The Real

by James Cole

  Sunday morning, Jeremy logged on to discover an email from Quintin Gordy waiting for him:

  Hello Jeremy,

  The pigment tests are complete. Much to my relief, the tests verify that “The Ends” is, without a doubt, an authentic Claire Wales’ composition. Now, if you will indulge me, I am quite curious to learn how you came to doubt its authenticity.

  Sincerely, Quintin

  Jeremy was floored by the unexpected results. How could Claire paint a portrait that included the wingtips of the angel that adorned her own grave? To accept Quintin’s assertion that the painting was not a fake forced Jeremy to consider the other possibilities. Could Grady’s insinuation – that Claire did not die in the fire – be true after all? Did Claire, as the hippie queen ghost story insisted, still roam Reefers Woods?

  Before he jumped to any unfounded conclusions, Jeremy thought of one thing he needed to check. What if, despite the legend, the sculpture was not mysteriously placed at her grave after her death but was there beforehand? In that case, Claire was only painting what was in plain view before her death.

  Luckily, there was a way to check this theory, the most obvious explanation of all. From the oft-referenced manila folder of newspaper articles, Jeremy retrieved the one that contained the photo taken at Claire’s graveside wake. By comparison with his own photographs of the gravesite, Jeremy verified what his gut already knew to be true. There was no sculpture at Claire’s grave at the time of her interment.

  Would it be reasonable to believe that Claire faked her own death? It occurred to Jeremy that in order to pull this off, Claire would only have had to fool one person – the medical examiner, Dr. Zachary Taylor. Could it be a coincidence that it was he who was responsible for the sculpture secretly placed at Claire’s gravesite or were his actions manifestations of a guilty conscience? Might the medical examiner have knowingly misidentified the crisped remains of the victims so as to make it appear that Claire died in the fire when, in fact, she survived?

  Chapter 44

  Monday, December 15

  First thing Monday morning, Jeremy called the office of the department coordinator. For some reason, he was surprised when she answered the phone. Fumbling over his words a bit, Jeremy asked Mrs. Reese who had the other key to the cold room.

  After looking it up, she told him that the other key was just where it was supposed to be, hanging in the lock box that held all the extra keys. She informed him that the policy called for at least one spare key to each lock to be kept safely stored in the lock box.

  “Would it be possible that someone could access the lock box without your knowledge?” asked Jeremy.

  “Absolutely not. We have safeguards that make such a breech impossible.”

  Jeremy remembered something the big-boned secretary from across the hall mentioned on Friday and knew exactly what his next question would be. “What about Dr. Cain? Is it true he also has access to the lockbox that holds the keys?”

  “Yes, of course, but he’s the only one.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Reese.” Jeremy hung up before the department coordinator could pose any questions of her own.

  The cat was now out of the bag. Jeremy knew Mrs. Reese to be one of the meekest, most conscientious persons he had ever met. While she was in charge of all the extra keys, including the cold room key, Jeremy knew she could not be involved in any underhanded deeds, and certainly had no hand in June’s murder.

  That left the executive director as the lone suspect for he was the only person left with access to the other cold room key. But what conceivable motive might Dr. Cain have for killing June? He knew June had been using his lab for unauthorized purposes, an offense which might, at the very most, be grounds for dismissal from the department. It seemed unlikely that Dr. Cain would go so far as to kill her over such a thing.

  But why, then, might Dr. Cain have had a reason to take June’s life? What motivates a man to murder? Jeremy surmised two common incentives, money and passion. Obviously, whoever killed June did not do it to steal money from her. Could Dr. Cain and June have had an affair? Based on her character Jeremy knew this could not be a possibility. June spoke of Dr. Cain respectfully but never hinted at any personal knowledge of the man. Jeremy thought back to the times he had seen them interact in the lab. Dr. Cain treated June just as he treated every other grad student that worked in his building. Based on personal experience, Jeremy’s impression was that Dr. Cain regarded grad students about as unemotionally as he might regard a piece of laboratory equipment, nothing more than a means to an end. If there had been more between June and Dr. Cain, Jeremy would have picked up on it.

  What, then, might Dr. Cain be passionate about? What floated his boat? Based on the many nights Jeremy observed him working in his private lab, it must be his research. He was already successful but perhaps he was not satisfied. He had not yet made the finding that would catapult him into the company of the world’s most elite scientists.

  Something else to consider was the notebook that went missing from June’s desk, the one that contained all the notes pertaining to his and June’s undercover research project. It was surprising to Jeremy that no one – neither the police nor Dr. Cain – ever brought up the subject of the notebook. If the police were in possession of it, certainly they would want to quiz Jeremy on its contents. But if Dr. Cain was the one who removed the notebook from June’s desk, what possible motive might he have for not informing the police of its existence?

  Jeremy could think of only one reason why Dr. Cain would not want to show the notebook to the police. Perhaps, he meant to lay claim to the ground-breaking research within the notebook, a theory which also supplied a motive for June’s murder. Dr. Cain could not take full credit for the work unless June was out of the way.

  Straight away, Jeremy rang up Tavalin’s lab.

