by Neil Olson
“And Philip went looking for him?”
“Maybe.”
Teresa felt herself getting too agitated and took a deep breath, letting it out slow. A deer stood on the grassy margin by the road, watching them drive by.
“What do we do? Do we call Laurena, or Cynthia?”
“Is anyone going to thank you for those calls?”
“So we do nothing?”
“I don’t know, Teresa. I’m thinking it through.”
“And what about Ilsa?” she demanded. “She connects everything. Don’t tell me you believe she got tipsy and blurted out that secret. You don’t know the woman, but Jenny Mulhane is the last person she would pick as a friend.”
“I think we have to consider it a strategic leak,” Dave agreed. “She knew Jenny would tell her brother, and Pete would try to use it.”
“But how does Pete putting the screws to Philip help her?”
Dave nodded and tapped the steering wheel.
“Do you believe Ilsa was surprised at inheriting the estate?”
“I did at first,” Teresa answered. “I don’t see how I can anymore. Okay, he left most of the paintings to institutions, so she might have figured the other money went to charity. But he must have told her she would be taken care of. Maybe she intuited that the less the children got, the more she did.”
“So she encouraged Alfred in cutting them off.”
“Why stop there?” Teresa twisted sideways to face him. “Maybe it was her idea. She came up with the reasons, and reinforced them in his mind, day after day. They were alone together for years. He trusted her more than anyone, wife and children included. Maybe she’s behind everything. Including bumping off Alfred when she got tired of waiting.”
“Slow down,” Dave said. “You’re doing well, but don’t get carried away. If that’s true, Ilsa has two problems. Pete knowing her secret. Which we know bothered her enough to pay off his sister for more than a decade. And the Morse children banding together to contest the will. She needs to deal with both.”
“On the will, she knows Philip is the key. Fred and Mom wouldn’t have challenged on their own. Why doesn’t she threaten Phil directly?”
“Maybe it’s not her style,” Dave tried. “Or maybe she knows that Philip will call her bluff.”
“Then she knows he’ll call Pete’s bluff, as well.” She waited for a response, but Dave only looked at her. Waiting for her to see the rest. “So Pete will move on to Fred. Who Ilsa knows is violent, especially regarding his daughter.”
“You’re right that Philip is the bandleader,” Dave jumped in, “but he needs your mother and Fred on board to prevail. At the very least, Ilsa blows up that alliance.”
“Without getting her hands dirty. And just possibly she gets Pete killed, which eliminates the other problem, as well.” It was only after she spoke it that a shiver went through Teresa. Could people be that calculating? Could Ilsa be? “Are we reaching here, Dave?”
“Yes,” he laughed. “We’re totally reaching. And it’s true that I don’t know Ilsa well, though I’ve met her a few times. Pretty tough customer.”
“It feels right to you.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, working a crick out of his neck. “What do you think?”
That I would rather not know any of this, Teresa mused. Why was I so determined to dig into the diseased heart of things? I could be in Butler Library now, reading about the lives of dead artists.
“That I would like to say it to her face and see how she reacts.”
“There’s an idea,” Dave said, uneasily. “She won’t return my calls. Maybe you would have better luck. But it’s a hell of thing to say to someone, Teresa.”
“We’re not going back far enough,” she replied. Facing down the one revelation she had been avoiding, without even knowing it. “Why does Ilsa have a secret at all? Why did she ask Pete about stealing the painting?”
“Yeah, I’ve been chewing on that, too. It was years ago. Maybe she was impatient for a payoff. Maybe she thought it was an evil influence.”
“Maybe she was asking for someone else.”
“Huh,” Dave said quietly. They stayed quiet for a while, the hum of the car on the road lulling them. Dave turned the headlights on. “Any idea who that would be?”
“You said there was someone you suspected for years. I assume that was the collector you met, DeGross?”
“Yes. Using Pete or one of the caterers. But after talking to the guy, I don’t know. He’s either the best actor I’ve ever met, or he’s still mourning his failure.”
“Idiot,” Teresa said wearily. “He has no idea how lucky he is.”
“You would have a hard time convincing him of that.”
“I’ve been dreaming of my dad a lot lately.”
“Yeah? Happy dreams, I hope.”
“I don’t do happy dreams. They’re pretty intense, though I would probably be upset if they stopped. They’re all I have of him.”
“What happens in these dreams?” Dave asked.
“There are different ones. But I keep coming back to a dream where we talk about the painting. Where he tries to make me look at it.”
“Did you two ever talk about it? Outside of dreams?”
“We talked about Goya.” She closed her eyes and reached back for those exchanges. Memory was such a liar. “I know he said that I shouldn’t be afraid of the portrait. I don’t remember anything more specific. Nothing I trust.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have conversations with my father. In my head. Sometimes sleeping and sometimes when I’m awake. Do you think that’s strange?”
“Not at all,” he replied.
“Well, I do. Later, I don’t know what’s memory, what’s dream, what I made up. I’ve seen him, too. In museums, in train stations, on crowded streets.”
