The Sense of Reckoning

by Matty Dalrymple

  She peeked in, perhaps expecting a surprise, but saw only the usual sparse furnishings. “Okay. Now what?”

  Chip pulled out the desk chair for her. After a brief hesitation, she gathered the skirt of her wedding dress around her and sat down. Chip pulled a stool over and sat down next to her and took her hand.

  “I have something very important to share with you,” said Chip.

  Millie nodded, her face a bit scrunched up with puzzlement.

  “Do you remember my mother?”

  “Your mother? Chip, that was such a long time ago—I think I only met her a couple of times and I was just little, like you.”

  “But you remember what she looked like, right?”

  “Well, yes, in general.”

  “She was pretty, right?”

  “Yes, Chip, very pretty.”

  Chip didn’t think she sounded completely sincere but plowed ahead nonetheless.

  “I loved her a lot, but my father made her go away. He treated her like he owned her—like she was an object. And when she left, I couldn’t protect her.”

  “Good heavens, Chip, you were—what—six years old? You couldn’t help what was happening between your parents, or what happened to your mother.”

  “I should have found a way. Then when she died, I missed her so much, and I thought I’d never be able to make it up to her, but then I did find a way.”

  Exasperation was now mixing with puzzlement on Millie’s face. “Well, I can’t imagine how, but I’ll bite—what did you do?”

  “Do you remember that picture the Furnesses had? The one in the library?”

  Millie’s eyebrows drew together. “The one the Italian man brought?”

  “Yes, that one! And it looked so much like my mother—it was like she had come back—”

  Millie stood up. “Chip Lynam, it is our wedding night, and I would have thought you would be interested in me, not in thinking about your poor dead mother and certainly not thinking about some creepy painting that burned up years ago!”

  “Millie, wait—”

  “No, Chip. Some other time I’ll listen to this story, but not tonight—not on our wedding night.” She pushed the skirts of her wedding dress out the door and walked down the hall where he heard the door to his room—their room—close behind her.

  Chip sat staring ahead of him for a minute, then got up and closed and locked the door to the hallway. He knelt by the wall and lifted the section of paneling, which slid smoothly upward. Chip was pleased with his handiwork—he had masked the construction of the hiding place by also installing a set of built-in bookshelves in the small room. He swung open the board on which The Lady hung, then sat down in the desk chair that Millie had vacated.

  The Lady looked out at him. Did her small, usually sad smile contain a touch of amusement? He had looked forward to sharing The Lady with Millie—now that they were married, she couldn’t very well report him to the authorities, could she? He spent a few minutes hoping that she would change her mind and come back, but eventually he acknowledged that once Millie had made up her mind to a course of action, she was unlikely to change it without good reason. So perhaps The Lady was meant to remain a secret living solely with him. But perhaps not—perhaps someone would happen along someday with whom he could share the experience.

  After a last look, he swung the board shut and pulled down the panel and, closing the door to the room behind him, went down the hall to his new bride.

  Chapter 50

  Garrick used the key from under the flower pot to open the hotel’s front door. The hotel was now the property of the buyer, and its demolition was scheduled for the following week. The lobby was completely empty now, stripped not only of furniture but even of the architectural details that were sellable—the registration desk, the fireplace mantle. Even the brass fittings on the elevator were gone.

  Accompanied by the tap of the antique cane he carried, he made his way across the lobby to the lounge. He had replaced the unattractive utilitarian affair provided by the hospital with a striking Malacca cane with an ivory handle. He no longer needed it for support, but kept it because he was secretly pleased with the effect.

  The lounge was as bare as the lobby, the bar having been an especially popular find for the dealers. Garrick crossed to the shallow window seat, beyond which lay the million-dollar view of Lynam Narrows. He lowered himself carefully onto the seat.

  “Loring?” he called.

  A minute passed, and then Loring appeared at the door to the lobby.

  “Good afternoon,” said Garrick.

  “Afternoon,” said Loring, his hands in his pockets.

  Several seconds passed in silence, then Loring crossed the room to the window and gazed out, his shoulder propped on the window frame.

  “So,” he said eventually.

  Garrick remained silent.

  “How’s Ellen?” asked Loring.

  “She’s in Augusta. In Riverview.”

  “Ah, the criminal nuthouse. No trial?”

  “No. She pled guilty by reason of insanity. Ergo,” added Garrick coldly, “she was sent to the ‘nuthouse.’”

  Loring frowned and scuffed the toe of his shoe through the dust growing thick on the floor, leaving a mark that only Garrick could see. “Insane because she believes in ghosts?”

  “No. Her lawyer convinced the judge that her belief that my death would not be the end of my existence indicated her inability to distinguish fantasy from reality.”

  Loring sighed and looked back out the window. “I’m sorry to hear they put her away.”

  “As am I.”

  Loring glanced at Garrick. “I would have thought you would be happy after what she did to you.”

  Garrick turned to look out the window. “You sister is unbalanced. She misunderstood what she was doing.”

  “I think you were always a little sweet on her.”

  “She was a spirited young woman born into a difficult situation.”

