She went silent. I heard her breathing rapidly. Then she meekly agreed to meet me at the house at noon.
When I got there, I found her sitting in her car. I got in beside her.
‘I’m nervous,’ she said. ‘Not sure I want to do this.’
‘What’re you afraid of?’
‘I don’t like to cry,’ she said.
‘Look,’ I told her, ‘I’m not a therapist. Not my role to give you advice. But if I were you, I’d want to face my feelings and try to overcome them. By staying here in the car, staring at the house, you’re giving it too much power. You’ll feel better if you come inside and, you know, face your demons.’
She smiled. ‘I like that! Reminds me of Doc Liz. So – OK,’ she nodded, ‘let’s do this.’
I stayed with her as she peered around the first floor. I’d given her a flashlight so she could explore on her own, but she seemed reluctant to leave my side. As eager as I was to rush up to the attic, I thought it best to stay with her as she slowly made her way around. She stood in the dining area a while, likely recalling the night the cops burst in during dinner on account of her betrayal.
She touched the back of one of the dining chairs. ‘I don’t think I’m going to cry this time,’ she whispered. ‘Thanks, Jason, for bringing me in.’
She pointed at the huge 666 spray-painted on the wall.
‘Phony!’ she said. ‘That was never there. The cops must have sprayed it on.’
On the second floor, she showed me her old room. ‘That’s my bunk,’ she said, pointing to an upper berth. ‘I wonder …’ She looked at the mess of clothing strewn about. ‘Some of that stuff is probably mine.’
On the third floor, standing with me as I pulled down the ladder, she asked if she could go up first.
‘Of course,’ I said. I fitted her with a headband lamp. ‘Go on up. Take your time. I’ll wait here until you call me.’
She nodded, started up the ladder. She paused halfway up. ‘I see them. This is exciting!’
From the bottom of the ladder I could hear her exclaim. ‘Wow! Jesus! Holy shit! I can’t believe this!’ she said. ‘Come up, Jason. Help me look at them.’
When I got up there and stood beside her, she grasped my hand and mumbled something to the effect that the murals were so strong she could hardly bear to meet the eyes of the people in them. ‘But there’s no turning away from them, is there? Those eyes are on you, no matter which way you turn.’ She glanced at me. ‘The murals envelop you. That’s their power, isn’t it? We’re in here with these people and there’s no escape.’
This was my third visit to the attic, my third viewing of the murals. I stared at them, awestruck. They struck me with the same power as they had the night I first stumbled upon them.
After a while I left her side, went to the wall, knelt and felt the bedrolls. I didn’t want to open them in the attic, but I squeezed them hoping to feel something solid inside. I couldn’t feel anything, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything there.
‘OK if I leave you here and take these downstairs?’ I asked.
‘Go,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay a while. There’s more power up here than in the whole rest of the house. I think these murals are what I’ve been afraid of facing all along.’
I carried the bedrolls out to the front stoop, laid them down on the planking, unraveled the first and unzipped it. Nothing inside but padding and a musty smell. The second one was thicker. I found a cardboard tube inside. Excited, I pulled it out and extracted a bundle of yellowed papers. Sketches! There were a dozen or so preliminary drawings for the murals – and, even more interesting, a schematic diagram showing all four walls with initials inscribed above stick drawings of the figures.
It was easy to decode the initials of Cobb family members: ‘A’ and ‘F’ (Courtney’s grandparents, Alfred and Florence Cobb); ‘H’ and ‘E’ (her parents, Horace and Elena); ‘J’ and ‘K’ (her brothers, Jack and Kevin). Each of these six appeared twice, on opposing walls. The little girl and the puppy were designated ‘Me’ and ‘Bonnie.’
There were other initials representing people on the other two opposing walls. Some were captioned with question marks. Perhaps these were figures from Penny Dawson’s life.