  “I need to run something by you,” said Jeremy. “Meet me on the roof?”

  “Okay.”

  Tavalin had a habit of exploring every nook and cranny of his surroundings, and it was he who first discovered the deserted rooftop lab. According to the notes they found scattered about, it had once housed research on certain explosive compounds, hence its isolated location. Jeremy and Tavalin utilized it as their private getaway.

  After stalling for ten minutes, Jeremy took the back stairwell up and through the door that led onto the roof. He weaved his way to the far side of the massive air conditioning units, silenced for now by the cool air of December. In case of toxic fumes, he held his breath and picked up his pace past the long row of vent hood exhausts. When he reached the lab, he forcefully slung open the door and burst through to the other side. Tavalin, who was leaned back in an old straight-back chair, almost fell out of his seat.

  Pleased to see that his ploy had the intended effect, Jeremy laughed and said, “I had to get you back for the other day in the cold room.”

  “That’s just great,” muttered Tavalin as he tried to recover from the scare. “That better not be the only reason you asked me up here.”

  “No,” replied Jeremy. “I’ve got some serious news.”

  “What?” Tavalin sat straight in his chair, at attention.

  “Do you remember the earring I found in the cold room?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m pretty certain that it belonged to June and that she was wearing it the night she was killed.” Jeremy spoke in a lowered voice even though it was entirely unnecessary in the rooftop lab.

  “So what if she lost an earring during the course of the crime?” asked Tavalin. “We already know she was thrown out the window of your lab.”

  “Yeah, but here’s the kicker: I don’t think Grady had access to the cold room. He had a master key that opens my outer lab door but the cold room is self-contained. It came with two keys and I have one of them.”

  “If Grady didn’t have the other key, who does?”

  “It’s actually in the lockbox with all the other extra keys locked away in that closet-
like room inside Mrs. Reese’s office. She told me that the only other person with access to both the closet and the lockbox is Dr. Cain.”

  “Dr. Cain,” Tavalin repeated contemplatively. “I knew there was more to that man than meets the eye. Of course you know it would be next to impossible to get the police to investigate him, considering his position and all.”

  “Also, considering they’ve already closed the case,” added Jeremy. “The police want it to be over, I’m sure.” Jeremy jumped off the counter and asked, “Do you want a Coke?”

  “If there’s any left,” replied Tavalin with a guilty grin.

  They had installed an undersized refrigerator in the lab, and while Jeremy tried to keep it stocked with soft drinks, Tavalin tended to sneak up here on his own time for the free beverages.

  Jeremy opened the fridge to reveal Tavalin’s transgression. “One?” There’s only one left? I put a twelve-pack in day before yesterday.”

  “I can’t help it,” Tavalin whined. “I’m addicted.”

  “What would you do if you were me?” asked Jeremy as he took a big swig from the last Coke. “Would you tell the police about the earring?”

  “No way,” Tavalin replied as he instinctively smacked his lips. “I would keep my mouth shut. You tell them about that earring and all you’ve done is eliminate Grady as a suspect. Then it would all come back to you. My guess is that the balance of your life would be spent on death row. Now, if you had some other evidence against Cain…”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then my advice is to keep the information to yourself.”

  “And let Dr. Cain get away with it?”

  “What choice do you have?”

  Jeremy rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I suppose you are right. The smart thing to do is to just sit on it for now.”

  “The smartest thing to do would be to go home right now and get rid of that earring before it comes back and bites you on the butt.”

  Chapter 45

  Tuesday, December 16

  Are you a vampire or what?”

  Monika laughed as Jeremy welcomed her inside with a hug. “Not that I know of,” she replied. “Why?”

  “Because the only time I ever see you is late at night when you come over here. I don’t think I’ve seen you once during the daylight hours.”

  “You bought me a chocolate ice cream cone that time, downtown,” she said. “That was during the day, so I can’t be a vampire.”

  “Maybe creature of the night is a better term.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Kidding aside, I’m really glad you came because I have come across the most amazing bit of information.”

  “What is it?” asked Monika.

  “Brace yourself,” Jeremy began. “I believe that Claire – the hippie queen – did not die in the commune fire.”

  “How in the world did you come up with that?” asked Monika.

  “It all began with the painting of the cemetery, the one Claire titled The Ends. If you remember, it is a depiction of the very cemetery where her grave is, or should I say, her alleged grave. I visited the graveyard and snapped several pictures, some with the exact same perspective as the painting. I compared my photos to Claire’s painting and discovered two tiny details on the painting that gave it away.”

  He paused for effect. Monika was piddling with her music player, preoccupied, or so it seemed. After a moment she looked up.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “The monument over her grave is a replica of a late 16th century sculpture by Antonio Canova and depicts a popular character, Eros, from the classical myths, embracing his forbidden lover, Psyche. Eros is portrayed as an angelic being with his unfurled wings held over him.”

  “How do you know all that?” asked Monika.

  “I looked it up online,” replied Jeremy. “If you look closely, you can just make out Eros’ wing tips in her painting, sticking out from among the other graveside monuments. That means the painting was composed after the angel monument was erected, after the fire and after Claire’s supposed death.”