“I’m sure that’s also completely normal.”
“For a couple of years I convinced myself he was still alive. That he faked his death to escape his enemies, and now he was following me around New York. My guardian angel. But I couldn’t maintain the illusion.”
“Not that I have a problem with it,” Dave said cautiously, “but is there a reason we’re talking about your father?”
“Fred said something to me. I didn’t mention it in our information swap. It was too close to home. He said Ilsa was in love with my dad.”
“Uh-huh. I see why that would be weird for you.”
“And you see why I’m mentioning it now.”
“He’s obsessed with the painting. She’s obsessed with him. It works. Asking Pete about stealing it was totally out of character for Ilsa. Love makes us do strange things.”
“You probably know this already, since you see right through me.”
“On the contrary, you are one of the hardest people to read that I’ve met.”
“Really?” That perked her up. Why? Why should it please her to be opaque? And could she back out of this confession now? No, she could not. “I’ve given you these bullshit reasons why I want to know the truth. I’m worried about my family and blah-blah. The fact is I’ve been estranged from them for fifteen years. Not completely, but a bond was broken after the theft. Before last week, my mother had not been to one Morse family event in all that time. It has to do with most of them suspecting my father. All I’ve ever really wanted to do was prove he was innocent.”
“Okay,” Dave admitted. “I actually did know that.”
“Instead, we seem to be closing in on the opposite. That he did it.”
“My problem with your father as thief is the same as my problem with DeGross,” Dave said. “The man I interviewed did not seem like a man hiding something. He seemed like a man whose best friend had died.”
Sad as the words were, they lifted Teresa’s mood more than anything h
ad in weeks. So much so that she wanted to lean over and kiss him. On the cheek.
“Maybe he was upset about Pete taking the rap.”
“Please, don’t take offense,” Dave said. “But was your father the type to get upset about the Pete Mulhanes of the world?”
“He wasn’t a bad guy,” Teresa protested. “He wasn’t like Philip. But when he really wanted something, not much stood in his way. So you’re probably right.”
They drove in silence for a while as dusk turned into dark.
“Do you know where in Pennsylvania Ilsa’s sister lives?” Teresa asked.
“Yes, more or less. Thought of dropping in on them myself, but we don’t know if she’s still there.”
“From here, we can’t be that far away, right?”
“A lot closer than we were in Owl’s Point.”
Teresa slid the phone from her jacket pocket and began to dial.
“You have her number?” Dave asked.
“Mitchell does.”
“He’s going to give it to you?”
“Yes,” Teresa said, without a hint of doubt. “He is.”
23
Sleep is for the dead.
Audrey sleeps in the window seat as rain pelts the glass. James’ face is close, love and anger in his eyes. Then he is gone, and Audrey, too. Both vanish and then comes the scream. Demon hands hold her fevered body to the mattress. She cannot rise. A figure darts in and out of the room. See it, my girl. See everything, do not look away. Her father’s hands. The demon is beside him. The demon is inside him. The demon is inside her.
Tay-ray, qué pasa?
Dónde está James? Qué has hecho con él?
An explosion of laughter. English, honey. My Spanish ain’t that good.
Audrey?
Don’t tell me you were sleeping.
It’s the middle of the night. Why shouldn’t I sleep?
Sleep is for the dead.
Who said that? Who just said that?
Where are you?
Here.
Another burst of laughter. Teresa, wake up. Where is here?
Pennsylvania, a motel. Too late that day for Ilsa. Tomorrow. She says none of this.
Are you at Owl’s Point?
No. The Jersey Shore.
No way, really? Is Dave with you?
He drove me down. I had to get out.
That’s what I said! I said that to Dave, she has to get out of that house. I can’t believe he did it. And I can’t believe he didn’t tell me, the douche.
Are you high, Audrey?
As a motherfucking kite, my beach bunny. Is it cold there? I bet it’s cold. You keeping each other warm? Hey, put him on, will you?
He’s in the room next door.
What? What fun is that, go jump him. He’s not bad for an old dude. Slow starter, but once he gets going—
Why did you call?
To see how my favorite cousin was doing, why else?
Have you heard from your father?
Did you think he was going to warn me before he showed up? Thank God Philip called, I’d be in frigging intensive care. Or he would. Then wouldn’t you feel bad.
We didn’t... I didn’t realize that’s where he’d go. I’m sorry.
This ain’t your kind of game, Tay. But your new beau should have known. In fact, I’m pretty pissed off at our Davie. You tell him that.
Where are you?
I’m on the run, sweets. Hey, can I use your place in the city? Is there a key under the doormat or something?
I’ll call my super and tell him to let you in. You don’t think Fred might look there?
You’re right, better stay anonymous. Or I could try Kenny.
You mean go to San Fran?
You don’t know? Kenny never left New York. Shacked up with his old flame for more than a week. Who knows what else he might be up to, right?
What’s going on, Audrey?
Oh, it’s all just a mess, isn’t it? Just a shameful mess. Every girl for herself, know what I mean? You talk to my brother?
