The Black Painting

by Neil Olson

  “The demon withdrew his assistance,” James explained, “and things went wrong. That’s what always happens. It wants to find a new owner, one who might keep the bargain.”

  “And how exactly do you keep it?” Audrey asked.

  “I was just going to ask that,” Kenny chimed in.

  “It’s obvious,” James replied, gazing at the dark window. “By destroying the portrait.”

  “Where did you get all of this?” Teresa demanded. Her voice jumped from the shudder rippling through her body. James looked at her fixedly. The first time he had made eye contact with any of them since beginning his weird tale.

  “I don’t remember. I’ve just always known. I thought all of us did.”

  What had each of them been told, Teresa wondered. What had they forgotten, and what had their imaginations created over the years? And how would they ever know now which was which? As a group, their eyes went to the door. And saw Philip standing there. He studied them with a curious or perhaps suspicious expression. Or was Teresa inventing that? How long had he been there, listening?

  “Sorry to barge in,” Philip said, though he stood just outside the door. “Dinner in about ten minutes.”

  “Thanks, Phil,” said Audrey, leaning far over the table to give him an eyeful down her shirt. “I hope you have a good bottle of wine breathing somewhere.” In one fluid stroke she launched the eight ball into the corner pocket. “Bang. I am so good at this game.”

  9

  All good motels are alike. Each bad motel is bad in its own way. Dave had awakened in many strange rooms and was not particular. The Wildflower was cheap and near the highway, and the blue house encircled by apple trees exuded charm. But behind the house was the typical concrete block of rooms. In number 12 the lamp was broken, the mattress was—somehow—both misshapen and hard as stone, and the bedspread stank of the cleaning woman’s Marlboros. Dave fixed the lamp, spread his notes on the spare bed and waited for Philip Morse to call.

  His phone rang at two in the morning. He hated mobiles, and shoved the device in his sock drawer between jobs. But while working a case he always answered, day or night. Especially at night. Darkness got to people in a way that daylight could not match. Paranoia, drunkenness, despair had them dialing friends and strangers to confess all sorts of things, true and false.

  “Hello,” he mumbled, still partway in a dream. He had been trying to find Luisa in a deserted European city. Dave dreamed of his ex-wife often.

  “Did I wake you?” asked a woman.

  “Who is this?”

  “I imagined you as an insomniac.”

  “Audrey,” he said, becoming alert. He only half recognized the voice, but had no doubt it was her. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she replied. “Do you have someone there?”

  “You were only supposed to call if it was an emergency.”

  “If I really needed something, is what you said.” What could she need that badly at this time of night? “Are you in the city?”

  “No,” said Dave. “A motel.”

  “Which one? I know the motels around here pretty well.”

  “Guess I should have called you first.”

  “They all suck. And I don’t see you at some schmancy B and B. With homemade jam jars on the table and the owner’s dog sleeping on your feet.”

  “The dog part sounds good.”

  “You like sleeping with dogs, huh?”

  “Why don’t we talk in the morning?”

  “We have to meet,” she said. “I need your help with something.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Okay, in the morning. Although I was hoping to get a jump on things. You’re not in one of those New Haven dumps, are you?”

  “No,” he said, “and I’m hanging up now. Call me tomorrow if you have to.”

  “It’s raining here,” she said softly. “Is it raining where you are?”

  He listened to the light spray on the window. Listened to her breathing.

  “Yes. Go to sleep, Audrey.”

  In the morning he slept until the rain stopped, then went out for coffee and a bagel. Back in the room, his phone rang. Her again. This was becoming a problem. Dave let it go to voice mail, determined to speak to her in his own good time. Then he settled into the hard chair and paged through old notes, newspaper clippings, depositions, photographs. Synthesizing as best he could on a yellow legal pad.

  Early 1960s Alfred Arthur Morse acquires the Goya portrait. Seller unknown.

  1982 Miranda Morse brings home professor boyfriend, Ramón Marías, who becomes fast friend and confidant of AAM. Supplanting Philip Morse in that role. Two years later MM and RM marry. (Daughter Teresa born 1985.)

  RM shows obsessive attachment to portrait. Philip and AAM’s wife (Dorothy) encourage sale. (According to both AAM and PM.) PM meets twice with DeGross during this time.

  October 1996, Dorothy Morse dies from stroke. Buried two days later at Cedar Hill Cemetery. Most of family in attendance except:

  Teresa Marías (11), stricken with an illness that morning.

  James (11) and Audrey Morse (15)—children of Alfred Arthur III, aka Fred—left as companions for TM. Other reasons? James distraught over grandmother’s death, known for episodes of hysteria (source?). Audrey troublemaker. One or both not wanted at ceremony? Punishment for some behavior?

  Dave sipped coffee and flexed his fingers. His mind returned to Audrey. Not Audrey the smart aleck or manipulator, but the strong, troubled woman who occasionally showed through. If he could only speak to that person. He shook off the thought and took up his pen again.

  Also at Owl’s Point that day:

  Jenny Mulhane (mid 40s), cook.

  Peter Mulhane (31), Jenny’s half brother, employed at her behest (AAM). Handyman, ex-Marine and Gulf War veteran, casual thief.