  “Yeah.” They both looked out the window for some time, then Loring spoke. “Garrick, I know it’s too little too late, but I’m sorry for what happened to you. I never thought you’d actually find the painting. I’d seen the buyer come to look at the lot with his architect, heard them talking about their plans, before living people started to fade for me. I figured I could put the two of you off until it was too late, they’d tear down the hotel, and that would be that. It was just icing on the cake that I got to have a little fun at your expense, you were always such a pompous bastard. And I was enjoying having a captive audience—Lord knows I didn’t get a chance to tell my story when I was alive.”

  “Why did you tell Miss Kinnear where the painting was?”

  “That wasn’t me, that was Dad.”

  “She was directed to the painting by someone answering to ‘Loring’—I thought his name was Chip.”

  “Chip was his nickname. All the first sons in the Lynam family are named Loring.”

  “Ah. That would explain why she described the man she encountered as being pleasant.”

  “Touché, Garrick.” A smile flickered across his lips and then faded. “What was Ellen planning on doing with the painting?” he asked.

  “She claims she had a buyer.”

  “Ellen found a buyer for a stolen piece of artwork?” said Loring, his eyebrows rising.

  “That’s what she says,” said Garrick neutrally.

  “Jesus, if I had been able to figure out how to find a buyer for it, I would have jumped on it. Maybe I should have told her where it was after all.”

  After a moment Garrick said, “Why didn’t you want Ellen to have the painting?”

  Loring sat down on the end of the window seat and stared unseeingly toward the marks on the opposite wall where the bar had been. Finally he said, “That painting ruined Dad’s life. It ruined my life. He let life pass him by because he couldn’t pull himself away from the painting, and life passed me by because I couldn’t figure out how to get rid of it. At fir
st, after Dad died, I didn’t want to turn it in because I didn’t want everyone to know he was a thief. Then I didn’t want to turn it in because I didn’t want to get in trouble for not having turned it in.” A cynical smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “But I guess it had me a little under its spell, because I couldn’t bring myself to destroy it either.”

  He stood and turned back to the window. “Then I sort of forgot about it because the hotel was getting deeper and deeper in debt and I was trying to deal with that. And then I found out what we owed in back taxes and at the same time found out that we needed to shore up the foundations or the building would be condemned. I tried to tell Ellen but it was like she thought I was making it up. She was still trying to sell folks wedding packages, for God’s sake. And I was drinking pretty heavily at the time, too. One day it just got to be too much. I thought doing it in the room where the painting was hidden was a bit of poetic justice.”

  “I felt it was unusually cruel, even for you, to hang yourself in a place where your sister was sure to be the one to find you,” said Garrick.

  Loring began to bristle, then deflated. “Yeah. Not my finest moment, I’ll admit.” After a moment he continued, subdued. “I’m surprised she didn’t look more carefully in that room for the painting, although maybe she wasn’t so enthusiastic about going in there after what she found.” He shook himself. “Anyhow, when I heard someone wanted to tear down the hotel, I thought that would take care of it.” He turned to Garrick. “I gave up on life because that painting took everything from me. But it wasn’t too late for her. I figured if she lost the hotel she’d have a few bad months, maybe a bad year, moaning about ‘the family legacy.’ She’d curse me for giving up on the hotel—Christ, for giving up on myself—and for not letting her have the painting. But then she’d get over it and get on with her life, and she’d have money from selling the hotel. She could do anything—travel, even go to college if she wanted to. People do, even if they’re older. She would have been better off for not having this albatross hanging around her neck. And she’s not too old to find someone to spend her life with.”

  “That may be difficult now.”

  “Yes. Difficult. But not impossible. Maybe she’ll find someone at Riverside. Maybe she’ll get out someday.” Loring ran his hands through his tangled brown hair. “Maybe it is too late for her. But maybe not. I hope not.”

  They sat again in silence, Garrick turned toward the window, Loring glancing around the room. Finally Garrick broke the silence.

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’ll be here until they tear down the hotel.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’m done. I thought by checking out I’d leave all this behind—Ellen, the hotel, the painting. But it held me here—I guess I had to wait to see how it all ended. But now they’re all gone, or soon will be. Once the hotel goes, then I can too.” Loring turned to Garrick and his gray eyes lit up with a smile. “Then I’ll be free.”

  Chapter 51

  Ann stood in the kitchen of her cabin, folding newspaper pages—which had proved surprisingly hard to obtain—around kitchenware that had been staged on the counters. She had decided to keep the nearby painting studio but to rent out the cabin; that would keep her options open. But for the coming winter, at least, she was going to stay with Mike and Scott in West Chester. They had even talked about looking for a bigger place so that she could have more than just a room to herself.

  She tucked a snugly wrapped Fiestaware gravy boat into a cardboard box and was reaching for one of the last pieces on the counter—Beau’s old water bowl—when she heard from outside the whistle that had meant “come along” to Beau. She sighed and swallowed a lump in her throat. It was good she was getting away from here—this was too hard.

  She went to the screen door and looked out onto the unseasonably warm November Adirondack morning. Beau was crossing the cleared area around the cabin, accompanied by the telltale shimmer that signaled the presence of the old woman. But today they were accompanied by ... what was it? A squirrel? Ann smiled at the thought of Beau escorting a squirrel across the clearing in any other way than right behind it at top speed.

