The Black Painting

by Neil Olson

  “Isn’t it valuable?” she said automatically.

  “A few million, maybe. If you could find a buyer who didn’t mind its sketchy history.”

  “Not to mention that it might kill you.” She tried to sound flippant, but the words caught in her throat. Dave wondered if she could truly be afraid of the painting. Then he remembered Philip Morse’s face when he spoke of it. A family fear, bred in deep. The old man had done a number on all of them.

  “Maybe it would be better if it wasn’t found,” Dave offered.

  “Yeah, I’ve thought of that,” she said. “The thing is, that painting did a lot of harm to people who never even looked at it. It messed up our whole family. And it’s still going on.”

  “What are you afraid of, Audrey?”

  Because it was clear she was afraid. Among the many shifting emotions on her face—anger, curiosity, contempt—quick flashes of fear kept appearing.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, looking him up and down. As if for some clue hidden in his hands, his face, the folds of his jacket. Some proof that she could trust him.

  “He was bludgeoned and strangled,” Dave said, surprising them both. “The dead man that I discovered. He was a thief and a bully, a truly bad guy. But no one deserved to die like that. It’s funny, until that moment I fully believed an old saying of my former boss. I repeated it again and again to nervous clients. ‘Nobody kills over art.’ But I was wrong.”

  She nodded slowly, as if they had agreed on something.

  “My grandfather,” she said cautiously. “Something bad happened to him. His face was all... I’m sure it was his heart. I don’t expect the autopsy to turn up anything. But something terrified him. Something or someone.”

  “And you think that someone is a threat to you.”

  “I don’t trust any of them,” she whispered. “I worry about my brother. He’s fragile. Anything can set him off. Whatever happened in that room during the theft, he’s never been right since. I worry about my cousins, too. I feel like I have to watch out for them, but I don’t even know what I’m watching out for.”

  She wanted protection, Dave understood. Yet neither of them knew from what threat.

  “Look, I’m flattered that you felt you could tell me this,” he said gently. “But I’m not sure what I can do to help.”

  She nodded again, understanding. The hopelessness in the gesture made him want to reach over and take her hand, to tell her to forget what he had just said. She could count on him. Don’t get played, Dave, he cautioned himself. How many times have you fallen for this?

  “Well,” Audrey said, standing up. “Thanks for the terrible coffee. I should let you get going.”

  A minute later they stood outside the diner. An old man walked his ancient beagle, grunting some complaint as the dog looked at him adoringly. They both gazed fixedly at the touching scene, lost in their separate thoughts. She flexed her fingers in a familiar way, and Dave waited for her to light up. Then recalled that she had not smelled of smoke even faintly.

  “When did you quit?” he asked. She glanced sidelong at him. “Smoking,” he clarified.

  “Three weeks ago,” she said. “Three weeks and a day, to be precise. That’s good, Dave. Are you showing off for me?”

  That’s exactly what he was doing. Like a teenager trying to impress a girl.

  “Busted,” he confessed.

  “That’s sweet,” she said, punching his shoulder playfully, but a little too hard. “Thanks for talking to me. There was no one else I could share that with.”

  Dave dug into his wallet and pulled out a card.

  “Here,” he said, handing it to her without making eye contact. “Give a call if you really need something.”

  “But only if I really need it, huh?”

  “I’m on retainer to your uncle. He might consider my talking to you a conflict of interest.”

  “And you need this gig,” she said. “I get it.” She strode to the Lexus, hips swinging in a way that made an ache form in his chest. “Don’t worry,” Audrey said, flashing a white smile before she swung into the car. “I won’t screw things up for you.”

  No, Dave thought. I’ll find a way to do that myself.

  7

  “What do you see?” Kenny called to her.

  Teresa braced herself against the tree fort’s rickety wall, which came only to her sternum. Even with the oak continuing to grow all these years, she was no more than a dozen feet off the ground. Through a narrow space between pines she spied sunlight on water.

