The Black Painting

by Neil Olson

  “Right. Which Fred changes every few days. But there’s only a couple of words he uses, and I think he got them from Philip.”

  “Megaphone mouth,” Dave said, making her smile for the first time. “So we can safely assume any number of people might know.”

  “Who do you think is out there?” she asked earnestly.

  “I don’t know, Teresa.”

  “Who do you think stole the painting?”

  “I don’t know that either. There was someone I suspected for years, but now...”

  “Look sharp,” said Fred, striding back into the room. Squeezing his phone as if he would like to shatter it. “Your moving guys are coming up the drive.”

  * * *

  Dave headed for the woods. Both to get out of the way, and because patrolling the grounds seemed like part of the job. The morning mist had burned away, but a smoky residue clung to the pines. And the temperature seemed to drop steeply as soon as he got under the trees. Generally speaking, he enjoyed woods, but this claustrophobic patch was hard to love. He found the old oak without much trouble and circled it. Definitely no one in the fort this time, but that malignant aura remained. Like it was in the tree itself, or the soil. This was an unhappy place. Dave knew he could not cure that, no matter what he uncovered, but nor could he run. Not while Teresa remained. There was no reason he should feel responsible for her, yet he did. Audrey had hectored him about the girl’s vulnerability, then Philip had stuck him here. Almost as if they had conspired to trap him. He should take Audrey’s advice and get Teresa out, but he knew she would not leave until her work was done. He circled the dense wood once, feeling invisible eyes upon him the whole way. Then he walked the seaward edge of the lawn to the circular drive. And finally to the marshy inlet near Long Hill Road. Nothing visible to the eye, yet a dozen places where someone who knew the ground better might hide.

  Heading back to the house, he ran into Fred walking rapidly toward his car.

  “Leaving us, after all?”

  “Something came up that I have to deal with,” Fred replied, looking agitated. “Be back as soon as I can.”

  “We’ll take good care of the house.”

  “Screw the house. It’s going to end up with that pinched old Austrian bitch anyway. You take care of my niece. Be careful with her, you hear me?”

  Dave only nodded. Fred swept back his thinning hair and jumped into the forest green Jaguar. Then he tore around the gravel circle and out through the rhododendrons. Clearly he had been Audrey’s driving teacher. Dave took a last look around, then walked into the swirl of high-end professional packing.

  * * *

  “I wouldn’t have picked you for a whisky drinker.”

  “Why does everyone say that?” Teresa replied in exasperation. She had encouraged him to sit facing the Sound, but Dave chose the opposite side of the moldering gazebo. Where he could keep an eye on the house. It was the sort of unconscious decision that defined his life. Though in this case it carried the bonus of watching the sun’s last rays catch her lovely face. “What would you have picked?” she asked. “White wine?”

  “Nah,” he said. “I’ll give you a real drink. Martini, maybe.”

  “Never had one. I’m sure it would knock me on my ass.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Okay, a dark gamey red. Spanish, of course.”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “I used to know a little about Spanish wine.”

  “From your father?” he guessed.

  “Yes.” She tossed back the last of her scotch. Dave nursed his. It was friendly support against the cool, damp evening, but he had to be careful. “He did favor things from the Iberian Peninsula,” Teresa said, refilling her glass. Either she or Fred had been hitting the bottle hard; there was not much left. “Which you might call cultural chauvinism, but he could defend his choices. He knew his stuff. Art, music, religion. Wine.”

  “You remember him well.”

  “I was fourteen when he died. Not a child.”

  Fourteen will seem like a child when you’re forty, Dave thought.

  “That must have been really hard. I mean, at that age. Then he’s in a different country, and there isn’t even...”

  “A body,” she supplied, staring down at the warped floorboards. “Yeah, it was bad. We had to wait a year before the Argentine government declared him dead. Like he might be pulling a trick on them.”

  “Did he leave a note, or was there any indication... I’m sorry, ignore me if this—”

  “There was no note, at least I never heard about one. He was there on a fellowship, but he may have gotten mixed up in some bad business.” She gave him a long look from under her black hair. “You’ll have to ask my mother for details. She wouldn’t tell me anything else. She may not know. Apparently he sounded more and more erratic with each phone call. Like he was losing his grip. She begged him to come home.”

  “Had he acted that way before?” Dave asked. Unable to curb the investigative impulse, though she seemed willing enough to talk.

  “Not that I saw. He was eccentric, maybe. Not crazy, whatever anybody thought.”

  “He didn’t seem crazy to me,” Dave offered. She looked momentarily stunned.

  “I didn’t know you met him.”

  “Only once, when I was interviewing the family after the theft.” Dave remembered a handsome but defeated figure, slumped in a wing chair. Refusing eye contact and answering in monosyllables. Suffering like a martyr until the interview was over. “My overriding memory is that he seemed sad.”

  “I guess he was. He had serious depression. My grandmother’s death hit him hard. They got along well. Then the theft. I don’t know if it was the loss of friendship with my grandfather, or if he sensed that people suspected him.”

  “Why did they suspect him?” Dave pressed.

