“He should be able to at night when the guy’s sleeping,” Danielle said. “You’re thinking of Walt’s emails?”
“Marie’s not the only one who’s been enjoying visiting with Walt.” Ian smiled.
“You know, Dani, I’m beginning to think there is something funny about all this.” Lily said.
“Funny about what?” Danielle asked.
“Walt’s cousin. And the artist. Maybe Ian’s first hunch was right. Maybe the artist’s name really isn’t Jim Hill,” Lily suggested.
“But maybe it is. People do have doubles, Walt and Clint prove that. And maybe rude people attract rude people. I doubt there is anything covert going on. And I really don’t think you need to avoid Marlow House.”
Lily shook her head. “Dani, why does Clint want to spend all this money reproducing those paintings?”
Danielle shrugged. “Because they belonged to his distant cousin and namesake, one who happens to look just like him. You know he wanted the originals, but I wouldn’t sell them to him.”
Lily shook her head again. “That’s the thing, Clint doesn’t seem like someone interested in genealogy.”
“We already knew that,” Danielle reminded her. “He told me in an email he was never particularly interested in family history. I think he just wants them because the one of Walt looks just like him. I don’t think he’d care about the portrait if the distant cousin in the painting didn’t look like him.”
“Maybe, but if he came all this way for two weeks and is paying an artist to reproduce the paintings, then I would assume he was interested in the originals. Yet last night, did you see him look twice at those portraits? If I was interested enough in some paintings that I would be willing to commission an artist to reproduce them, the first thing I would do when I got to the originals was look at them! After all, if he just wants a vintage picture of himself, he could simply dress up in old-fashioned clothes and have someone take his picture. Heck, you can even use special effects on a photograph to make it look like an oil painting. It would be a lot cheaper.”
Danielle considered Lily’s words for a moment before saying, “Hmmm, you have a point. He didn’t seem that interested in the portraits last night. And this morning after breakfast they left the house without even going into the library to look at them.”
“When I first met the artist, I thought I knew him,” Ian said.
“I know, you mentioned that last night. But you didn’t know him as Jim Hill,” Danielle said.
“No. While I couldn’t remember the name, this guy’s double is also an artist. I know that,” Ian insisted.
“How do you know that? You can’t even remember the other guy’s name,” Danielle asked.
“I just do. It’s driving me nuts,” Ian said. “Maybe you’re right, and it’s all a coincidence. But I’m going to try to figure out who the other artist is.”
Seven
You having any luck?” Lily asked Ian when she brought him a beer late Thursday evening. He sat on the sofa with his laptop and Sadie curled up by his feet.
Looking up from the computer screen, Ian accepted the beer. “Nothing. I don’t have much to go on. I think this is a waste of time.”
Lily sat next to Ian, bringing her bare feet up on the sofa. She glanced over his shoulder at the computer. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”
Ian took a sip of his beer and then said, “If I just had a picture of him, I could do a facial-recognition search.”
“Then get one.”
Ian chuckled. “I don’t think we can just march across the street and take his picture. If he is using an alias, I imagine our artist is camera shy.”
“Then take a picture when he’s not looking,” Lily suggested.
“If we could get him outside at just the right angle, I might be able to get one with my telephoto lens, but that would take some skilled maneuvering, and frankly I don’t think I could pull it off. We need a close-up.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Lily said, “How about Walt?”
“How about Walt what?”
“He could take this guy’s picture. According to Danielle, Walt intends to stay in the library and keep an eye on him while he’s painting. I bet he could manage to catch a close-up of him when he’s preoccupied with his painting. Walt could use Dani’s cellphone.”
Ian chuckled. “You don’t think it might freak this guy out a little if he notices an iPhone floating in midair, taking his picture?”
“It’s not like Walt would have to shove the phone in his face. There are lots of discreet places in the library he could set the phone where the guy would never notice. And when he’s not looking, when he’s focused on the painting, Walt could snap his picture.”
Ian considered Lily’s suggestion a moment before commenting. “I suppose it might be possible.” Ian leaned forward and placed his beer on the coffee table. He then turned his attention back to the laptop.
“What are you doing now?” Lily asked.
“Sending Walt an email.”
“Your artist just went to bed,” Walt announced when he entered Danielle’s bedroom late Thursday evening. He found her already tucked into bed, reading.
Glancing up over her book at Walt, Danielle said, “He’s not my artist.” Without thought, she scooted to one side, making room for Walt. A moment later he sat on the side of the mattress, kicked off his shoes—which vanished the moment they left his feet—and then lay on the bed next to Danielle, over the blankets and sheets. Leaning back on the headboard, he crossed his arms over his chest and let out a sigh.
“Maybe not, but he is the most peculiar artist. Do you know what he did for the first hour behind locked doors?”
Closing her book and setting it on her lap, she looked to Walt. “Snooped through my desk? Played on the computer?”
Walt shook his head. “No. He examined the original portraits.”
Danielle shrugged. “I’d expect him to do that if he wants his reproductions to look like the originals.”
“The backs of the paintings? The frames?”