  Ilsa Graff (56), longtime housekeeper and sometime companion of AAM (according to Fred’s second wife, Joyce—credible?). Overseeing prep for wake and keeping eye on the children. Very little memory of day’s events due to head blow.

  Old Langford Catering Co., four employees (two men, two women; names?), setting tables outdoors. Did not enter house farther than kitchen, according to JM. (Jenny in pantry/cellar at times, so alibi not ironclad.)

  RM leaves service early “to check on Teresa” (multiple sources). Arrives Owl’s Point an hour later, longer than drive should take. Alibi to police unknown, but never seriously investigated. Before his arrival:

  James Morse wanders to study while cousin and sister sleep. Why? Never questioned. Presumably he finds door open and witnesses theft in progress.

  Approximately 3:20 p.m. IG, AM, TM, all hear JM scream. TM too ill to rise, sees AM rush from room. IG (last memory is going to check on Teresa) arrives at study first to be struck in head by thief. Audrey arrives next to find Ilsa unconscious, James in fetal position, painting gone. Runs to Jenny, who calls police.

  About same time (?) two on catering crew see Peter Mulhane entering woods with a large black bag.

  This was possibly critical, and frustratingly uncertain. In her first statement, one caterer reported seeing Pete a little after three o’clock. Questioned again, she conceded that it could have been later, even twenty minutes later. Was she led to change her story by the prosecutor? Did Pete’s lawyer challenge it? And who was the other—

  His thoughts were interrupted by a shadow moving across the beige curtains. They were still closed from last night. The figure shifted around at the spot they met, trying to see into the room. Dave rolled out of the chair and padded to the door in his socks. Not wanting to give whomever it was time to run off. He turned the bolt slowly, pulled the door inward and leaned out.

  A black Dodge pickup sat in the lot, blocking Dave’s Taurus. A large man in jeans and a leather jacket was moving away. Toward the next window
, where he again tried to peer through the curtains. So he knew what car he was looking for, but not which room. Dave thought of going back inside and bolting the door, but he was too curious. In any case, the man glanced in his direction. Dave stepped all the way out, socks on the damp concrete, and leaned against the doorjamb. The big man strode back toward him. Rangy build, black hair cropped short, beard. Handsome in a brutal sort of way. The kind of man Audrey would like, no doubt. Audrey. Of course.

  “Where is she?” the man asked.

  “Who are you?”

  The big man sighed, drooping his shoulders.

  “I’m not doing this again. I speak to her, no one else.”

  “Tell me who you’re looking for,” Dave said. “Maybe I can help.”

  He saw the arm move and ducked away. Instead of striking, though, the man seized a fistful of his shirt and flung him aside. He was strong, and Dave stumbled a few yards before catching himself on the hood of the Taurus. Before he turned around, the man had disappeared into his room. Dave rushed after him. Embarrassed and angry, but also aware of the need for caution.

  The big goon moved swiftly through the room, checking the bathroom and the closet. He slammed the closet door and looked at Dave expectantly.

  “You want to look under the beds?”

  “Where is she?”

  “This is where we started. Who is she and why do you think she’s in my room?”

  “She told me to meet her here.”

  “Well, nobody told me about a meeting.” Then he thought of Audrey’s call this morning, the voice mail still sitting there. “Can you give me a second?”

  The man crossed his arms and waited, but before Dave could do anything they heard the rumble of a car pulling into the lot. Dave caught a glimpse of the red Lexus before the other man shoved him aside, heading for the door. It might have been protective feelings toward Audrey that clouded Dave’s judgment just then, but more likely it was getting tossed like a rag doll—twice—that did it.

  He dived after the man, catching him behind the legs and bringing them both to the floor with a hard thump. The man groaned and put a hand to his forehead. He was hurt, but not badly, and would now be furious. Meaning Dave had better hit him, probably many times, to keep him on the floor. He crawled up the man’s back and punched him hard between the shoulder blades, twice, preparing to strike again at the back of the head. But a leather-clad elbow shot up and hit Dave square in the face. Cracking his nose and sending him reeling onto his left side. The big man was on his feet much too quickly. This was not going as planned. Oh, right, there had been no plan.

  Face or gut, face or gut? Trying to cover both, Dave put his arm over his face and rolled his knees up. So when the boot struck it hit only ribs. Possibly cracking a few, but he did not puke up his bagel and that had to count for something. The man cocked his foot back again as a figure appeared in the doorway.

  “What the fuck?” said Audrey. Dave could not help but notice she sounded more surprised than upset.

  The big man hesitated, then kicked Dave anyway. Which, in fairness, was what Dave would have done in his shoes. Boots.

  “Stop that,” Audrey insisted. “What are you doing?”

  “Where did you find this clown?”

  “He’s a friend. Why are you kicking him?”

  “A friend you were meeting at a motel.”

  “What’s that to you?”

  “Nothing,” the man said, feeling around his forehead. “Am I bleeding, can you see?”

  “You’re not bleeding, dipshit. He is.”