Not for a few days. Is he all right?
No, Teresa, he’s not all right, and he’s never going to be all right. And it’s our fault, okay? Yours and mine. So if you see him, you take good care of him, understand?
I don’t need you to tell me—
Shut up, you self-righteous bitch. Just stay where you are. Keep away until the smoke clears. Peace out.
Audrey. Audrey?
She punches keys, wrongly, again and again until: This is James. You can leave a message. Not good enough. She needs to speak to him, now. She must. And so she does. James, where are you? What’s going on with Kenny?
I know his secret, and he knows mine. It’s not safe.
Are you afraid of Kenny? Is he going to hurt you?
I don’t know.
Don’t wait to find out. Get out of Boston.
I’m not in Boston, I’m looking for you.
Are you at Owl’s Point?
Nobody’s there. I didn’t go in the house. It scares me.
Go to New York. Go to my mother’s apartment, do you know where that is?
I have to find you, Tay. We have to finish the portrait.
I have one more thing to do. I’ll be back as soon as I can.
We should be together.
We will be.
Rest now, hon. You’re getting overexcited.
Mom? Mom, can you take care of James? Please?
Sleep, my girl, the angels will watch over you both.
But sleep is for the dead.
No, my child. Our life is the sleep from which we all must awaken.
Dad? Dad? Come back.
24
“I’m confused,” Dave said, turning onto a narrow road of broken tarmac. It ran straight as a ruler, with fields of cornstalks on either side. “These were real conversations or dreams?”
“I thought they were dreams,” Teresa replied, slumped in the passenger seat and fighting sleep. “But the calls are on my phone. Very short. I’m almost positive that I spoke to Audrey. James could have been in my head. At one point he became my parents.”
“For a hundred and seventy-five dollars I’ll tell you what that means.”
“Where is this place?”
“Should be coming right up.”
Sure enough, over the next rise a red barn appeared. Behind it an orchard marched into the distance. In front was a gravel lot so full of pickups and SUVs that they spilled onto the muddy grass. Families with children shuffled to and from the huge, beckoning barn. Dave had to park a hundred yards away, and the walk in the cold morning air revived Teresa. Pumpkins were spread in stacks near the open barn door, and a white cat danced across the top of them. Around the side were pens with sheep, goats and chickens. Teresa had never gone to places like this as a child, and would have said she had no interest. Yet she had a sudden yearning to be a girl here. To grab the scampering barn cat and rub her face in its thick fur, despite her allergies. To buy a paper bag of pellets and feed the pushy goats. For one fleeting moment she was able to imagine an entirely different childhood, a different life. She felt her eyes misting and drove her ragged fingernails into her palms. Pull yourself together.
Dave went into the barn, but Teresa continued down the muddy lane toward the orchard. Beyond the duck pond, beneath the first apple tree, was a picnic table, and sitting there was a lone and austere figure. Black cashmere sweater and rain coat. Iron gray hair and eyes. No hint of either warmth or hostility. Teresa sat down across from her.
“Hello, Ilsa.”
“Good morning.”
“Thank you for meeting. Is your sister here?”
“No. Mr. Webster is with you?”
“Yes. I imagine he’ll find us
before long.”
“He is a persistent man. What did you need to ask me so urgently?”
Straight to business. So be it.
“Did Jenny call you yesterday?”
“Hmm.” Ilsa ran a hand over the rough plank of the table. “Jenny calls often.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. So you know that people have been hurt. Badly hurt, because of events you set in motion.”
“Me? No. Events have been in motion for years, with predictable consequences. My part has been small.”
“These are desperate, unstable men. To set them on each other just because you can—”
“I thought you brighter than this,” Ilsa said. “I am sorry to spoil your illusions, but your uncles are vile men and have always been so. They wish to ruin me. To take what is mine.”
“I would think there’s enough for everyone.”
“We have no idea what will be left when the accountants are done. Maybe nothing. But your grandfather was clear in his wishes.”
“I don’t believe he hated his own sons.”
“No,” Ilsa said, with a quick turn of the head that Teresa remembered. “He believed in responsibility for actions. He would have told you himself, had he lived.”
“Was it him who believed that, or you?”
“Is that what you think?” Ilsa nodded slowly. “Your grandfather was his own man. He made the rules, always.”
Dave sat down beside Teresa and placed a box with donuts and cups of hot cider on the table. Neither woman glanced at him.
“Even if you despise my uncles,” Teresa pressed, “why involve Pete? You could have dealt with Philip directly.”
“You think Peter is innocent? A thief, liar and extortionist?”
“All the more reason for you to steer clear of him.”
Ilsa placed her palms flat on the table, and Teresa wondered if their talk was over. Just that fast.
“You know about Philip,” Ilsa said. “Ja?”
“I know what you told my grandfather. I have no idea if it’s true.”
“Then ask Audrey,” the older woman sighed. “In any case, my obstacle in talking to Philip about the matter is that Alfred forbade it. It was his absolute rule that it not be discussed within the family. Under any circumstances.”