Danielle frowned. “How do you mean?”
“He wasn’t examining the painting sides of the canvases, he was meticulously looking over the frames, the backs of the canvases, and then he would look at the backs of his paintings, as if he was comparing them.”
“That’s odd.”
“Didn’t I just say he was peculiar?”
“I kind of regret agreeing to all this,” Danielle said with a sigh. “Your cousin was such an ass to poor Lily, she doesn’t even want to come back over here until they leave. And I know he was rude to Adam too. Although he has been very pleasant to me.”
“Of course, he wants something from you,” Walt reminded her.
“I know. But wouldn’t you then expect him to be at least civil to my friends?”
Walt shrugged. “Sorry. I can’t begin to understand how my cousin thinks. And if he didn’t look so annoyingly like me, I would insist he wasn’t really related to me.”
Danielle grinned at Walt. “Having annoying relatives is part of life. I had Cheryl.” Danielle glanced upwards and said, “Sorry, Cheryl, you could be annoying.”
“Yes, but you loved Cheryl in spite of it—and even missed her after she moved on. I don’t see me gaining any affection for my cousin. Nor am I going to miss him when he’s gone.”
“True. But you never know, had you grown up with Clint, maybe you’d discover a side of him that was somewhat loveable.”
“I seriously doubt that. Anyway, you said having annoying relatives is part of life—yet I’m dead, so I shouldn’t have to deal with them.”
“He’s still your cousin.”
“He’s a stranger with my face.”
“I guess this whole thing is pretty weird for you. Not sure how I’d feel if some distant cousin showed up who looked just like me.”
“Since I never had children, I might see this as a way of the Marlow line continuing on. Yet I would hav
e preferred a less obnoxious person carrying our torch into the future.”
“Let’s hope Stephanie and Clint’s offspring are less annoying.” Danielle tossed the book on the nightstand. “I’m going to go to sleep now. I have to get up early and make breakfast for your not-so-charming cousin and his entourage.”
After Walt left Danielle’s room, he moved through the second floor of Marlow House and discovered the door to Stephanie and Clint’s room closed. There was no light slipping out from under the door, and all was quiet. He assumed they were sleeping.
Downstairs he found the door to Jim Hill’s room was also shut, and like the bedrooms upstairs, there was no light coming from under the door. Walt stood a moment outside the downstairs’ bedroom and listened. He could hear faint snoring. The artist was asleep.
Walt moved through the rest of the rooms on the first floor, making sure everything was as it should be. Marie had left with Eva earlier that evening, and he didn’t expect to see her again until tomorrow. He found Max sleeping on the sofa in the parlor. Instead of waking the cat, Walt went to the library, shut the door, and sat down before the computer to check his email. The room was dark save for the light coming from the monitor. After logging in to his email account, he was pleased to discover several messages waiting for him.
* * *
From Lily: Hi Walt. Unless you stop by in a dream hop, you won’t see me until after your cousin leaves. I imagine Dani told you what happened. Your cousin is a jerk. Keep an eye on him. I don’t trust the guy.
* * *
From Evan: Dear Walt. I am fine. I hope you are too. It was Saint Patrick’s Day today. Dad told me to wear my green shirt to school so I wouldn’t get pinched. No one pinched me. We got out early today. Dad says the week after next is spring break. Maybe I can come see you then. Your friend Evan MacDonald.
* * *
From Ian: Walt—I’m sure Danielle told you I recognized the artist your cousin hired. But I don’t think his name is Jim Hill. I could be wrong, but I’d like to check this out. I really need a photograph of him to help me do an internet search. Lily said you might be able to take a picture of the guy when he is painting. She thinks you might be able to do it without him noticing by using Danielle’s cellphone. Do you think that is possible? I’d need a good clean shot of his face. Thanks. Ian.
When Danielle woke up Friday morning, she found Walt sitting in a chair next to her bed, staring at her.
“Well, this is just creepy,” Danielle grumbled as she sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her right hand. She yawned and then asked, “Have you gone voyeur on me? Please don’t tell me you do this all the time.”
“Not all the time.” Walt grinned.
Now sitting up in bed, her dark hair sticking out in all random directions, she glared at Walt.
“Oh, settle down,” Walt said with a chuckle. “I just wanted to catch you before you got up and went downstairs. I need you to show me how to use the camera on your iPhone. And I need you to let me borrow it.”
Running her fingers through her hair like an impromptu comb, she frowned. “Why?”
Unlike the cameras in his day, Walt thought taking a photograph with Danielle’s iPhone was remarkably easy. It took him a few tries to get it right. Several times he accidentally pressed the little camera icon with circular arrows and found the camera pointing at where he was standing. Of course, his image was not present. Danielle showed him how to disarm the flash. Walt might be able to sneak a picture of the artist, yet if the flash suddenly went off, that would complicate matters. After Walt thought about it a few minutes, he figured the only thing that would probably happen would be that the artist would run screaming from the house, never to return. Would that be so bad?
Danielle also showed him how to enlarge the screen before snapping the shot, since he would need to keep some distance between him and the artist.
