The Black Painting

by Neil Olson

  “Which of course he couldn’t,” Dave pointed out, “because he didn’t know. Why the second meeting?”

  “DeGross asked for that. After my father rejected the higher offer. He wanted to know if there was any point in continuing. If there was anything left to try.”

  “Like stealing, for instance,” Dave baited him.

  “DeGross may have been behind the theft,” Morse answered evenly. “But he didn’t share his plans with me. I did not have anything to do with that, Mr. Webster. And I still don’t understand why you stopped the investigation.”

  He sounded sincere, Dave had to admit. He might be a good liar, or he might have talked himself into his own innocence. People did that. Or, Dave conceded grudgingly, he might be telling the truth.

  “Your father suspected DeGross. I could tell from his questions. But I couldn’t find a link to the groundskeeper or any of the other help. I didn’t investigate the caterers closely, that was another thing I was going to get to. The suspicious behavior I did uncover involved members of the family. Especially you.”

  “You mean those meetings with DeGross.”

  “That was the worst of it,” Dave confirmed. “Your father was determined to solve the case. He put all his energy into it. When I told him about those meetings, well, the steam went out of him. He didn’t even want to hear about my other findings. He just asked me to leave. The next day he called to say he was ending the investigation.”

  They were both quiet for a time. The attorney was so deeply wrapped in thought that the sound of a car pulling into the driveway did not rouse him.

  “I understand this is painful for you,” Dave said, risking the other man’s wrath. “And I’m not accusing you of anything. But one way to look at this is that your father was trying to protect you. As important as that painting was, it was more important to him not to implicate his son in any wrongdoing.”

  Morse stared at him with a curious expression, and Dave considered the possibility that for once in his life he had said the right thing. A car door slamming erased any response the attorney might have made. He rose quickly and went to the window.

  “What the hell does she want?”

  Three seconds later the kitchen door banged open and a woman in tight jeans and a baggy coat swept in. Curvy, blond and flushed. And obviously a Morse. She barely paused to throw a contemptuous glance at Philip, but she stopped short when she saw Dave. He stood up fast, banging his knee on the table.

  “Sorry, did I interrupt something?” she asked, not sounding sorry. More annoyed that the presence of a guest required a halfhearted courtesy. “Who are you?”

  “What are you doing here, Audrey?” Philip snapped. The girl made him nervous, though Dave could not guess why.

  “Clothes,” she said.

  “Clothes?”

  “For the funeral and, like, the next few days. It’s four hours round-trip to my apartment, without traffic. And the cops want us to hang around.”

  “I wasn’t aware,” said Philip suspiciously, “that you had left clothes at my house.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, making silly sound like a humiliating condition. “Cynthia and I wear exactly the same size. Nice to meet you...”

  “Dave,” he said, taking her offered hand. Her blue eyes had a warmth missing from her uncle’s, and her smile seemed genuine, if not exactly kind. She had a firm handshake.

  “I’m Audrey,” she replied, brushing against him as she passed. More closely than the space required. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Wait, have you spoken to Cynthia?” Philip called after her.

  “She won’t mind,” Audrey declared, already in the hall and headed for the stairs. Philip went as far as the kitchen door in pursuit. Then stopped, shoulders sagging.

  “My niece,” he said in resignation.

  “I remember,” Dave replied. She was a mouthy teen when he last saw her. The children had been off-limits for questioning. Which was appropriate, yet frustrating, as three had been in the house during the theft. One of them had actually been in the room. A boy, in therapy for some trauma. Dave could guess the source of that trauma, but none of the adults would speak of it. He’d met Audrey because she sought him out during her father’s interview. Flirting, he guessed. Or wanting to know what was up, the way teenagers did. She was cute, but fifteen-year-olds were not his thing, and he hadn’t given her a second thought. She was all grown-up now.

  Morse shuffled back to the table. Audrey’s entrance had severed the brief bond between the men, and Dave sensed a dismissal. But the attorney sat down again.

  “Thank you for telling me those things.”

  “I can’t imagine they were what you wanted to hear,” Dave answered, sitting down also.

  “No, but not as bad as I guessed. Tell me something else, please. Did you believe I was the thief? Is that what you would have reported to my father?”

  “That’s a tough question, Philip.”

  “The truth will do. You won’t offend me.”

  “I hadn’t made up my mind. I needed more time, and more freedom. You looked suspicious, but so did other people.”

  “Like my brother-in-law,” the attorney said. “Ramón.”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “You don’t need to.” Morse reached into his jacket and slipped out a checkbook. They had not discussed a fee for Dave’s time, but without asking, the attorney began to write. “What I would like to do is ask you to pick up where you left off fifteen years ago,” he said, tearing the check from the book. “I don’t know how realistic that is.”

  “It’s a cold trail,” Dave managed, covering his surprise. Was he serious? “I would have to track down a lot of people. They would have to be willing to talk.”

