by Dani Lamia
“Yes, sir . . . Sergeant Ranier,” she said, having read his nametag.
“What time did you come in?”
What’s with the twenty questions, dude? Phoebe blinked and thought about it before answering, regretting the fact she didn’t own a watch or a cellphone. “I believe it was late morning. Maybe eleven-ish.”
The sergeant nodded. “That’s about right.”
“I’m sorry?” Phoebe said. She glanced at Holgrave, who shrugged and shook his head.
“Detective Backstrom was involved in an automobile accident that day,” Ranier explained.
Phoebe covered her mouth in her hands. “Oh, my God. Is he okay?”
Ranier’s eyes shifted from Phoebe to Holgrave and back. “It’s bad, but he’s in intensive care. He suffered some broken ribs and a head trauma. He’s in a coma at this time.”
Phoebe’s eyes reddened, and she stifled her emotions. She didn’t wish to break down. “That’s horrible. Is there something that can be done, I mean for his wife, family?”
“That’s very kind of you,” Sergeant Ranier said. “Detective Backstrom is divorced and has no children.”
“I understand, okay,” Phoebe choked out. “I hate to ask this next thing. It seems so trivial.”
“You’re wondering if he sent your item to the lab,” Ranier presumed correctly.
Phoebe nodded.
“Considering the timeline, I doubt it. It sounds like you were here just before he left for lunch. Whether he was planning to head to the County Forensics Lab, no one’ll know until he wakes up.”
Phoebe waved it off. “It’s no issue, I’m sure. I just hope he’ll be okay.”
The sergeant stood up. He was as tall as Holgrave. “I tell you what,” he said, pulling a notepad from his pants pocket, a pen from the one on his shirt. “Let me get your name, the description of the item you brought in, and your number.”
Phoebe told Ranier her name and explained her situation, having to rely on Hester’s home and office number for communication, and suspecting Hester of being behind the drugged cookie.
“Okay,” Ranier said and wrote it down, including the phone number. “Gingerbread, huh?” He wore a crooked grin. “I’ve seen all kinds of things being laced—never a gingerbread man.”
“It takes all kinds, I guess,” said Phoebe. “I’m not entirely sure about that, anyway.”
“I understand,” said Ranier. “I’ll look into it. I can check his desk and have someone look through the wreck. Be sure to stay in touch, Ms. Pyncheon.”
“I will, Sergeant Ranier,” she said and turned from the window. “Thank you.”
Phoebe and Holgrave left the police station. For a moment, Phoebe just stood there on the sidewalk, not knowing what to do next.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, thinking about Clive Backstrom. She searched the sky. It was a bright blue, sunny day, and Backstrom was missing it, maybe never to awaken. It didn’t seem fair, and she felt certain that such an accident couldn’t have been a coincidence.
“I don’t like it,” Holgrave said, to her silent approval. “Say, have you ever seen your great-aunt Hester’s art shop?”
Phoebe shook her head, saying nothing. As she thought about it, a perusal in an art shop, even if it did belong to Hester Pyncheon, was better than heading back to the house so soon.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested. “It’s right up here, around the corner.”
White Lake was a touristy town, and as such, the sidewalks were moderately busy. Phoebe and Holgrave zigzagged through the out-of-towners and a few locals and, after a few minutes, arrived at the corner.
Phoebe went right around, only to stop short. Holgrave bumped into her.
“Shit,” she said glumly, her eyes staring ahead.
“Terribly sorry,” he offered, then saw what she was seeing.
Dzolali and Hester had come out of the gallery and were casually making their way to the Coupe De Ville, which was parked in front.
Phoebe ducked back around the wall of the corner pub, staying mostly out of sight. Dzolali boarded the car on the passenger side, while Hester got behind the wheel. A moment later, the Cadillac backed out of the space and headed up the street.
Phoebe relaxed once the car turned left at the next street and went out of sight. “All clear,” she said.