I was taking all this in when Cindy emerged from the house. No longer tense, she wore the same expression of relief I’d seen on her after she’d made her confession in her gallery.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
‘I felt I was looking at the kind of evil people you’d see if you visited hell. But since the figures’ faces are cold and blank, my reading that into them probably says a lot about me.’
‘What are you reading into them?’
‘Violence, violation, despoiling, defilement, malevolence.’ She shook her head as if to shake off the horror. ‘Looks like you found something in the bedrolls,’ she said.
I showed her the sketches and the schematic.
‘This is a key,’ I told her. ‘We already knew about the grandparents. I don’t think the identities of the others matter much. The Cobb family – they’re the principals.’
‘It’s more what they represent than who they were, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Anyway, when I was up there, I made a decision.’
‘A wise one, I hope.’
She nodded. ‘I agree with you and Hannah – the murals are important and should be preserved. I’m going to bring in a conservator to see what can be done about removing and salvaging them. The plywood panels are fitted tight. That could be a problem. There could be some loss of paint when they’re taken off the walls. It would have to be done carefully by experts. One good thing – they painted with acrylic. That holds up well.’ She smiled at me. ‘So … wise enough for you, Jason?’
Noah Sachs
Listening to Joan Nguyen’s recorded interview with Nate Silver, I had a feeling he’d held a lot back. He’d been well known around the State Bar as old man Cobb’s consigliere. Impossible he didn’t know where the family had stashed Courtney and the details of her trust.
I called him, set up an appointment.
‘Sure, Noah – come on out. Be nice to see you. Wanna tell me what this is about?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ I said.
The part in Joan’s interview about the Mayfair Club rang true. Our dad knew Nate through business. In the old days of genteel anti-Semitism, they’d stood out in Calista as the kind of Jews you wouldn’t mind bringing into the Mayfair as guests, and possibly, to demonstrate your open-mindedness, putting up for membership, even though you knew they’d be black-balled.
It was a lovely day. I liked getting out of the city. On the way out to Desmond House, I listed to Bach on my car CD player.
Nate was waiting in the lobby. He guided me to the visitors’ room where he and Joan had talked. He looked dapper, dressed in a tan-and-green window-pane sports jacket with one of his trademark silk ascots around his neck.
His manner struck me as obsequious. I declined when he offered to show me around. I’d come out there for information, so I got straight to the point.
‘I listened to the recording of your interview with Joan Nguyen.’
‘Good-looking Asian girl. Clever, too. She didn’t mention she was working with you.’
‘Back then she wasn’t. Now we’re on the same team. Some things you said raised red flags.’
‘What team are you both now on, if I may be so bold?’
‘A team that has located Courtney Cobb and intends to help her regain her rights.’
For a moment he looked stricken. Then he regained his poise. ‘Sorry, Noah, I can’t talk to you about this, attorney–client privilege and all.’
‘You’ll talk to me now or when I put you under oath. Your choice, Nate. You’re hiding something. I can feel it. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re willing to protect the Cobb brothers after the way they dumped you when the old man died, and turned their business over to those douchebags at Kline Krechner.’
&n
bsp; ‘You’re serious.’
‘I am.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Four things. What’s the deal with Courtney’s money? Second, who put her in that Swiss clinic where the psychiatrist-proprietor sells her artwork and keeps the money for himself? Third, what’s the deal with Courtney’s problems with her family? I don’t believe Courtney didn’t talk about that to the “high-powered shrink” Horace brought in from Boston. Fourth, why’d she run away from home?’
Nate sighed. ‘Horace never said much about that, just that he thought his daughter was off her rocker and he wasn’t about to let her ruin the boys’ lives.’
‘Ruin how?’
‘No idea.’
‘This Boston shrink – what’s her name?’
‘No idea on that either. Anyway, I doubt she’s still around.’
‘You know the law, Nate. When a patient tells a shrink about a crime, the shrink must report it. Did Horace pay her off?’
He shrugged. ‘Could have. He certainly didn’t want Courtney’s story getting out.’
‘What story?’
‘Beats me.’
‘What’s the deal with her money?’