  “Many hurdles,” the lawyer agreed. “Don’t answer now, but consider the possibility. Last question. Or request. Would you be willing to repeat everything you’ve just said to my brother and sister?”

  There it was. The old man was gone but not the siblings. Did one of them control the purse strings? Or was this just an emotional thing? Did it matter?

  “If they’re willing to listen,” said Dave, “I’m willing to talk.”

  Morse nodded and handed over the check. It was for a thousand dollars, far too much. Dave thought of handing it back, then thought better.

  “Consider yourself on retainer,” the attorney said. “We’ll be speaking more.”

  6

  The diner was a mile from Morse’s house, at the first intersection going east. Anyone returning to Owl’s Point would pass this way. There was also a gas station, post office and antiques shop, but little activity this Monday morning. Little to attract Dave’s eye while he ate a late breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. He could not have said what he was watching for until the red Lexus sped by the window.

  Philip had shaken his hand when they parted. As if they were pals now, or at least co-conspirators. Dave did not know why it bothered him. He had worked for worse men, and very little had been asked of him so far. He had no inflated sense of his own honor, but there was something tainted about the attorney. About the whole family. They were people to avoid; Dave felt it on an instinctive level. Yet he’d accepted the check, and gave Morse his mobile number. Going to his car, he had stolen a glance back and caught a figure in a second-floor window. Near the back of the house, the master bedroom probably. It was her, Audrey. She examined a blouse in the window’s natural light, and it took a moment to realize she wore nothing but a white bra. She didn’t look up, but Dave had no doubt the show was for him. Before he averted his gaze, she turned around quickly. As if someone in the room behind had startled her. Yet she made no effort to cover herself.

  He had been trying to sort it all out—what the attorney really wanted, why Audrey had made an appearance, what was going on between the two of them—
when her car shot by. She drove too fast. Any careless pedestrian would have been instant roadkill. In the minimum time it would take to find a place to turn around and come back, the Lexus reappeared and swung in next to his blue Taurus. She got out slowly and scanned the long window until she spotted him. Then waved. Dave did not wave back, but she bounded up the stairs and entered the little diner nevertheless.

  The same black jeans, but now she sported a pink blouse with the sleeves rolled, along with a turquoise bracelet and silver chain around her neck. Also fresh lipstick and eye shadow, which did not quite distract from the dark crescents of sleeplessness. She had the weathered look of a woman a few years older, a look Dave found appealing. Indeed, he was quite attracted to her, and the sooner he admitted that to himself the better he could resist.

  “Hey,” she said, sliding in across the table from him. “Mind if I join you?”

  “You already have. But I was just finishing.”

  “Doesn’t look like you enjoyed it.” She grabbed his coffee cup and took a swig, leaving a red smear on the white ceramic. “That is terrible,” she announced.

  “It is,” he agreed. “You didn’t give me time to warn you.”

  “I know you,” Audrey said, drilling him with those blue eyes. It struck him that she had a slightly crazed look, and Dave could not decide if it was natural or a put-on. “I could feel it right away, but it took a little while to figure out. You won’t remember me.”

  “I do.”

  “Really?” She seemed far too pleased. “They wouldn’t even let me talk to you.”

  “You managed to barge in anyway.”

  “For like thirty seconds before they hustled me out.”

  “You were too young,” Dave said. “It wasn’t allowed.”

  “I was fifteen. I made a statement to the police.”

  “And I got a copy of that.”

  “Maybe I didn’t tell them everything,” she said, letting that sit. He would not take the bait, and he could see that she had no patience. “So what’s the story, Dave? Did my uncle hire you to investigate something?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “That means he did,” said Audrey, narrowing her eyes. “What?”

  “Why are you so desperate to know?”

  “Desperate? Nah, I’m just curious.”

  “Curious enough to hunt me down.”

  “I didn’t hunt you,” she laughed, enjoying his choice of words. “I was just driving by and saw your car.”

  He deliberately chose nondescript vehicles. She must have taken careful note and been looking out for it not to have passed right by the diner. The diner, he now remembered, that her uncle had recommended. She also managed to pack several days’ worth of clothes from another woman’s wardrobe in twenty minutes.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Dave said. “He wants me to make a statement.”

  “He’s paying you to say he didn’t swipe the painting, right?” Her smirk annoyed him, but he tried not to show it. “Too late now, isn’t it?”

  “I need to get going.”

  “You were looking for me,” she said. “The same as I was looking for you.”

  “I was having breakfast.”

  “You were pushing around lousy food while you waited.”

  “Why would I do that?” he asked, his tone too sharp.

  “Do I really have to explain?” she said in a low voice. He had an impulse to throw the bad coffee in her face, but understood that he was angry at himself.

  “What do you want, Audrey?”

  She sat back and blew the hair from her face. From playful to sullen in an eye blink.

  “I’m bored. We’re stuck in that house until the funeral. You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened so far.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “No, Wednesday. They have to wait for the autopsy results.”