  “The Sound,” she answered. “The Lost Kingdom of Long Island.”

  “It should stay lost.”

  “And if I stand on tippy-toes I can just see Portugal.”

  She did not expect him to get the reference, but when she glanced down he was beaming. Kenny, with his perfect hair and teeth. A lawyer in San Francisco now, with a big apartment and a succession of cute girlfriends. What was it like to be that successful, that confident?

  “I’d forgotten,” he said. “That was Audrey.”

  “No, Audrey said France.”

  “Yeah, geography wasn’t her thing.”

  “You said Portugal,” Teresa continued. “I couldn’t wait to be old enough to climb trees so I could see Europe, too. I believed whatever you told me.”

  “Well,” he replied good-naturedly, “I guess it was a good lesson about men.”

  “About cousins. My God, the bullshit you guys made up. Then I would go and say it to my friends or my teachers.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the Civil War was fought over the right to wear mustaches. Or that women got pregnant from swallowing seawater. Or damn, what else? There were others.”

  But it did not matter, because Kenny was laughing too hard to hear.

  “You didn’t believe those things?” he gasped.

  “Of course I did, I was five years old!” She might have been six or seven. She probably would have believed them at ten. She was a gullible child. Lost in fantasies and ignorant of the world. “Are you coming up?”

  “Not a chance,” he replied. “You come down before that thing collapses.”

  Teresa did not believe their old fort would tumble under her weight, but she stepped over to the hole in the floor and carefully descended the makeshift ladder. The rungs were spongy, as James had warned, but sufficient to hold her. There was a gap at the bottom, and Kenny took her by the hips to lift her down. An intimate act, which he performed without fuss. It was not until she was on the ground that Teresa spotted the big hole in the trunk that used to scare her as a kid. Just out of arm’s reach from the ladder. A good house for a family of squirrels, she thought now, but nothing to be frightened of.

  “Thanks,” she said to Kenny. “You want to go a little farther?”

  “Not in these shoes.”

  His loafers already had tree mulch stuck to them. Why didn’t people ever wear the right shoes?

  “You want to go back?”

  “Not really,” he said, gazing through trees to where the looming house sat. “Although we should be taking advantage of the quiet while Audrey’s gone.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “No idea,” Kenny replied. “I tell her stuff. She never tells me anything.”

  “Why do you tell her?” Teresa asked.

  Kenny shook his head, perplexed.

  “I don’t mean to, but somehow she wheedles it out of me. Most of the time she already knows what I’m going to say. She seems to know everything.”

  “Yes,” Teresa said. They sounded like two picked-on children discussing the playground bully. “You think she’s up to something?”

  He looked at her oddly. “What would she be up to?”

  “I don’t know. She’s acting kind of... It almost seems like she’s enjoying this.”
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  “She thrives on chaos. And she’s not too happy with her life right now.”

  “Ah, so she tells you some things,” Teresa replied.

  “We talk. She’s in White Plains selling insurance. Nothing wrong with that,” he added quickly, “but she doesn’t love it. Broke up with a boyfriend in the last few weeks, I think. Then there was the divorce.”

  “That’s a couple of years ago.”

  “So?”

  “She didn’t even like him,” Teresa said defensively.

  “You think? I guess she always says that.”

  “You don’t believe her?”

  “I don’t know. She changes stories according to her mood. But I have the impression she was crazy about Rick, and the divorce totally upended her.”

  “I heard they fought all the time.”

  “Well, yeah,” Kenny said. “We are talking about Audrey. And about marriage, which seldom runs smooth. Which of our parents didn’t fight all the time?”

  “God, is that supposed to be our model? How badly our parents did?”

  “I bet you’ve read more psychology than me. That’s how it goes. We repeat the same mistakes, generation to generation.”

  “Is that why you’re not married?” she asked him.