  “Because he had a special relationship with that painting. He could look at it for hours. Everyone else was frightened and wanted it gone.” Her glass was empty again, which surprised them both. She picked up the bottle, contemplating whether or not to pour. “Hey, Dave, I’m doing all the talking.”

  “That’s okay with me.”

  “Well, not with me. If you think you can get me drunk so I’ll spill my—”

  “I’m getting you drunk?”

  “Okay, it’s a team effort. But you have to pick up the pace.”

  “I can’t, Teresa.”

  “Oh,” she said, understanding. “How stupid of me. Don’t drink that.”

  “I’m enjoying it, but one is enough. What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.” She gazed at him with a sincerity only possible with intoxication. “I want to know everything, Dave.”

  He finished his scotch, thought it over for a moment, then started talking. About Charles DeGross, and Philip’s relationship with him. About Philip’s haunted sketches. The details of his run-in with Pete, and trying to locate sister Jenny. Audrey’s face would have told him which parts she already knew and what was a surprise, but Teresa’s face told him nothing.

  “Huh,” she said at last. “That’s heavy stuff. I’m not sure what it all means.”

  “Me, neither. Tell me what I’m missing.”

  She recalled her uncles’ moods and behaviors. Which revealed little, except that they were both more financially strained than Dave had realized. That could push people to do drastic things. She talked of the four cousins burning their letters, which made him smile. Did such an act rule out money as a motivating factor? Surely not, Audrey needed money badly. So her hatred of whatever was in the old man’s note trumped that need. Curious.

  “Tell me about James,” Dave asked. “I haven’t been able to get near him.”

  “He’s very private,” she said, pausing a long time. “Very gentle. And very dear to me. We tell each other things we wouldn’t tell
other people.”

  “Including me. Okay, what about Ken?”

  “The straight arrow,” she said. “Smart, charming, high achiever.”

  “Sounds unbearable. And suspicious.”

  “Well, he has a bad temper. And he is hiding something, darned if I know what. Do you do this with Audrey?” she asked suddenly. “Trade information?”

  “We have done something like this, yes.”

  “Are you naked when you do it?”

  The tone was so neutral he could not tell whether she was teasing, accusing, or what.

  “Um, we were, yeah,” Dave replied. “That was incidental. I think. I’ve said more to you tonight than I ever said to her.”

  “Do you know what she’s up to?”

  His impulse was to toss the question back, but that had not gone well so far, and he did not feel like being coldly professional with her.

  “No, I don’t. I had a chance to find out, but it meant throwing in with her completely.”

  “Which you weren’t willing to do?” she asked. “Too committed to your buddy Philip?”

  “Are those my only choices?”

  “Couldn’t you have pretended to throw in with her?”

  “In theory,” he said glumly. “But no, I couldn’t. I owed her that much honesty.”

  “Wow, an honest man.” She sniggered. “You think she gives a shit about your honesty?”

  “You know,” he said, standing up and walking a few steps onto the lawn. “If whisky makes you this nasty, I’m not sure you should drink it.”

  “Sorry,” she said, hiding her face from him, though it was now too dark to see. “I don’t know why I’m doing that.”

  “You’re angry at somebody,” he said. “Just make sure it’s me.”

  “Please, come back and sit down.”

  He did, feeling childish for having gotten up in the first place. He knew she was drunk, worn-out and blunt by nature. Why did her words bother him? They sat quietly for a while, letting evening settle in around them.

  “What’s the next step?” Teresa asked. “What would you be doing now if they didn’t have you playing nursemaid for me?”

  “Audrey gave me a lead on Jenny Mulhane. I’d be in Toms River trying to find her.”

  “Why?”

  “I never interviewed Jenny. She and Pete were stealing from your grandparents. Maybe not the painting, but other stuff, and I would bet your squandered Morse riches that they never told everything they know. There’s no good reason anybody in the family should give Pete the time of day, yet several of them have.”

  “What, blackmail?”

  “Maybe,” he replied. “Anyway, it’s the only lead I have right now. It’s getting cold. We should go inside.”

  Before they could move, his phone rang. Philip. Again he thought about not answering, and again he relented.

  “You’re there, thank God.”

  “Philip?” The voice was so hoarse with panic that Dave was unsure for a moment.

  “Don’t talk, just listen to me. All right? In fact, write this down.”

  “Say it, I’ll remember.”

  “It’s important, Dave. Jesus, I really need your help here.”

  “Philip, calm down and tell me what’s up.”

  “There’s a park. A large, public park, about twenty minutes north of you. I’ll give you directions.”

  “Now?” Dave said. Teresa was staring at him in rising apprehension.

  “It’s Pete. Peter Mulhane. He’s there, or he may be there. I need you to find out.”

  “So I’m meeting Pete in this park.” Was he drunk, having a breakdown? “Why? And why tonight? I’d rather meet a guy like that in daylight.”

  “He’s not going to... Christ.” Philip took a ragged breath. “He’ll be in the wooded part in back. If he’s there.”

  “Why don’t you give me his number and I’ll—”

  “You’re not understanding me. I need you to find his body.”