They walked up to the storefront, an older-style, red brick two-story building with large windows that went nearly to the ceiling of the first floor. One couldn’t see inside, however, as the windows had been covered on the inside by a reflective shade. The sign above the entryway, hand-painted in red on black, read simply, ‘Pyncheon Art.’ The door was set back from the sidewalk. Holgrave opened it for Phoebe, and she went in.
The shop was not what Phoebe was expecting. The carpet was a deep, perfectly clean and uniform light gray. The middle of the store was taken up by a center wall that ended in a point that faced the door straight-on, tapering to the back of the establishment. Along this wall and the outer walls were paintings, large and small. Larger ones, with their own easels, sat at the front of the store, on either side of Phoebe and Holgrave, with their backs facing the tinted windows.
From what Phoebe could see, every one of the pieces on display were Onenspek’s ghastly creations. Reluctantly, Phoebe took a closer look at the one on the easel at her left. It was Ned’s, alright: a landscape of a battle that took place somewhere over some ridiculous thing at some time in the past. The combatants wore white, loose-fitting outfits, had long, dark beards, wore red turbans, and were fighting people in tan uniforms and white turbans. There were elephants, camels, horses, and people, all being hacked to pieces and bleeding red all over the canvas. Meanwhile, hovering above the scenes of the dead and the dying were what Phoebe could only guess were demons, giving their grotesque, distorted forms, blending human traits with those of animals and birds. They were feasting on the innards of the defeated.
“Blech,” she declared and looked at the bottom, noting the price tag. “Jesus wept!”
“What?” Holgrave asked. He assumed Phoebe had found a new level of disgust, though when he followed her pointing a finger to the number written on the small yellow square stuck to the frame, his jaw dropped. “My word.”
“Pardon me,” someone from behind them said. The voice was male, quite refined, so it could be surmised, from the elongation of the word, ‘me.’ The man’s wide eyes, partially hidden behind the little round-lensed glasses on his nose, made him appear mad. The maroon sport coat, electric blue slacks, and tie with swirly pinks and purples didn’t help, either. He was bald on top, well-trimmed all around, and appeared by the little wrinkles and white hair running along the top of his ears to be in his sixties. He was healthily thin and appeared to have missed no appointments at the tanning salon up the street.
“I see you have found our premiere artist,” he observed with a creepy enthusiasm. “Ned Onenspek, very much a genius at painting the darkest moments of humanity. Is he not?”
“Yes, he is not,” Phoebe said. “Four grand, dude? Really?”
The art retailer’s eyes went from fervent to suspicious as he pushed his glasses up the ridge of his considerable nose. He measured Phoebe from top to bottom, wearing a smarmy grin that told her he was making all sorts of judgments about her character.
The salesman glanced at Phoebe’s companion as well. The taller, younger Holgrave returned the look with his arched eyebrow.
“Yes, well,” the salesman said, “if you take your time about it, you’ll note his brushstrokes are rushed but precise, giving the characters the appearance of haste, which augments their expressions of horror.”
Phoebe looked over her shoulder at Holgrave, who gave her the briefest of nods. She shrugged and turned her attention back to the proprietor, who went on and on about the artist she had knocked out.
“A
t the moment, Mr. Onenspek is staying at a boarding house right here in White Lake—”
“Oh, we know,” Phoebe interjected. “We’re staying there, too.”
The salesman brightened, his smile revealing his well-maintained teeth. “Oh, so you’ve actually met him.”
“I have,” Phoebe said and rubbed her bruised knuckles. “I’m Phoebe Pyncheon. Hester is my great-aunt.”
Somehow, it was possible for the art dealer to become even more excited. He snatched up Phoebe’s hand in both of his and gave it, not a shake, put a brief pressing. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Ms. Pyncheon. I’m Gordon Knoff. That’s with a ‘k’ and two ‘f’s.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, trying to mean it.
“No doubt you’ve seen Mr. Onenspek at work,” Knoff surmised.
“You could say that,” she answered.