  “Autopsy, really?” Now he was intrigued, but she only smirked again. More secrets she might share, if he would...what? He still could not guess what she wanted, and would not flatter himself that it was his company. “I thought it was a heart attack.”

  “Most likely.”

  “Was there anything suspicious?”

  “Depends on who you ask,” Audrey replied, sliding the coffee mug between her hands.

  “Who found the body?”

  She opened her mouth, then paused.

  “I did,” she said, and a disturbed expression flickered over her face.

  Dave touched her hand. A simple gesture of sympathy, performed without thought. She froze. It might have been fear he saw, or something else, but it was not pleasure. He withdrew his hand. Audrey blinked rapidly.

  “Wait,” she said, as if he had confused her. “That was okay. You can touch my hand if you want to.”

  “It didn’t seem okay.”

  “I’m kind of jumpy. Nothing,” she barked at the waitress who had not even reached their booth. The woman turned away without comment. “This has all been kind of strange.”

  “Of course,” he said. The tough-girl act was just an act, as he should have known. She made him uneasy in ways that messed with his perception.

  “You ever see a dead body, Dave? I mean, before it gets cleaned up and mummified.”

  “Yeah. Once.”

  “Was it...” She licked her lips. “Was it bad?”

  “It was pretty bad,” he conceded. Audrey leaned across the Formica table, her eyes big.

  “Wait, was it someone you killed?” she asked breathlessly.

  Dave leaned away and laughed.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, looking a little disappointed.

  “Do I seem like a killer?”

  “What does a killer seem like?” she asked, reasonably. “Anybody can take life, under the right circumstances. Don’t you believe that?”

  “I don’t know about anybody. But most of us, yes.”

  “You have a temper,” Audrey said, scrutinizing his pale, unshaven face. “Yeah, I could see you doing someone in.”

  Well, this is going brilliantly, thought Dave. It was time to leave.

  “Do you like that idea?” he asked instead. “That I might be a killer?”

  “You’re asking if I like dangerous men?” She considered the question seriously, without flirtatiousness. “I guess. Except they usually don’t turn out to be dangerous. Just mean. There’s a difference.”

  “No doubt. What did your uncle tell you about me?”

  “Why would he have told me anything?”

  “That’s a great question, I’ve been working on it. You do seem awfully close.”

  “What?” She was so instantly furious that she could barely speak. “I despise my uncle,” she said, with all the venom four words could hold.

  “That makes two of us,” Dave replied, unmoved by her rage. There was something calmingly familiar about a woman being angry with him. “It doesn’t rule out him telling you things.”

  “I suppose not,” she agreed. “Why do you despise him?”

  “That’s too strong. I dislike his self-importance. I’ve met too many guys like him.”

  “His self-importance,” said Audrey coldly, “is the least of it. He doesn’t like you either, by the way. Thinks you can’t be trusted.”

  “And that’s based on what?” Dave asked.

  “Oh, maybe that your own father-in-law fired you?”

  “I quit.”

  “That you work with criminals on illegal deals,” she persisted. “That you steal.”

  Don’t defend yourself, he thought. She’s having fun, let her. What he really wanted to know is how much of it the attorney actually said, and how much she was making up.

  “He told you all that?”


  Audrey shrugged, taking another swig of bad coffee.

  “Some he told me, some I overheard. He’s been on his phone like twenty-four hours straight.”

  “And you’ve been spying on him.”

  “He has a loud voice,” she replied. “But, yeah, I keep my ears open. Never know what you’ll hear, especially with my insane family.”

  “Are they all insane?”

  “Pretty much. Oh, did you mean me?” She leaned toward him again and lowered her voice. “That would be yes, Dave. But it’s all relative. Hah, you get it?”

  “Funny.”

  “I’m the sanest one among them. I’m the one you need to come to for answers.”

  “What answers would those be?”

  “How are you going to prove that Philip is innocent unless you find out who is guilty?”

  Where was she going with this? Trying to undermine her uncle in some way? Was she simply as bored as she claimed?

  “Do you know who’s guilty?” he asked.

  “If I knew that,” she answered with a crooked grin, “there wouldn’t be anything for you to solve, would there?”

  “Does everyone in your family think Philip was part of the theft?”

  “As far as I know, nobody thinks that. I mean, beyond everyone suspecting everyone else for a while.”

  “Despite the fact that someone was actually convicted of stealing.”

  “Poor Pete. Stealing, yes, but they couldn’t nail him on the painting. They only threw the book at him because he wouldn’t squeal on that collector. What was his name?”

  “So you think Pete was innocent, or just too harshly punished?”

  “I’m not the investigator,” Audrey replied. “Pete was a thief for sure, but I don’t think he took the painting.”

  “Do you think it was someone in the family?”

  “Who else?” she said, as if the question was stupid.

  The cook, the housekeeper, the caterers. Someone nobody had thought of yet. But his own theories were less interesting to him at the moment than hers.

  “Why do you want the painting found?” he asked instead.