  19

  “Turn right.”

  “That’s not what he said.”

  “Turn,” she insisted. So Dave turned.

  It had proven impossible to leave Teresa behind. Beyond her fierce determination to come was the fact that both Fred and Miranda were far more concerned about her than the house or its contents. Dave was not to abandon her for anything. Which meant staying at Owl’s Point and ignoring Philip, or bringing her along. Given the task Philip had laid out, ignoring him did not seem an option.

  “I told you, I know this park,” Teresa said, leaning against the seat belt’s restraint like a dog on a short leash. She had sobered up swiftly. “Philip’s directions are crap. You would be lost out here.”

  There was a GPS in the glove compartment, but Dave did not argue. They had passed the bright lights of a shopping center and always-busy Route 95, but otherwise it was back roads.

  “How do you know this place, anyway?”

  “My grandmother took us when I was little. Then I found it again while I was at school. Like a nostalgia thing, I guess. I still don’t understand why we haven’t called the cops.”

  “Philip told me not to.”

  “But someone could be dead.”

  “In which case he’ll still be dead when we get there, and then we’ll call the police. On the other hand, if Philip has made a big drama out of nothing, it’s better we leave the authorities out of it.” He did not add that his history made calling police an absolute last resort. All they had to do was punch his name into a database, and he was facing days of hassle, minimum. Worse if there was a body involved.

  “Do you have a gun?” she asked.

  “There won’t be need for that.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “Guns escalate things,” Dave said. “Come on, I’m an art investigator.”

  “Audrey said you were dangerous.”

  “She did, huh? Well, she wants to believe that. Or she wants to scare you.”

  “So it’s not true?”

  “A few years back,” Dave said reluctantly. “After my life took a nosedive, I worked for some unsavory types. Down in Florida, finding art that one thief stole from another.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “It was. The first client was a white-collar type. Lawyer, collector, entrepreneur. Charming guy and upstanding citizen, except for being a thief. The longer I stayed at it, the farther down the food chain I fell, until one of my clients was murdered an hour before our meeting. I found him. That’s when I got out, moved back here. Doing research, surveillance, security, whatever I could find. Philip did a pretty complete background check on me, and he must have told Audrey some things.”

  “Wow,” Teresa said after a few moments.

  “You sure you still want to be in this car with me?”

  “Keep straight here,” she instructed. “It will be coming up on the right.”

  They were in a sleepy neighborhood of middle-income houses built close to the road. Then the houses fell away on one side and there were stately trees and paths of cracked asphalt. Half of the old-fashioned lamps were dark. Connecticut needed to invest in infrastructure. Dave pulled over slowly.

  “Teresa, listen to me.”

  “I should not even think about getting out of the car, right?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you watch any slasher movies? Do you know what happens to the girl who stays in the car?”

  “Here.” He handed her the keys. “Drive around if you want, but swing by every five or ten minutes, okay?”

  She took the keys silently and handed him the flashlight. He could see that she was both energized and frightened, and he squeezed her shoulder.

  “Thanks for getting us here. Hang tight now. This is probably nothing.”

  “Be
careful.”

  “Always.”

  The park was still and empty. There was a dog walker across the street who might be coming this way, or possibly just leaving. Not another soul. The trees were mostly oaks, their broad branches forming a pale and susurrating ceiling. His breath misted, and he jammed his hands into his jacket pockets so they would not get stiff with cold. To his right was a large band shell. To the left a pond, with a monument on the far side. Bronze soldiers frozen in action, he could not tell which war. Dead ahead was a copse of tightly packed trees. He could see nothing within, but anyone there would see him approaching. Damn it. Why did he have to do this at night? Why couldn’t he say no to people?

  On the swath of grass between the path and trees, an object caught Dave’s eye. A crushed cigarette box. Lucky Strikes, Pete’s brand. Him and a million others. Not far away was a plastic lighter, and the grass was disturbed and even gouged in places. Two men had struggled here. A few yards on, at the edge of the trees, some saplings were bent. Dave crept over, trying not to step on anything. Trying to separate sounds within the night woods. Peering in, all he could tell was that the copse was larger than he had guessed, and ran downhill into a little gulley. Without a light source, he would find a prone body in there only by tripping on it. No choice. He reached the flashlight out of his jacket and flicked it on.

  If the light was not sufficient giveaway, an army of twigs and weeds exploded under his shoes with every step. It would have taken considerable imagination to engineer a way that he might have made more noise. The trees were mostly birch, with oak and maple mixed in. Dave lost the path of broken twigs, or any path at all. He might have stumbled around a long time if the flashlight beam did not catch a pale object. Stepping over fallen branches, he arrived at a spot where the weeds had been flattened. A blood-stained rag was bunched there, and more drops of blood were scattered about the leaves and brambles. Someone had lain here, hurt.

  A moment later it was Dave facedown on the weeds. The flashlight beam was in his face and the air had been punched out of his lungs. After a stunned delay, pain erupted across his just-healed ribs, not sparing his spine. He pulled for breath, but it would not come.