Knoff made an airy noise of great delight as he let go of her hand and clapped his own together. “It would be a wondrous delight to watch such a man at work. Your aunt speaks highly of him, and apparently, he’s capable of creating nearly a painting per week. Astoundingly prolific when one considers the detail in his art.”
One a week? Huh? Phoebe thought. She looked to Holgrave, who stood just over her right shoulder. She saw confusion on his face.
“Oh, forgive me,” Knoff uttered and stepped forward, putting out his hands in greeting toward Holgrave. “Gordon Knoff, I’m the manager.”
“Alec Holgrave,” he introduced himself, and shook hands.
“Well, then,” said Knoff, clapping his hands together again. “Please do browse at your leisure. Ms. Pyncheon and Mr. Holgrave, if there’s anything you need, I’m at your service.”
“Thank you, Mr. Knoff,” Phoebe said.
The art dealer stepped away, leaving his two visitors to themselves.
“One a week?” Phoebe whispered.
“Indeed not,” Holgrave agreed. “Considering the great number of them here and on the walls of your great-aunt’s home, he’s doing at least thrice that number. Come. Let’s peruse.”
Holgrave sauntered to the artwork on the south wall, with Phoebe reluctantly following. These were much smaller paintings that could be grouped together. Their prices were relatively lower than the one on the easel, but they still caused cringes.
Each one of them was a horror, and no matter how impressive Onenspek’s talents, Phoebe detested his work. After a moment, all she could stand to look at were the price tags. She left Holgrave behind and arrived at the end of the wall, then turned to the one behind that partitioned the shop. The next painting her eyes landed upon rooted her shoes to the gray carpet.
“Holy shit,” she murmured.
Holgrave, who was still gazing at the work on the first wall, turned around to the sound of her voice. His eyes found what Phoebe had noticed.
“My word,” he whispered.
The painting depicted a woman with white and blue hair, white only because it was under an intense attack from a bright ball of yellow light, thrust at her head by what Phoebe interpreted as a witch. The victim, wearing an elegant black dress, much like the one that Dzolali had given Phoebe, was suspended from the ground, apparently by the beam of light. The woman’s spine arched, and her arms were thrown wide, her face contorted in pain and fear.
“That’s me,” Phoebe whispered, pointing to the woman under attack.
Holgrave had noticed the resemblance, too, but decided to minimize it for Phoebe’s sake. “Oh, I don’t know—”
“Shut up,” she shot back. “Look.”
“I am,” he assured her. He leaned forward, taking in the facial features of the black-haired witch casting the yellow blast of energy. He sighed and stepped back.
“What?” she asked him.
“Nothing. Perhaps we’d better go,” he said and turned to face the door.
Phoebe grabbed his left forearm. “Tell me.”
Holgrave looked again at the painting. Beyond the action in the foreground, there were homes and buildings. “The town in the background appears to be White Lake. Here, the main street. There, the farmland just south.”
“I see that,” she replied impatiently. “There’s something else. Tell me.”
“Yes, I will,” he said, not taking his eyes from the painting. There were intricacies and subtleties that Phoebe was not seeing, as she was searching his face, either trying to read intent, which he knew that she could not, or just giving herself something else to look at besides the image of the suffering of a woman who resembled her in painting form. “But not here.”
“Fine, let’s get the hell out of here,” she whispered. She turned and headed for the door.
Holgrave stared at the painting for a moment longer. Behind the image of the woman with the white and blue hair, and painted masterfully in a ghostly transparency, was a staircase. To the woman’s right, equally transparent, for a dark forest lay behind the foreground battle, was a wall of stone. Beneath the feet of the black-haired witch, whose beauty he knew well, and the woman patterned after the youngest Pyncheon, was what appeared to be a dirt floor. Throughout that dirt floor were apparitions of faces and, as he peered closely, some of the faces were skulls, while others still had traces of flesh upon them.
“That is one of my favorites, sir,” Knoff spoke, suddenly at Holgrave’s left side.
Holgrave hid his surprise well. “Yes, splendid. When, if I may ask, did Mr. Onenspek paint this intense scene?”