  He gave her a sour look and kicked the damp earth with his pretty loafer.

  “I’m only thirty. Don’t rush me.”

  Too handsome, she thought. Too many choices. Men didn’t pass up their chances at his age. And how would you know, she scolded herself. You know almost nothing about Kenny. He could be the sweetest man on earth. He could be a serial killer.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “Me?” she mumbled. “I’m back in school.”

  “I know that, Teresa. Don’t be coy.”

  “I also broke up with someone a couple of weeks ago.” Which ought to have made her feel some kinship with Audrey, or at least a little compassion.

  “Was it serious?”

  “For me it was,” she said, imagining Marc’s smiling face. That’s Marc with a c. It was the first time Teresa had been able to picture him doing anything but sulk since they split up. “I guess for him, too.”

  “Sorry,” Kenny said. “It’s never easy.”

  “I liked that girl I met at Audrey’s wedding. What was her name?”

  “Trudy,” he replied, grinning. “She’s a good kid, we’re friends.”

  “She was beautiful,” Teresa mused. “I’ve never been able to do that. Stay pals with ex-boyfriends. Not that there have been that many.”

  “You’re, um, not very good at casual. You’re a pretty intense girl.”

  “Am I? I am. Is that bad?”

  “It’s what it is. I’m guessing you don’t date a lot, don’t let guys get too close. Yes? But when you find the right guy, boom, you’re all in. So when it blows up, you take it that much harder.”

  She wanted to ask who he thought he was, pretending to know her so well. But she was too distracted holding back tears. Damn it, what was this about? She was not a crier, but tears were waiting every time she let her guard down in the past twenty-four hours. She reached out and touched Kenny’s arm, tipping her face away.

  “That’s right,” she said thickly. “That’s exactly right.”

  “Come on, let’s head back.”

  “Wait,” Teresa said. “What did Grandpa say to you?”

  He looked at her and looked away. And she saw instantly that she had it wrong. Again. She could not stop seeing them all through the lens of her childish insecurity. Kenny’s smile was a mask. He was as troubled as any of them. At this moment, maybe a little more.

  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “You talked to James,” she countered. “When he showed up on your friend’s doorstep that night.”

  He wheeled on her, and Teresa saw a flash of his adolescent temper.

  “If he already told you, then why are you asking me?” Kenny snarled.

  “He didn’t tell me anything about you,” Teresa replied, looking him in the eye for three or four long moments. He had James’ eyes, without that lost quality. A little haunted, perhaps. He looked away first.

  “It’s nobody’s business,” Kenny said. “I only let him in because he surprised me. And he was so messed up from talking with the old guy. We agreed not to speak to anyone else.”

  “What could be so terrible?” Teresa demanded. “I’m not going to judge, I just want to know what—”

  “You want to know what he was going to say to you.” He cut her off. She started to protest, then stopped. She was curious about the others, but ultimately that was what she wanted to know. “I can’t help you,” he said. “Whatever my issues with Grandpa, he had his rules. He didn’t mention anyone else when he spoke to me. Each lecture was for that person alone.”

  “Shape up, kid, or no cash for you.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That was bottom line.”

  “But how was he going to enforce it? Was he monitoring all of our lives? And now he’s dead, so...”

  “So we’re basically screwed. Whatever’s in the will right now is what we get.”

  She glanced at his profile. The strong nose like his father’s, eyelashes she would kill for.

  “Do you care that much about the money?”

  “No,” he said. “Not that.”

  “Then what?”

  He began marching away from her, turning back only as he reached the edge of the trees.

  “Are you coming?”

  “I’m going to walk,” she replied. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  “You have a good imagination, Teresa. Use it. Go to the place that’s most private to you. Most humiliating. You know what I mean? That tender spot. That’s right where he would have put his finger. I’m glad you didn’t have to go through it. No one deserved a heart attack more than that old bastard.”

  He turned away again and moved through the last trees toward the house.