‘Horace and Elena were the trustees. When they died, the trusteeship was taken over by the Boston wealth management firm that was handling Elena’s family’s money.’
‘Who’s Courtney’s guardian? Who has power of attorney?’
‘I guess I do.’
‘You guess?’
‘I haven’t thought about it in years.’
‘Let me get this straight, Nate. Her parents stick her in this posh private clinic in Switzerland, they pass away, control of her money goes to some wealth management folks who never met her, you have custodial and fiduciary responsibility … and yet you never considered that as such you were and still are responsible for her welfare? Sounds like Courtney’s the proverbial “forgotten child.”’
‘I had no idea anyone was stealing from her.’
‘And, of course, you didn’t know she makes art dolls that sell for tens of thousands of dollars.’
He shook his head. I could see he was scared. I moved to take advantage of his fear.
‘I’m hiring you.’ I pulled out my wallet, handed him a ten-dollar bill. ‘Here’s your fee.’
He laughed. ‘TV show bullshit, Noah. You know that.’
‘The Cobbs aren’t to hear about this conversation.’
He smirked, took the ten, folded it neatly and placed it behind his pocket square.
‘They won’t hear about it. Surprised?’
‘Actually, I’m not. That’s the smart move, Nate. Dad always said you were a smart cookie.’
‘I liked your dad.’
‘He liked you too. Now, here’s what I want you to do …’
I instructed him to demand a full statement of Courtney’s assets from the Boston firm, and a list of all expenditures paid on her behalf for the past ten years, including management fees. If Courtney owned stock in Cobb Industries, as I assumed she did, I wanted to know how many shares and what voting rights she had. Finally, in future I wanted him to take instruction from me in regard to his custodial and fiduciary responsibilities. I made it clear that if he didn’t go along, I’d take him to court where I’d show he’d done zip on Courtney’s behalf and for that should be stripped of his guardianship.
He grinned to himself. ‘Then Kevin and Jack will take control. That what you want?’
‘They won’t get control if they abused her.’
‘Best of luck proving that!’ Then he said he’d do as I’d asked.
He saw me to the front entrance of Desmond House, where we shook hands like the gentlemen we both wished we were.
‘Nice to see you, Noah,’ he said. ‘Let’s play golf one of these days.’
‘Don’t like golf. Tennis is my game,’ I told him.
His grin sagged, then he looked away. He started toward the front door of Desmond House. Then he turned again and walked back to where I stood.
‘On that proof thing – I’ve got a suggestion. Don’t know why I’m giving you this, but here it is. See if you can dig up old Spencer Addams. I heard there was some kind of deal. If he’s still around, maybe he’ll remember what it was.’
I knew why Nate had offered that suggestion. It was because I’d reminded him how he’d been screwed, how Jack and Kevin had fired him and turned over the Cobb business account to a rival firm. Just the kind of thing you never forgive.
I put Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on the CD player as I drove back to the city, eager to tell Jason and Hannah that the Courtney Cobb matter was now in play.
Joan Nguyen
Suddenly, the focus was on Penny Dawson.
‘You’ve got to find her, Joan,’ Hannah told me. ‘You know she’s down in the Keys. She’s the only one who knows the full story. Find her – please!’
I’d made contact, spoken briefly with her, then she’d hung up. If she was really living on the Florida Keys, finding her shouldn’t be that difficult.
There were no Dawsons in the Keys directory.
Penny might be her given name, or her nickname if her first name was actually Penelope. Or she might be listed as P-something, or not listed at all. She’d gotten her BFA at the San Francisco Art Institute. She was enrolled there in 1989. I suggested to Hannah that she get her contact address through CAI administration.
‘I’ll ask Rob Kraus first thing in the morning,’ Hannah said.
She called me the next day. She had Penny’s new name, Penelope Ruiz, c/o The Ruiz Gallery on Catherine Street in Key West. I looked it up, jotted down the phone number, then Googled the address. The satellite view showed a small white-roofed structure set back from the street. The street view showed just the barest glimmer of the building submerged in what looked like a tropical jungle.