Knoff tilted his head to the left in thought. “That one arrived here, I believe, a little over a month ago. Perhaps the first week of August. His paintings usually sell quite quickly. This one might be the oldest in the gallery.”
Holgrave nodded and passed his eyes over the establishment. “And does this gallery feature any other artists?”
“Not at the moment, sir,” Knoff said, elaborating not a bit.
“I see,” Holgrave said. He struggled to think of an appropriate exit, then decided to use Phoebe as an excuse. “I seem to have misplaced Ms. Pyncheon. If you’ll excuse me. Thank you.”
17
Revelation
Holgrave stepped out into the sunny day, looking for Phoebe. Instinctively, he walked to his left, retracing their steps. He found Phoebe, standing around the corner, her hood up and hands in her pockets.
“Come with me,” she ordered and walked past him, leading him across the street.
Holgrave saw no reason not to acquiesce, so he followed, lengthening his stride to catch up to her. Soon, he fell in step alongside, but it was brief. Phoebe maintained a brisk pace, weaving through the traffic of tourists and leaving him to walk behind. He could not tell if she was frightened, angry, or both, but he decided to keep what Knoff said about the painting featuring the Phoebe lookalike to himself.
When they arrived at the White Lake Public Library, Phoebe bounded up the stairs and went inside without waiting for Holgrave. The library was busy, but in comparison to the tourists outside, the pace of the patrons here was sloth-like, pleasant, and as quiet as a tomb. Phoebe went to the media area, found an unused computer, and sat down. It was not until then that she looked to make sure Holgrave had followed.
“I need to look something up,” she said lowly.
“Apparently,” he agreed.
She logged onto the internet and found a search engine, then entered “Ned Onenspek” on the line and tapped the magnifying glass icon next to it. To their surprise, a great number of results came through.
Phoebe paged up and down, her mouth open in wonder as she took in the titles of the many, many articles written about the man and his art. She chose one and it opened. Holgrave bent his knees and read over Phoebe’s shoulder.
The article, written by an art critic for an online magazine, described the style of Ned Onenspek in positive notes, praising the artist for his multi-layered talent
s of creating a realistic, almost three-dimensional scene with his use of light and shadow. The critic was, apparently, a fan of terrifyingly convincing battle scenes and horror. His only complaint, though it was written as praise, was that the critic could not afford the ‘rising star’s’ works, as each one rose ‘meteorically’ in value.
Phoebe backed out and found another article, which mirrored the first in sentiment and praise. A third, then a fourth, echoed them. Paging through results, Phoebe found a website written in German. Onenspek was big in Europe as well.
“Son of a bitch,” Phoebe said breathily.
“My word,” Holgrave agreed.
There were a few sites that were handling the resale of Onenspeks in auction form, and the numbers associated with both bids and price were staggering. Of course, Hester Pyncheon could not profit from these, but the fact that ‘Pyncheon Art Gallery’ of White Lake, Michigan, was the exclusive seller of new Onenspek work was plain.
Phoebe logged off, stood, and motioned Holgrave to follow once more. She found a vacant row of books and walked down its length, looking through the collections for people on the other side.
“What the hell?” she whispered. “Knoff said that they get one a week. Do you remember how many are just in his room?”
Holgrave nodded. “At one per week arriving at the gallery, he could halt production now and go for a long vacation.”
“Onenspek should be filthy rich,” she said. “He could go anywhere in the world.”
“Well, perhaps,” Holgrave said with reservation. “Surely Hester is taking her cut from the sales. Knoff told me that there are no other artists featured in the gallery.”
“She’s taking advantage of him,” Phoebe said. “I can feel it.”
“I don’t doubt it at all,” he replied.
Phoebe stared into Holgrave’s eyes. “Okay, so spill.”
Holgrave looked around briefly. “Sorry?”
“You recognized the witch in that painting,” she accused.
Holgrave sighed. He knew that he had to be truthful and saw no way out of it. Phoebe’s stare was demanding. “Yes. I did. It’s quite a resemblance to the woman in a dream I had.”
