raised questions about the sibling relationship, but a more urgent question nagged Teresa.

  “How does that stuff about Grandpa make you to blame for his death?”

  “I didn’t say I was to blame.”

  “You said you would be blamed. Why?”

  “Because,” he said, then said no more. A crow shambled from one pine tree to the next, a blue jay shrieking after it. She waited him out. “Because I was there,” James finally continued. “Every time something bad happens, I’m around. Grandma falling on the terrace. The painting vanishing. Now Grandpa dies right after I argue with him.”

  “Oh, James,” Teresa said, grabbing the lapels of his coat and shaking him. “No one thinks you’re responsible for any of that.”

  “Maybe you don’t,” he mumbled.

  You’re the Angel of Death. Everyone you touch dies. Who had said that? Where had Teresa just heard it?

  “Has anyone accused you of something?” she asked.

  “They don’t have to. I can see it in their faces.”

  “Grandma fell because she had a stroke,” Teresa said patiently. “It was, like, her fourth. One of them was going to kill her. Audrey was there, too. And she and I were both there when the theft happened. As for Grandpa, well, it sounds like he started the fight. With Kenny also. It’s not your fault.”

  It was like talking to stone. He was still as a stone, too, his whole body gone rigid. He stared at the ocean with absolutely no expression. Teresa was good at reading people, but could read nothing in that blank visage. Despite the sun, the damp had penetrated her clothes and she began to shiver.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go inside.”

  “I saw someone,” James said then. “Or I thought I did. In the pines.”

  “Just now, when you were walking?” Philip and Audrey had clearly been awake, but what would either have been doing out there? “Anybody you recognized?”

  “No. I couldn’t tell. He, um, he had...” James’ voice shrunk to a whisper. “He had something covering his face.”

  What did it mean? Did it mean anything?

  “But you’re not sure you saw him?” she asked, confused.

  “Afterward, it didn’t seem to make sense. I’ve been told to question the things I see. That I think I see.”

  “Who told you that?” Teresa demanded to know.

  He shook his head firmly. Doors opened and closed within him swiftly, and hammering on them never seemed to do any good. James looked down and noticed her shaking.

  “You’re cold,” he said in surprise. “You should go in.”

  “Will you come with me?” she asked.

  “In a while. I don’t like it in that house.”

  “Please? I don’t like it either. I’ll make you an omelet.”

  It was one of the few things she could make, and she hoped there were eggs.

  “I want to hear about your school,” James said. “I’ve been reading a lot about art lately, and I have some questions.”

  “You’re full of surprises,” said Teresa. “Come inside, then, and we’ll talk.”

  She moved toward the front door, willing him to follow. Reluctantly, he did.

  5

  It was the right house, but no one was home. How he could know that without leaving the car was a fair question, yet Dave felt certain. There were obvious tells. No vehicles in the drive, no lights, no gently parted curtain. It was more than that, though. There was something about houses, about the way they sat. They announced their occupancy. This one was empty. No spirits within, living or dead. He drank his coffee and read the New York Times.

  He was early. He was always early, a habit picked up during the years when meetings carried potential threat. Arrive first, check out the location, see who else is watching. Dave supposed there might be threats today. The guy was a lawyer, after all, and had reason to dislike him. They would not be of the lethal kind, however, and he was not worried. More curious, which he had not been for some time. Which was the reason he was here at all. That and needing money.

  At 8:55 a.m. he decided to survey the property. It was a nice house. Yellow clapboard with white trim, a porch running along two sides. Big, but no mansion. A top attorney from a wealthy family could do better. It certainly could not compare to the old man’s pile of brick by the sea. Then again, maybe the son would inherit that, the father having keeled over yesterday. Dave had read the obituary in the car. The collector got two columns with a photo. The tone was decidedly negative, which was sad. Dave had known the man a little, and it was hard to like Alfred Morse, but he felt a grudging respect.

  Tennis court, luridly green lawn, bushes all around the house—laurel, azalea? He wasn’t good with shrubs. Primitive security system. Dave was ready to give hidden cameras a friendly wave, as if he were not casing the joint, but he saw none. He was back in the car sipping coffee when Philip Morse drove up, fifteen minutes late. Older model Mercedes, well maintained. The man was also well maintained, yet stress showed around his cold blue eyes. The eyes always give you away, thought Dave, stepping out of his car.

  “Thanks for your patience,” said the attorney. No doubt he had read some asshole’s success-in-business guide that said never apologize. He did not shake hands but headed straight for the house. Dave followed, not hurrying. The side door opened into the kitchen, which was large and white and appointed with the latest gadgets. For the wife, Dave guessed. He would bet twenty bucks that Philip Morse could not boil an egg.

