by Dana Cameron
She nodded. “Jim. He’s going to be okay?” she asked, hanging onto the sleeve of the EMT.
He avoided her eyes as he worked. “My buddy Cliff is the best there is, even better than me. You can bet he’s going to do everything he can, give Jim the best care until we get him to the hospital.”
The EMT’s face didn’t match the hopefulness of his words, which sounded rote and forced to me. But the distraction seemed to work: Lois was calmer now.
The campus police arrived. One officer took her name, then Dora’s, and turned to me.
“Did you see anything?”
“No, I just—” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dora reaching for something on the wall.
“I’ll going to ask you to leave, then. We need room here.”
I was nodding, grateful to be dismissed, when Dora sank down on one knee, the pink slip tearing from the wall as she slumped. At first I thought she was genuflecting for some strange reason. Then she moaned.
“Professor!” Lois’s voice was strained, shocked. She struggled to get up.
“Dora!” I rushed to her side. “Somebody help—!”
She came to almost as soon as the EMTs reached her side. Her eyes were blank, her face slack, and that scared me to death.
“What was it, Dora?” I grabbed at her, but she was too heavy to support on my own, and we both sank down. “Are you all right?”
“Oh my God.” She seemed to realize where she was, but not how she got there. Then she held up the hand with the pink memo, and her eyes rolled back in her head again. They fluttered and then she seemed to pull herself together. She staggered to her feet, managing to dislodge the men who were trying to keep her sitting.
“I can’t, I have to leave, I have to go now!” she said, and there was something in her eyes that made me step back. “Leave me alone!” she said, shaking off the hand of one of the cops.
They moved her away to a bench, and it took three of them to keep her from storming out. She was making no sense, waving the paper, and finally, one of the cops had to take it from her. It took some doing, almost as if the paper itself was precious to Dora. She said something to him, and he reassured her.
I couldn’t understand what was happening. Dora knew the painting was stolen, her assistant Lois had told her that. And I knew she hated that painting, rode me every chance she could about my affection for it, derided it as “a game but failed tribute to bourgeois land-grabbing colonials and their so-called social status.”
So why did she faint? I didn’t think it was the sight of the medic working on Jim—my breath caught when I saw Cliff look at his partner and shake his head. And it wasn’t concern about her assistant, Lois, either. It was the accession slip.
“I have to get home,” she kept repeating, then she looked up, pleading. “Emma, help me.”
Taken aback by this change in Dora, I was eager to help, make this better. “What can I do?”
“Go to my office, tell them to cancel classes. Then if you—”
“Hang on a second,” one of the cops said, turning to me. “What’s your name?”
“Emma Fielding. I teach over in Anthropology.”
He held up the accession slip. “E. Fielding” was down in the corner, where the person removing the piece was supposed to sign. “This you?”
I stared at it. “What? No, it’s not me. I mean, it’s my name, but I never signed this. I don’t have the authority—”
Dora gasped again, her eyes fluttering.
“But it’s your favorite painting, isn’t it?” Lois said, all of a sudden. “That’s what the man said. When I came in, he asked me if I was Emma, and whether this wasn’t my favorite painting. I couldn’t understand what he meant.”
Suddenly the cops weren’t telling me they needed me to clear out anymore. They wanted to know what I knew about the missing painting.
“I don’t know anything about it,” I protested. “I mean, I was coming over here to have coffee with Dora. I came early to look at the picture. It is one of my favorites, I come here a lot to look at it.” I shrugged helplessly.
“Do you have any idea who might have—?”
I told them about what had been happening to me. That Tony might have access to the college facilities still, that they should check. But it might be unrelated, I said, anyone could sign any name to anything—
“What else was on that slip?” I asked. It wasn’t just the picture that had Dora this angry and afraid.
“Just an address. It’s not yours, so don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry about it?” Dora was there suddenly, towering over me, it seemed. “How could you bring this down on me, Emma? And who is this Tony Markham?”
I reminded her of what had happened to me just after I’d started at Caldwell. She recalled the story quickly enough.
“Are you telling me that he’s back? That he’s making threats against—?”
I nodded. “I think so. I think we’d better call—”
She held up a hand. “Quiet! I need to think.”
“Dora, I—”
“You be quiet while I decide what to do about this.” She looked at me, her face set in an expression I’d never seen before. “You brought this. You keep away from me.”
Dora had been rude to me before, hell, Dora was rude to everyone; it was her stock in trade. I’d come to expect it as a part of her personality and had learned to ignore it, even enjoy the spectacle that she created. I actually realized a while ago that I envied her ability to disregard how other people felt, how that kept her focused on her work, on what was important to her. She was her own person, and she let nothing and no one interfere with that. I would have given anything to develop that talent.
But this was different, this was downright hostile. Whatever it was that was on the note, it had affected her deeply, on a personal level.
And I had brought it to her.
My hands were freezing, the world spinning. Don’t be an idiot, Emma; you’re not responsible for this.
Well, Tony’s not back here for Alumni Week. He’s not stealing pictures because he needs something that will go with his couch or he’s into Harding’s brushstrokes.