  * * *

  The wooded part of the property was not large. No more than a few hundred square yards, but it was the only part of Owl’s Point Teresa did not know. As a girl, the big pines had frightened her. The way they shrank the view and swallowed all sound. Every time Kenny or Audrey ventured in, she was certain they would never emerge again. Now she found that same silence calming, and she wandered aimlessly. In very little time she arrived at the iron fence marking the property line.

  Clearly it had once been an imposing wall of black spikes. It was rusted now, more orange than black, and fallen down in many places. No animal or man would find it difficult to pass through. She wondered if this was where Pete had slipped out with his stolen goods. He had been spotted more than once heading into the pines at day’s end. Including the day of the theft, when he had a large black bag slung across his shoulder. Someone on the catering crew had seen him. Pete denied it at first, then eventually confessed to taking a silver platter and a few other items. But not the Goya. He swore up and down that he had never touched the painting. For all the good it did him.

  She walked along the fence until she found what looked like a trail through the trees. There was a narrow strip where the ferns did not grow, and the earth was slightly furrowed. Had there been more leaves down, she never would have seen it. Teresa followed the trail back in the general direction of the house. It passed over marshy ground and through a grove of red maples. Twenty yards away she spotted a cove, the existence of which she had never known. Just big enough for a small boat. Maybe that’s how Pete got the goods out? She smiled at her runaway imagination, but the smile froze on her face.

  There were only a handful of pines between her and the lawn, but standing among them was a figure. Forty feet ahead. Dark pants and a long greenish jacket. She could not make out the head at all, let alone the face. It st
ood so still that Teresa tried to convince herself it was not real, but there was no mistaking the form. She would pass within a few yards if she kept to the trail. She could cut into the trees, but would lose sight of the figure and risk losing her bearings. Instead she began to walk backward slowly. Within five steps the figure started forward. Toward her. Teresa turned and ran.

  Stop, she told herself. Why are you running? There’s someone else in the woods, big deal. Turn and confront him. But she could not do it. The panic was too strong. In a minute she was back at the iron fence, where she crouched down and risked a peek at the trail. Nothing. Yet she heard something in the underbrush. A thrashing or snapping. Squirrels? Had she heard that earlier? She could not remember, she could not think straight. She looked for the path by which she had originally come, but there had been no path, just idle wandering. Where was the house? There, more or less. She moved back into the trees.

  Beneath pines, a brown carpet of needles silenced her steps. But when Teresa reached the big oak, leaves and saplings gave her away. She might as well have been blowing a horn and shouting I’m over here! She increased her pace, rushing under the crumbling tree fort. The black hole in the trunk made her flinch, as if an arm might reach out and grab her. From the corner of her eye she saw a figure. On the right, closing quickly. She ran faster.

  And burst onto the lawn, stumbling for several steps, then falling headlong in the grass. She rolled onto her back and scanned the trees. A pine branch swung madly where she had just emerged, but otherwise there was no movement. Nothing visible. Knowing she should rise, Teresa nevertheless lay there a minute or two, collecting her breath and wits.

  “Who’s there?” she asked. Meaning to shout, but it emerged a whisper. “Who’s in there?” she said more loudly.

  At last she dragged herself to her feet and walked backward toward the house. Then turned and walked normally. Determined not to look back, she twice did so anyway. No one was following. The afternoon sun had become surprisingly low, the day slipping away.

  She rounded a marble statue of an angel and sensed movement. Where? Had the mudroom door just shut, or did she imagine that? Teresa circled the house to the front door. Philip’s and Audrey’s cars were back in the drive, along with others. It took her a moment to identify the brown sedan as Detective Waldron’s. Her hand hesitated on the doorknob. He was only going to be in touch if anything odd turned up. And here he was. She had been holding her breath for the last day, it felt like. Anticipating some new threat, and the moment had arrived. Teresa opened the door and went in. They were waiting for her.