  She expected them to cross the yard and disappear into the woods as they usually did, but instead they were coming right toward the cabin. She twisted a page of newsprint in her hands. As they got closer, she recognized the other creature as her neighbor’s dachshund who, she had heard, had been killed by a hawk. Beau seemed to be collecting a pack of spirit companions.

  Her hand went to the door latch and then hesitated, uncertain. She watched with her breath shallow until they stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, the old woman’s eyes piercing, both dogs very clear. She heard the “sit” whistle and Beau sat. The dachshund remained standing, its stubby legs braced.

  Ann unlatched the door and slowly pushed it open, expecting her visitors to disappear, but they just looked attentively at her. She stepped onto the porch. For a minute or more nothing happened, and then she heard the “stand” whistle and Beau stood. The dachshund sat. The old woman’s eyes disappeared as she turned and gave the “come along” whistle. Beau wagged cheerfully and turned as well, trotting after the diaphanous form of the old woman as she headed back toward the woods. In a few moments they had disappeared into the trees.

  The dachshund—a black shorthair with the distinguishing tan markings over its eyes and across its muzzle—had watched their departure and now turned its eyes back to Ann.

  “Well, you certainly are ... solid-looking,” said Ann. She had always thought that Beau was as present-seeming as he was to her because of their relationship, but perhaps all dogs’ ghosts had this characteristic. But then why wasn’t she seeing ghostly dogs everywhere? Maybe it was something about the Adirondack gestalt.

  She stepped onto the first step, expecting the dog to disappear—either to trot off after its spirit friends or possibly just dematerialize.

  The dachshund rose into a beg, a little column of winsomeness.

  She descended another step.

  The dachshund’s tail wiggled hopefully.

  She stepped onto the ground in front of the dog with a growing realization and extended her hand slowly. “Good dog.”

  The dachshund dropped down from its beg and sniffed hopefully at her hand and she felt the tiny breeze of its breath.

  Then she did what she knew she never could with Beau—she laid a hand on top of its head.

  The dachshund seemed unimpressed, but deigned to let her keep her hand there.

  Ann sank onto the bottom step and the dog, obviously considering this an invitation, marched over and propped itself up with its paws on one of her knees. It was very small. She scratched its ears and suddenly felt a knot in her stomach—one that had been there for so long she had ceased to notice its existence—begin to loosen.

  “Good dog. Just out for a stroll with my Beau? Do you belong to someone?”

  The dachshund was wearing a delicate black collar studded with fake diamonds—rarely had she seen a dog so ill-suited to a walk through the Adirondack woods. She turned the tag so she could read it in the bright morning light. It showed the address of her neighbor and the dog’s name: Ursula.

  “So, you do belong to someone,” she said cheerfully, but suddenly she felt like crying.

  She reached out tentatively and lifted the dog up, which it seemed to consider only its due.

  “Why don’t we give you a snack,” the dachshund’s ears pricked, “and a drink of water and then we’ll get you home.”

  She stood up with the dog in her arms. She had never held a really small dog. It was a sturdy little thing—probably only about seven pounds, but very muscular. She stroked its sleek black fur, which seemed not to have suffered from its trek through the woods.

  She entered the kitchen and put the dog down, then began searching through the jumble on the counter for the tin where she had stored Beau’s treats—she had planned to give them to the Federma
ns for Fizz, their Jack Russell terrier. She located the tin and removed a bone that was about as long as the dachshund’s head. “You hit pay dirt today, little guy,” she said, turning.

  The dog was standing facing the hallway to the sitting room, the fur along its backbone raised in a tiny ridge, its tail held rigid. She followed its gaze.

  There, in the dimness of the hallway, stood Biden Firth.

  *****

  In an almost comic replay of the horrible scene that had played out with a much larger dog and a living man many months ago, the dachshund shot across the kitchen toward Biden.

  “No!” screamed Ann. She lunged to grab the dog, but only caught a clump of fur from the end of its tail as the dachshund continued its dash, accompanied by a bark Beau would have been proud of.

  She scrambled up. Biden had moved out of the dim hallway and into the relative brightness of the sitting room, where he had become more difficult to see—except for those hovering hands. But Ann could tell he was backing away from the tiny, noisy force at his feet. The glimpses she could get of his face suggested a panic all out of proportion to the threat any dog that size could pose, even to a living being. He kicked at the dog but it jumped nimbly away, keeping up its furious barking all the while.

  Ann moved cautiously toward the sitting room. If she could just grab the dog she could run outside, get to her car, drive to the Federmans. Then she heard Biden.

  “Get it away!”

  This was unexpected. “What?”

  “Get that abomination away from me!” he yelled over the barking.

  She stopped in the doorway to the sitting room, the shimmering shape of Biden Firth now having been backed into the far corner by the dog. She stepped into the room.

  “Are you telling me you’re scared of the dog?”

  “Just get it away!”

  A small, cruel smile began to play around Ann’s lips. She stepped closer. “You’ve been making me hurt myself.”