She’d hung up on me once. Jason said I’d probably get just one more shot at her. He wanted me to travel down there, sniff around, then figure out the best way to approach her. If she balked or got pissed off, I’d lose my chance.
‘First step is gain her confidence,’ Jason advised. ‘Once you do that, you can start asking her stuff. If she acts skittish, give her room, make it clear you’re not trying to corner her and you’re not in a rush.’
Like I needed him to explain how to approach a reluctant source!
‘I have a master’s from Columbia School of Journalism,’ I reminded him.
I flew down to Miami, picked up a rental car and drove down to the Keys. It’s an amazing four-hour, one-hundred-thirteen-mile, forty-two-bridges-long drive on a two-lane causeway with water on either side. US Route One, known by some as the Magic Carpet. The islands slip by – Key Largo, Plantation, Islamorada, Duck, Marathon, Big Pine, Sugarloaf and numerous small mangrove islands in between. Then at the end of the line, Key West, southernmost point of the continental USA.
I saw plenty of hurricane damage en route – smashed-up boats, collapsed motels, battered bait shops. At one point I passed a gas station ripped in three.
It was late afternoon when I pulled into Key West. Leaving the highway, weaving my way through quiet shady streets, I felt as if I’d entered another world. The tropical air carried an aroma of rotting flowers. The streets were lined with old wooden buildings – shacks, houses, mansions all mixed together, some decaying, others well kept. There was an aura of decadence and also seduction. I loved the plantings: jacarandas, hibiscus, fountains of bougainvillea pouring off the balconies.
I stopped near the Ruiz Gallery, parked, got out and walked slowly by the place. The vegetation was so dense it was difficult to see in, but I did catch a glimpse of a woman standing in front of a large table. There was a simple waist-high gate and an uneven stone walk leading to the front door, also a sign designating the gallery as a framing shop, and a poster mounted on a board attached to the fence showing an image of a watercolor seascape and the caption Paintings by Penny.
The watercolor was slickly ex
ecuted, the kind of cheap artwork a tourist might buy as a souvenir. Nothing like the murals, or even something a grad of a first-rate art school would produce, unless she was just turning stuff out to pay for rent and groceries.
I strode up to the corner, turned and thought about how to approach her. A black-and-white cat scampered by, then slid under a fence and disappeared. I peered around. Two old men, possibly Cuban, were sitting on a veranda, playing checkers and sipping drinks. A woman the same age sat apart, knitting. It was starting to get dark and I hadn’t yet found a place to sleep. Would I be better off waiting until the next day, scoping the place out, maybe waiting for Penny to leave, then following her as she made her rounds? Or might I do better to go into the gallery and introduce myself right now, then ask her advice on a place to stay, and see if she’d meet with me in the morning?
Go for it! And so I did.
She smiled when I told her my name.
‘Well, here you are! You found me! I’m glad,’ she said without any irony.
She was a good-looking middle-aged woman with a handsome sunburnt triangular face, large intense blue-gray eyes and thick graying hair cut into a rough shag. Her features matched the old newspaper photo I’d dug up in the Times-Dispatch morgue – older, of course, showing wear, but unquestionably the woman I’d come to meet.
I could detect no trace of vanity. Her body was thin and angular. She wore jeans and a blue denim work shirt, bare feet with unpolished nails shod in a pair of worn flip-flops. There was an amulet of some sort hanging from a thong around her neck. There was something a bit butch about her, but I wasn’t ready yet to regard her as lesbian.
‘You were expecting me?’ I asked. ‘Really?’
‘Not expecting exactly, but wondering if you’d track me down. Not that I’m hard to find. I’ve been living down here fifteen years, had the gallery for ten.’
‘So you’re not surprised?’
‘Should I be?’
‘You said you’d call me back.’
She grinned. ‘I believe I said I’d think about it.’
The Murals Page 19