  “I’ve been at my father’s,” the attorney said, lighting the gas jet under the steel kettle. He knew how to do that much. “I need to get back as soon as possible.”

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Dave replied. “I liked him.”

  “You were among the few,” Morse said sourly.

  “I would have been happy to go to his house, under the circumstances.”

  “I wanted this to be private. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

  Dave declined, and Morse turned off the kettle, making nothing for himself. They sat at the kitchen table, and the attorney played with his glasses before speaking.

  “My wife is in Paris,” he said pointlessly. Maybe to explain the empty house. “With friends. She’ll be back for the funeral, of course.”

  “Of course. Your children are around?”

  “My son, Ken. He’s at the house. You know why I asked you here, I suppose?”

  The question had an accusatory edge, but Dave was not playing.

  “I try not to presume anything. I would guess it’s related to your father’s death, except you called me before he died.”

  “I did,” Morse agreed. “You’ll remember I tried to speak to you after your investigation.”


  “I remember,” said Dave. “I wasn’t free to talk.”

  “You invoked client confidentiality. But your client is now deceased.”

  “Well, you would know better than me,” Dave replied carefully, “but I’m pretty sure that confidentiality continues after death.”

  “Client-attorney privilege does,” Morse said, “but you’re not a lawyer. And even lawyers are allowed exceptions when settling estates.”

  “Are you the executor?”

  “I assume,” Morse huffed, tossing his glasses on the table and looking uneasy. “I haven’t seen the will yet. I’m meeting his attorney later, at the house.”

  “That case was a long time ago,” Dave noted. “I’m no longer employed by that firm.”

  “I am aware of that,” said the lawyer snidely.

  “I was required to leave my notes with them.” A half-truth. That he was required to do so did not mean that he did. In fact, Dave had been reviewing them last night. “And my memory isn’t what it used to be. I mean, fifteen years...”

  “So you don’t intend to tell me anything.”

  “About?”

  “About your conclusions. In your report to my father.”

  “I see.” Dave leaned back in his chair. It was what he expected, though the timing was odd. Why all these years later, twenty-four hours before the old man’s death? If the attorney knew the death was imminent, then it was estate-related. Money. It was always money. “I’m not sure what I could say that would be useful.”

  “Then why are you here, Mr. Webster?”

  Yes, why? A rainy afternoon in Madrid. Dim rooms on the second floor of the Prado. Luisa had dragged him in to see something else, but he was taken hostage by those nightmare images by Goya. If they were Goya, no one knew for sure. Maybe his son, or the son painting over the father. Maybe the Devil himself. That was easy to believe when you stood before the works. Fourteen of them. Mad pilgrims with white eyes, screaming a song. Saturn’s dark maw devouring a bloody corpse. Witches floating in the air, the black shadow of the He-Goat before his coven. Fourteen, and one missing. A ghost painting, a rumor. For Dave, an obsession. Three years later Alfred Morse called Luisa’s father, Dave’s boss. There had been a theft. An indescribably precious work. He had no faith in the police. Luisa’s father gave the job to Dave, and his life unraveled. Not at that moment, but inexorably over the months and years that followed. And you ask why I’m here.

  “You don’t even know why,” Morse said contemptuously.

  “Let’s say out of respect for your father. And your loss.”

  “I don’t need your respect,” said the attorney. “I need your assistance. I would not ask if it wasn’t necessary, but it’s you who created this mess.”

  “Me?” said Dave, amused. “Do you think I took the painting, Mr. Morse?”

  “No, but you apparently thought I did,” the attorney raged, straining forward in his chair. Dave wondered if the man was about to attack him. “You destroyed my father’s trust in me. Ruined our relationship. And now you can sit in my house and smirk at me like that, you pathetic fraud.”

  That didn’t take long, thought Dave.

  “Even if any of that is true,” he answered, “it’s a couple of days too late to fix it.”

  That was cruel, he thought, surprised at himself. Why was he provoking the man? Did he want a fight? Did he want to roll around on the spotless tile floor with the lawyer, trading punches? Dave did not like Philip Morse. Fine. But the man had just lost his father, and there was some truth in his words.

  Used to being provoked, or maybe embarrassed by his outburst, the attorney grew calm. He smoothed his hair and put his glasses back on. Like Superman becoming Clark Kent.

  “Sadly, that is the case,” he said. “I can’t express my hurt at the idea my father died believing me guilty. Another man might feel shame, but I can see you aren’t such a man.”

  “You have it wrong, Philip.”

  “Then set me straight,” the attorney insisted. “How does your silence serve anyone?”

