A Trick of the Eye

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  I was touched by her fragility.

  “I’m afraid I failed to compliment you on your work,” she went on. “The portrait you’ve done of yourself is—well, it’s magnificent.” I felt a little thrill go through me. “More than I could have hoped for,” she continued. “Is it, do you think, the best thing you’ve ever done?”

  I thought for a moment, then replied with conviction.

  “I do, Mrs. Griffin. And I think it’s quite possibly the best thing I ever will do.” She nodded in agreement. “And I have you to thank for it,” I said. “It’s all because of you, because you drew it out of me.”

  “Well,” she said tenderly, “I’m happy I was able to help you in some way. It’s so gratifying to aid an artist in a great creation.”

  “Do you think it’s great, Mrs. Griffin? Because that’s all I really care about—if you think so,” I asked, hanging on her response.

  “Oh yes, I think it is great,” she said nodding.

  “And I’m glad it’s here,” I replied, “I’m glad it’s going to be with you.”

  “Yes.” She paused. “I’m sorry things with us didn’t work out another way, but that’s life, isn’t it?”

  “I will come and visit you, I promise. I do so want to keep in touch.”

  She gave me a radiant smile. She looked restored. It was amazing, I thought, how quickly she could alternate between vigor and exhaustion.

  “You’re sure you won’t change your mind?” she said, as though she already knew my answer.

  I shook my head sadly. “No, dear Mrs. Griffin, I can’t.”

  “Well then,” she sighed, “that’s that.”

  “Good-bye,” I said.

  “Oh, no!” she cried. “It’s not good-bye—not yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You must come back tomorrow so that I may give you the final payment you deserve. You will come back tomorrow, won’t you?”

  Though I was quite happy to collect so promptly the rest of the money she owed me, I was much more eager to photograph my masterpiece for my book.

  “Of course I’ll come back tomorrow,” I said. “And may I bring my camera equipment? I always photograph everything I do.”

  “Yes, indeed!” she beamed. “Please do. Please bring all your equipment. I know you’ll want a record of this wonderful work of art.”

  I could see how genuinely pleased she was with my efforts. She seemed so docile and understanding at that moment, as if she’d forgiven me for refusing her offer.

  “Well, Faith, dear,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “It’s getting cold and late. Good-bye . . . until tomorrow.”

  She turned and walked back into the house, hugging her shoulders to keep warm.

  All the way home, I kept wondering if I had, in fact, done the right thing after all, or if I’d been a fool not to accept Mrs. Griffin’s generous offer. I thought of the poor old woman all alone in that big house, imprisoned by her luxuries and her memories, gradually being eaten away by her illness. Would it have been so terrible, I thought, to be with her as a comforting presence for the little time she had left? After all, it wasn’t a matter of years. She was very ill—dying. Had I been too selfish?

  As I drove, I imagined what her life would now be like without me as a daily distraction for her. I thought of her strolling over to the ballroom every now and then to look at my murals, and perhaps to think of me. I wondered if she’d continue to call me from time to time and ask me to visit her. I wondered how long she would live. I made up my mind to keep in touch with her. I felt that Mrs. Griffin’s last display of affection toward me that afternoon could not have been easy for her. It had taken courage and kindness in the wake of a deep disappointment. It had made me realize that I was, indeed, fond of her after all. Not only that, I respected her more than anyone I knew, for it was she who had forced me to do my best work, setting me firmly on a path long obscured. Lastly, she was my only connection to Harry, whom I still loved and missed, despite all that I now knew about him.

  I stayed up most of the night, throwing away all the old clippings about Cassandra, making a list of the clients I would call to say that I was back in business, as well as preparing my photography equipment for the next day. I packed up lights, a tripod, two cameras, and several rolls of film—color and black-and-white. I wanted to take great care in photographing the ballroom, especially my self-portrait.

  I drove out to The Haven around noon the next day, when I had hoped the light would be strong and bright for my photographs. Unfortunately, the sun, which had been shining all morning, retreated under a veil of gray clouds just as I pulled in the driveway. The landscape glowed with an eerie silver light. I parked in the courtyard and began unloading my camera equipment to take to the ballroom.