No, Emma. Tony’s here for you, and he’s not the kind of guy to be interested in gestures for long. There’s something else, he’s got a plan, this is all getting worse and worse, and everywhere I turn, there he is.
I shivered, feeling suddenly exposed, panicky. I’d better get a plan, too. Because I didn’t think that anything that Tony might have in mind was going to end up well for me, or anyone around me.
As if from a distance, I saw Dora sweep past me, police in tow. One stayed behind to take my statement.
I clutched at Ms. Reibach’s sleeve. She was left behind; Dora didn’t even want her nearby. “What else did it say on that slip?” If I could find any sense in this, maybe I could stop feeling so damned afraid.
She glared at me. “Why should I tell you? She said that she wanted you to stay away from her.”
As much as I admired her for protecting Dora, I had to find out what was on the slip. “Please! If I can help fix whatever is going on here, I need to know.”
Lois stared, still deciding. Then she nodded, finally. “Only because you might help Dora.” She took a deep breath. “It was an address, over by the coast, in Haver’s Falls. It’s one-o-three Burnt Oak Way.”
I nodded, grateful. “Thank you! Please, if there’s anything else I can do. Please tell me.”
“I’ll see,” she said, as she was escorted from the museum to an ambulance.
I told the administrator to cancel Dora’s classes, and was hurrying back to my office when a familiar gesture caught my eye, a flip and a flash of wavy raven hair. I shook it off, dismissed it as a student I’d seen before, when the memory sorted itself out in my head and I understood it was an archaeological colleague, Noreen McAllister.
Noreen and I hate each other to the point of public outburst.
I quite re
asonably dislike Noreen because she whines a lot, blames her problems on everyone but herself, and has fashion sense that is best imagined as “fishing lure chic,” all bright colors and dangling, brash metallic accessories. She also seemed to be putting the moves on my unlamentedly-ex-boyfriend-from-another-lifetime, Duncan Thayer, which wouldn’t bother me a whit except that he was married and the thought of two of them scheming together—her vindictiveness and his smoothie-boy sliminess—gave me the heebie-jeebies.
I don’t know why she has such a hair across her ass when it comes to me, but she has more than once flung my family connections in archaeology in my face. I chalk it up to jealousy.
To see her here, on my campus, was more than strange. I’m not surprised that she didn’t call me—there was no point in even trying to be cordial to each other—but I had no idea why she might be here.
I realized that she’d been the person I’d seen but not recognized right before Meg showed me her wedding dress. It seemed awfully odd that she was here, now, at this very moment. I was going to find out now why that should be.
“Noreen! Noreen!” I called after her retreating back. I saw her hesitate, as if she recognized my voice, move another step forward as if she was going to keep going, and then stopped.
She turned. “Emma.”
I had no idea of what I should say to her. “What are you doing here?” I blurted.
She shrugged, looked off to one side. “I’m visiting a friend.”
Liar. “Which friend is that?”
She stared back at me in disbelief. “That’s none of your damned business.”
“I’m surprised to see you here. Now. What about work?”
“Who are you, my mother? Damn.”
The way she said that lit something in me. “I need to know what you’re doing here.” I stepped forward.
“What are you doing, you freak!” She stumbled as she backed away a few paces.
I never figured Noreen for a good actor, she’s way too conscious of how she’s coming across to people. And she never bothered trying to convince me that she was my best friend or anything. She was scared now, though, that was for sure.
Thing was, the direction she was going, she could only have been coming from the Art History department. Which is connected to the museum.
“What do you know about the Dominic Harding painting,” I said.
“What? Nothing!” She shook her head violently, hair and dangling earrings flying. “Will you get away from me!”
We were starting to draw attention from passersby. Was it possible that she was just afraid of me? Or was it something else?
“Fine. I’m leaving,” I said. But I wasn’t done, not when there are this many coincidences.
“Freak!” she screamed again.
I waved my hand, dismissing her, then hustled up to my office. Two quick chores, and then I was out of here.
First, using an abandoned office on the first floor, near the dean’s office to avoid caller ID, I called the Art History Department and asked for Noreen McAllister, who was visiting. The receptionist said that Noreen was out; I asked who I could leave a message with. Professor Jones would get back to me, I was told. I didn’t know the name, but promised myself to investigate as soon as I could. I hung up when the receptionist asked who was calling.
It couldn’t just be a coincidence? I asked myself as I climbed to my office. Not when there is so much else going on. Or was it that I was, as Brian suggested, seeing connections where there were none?
In my office, it just took a few minutes on the Internet to find directions from the Caldwell campus to the address on the pink slip. I knew it wasn’t Dora’s address, as she lived very close to campus in an awe-inspiring stone Victorian that reminded me of a castle. It had once been the president’s house, before a larger house was built closer to campus. I asked her, after I’d stopped gaping, why she hadn’t actually found an Italianate style, with tall rectangular windows and a tiled roof to better reflect her tastes. She’d given me a withering look, and told me that there weren’t any, but she was looking in to having a folly brought in, just as soon as she found one. I asked her why she didn’t build a folly, as they were all imitations anyway, and was promptly dismissed as a cretin. Older was better, authentic was better, even if it was only something built in tribute to the Renaissance.