The guests were all still sleeping when Danielle and Walt went into the library together to look for the ideal place to situate the camera.
“Stand there.” Walt pointed to a spot between the easels.
Danielle did as Walt instructed and watched as he literally stepped inside the bookcase behind the portraits. She frowned. “What are you doing in there?” The back of Walt’s head disappeared into a half-dozen books on one of the middle shelves, while his features eerily protruded from the books’ spines. His chin rested on the shelf he had placed the iPhone on, right in front of the row of books. The phone tipped upward, the camera lens aiming at Danielle while Walt looked into the glass display. Without moving his hands, he snapped a picture.
“See how this looks,” Walt suggested. The phone floated from the shelf to where Danielle stood.
She grabbed the phone in midair and looked at the picture he had just captured. “Hmm, not bad. You can see my face clearly.”
“I think I can do this.”
“Unless he happens to look up and sees the phone move on its side.”
“He won’t. I’ll make sure to do it when he’s focusing on his painting.”
“Okay.” Danielle muted the phone before handing it back to Walt.
“What did you just do?” he asked.
“I don’t want the phone ringing. But as soon as you get his picture, you need to let me know, and I’ll come in and get my phone.”
Eight
It wasn’t a perverse sense of humor that inspired Macbeth Bandoni’s mother to give her son an unusual name. The actress’s love for the theater was the inspiration. Her husband, a portrait painter, had no problem naming his only child Macbeth. The artistic pair had led a bohemian lifestyle, barely eking out a living in their chosen professions. Had it not been for their son, who had taken up the paintbrush like his father, their name would have disappeared into obscurity.
Unlike his parents, Macbeth Bandoni enjoyed money. The suffering-artist gig might have been his parents’ thing, it wasn’t his.
It wasn’t until sites like Google became a thing that he came to resent his name. Google Macbeth Bandoni’s name in quotes and over a hundred search results about him came up. Some artists might enjoy the notoriety, yet not Macbeth, considering some of the articles chronicled his past arrests.
When taking this job in Frederickport—one of his more lucrative ones in years—he knew he would need an alias. When testing out the alias Jim Hill in quotes, almost four hundred thousand results came up, including a celebrity on the first page.
There were two reasons for the alias. First, when in Frederickport, the last thing he needed was someone like Danielle Boatman doing a search on his name. If she googled “Jim Hill,” she would find nothing on him and then assume if there was anything about him online, it was simply lost in the countless Jim Hills out there, meaning he was just another faceless artist trying to make a living.
The second reason was a precaution should the job not go as planned. When he left Frederickport, he assumed Danielle Boatman would have absolutely no idea what had happened. Yet should she later become suspicious, he didn’t need her searching his name online and discovering the colorful life of Macbeth Bandoni. And he certainly didn’t need to hand her a name so she could then have him hunted down should their con later be discovered.
After procuring a cup of hot coffee, Macbeth made his way to the library to begin his work. It wasn’t quite ten thirty a.m. yet. Upon locking the door behind him, he noticed a distinct scent of cigar smoke. He sniffed the air and glanced around. Yesterday he had noticed the same smell in the room.
Coffee mug in hand, he walked over to his easels and studied his paintings. Sipping the coffee, he mentally plotted the day’s work. Still focused on the unfinished canvases, he set his coffee mug on a nearby table. Just as he did, a flash blinded his eyes.
Startled, he looked up to the bookcases behind the paintings and then heard a crash and hissing sound behind him. Abruptly turning to the sound, he found the metal trash can next to the computer table overturned on the floor and a black cat
racing across the room to the door leading to the hallway. The moment the cat reached the door, he began frantically pawing against it. Macbeth walked to the cat and let him out of the room.
Macbeth closed and locked the door. He then went to the desk and righted the trash can. From the desk he walked to the bookshelf, searching for the source of the flash.
“You might want to get your iPhone out of the library,” Walt told Danielle when he found her alone in the kitchen a moment later, rinsing out her coffee cup. “I got the picture.”
“That was quick. How did it turn out?” Danielle set her rinsed cup on the counter and turned to Walt.
“I have no idea.”
She paused and glanced to the back door; the pet door was moving back and forth, as if someone had recently left through it—which was what had happened. Looking back to Walt, she asked, “Any idea why Max just tore out of here?”
Walt smiled sheepishly. “It might have something to do with the fact I picked him up and tossed him in the library trash can.”
“You what?”
“It was partially your fault,” he told her.
“Why would you do something like that? And how is that remotely my fault?”
“The flash went off when I took his picture. I thought you told me it wouldn’t.”
“Did you turn it off?”
“Turn it off?” Walt frowned.
“I showed you how to turn it off. But what has that to do with poor Max?”
“When I took the picture, it flashed. I had to do something quick to divert his attention so—”
“So you picked up Max and tossed him in the trash can?”
Walt shrugged. “It did work. Hill looked away, which gave me time to move your iPhone to another part of the room so he wouldn’t connect it to the flash. And the only reason Max is so upset is because he was sleeping at the time.”
The Ghost and the Doppelganger Page 5