  Walking across the garden toward the ballroom, I wondered where Mrs. Griffin was, if she was going to come down and visit with me while I took my pictures, or if she was simply going to say good-bye to me at the very end. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, not even Deane, who usually appeared somewhere whenever I arrived on the property. The increasing darkness of the day made me glad I’d brought along several lights, despite the inconvenience of having to carry them.

  I trudged up the steps of the ballroom loaded down with equipment, feeling an impending sense of excitement at seeing my creation again—especially the self-portrait. Would it look as miraculous to me today, I wondered? Was Mrs. Griffin right? Was it the best thing I’d ever do in my entire life? I thanked God it was here, in this great house, where it would be preserved and properly cared for. If I couldn’t keep it myself, what better home could I have provided for it?

  Something—I’m not sure what—made me hesitate before I entered the ballroom. I put down my equipment and took a deep breath. I closed my eyes, swung open the doors, then walked inside, my eyes still closed. I wanted to snap them open, to take in my creation all at once. I stood poised for an instant, eyes shut . . . Then I opened them.

  The horror I felt at the sight that greeted me was beyond measure. I clapped my hands over my mouth, stifling a scream that arose from the depths of my soul. The room was white! Not a clean, pristine white—but a terrible, haphazard white, the foam on a great ocean storm! Streaks of it, globs of it, raging over the walls like some ghastly hurricane of whitewash! Nothing was left of my creation but a few random patches of color where the paint had failed to cover the mural completely. Even the ceiling was covered with white swirls—the cherubs, the clouds, the moon—all gone.

  The most frightening sight of all, however, was the figure in the center panel—my self-portrait, my masterpiece. Here, no simple whitewash had been used. A grisly impression of my face and body was left, eaten away in parts so that the flesh took on the aspect of rotting carrion. The dress looked as if it had been melted by a blowtorch.

  At first, I could not imagine what force had created this sickening effect. I walked slowly toward it. One of my eyes, still in perfect order on that jigsawed face, stared at me as I crossed the room. I was less than three feet away when I realized what had happened, for I smelled an unmistakable stench emanating from the wall. For a moment I stood paralyzed. My self-portrait, my masterpiece—had been attacked with acid!

  I felt dizzy and nauseous—reeling at both the smell and the sight of the picture. I fell against the wall, barely missing the still-damp, acid-soaked image, and sank to the ground as though I’d been stabbed. There, I began to weep.

  Of all the things Frances Griffin could have done to me—this was unquestionably the cruelest. She had built me up, only to tear me down again. Having helped me give birth, she had destroyed the child!

  I don’t know how long I cowered there, sobbing away with a mixture of fear, anger, and self-pity. Gradually, however, my wails abated into intermittent whimpers. Finally, I was mute. Dragging myself up off the ground, I staggered outside, weak and
distressed. I gathered up my camera equipment. It was all I could do to get myself across that godforsaken garden.

  I reached my car and threw the gear inside. As I was about to get in, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around with a start. It was Deane, looking grave. I couldn’t help it—I threw myself at him and began beating on his chest!

  “YOU LET HER!” I screamed. “YOU LET HER DESTROY IT! YOU BASTARD! YOU BASTARD!”

  Deane stood his ground, taking my pathetic blows without flinching. When I finally calmed down, he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I took it and wiped my eyes.

  “Oh, Deane, I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I know it’s not your fault. But why, why did she do it?”

  “I don’t know, Miss,” he replied with a pained expression on his face.

  “Who did it? Who helped her?” I said. “You?”

  “She did everything herself, even the ceiling. I brought the ladder, that’s all. She was up the whole night.”

  “She used acid on my portrait, didn’t she?”

  Deane hung his head and nodded.

  “She’s insane,” I sighed, expecting no response.

  None was given. Deane extracted an envelope from his jacket and handed it to me. I recognized Mrs. Griffin’s pale blue stationery.

  “Mrs. Griffin has asked me to give you this. It’s your last payment,” he said softly.

  I opened the envelope. It was a check for more money than I’d ever seen. So much, in fact, that it looked like a bit of trompe l’oeil itself.