I locked up my office. To hell with work. I knew that the town was by the water, and I didn’t mind cutting out of school early. I noticed a dark car behind me in the road leading from the college to the main highway, and started before I remembered that the car that had chased me was probably still a burnt out wreck in Lawton. He turned left when I went right. I was content to assume that I knew the car from the line always heading to the highway.
I cranked up my Corelli CD and turned east. I passed through the downtown of Haver’s Falls and on another mile, before I found Burnt Oak Way. The houses had been few and far between as I left town, but they were all large, old, and well-maintained. Even as I was cataloguing architectural styles and elements—here a quoin, there a dentil—I showed I was still, at least in part, my father’s daughter and assigned a healthy price tag to each and every one of them. Add in the maintenance and the landscaping, and I knew that I was in old money country.
I found the correct turn the third time I doubled back, working off my web directions and odometer. The road was essentially private, marked by only a mailbox shaped like a barn. When I found what I was looking for, however, I saw that the street and number were clearly marked on the mailbox, and that there was actually a street sign, obscured by pine boughs. The name on the mailbox was Sarkes-Robinson.
I pulled down the road, which showed signs of being recently paved. Down one more turn, and suddenly the vista opened up, and what both Brian and my father would have referred to as “a fine pile of bricks” sat in front of me. The house was made of brick, but the cube shape, fanlights over the window, and columns told me it was Federal style as well.
There were two vehicles in the circular drive, and another in a space off to the side. In front was a delivery truck with a logo for hospital supplies and oxygen, and there was Dora’s car, a Mercedes. I had also asked her why her love of things Italian didn’t extend to her wheels, and she promptly replied that there was a place for everything and she preferred Italian in the bedroom and German in the garage to the opposite. Another car parked off to the side was a black Mercedes sedan about twenty years old.
I slowed to a stop, considering. Dora’s pied-à-terre? I thought she was well off, but this place was more than I figured for her, and not her style either. The name on the mailbox was the same as hers, so between that and the delivery truck, I was betting on relatives.
The front door opened, the delivery men came out wheeling empty handcarts. They prepared to pull out, and I had to either back up or follow the drive around and clear the way for them.
Dora came out after them, and shut the door behind her. She noticed my car immediately, and then, upon recognizing me, folded her arms over her chest. She spoke to the driver, and then the truck moved forward. I had no choice but to pull up and let them out.
She stood between me and the house, to remove any thought that I would be invited in for tea and cookies. I could tell that she was none too pleased to see me. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I felt it would be too strange to just pull away.
I cut the engine and got out, not shutting the car door, just leaning over the roof so I could see her and she could see that I wasn’t going to get comfortable.
“I’m sorry,” came out of my mouth before I knew what I was going to say.
She nodded. “My parents’ house. Both quite elderly, both quite ill.”
“I’m sorry,” came again, whether for the family’s troubles or revealing them to outsiders, I couldn’t have said.
“The security people are due any moment. I doubt there’s anything more they can add that isn’t here already, but I’m not taking any chances.” Her
face was empty of her usual passion, and there was no sign of the flamboyance that characterized her behavior for me. No hauteur, no froideur, no disdain. Nothing, but grim determination and fear. It scared me, seeing her so…it wasn’t that she was reduced. Exposed.
“Dora, I don’t know what’s going on, not exactly. But I swear to you, I’m doing everything I can to find out and make it stop.”
She shrugged, as unconvinced as I that there was anything I could do. “Please leave. Don’t come near me—or this house—until you fix this.”
I nodded, got in my car, and went back, out of reflex, back to Caldwell. At least in my office, I didn’t feel so damned lost.
Chapter 10
I SAT IN MY OFFICE, WONDERING ABOUT DORA AND the painting. I thought about poor Jim, who I was now convinced was dead. And it was all so specific. Why, if Tony had survived the storm, had gotten clean away with a bunch of gold, the whole world at his disposal, would he ever have come back? If he was as bored as he’d said he was, why wouldn’t he have just created a new life for himself, from scratch? He could have done anything in the world he wanted to, so why come back?
He needed an audience. A particular audience. Me. I shivered, feeling numb. That’s why things were spiraling in, closer and closer, with more and more violence each time something happened. And if this kept up—
The phone rang, scaring the bejeezus out of me. “Hello?”
“It wasn’t you, was it?” said a male voice after a pause so profound that I almost hung up.
“I beg your pardon!” I hate obscene phone callers, and this guy’s voice was classic. Not actually breathy but a little too much oomph behind the words for polite society. Good, careful pronunciation, though. Weird.
“You never would have sent me that letter, would you, Auntie?”
“Who is this?” But I was starting to recognize the low, depressed voice and erratic telephone manner already. A darkened room, a library at the western part of the state, a raincoat like a security blanket, scholars dying under mysterious and violent circumstances…and there he was, in the midst of it all, as ridiculous a suspect as he was a compelling one.