  Dave levered himself into a sitting position and leaned gently back against the bed. The ribs would trouble him for days, but at the moment the nose hurt more. He tasted blood in his mouth. Audrey crouched beside him, examining his face with a certain degree of fascination.

  “That could be broken.”

  “Unph,” Dave agreed.

  “Why are we here?” the big man asked. “Does he have the money?”

  “Shut up,” said Audrey, peering more closely at the nose. “Do you have ice?”

  “There’s a machine,” Dave wheezed. “By the manager’s office.”

  She grabbed a handful of his hair and squeezed, in what he supposed was meant as a comforting gesture. Then she stood.

  “Come on,” Audrey said to the goon. “We can talk while—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he replied petulantly.

  “He’s got nothing to do with this,” Audrey said sharply. “You want one more person involved?”

  “Did you bring the cash?”

  “What we said. Okay? So come on.” She started out of the room without waiting for his answer. “Hang in there, Davie, I’ll be back with ice.”

  The big man followed, not giving Dave another glance. In the minutes they were gone, Dave managed to pull himself onto the bed and retrieve his phone. Her message did refer to a meeting, and she had clearly expected to arrive first. Otherwise, it was not terribly illuminating. He tossed the phone aside and closed his eyes. Only to hear the pickup’s engine roar to life. As it pulled away, Audrey strode into the room with a bag of ice.

  “Now we need a couple of towels,” she announced, heading for the bathroom.

  “Audrey,” he said, too quietly. Then louder, “Audrey.”

  She poked her head out of the bathroom door. Her face all innocent attention.

  “Leave the ice in the sink and go,” he said.

  “This will just take a second, I have to—”

  “I’m not asking you,” he said harshly.

  “I owe you an explanation.”

  “I don’t want an explanation. I want you out of my room. Now.”

  “Look, I’m going to wet one towel with cold water, put ice in the other, and bring them to you. Then I’ll leave, okay?”

  * * *

  As she slid off him for the second time, Dave had to concede the day was shot. He was not completely unhappy about it. The endorphins dulled the pain considerably, and his blues had faded. Temporary relief being the only kind available, he was grateful. Even if this was a terrible idea.

  “I knew you had another one in you,” said Audrey, her ample chest lifting and falling rapidly. She lay in a curvy heap, smiling at him through a curtain of hair.

  “You kidding?” he replied, breathing even harder. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready for more.”

  “No way,” she said, eyes getting big.

  “That’s right,” Dave laughed. “No way. Unless you want to explain my corpse to the police.”

  “Screw that,” she said. “I’d be long gone before they showed.”

  They both found this very funny. Endorphins were great. She took his left hand loosely in her right. He thought she might kiss it, but she only held it and said, “Thanks.”

  For what? Not throwing her out? Rallying for a second round after the not-so-great first? She had waited until his head was numb from Advil and the ice pack on his nose. Then she’d unbuttoned his shirt and worked gently on the sore ribs. At some point the towel was replaced by her lips and tongue, and one thing had led to another. She was cautious at first, not what he expected, but she warmed to the task. Her urgency became infectious, and he was far too ready when she climbed on top. The second time was better. It was wonderful, actually, for both of them. Assuming she had not been manufacturing those moans and spasms. There you go again, Dave, poisoning the fun.

  “You did all the work,” was all he said.

  “The least I could do,” she said, crawling back to him. Damp and spicy, with a trace of vodka. Like she was sweating it. “Given your delicate condition.”

  He groaned as she fell against his side.

  “Yes, and who’s responsible for my delicate condition?”

  “Um, let me think,” she murmured into his armpit. “
You?”

  “Did I summon that goon to my room?”

  “No, but apparently you jumped him.” She propped her head on her hand and stared at him in puzzlement. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “I don’t know. He seemed scary, and the way he acted when he saw your car...”

  Perplexity, suspicion, then delight, all within moments. Her face was a magic show, but you had to be looking closely.

  “You were defending me,” she laughed, slapping his stomach. “You idiot.”

  “Not so hard,” he said, feeling a little bad. His motives were more mixed than he was letting her believe.

  “You’ve got a flat belly for an old guy,” Audrey observed, smoothing her hand over it. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Too old for you.”

  “Clearly not,” she said gleefully. “My ex-husband is older, too. Almost seven years.”

  “I’m older than that,” Dave replied. “So you owe this guy money?”

  “Rick does. My ex. Gambling, mostly.”

  “And what does Rick do?”

  “Oh, everything,” she said sarcastically. “He’s what you call an entrepreneur. In other words, I married my father.”

  “I see. So why is this guy...”

  “Zeke,” she supplied.

  “Zeke. That’s perfect. So why is Zeke after you for the debt?”

  “Because Rick is on a kind of permanent vacation. Nobody knows where to find him.”

  “How does that make you responsible?”

  “This is a lot of questions, Dave.” She tried waiting him out, but he had nowhere to be. “Zeke looks at it as a shared debt,” she said, breaking eye contact. Meaning she was not telling the whole story, but that was fine. “He knows I don’t have much money, so he only asks for a grand here or there. Then he heard about my grandfather dying.”

  “Ah, of course. So he thinks his ship has come in.”