  “I don’t buy it,” said Monika.

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe it’s something that just happens to look like the tips of angel wings,” she suggested.

  “I don’t think so.” In short order, Jeremy produced the two photos for comparison. “Why don’t you judge for yourself?”

  Monika barely glanced at the photos before handing them back to him. “That’s an interesting theory,” she said.

  “Why don’t you give me your theory?” Jeremy was becoming irritated at her indifference.

  Monika’s lips parted as if she were about to speak but pursed them shut before any words could escape.

  “What were you going to say?” prodded Jeremy.

  “Just that…” Monika pulled her words back again.

  “Out with it, soul sister.”

  After another pause, Monika finally finished her thought. “I was going to suggest that maybe it’s a fake. What if someone other than Claire painted it?”

  “That’s what I thought too, at first,” he said, “but they can tell if it’s a forgery or not.”

  “Who is they?” she asked.

  “You know, the experts in the field.”

  “Yeah,” she said with a snicker. “The experts. Do you know any?”

  “As a matter of fact…” Jeremy was about to tell her all about Quintin Gordy and how he believed the painting to be authentic when Monika cut him off.

  “This painting, The Ends, did it by chance just change hands?” asked Monika.

  “Yes, it did.” Jeremy studied her with a curious eye.

  “And I imagine it fetched a pretty penny, say somewhere in the neighborhood of $12,000?” Monika could barely contain her laughter.

  “What have you got up your sleeve this time?” he asked.

  “Oh, about $12,000, less a small processing fee paid to the middle man,” she replied smugly.

  “I don’t understand,” Jeremy said. “You owned the painting?”

  “You always say I never let you in on my secrets,” replied Monika with a gleam in her eye. “Here’s a nice juicy one for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You tell anybody and you’re dead meat,” she cautioned.

  “I won’t tell.”

  Monika surveyed his face for a moment before saying, “The hippie queen didn’t paint it – I did.”

  “You?” Jeremy was thoroughly confused. “How? Why?”

  “For the money, dummy. It’s a little scam I began after I found out how much Claire’s paintings fetch.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe. I painted it. I named it. I pocketed the money for it.”

  “But how were you able to fool everyone?” asked Jeremy. “These collectors really know their stuff.”

  “What can I say?” she replied boastfully. “I studied Claire’s subject matter and her techniques. It took a little doing, but as it turns out, I’m quite good at mimicking her work.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “So I’m dating a con artist...”

  “If Claire’s spirit is alive and working through me, then the paintings aren’t really fakes, are they?”

  This wasn’t the first time Monika had voiced a similar notion. Before, when he had asked her how she knew that the lotus blooms harbored a euphoric drug, she suggested that the hippie queen communicated this to her. Even though she said it as if she were joking, Jeremy got the impression that on some level Monika really believed that the hippie queen’s ghost was working through her. True or not, there was no doubt that Monika wished it were true.

  “I only hope no one else notices those damned wing tips,” she lamented. “It’s not like me to make such a rookie mistake.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” said Jeremy. “One would have to be familiar with both the cemetery and the painting and, even t
hen, they might not figure it out.”

  “You figured it out.”

  Jeremy allowed himself a prideful smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

  “Hopefully, whoever bought it wouldn’t want to know, not after dropping that wad of cash,” said Monika. “I know I wouldn’t.”

  “You’re probably right about that.”

  Jeremy didn’t mention that he knew who bought it and that Quintin Gordy was no fool.

  “I could never make that kind of cash with my own stuff,” Monika was saying, “although obviously I would prefer to be able to sell my work under my own name.”

  Jeremy remembered what the collector had said, how it seemed that every year another Claire Wales’ painting surfaced as if from nowhere.

  Every year…

  “You’ve done others, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “You find something that works, you stick with it,” Monika replied slyly. “I’ve done several now.”

  “So all this time we could have been discussing Claire’s paintings,” he said. “Of course, I’ve only seen two of them-” Jeremy stopped himself. “Actually, I suppose I’ve only seen one that was Claire’s – unless that one is a fake too.”

  “Which one are you talking about?” asked Monika.

  “The one entitled Wicked Water.”

  “That one,” said Monika, “is real.”

  *****

  Reefers Woods – December 21, 1969

  (Thirty-nine years ago)

  A Noncommittal Wind

  Psssst!

  Something disturbed the child’s sleep. He turned over in his bed without opening his eyes. The others in the house kept odd hours and the plyboard walls of his room were anything but soundproof.

  Noises that sounded like a knock-knock at the door roused him to full wakefulness. He lay alone in bed, frozen in the uncertainty of the moment.

  “Is someone there?” he asked in a voice too soft to penetrate the door even if someone were there. In his imagination monsters clamored on the other side.

  He waited. The odd whistling and popping noises persisted to the point where he could no longer ignore them or wish that they would just go away. It was only after he stood that he smelled smoke. He flung open the door to find a monster – not the one he had imagined but a perilous foe nonetheless. The fire leapt toward him in fits and starts, seeking out the oxygen that had been holed up in his room.