  “This check isn’t my last payment, Deane,” I said, astonished. “It’s about ten times my entire fee.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Deane replied.

  “She didn’t leave me any other message?”

  “No.”

  “Well . . . I suppose this is meant to be some sort of consolation. Wouldn’t you say, Deane? She kills my baby and then she gives me a small fortune for my efforts. Everything has a price, right? Right, Deane?” I swallowed hard.

  Deane hesitated. I could see this was a difficult moment for him. He bit his lip.

  “Miss,” he began, looking around furtively as if to make sure no one could overhear.

  “Yes, Deane? What is it?”

  “We all thought it was a beautiful thing, your work.”

  He so touched me at this moment that I blinked back new tears.

  “Did you, Deane? Did you really? You have no idea how much that means to me,” I said.

  “We did,” he said shyly.

  “Thank you so much.”

  I looked at the check again, then carefully tore it in half and handed the pieces back to Deane.

  “Do me a favor,” I said. “Please tell Mrs. Griffin her final payment isn’t necessary. She’s already given it to me—in full.”

  Deane nodded sympathetically, the flicker of a smile on his lips.

  “I’ll tell her,” he said.

  Just as I was about to get into my car, I stopped.

  “Deane?” I said, suddenly wondering something.

  “Yes, Miss Crowell?”

  “How the hell did she do it?” I said.

  “What, Miss?”

  “How did she whitewash that entire room? That’s a lot of work!”

  Deane hesitated for a moment. I sensed he was on the verge of telling me something.

  “Deane?” I said, pressing him. “Deane, what is it?”

  Once again, he checked around to see if anyone could possibly be watching or listening. Then he drew close and put his lips against my ear.

  “She’s not sick,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “She doesn’t have cancer,” he went on. “She’s not dying. It was all a show for sympathy, and God knows what else. She’s as healthy as a horse. She’ll outlive us all, the old bitch.”

  My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe it.

  “What are you saying? Why on earth would she make something like that up? Why would she want me to think she was terminally ill with only a short time—?”

  I hardly got the question out before I knew the answer myself.

  Looking at me with a stony, knowing expression, Deane said: “You tell me.”

  We nodded to one another in mutual comprehension. Deane turned around and started heading for the house. I got into my car and drove slowly down the driveway, glancing back at the great estate in my rearview mirror. I saw Deane go inside and close the front door behind him.

  Then I caught a glimpse of someone watching me from a window on the second floor. Slamming on the brakes, I jumped out of the car and faced the house, looking up at the window. I saw Frances Griffin glaring down at me, rocking back and forth, her demented laughter ringing out in the winter air.

  I stretched out my arm and aimed it at her, pointing an accusatory finger. As I did so, her ghastly laughter stopped. Her face froze. She stepped back from the window into the shadows. With that, the curtain fell.

  Epilogue

  I sold the painting Harry had left me at auction. It fetched a remarkable price, partially on account of its provenance. The expert at Sotheby’s found it had once been in the collection of Mr. and Mrs. Holt Griffin, a fact that was included in large black type in the sale catalogue. The money from the painting, as well as Frances Griffin’s first two payments, has allowed me to take some time off.

  The sign on my door no longer reads TROMPE L’OEIL, INC. I’ve closed up shop for a while. I am traveling.

  About the Author

  JANE STANTON HITCHCOCK is the New York Times bestselling author of Mortal Friends, The Witches’ Hammer, Social Crimes, and One Dangerous Lady, as well as several plays. She lives with her husband, syndicated foreign affairs columnist Jim Hoagland, in New York City and Washington, D.C.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Also by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  The Witches’ Hammer

  One Dangerous Lady

  Social Crimes

  Mortal Friends

  Credits

  Cover photograph © Burazin/Getty Images

  Copyright

  A paperback edition of this book was published in 2003 by Miramax Books, an imprint of Hyperion.

  TRICK OF THE EYE. Copyright © 2003 by Jane Stanton Hitchcock. All rights reserved. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, no known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  Epub Edition © JULY 2012 ISBN 9780062206558

  Version 06152012

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