  How indeed? He should beg the man’s pardon and leave. But he knew that he was not going to do that.

  “Why now?” he asked. “Why after all this time did you call me two days ago?”

  “Why should I answer that?”

  “You don’t have to,” Dave said. The attorney eyed him closely, sensing an unspoken deal. He rose from his chair and went to the sink, gazing out the window there.

  “My father had no use for his children,” Morse said. “The feeling was more or less mutual. So his coldness toward me in the last decade didn’t really register. It was only a few days ago that I learned he suspected me of stealing the painting.”

  “You had no suspicion before?”

  “Why would I?” the attorney demanded, wheeling around on him. “He was upset with all of us when it happened. Like it was some group failure. But I didn’t feel it was directed specifically at me.”

  “You think I put that idea in his head.”

  “You’re free to deny it.”

  And who will you blame, then, Dave wondered.

  “How did you hear? Who waited until the last couple of days to tell you?”

  “That person only just heard it, as well,” the attorney replied. “I’m not free to say who.”

  The man desperately wanted Dave to talk. If he would not reveal his source under that inducement, it was pointless to push.

  “I can only speak about the investigation as it related to you,” Dave said. “No one else.”

  The attorney moved back to the table and sat.

  “Understood.”

  His expression was so eager that Dave hesitated. But it was too late to hold back.

  “I didn’t come to any conclusions,” he said. “For that matter, I didn’t submit a report. There was nothing on paper, it was all verbal.”

  “What, on the telephone?”

  “Never,” Dave replied. “In person. In his study. I think we met three times.” The big mahogany desk, the blue eyes even colder than his son’s, a crown of white hair swept back from his forehead. And that empty space above where the demon portrait so recently hung. “That’s how he wanted it done. I reported on my progress and he asked questions.”

  “About me,” Morse said.

  “All the children,” Dave admitted. “Spouses, the help, the caterers for the wake, dealers and collectors. It was a long list, and I didn’t get through half of them.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can only conjecture. We didn’t trade theories. Your father kept his own council.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Morse, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Conjecture away.”

  “He didn’t believe the groundskeeper was the thief. Or if he was, he acted on someone else’s behalf.”

  “We all suspected that,” the attorney said dismissively. “But whose?”

  “There was a collector who wanted the work very badly,” Dave replied, violating his own conditions. “A man named Charles DeGross.”

  “That’s right. He made my father at least two offers. Generous offers, I understood.”

  “You encouraged your father to sell to him,” Dave stated, rather than asked.

  “And that makes me suspect? My mother, my brother and his own lawyer encouraged the exact same thing.”

  “Yes, but they didn’t meet secretly with Mr. DeGross. You did. Twice.”

  Morse took a deep breath. Far from looking angry, he seemed relieved to have arrived at the heart of the matter.

  “It wasn’t secret. For heaven’s sake, we were in a restaurant.”

  “You were in a private room. Alone except for the waiter. And on at least one of those occasions you lied to others about where you would be.”

  Morse sighed again and shook his head.

&nb
sp; “Your memory is better than you claim,” he said ruefully. “Fibbing to my secretary is not a crime. It was essential that it be kept private. I was, in fact, acting in my father’s interest.”

  “Just without his knowledge or permission,” Dave replied.

  “You have no idea,” the attorney said sharply. “Or maybe you do.”

  “About what?”

  “His finances. My father didn’t understand money, and he ran through it at an alarming rate. He paid high prices for works he wanted, and hardly sold a thing. It wasn’t sustainable. Ten million dollars would have gone a long way toward curing his problems.”

  “He felt the painting was worth many times that,” said Dave.

  “To whom?” Morse asked, tossing his hands up. “You’re not a dealer, but you must understand the market a little. That kind of money was a delusion. No one has ever paid that for a Goya, and certainly no one would without a clean provenance.”

  “You think your father acquired it illegally?”

  “I don’t know, nor do I care. That painting...” The attorney became glassy-eyed for a moment. As if he went away from the conversation, away from the bright room to some other, darker place. “That painting was never going to a museum,” he rasped, his gaze slowly finding Dave again. “Anyone who would take it for a good price and keep it hidden was doing our family and the world a service.”

  Dave held his tongue. They had come to what he cared about, but the questions he wanted to ask would take them away from the lawyer’s concerns, and expose his own. He mastered himself.

  “What was your purpose in meeting DeGross?”

  Morse nodded, as if he, too, had forgotten the point and was grateful to be brought back to it.

  “The first time was after his initial offer. Seven million. I convinced him that my father swearing not to sell was a bluff, that he should go higher. I’m the one who got him to ten million. Not that Dad would have thanked me for it.”