The Black Painting

by Neil Olson

  “Right,” she said, sitting up and flipping the hair from her face. “I tried telling him things don’t happen that fast. I don’t even know what I’m getting, if I’m getting anything. He doesn’t want to hear. He was going to show up at the house, which would have been a frigging disaster.”

  “So you redirected him here.”

  “I didn’t know he would get here so fast,” she protested.

  “Why involve me?”

  “I had to meet him someplace. Private. But I didn’t want to be all alone with him, if you know what I mean.”

  It was plausible enough, if not completely convincing. Dave ran a finger along her smooth thigh.

  “How did you know where to find me?” he asked, which is where he had meant to start.

  Audrey shrugged.

  “Once I knew where you weren’t, there were only a couple of logical places.”

  He replayed last night’s talk, which seemed so casual at the time. She had eliminated B and Bs, places in New Haven, and she knew he was somewhere it was raining. Christ, was she looking at the radar on her phone? He was going to have to take her more seriously.

  “Would have served you right if I wasn’t here.”

  “I’d have dealt with Zeke on my own,” she answered. “That would have been better than you getting beat up.”

  “Hey, I got some punches in.”

  “Of course you did, tough guy.”

  “How much do you owe him, Audrey?”

  She slid away. All the way out of the bed, and began to retrieve her clothes.

  “I should get back.”

  “Okay,” he replied. “How are things at the house?”

  “Under control. Everyone’s a little on edge.”

  “About the cause of death, you mean?”

  “Not that,” she snorted, pulling on her jeans. “Actually, the autopsy results came back. Heart attack, plain and simple.”

  “As you predicted,” he said. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “Philip would have anyway.”

  “So what are they on edge about?”

  “The will,” Audrey replied. “Who gets the house, the paintings. What nasty surprises the old man left for each of us.”

  “When do you find out?”

  “Soon as Grandpa’s lawyer decides. Maybe right after the funeral.”

  “Which is tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “You coming?”

  “I don’t think I’m invited,” Dave replied.

  “I’m inviting you,” she said as her head emerged from the turtleneck. She tugged it down over those stunning breasts and flipped back her hair. “So who is Luisa?”

  “What?” He felt punched in the gut. “Why are you asking that?”

  “You said her name. In your sleep.”

  “In my... I wasn’t sleeping.”

  “You were,” she laughed, slipping her feet into low black boots. “Just for a little while, you know, between. Not going to tell me, huh? That’s all right, I can guess.”

  He fell asleep? How could he not remember? Dave fought not to let his gaze shift to the messy pile of research on the other bed. How long was he out? Had she read any of it? Fully dressed, Audrey marched over to the bed and kissed him hard, then more softly.

  “God, you’re a wreck,” she said smiling. “Look, there’s been someone prowling around the property. My brother saw him. I think my cousin did, too.”

  “Huh. Any idea who?”

  “Ideas, yeah. But I don’t want to bias your own conclusions. So come to the funeral, and keep your eyes open. Never know who you’ll see.”

  10

  The plot was on a hillside, between a cherry tree and a Japanese maple, and far from the larger monuments. A simple granite stone bore the word “Morse” in capital letters, with Dorothy’s and Alfred’s names below. Alfred’s date of death had not yet been carved, which was common, but for some reason disturbed Teresa.

  She gazed over the broad vista of lawn, her eye drawn to the orange flare of sugar maples, just turning. It was a beautiful place. Across the way was the stone chapel where the ceremony had been held. A very brief ceremony, with the casket closed. That was both a relief and a reminder. She had dared to hope they would find a way to restore his face, so she could remember him looking regal and placid. No such luck. That awful mask remained fixed in her mind. The blue sky dimmed suddenly. The hillside fell into shadow, and figures moved furtively behind the trees. It is all a surface, my Teresita. All that you see. Like a painting. Some of us are able to look through, to see below that surface. It is a gift, but a strange and sometimes terrible one. The vision lasted only a moment, but Teresa was left breathless and weak. She did not lean left, upon her mother, but the other way. Upon James. Without a word, without turning, he caught her upper arm in his strong hand. She was buoyed, she would not fall. Teresa closed her eyes and listened to the priest’s singsong muttering.

  She’d spent the previous day in bed, assaulted by memories, real and false. Walking the streets of Madrid as a girl. Her father above, his large hand enclosing hers. They spoke Spanish, which she only ever spoke now in dreams. They were in the Prado Museum. He had taken her to see the Black Paintings. Miranda would give him hell for it—you let a child look at those? But Teresa had not been frightened. Or a little frightened, in a way that made the experience exciting. Serious. She would never forget those works, would know them instantly in the bad reproductions of college textbooks, or old postcards pinned to corkboards.

  Other memories felt just as real. Wandering along a river until they reached a small house, overgrown with vines. Inside were the same works painted onto the walls. The black horns of Satan’s goat. The mad and bulging faces. More damaged and faded, yet also more powerful. But how could they be both in the museum and here? Always questions, mi pequeña. The skeptic sees only lies. The open heart sees the truth. Just look. He gestured her through a doorway, but she knew what was there and hesitated in fear. He became angry, and she had to turn away from his face. That terrible face.

  Teresa blinked back tears. The priest droned, and all eyes were focused on the shiny casket suspended above the open earth. Such a fancy case for a used-up form. No one looked at her, which was the main thing. She wiped her eyes quickly. Tears were normal at a funeral, right? She need tell no one they were for her father. Ramón had never been angry at her that Teresa could remember. And Goya’s house by the river was demolished a hundred years ago. Yet the memory was so real. She missed her father profoundly today. An oddly timed grief, but Grandpa would understand.

  Turning her head to take in James’ profile, Teresa caught sight of a figure beyond. Twenty yards down the slope, near the hearse. A dark blazer and jeans. Brown hair touched with gray, and even at this distance she could see something was wrong with his face. His nose was swollen and discolored; the aviator sunglasses sat uneasily upon it. It was ridiculous to think he was looking at her. She could not see his eyes. The family was gathered in a tight mass of mourning. He could have been looking at any of them, all of them. Yet she felt certain those hidden eyes were locked upon her own. She was wondering who he might be when a second man came into focus behind him. Another twenty yards back, on the far side of the lane and half-hidden by the tomb he leaned against. Faded green military jacket. Tangled blond hair and beard. It had been a long time, but Teresa knew he must be Jenny’s brother, Pete. Part of her had been looking for him all morning.

  Proving that he had, in fact, been watching Teresa, the first man followed her gaze to where Pete stood. The two men stared at one another awhile, until Pete slid backward out of view. Moments later, the first man turned and strolled after him, also disappearing. The priest had stopped talking.

  When Teresa turned back, the coffin was being mechanically lowered into the hole. It took longer than expected, and they all shuffled
in place awkwardly. Miranda dabbed her eyes. Her brothers were stony-faced. Kenny looked like an advertisement for the suit he wore, while Audrey tugged at her ill-fitting skirt. Across from her, Cynthia—back from Paris last night—wore the elegant dress and jacket Audrey otherwise would have nabbed. She would have looked better in them, too, but it was good to see Audrey lose a fight.

  No roses, no last words from the family, except those said under the breath. Miranda threw a handful of dirt on the coffin and Philip and Fred each did the same. Ilsa, clutching her sister’s arm, seemed unsure what to do. No one had seen her until this morning at the chapel. She had refused to come to the house, and would tell no one where she was staying. Teresa remembered her as a commanding presence. Gray-eyed, silver-haired, ramrod straight in her bearing, with a quiet voice you did not contradict. She looked old now. Older than her seventy years, and frightened. Freddie stepped forward and encouraged her to toss some dirt on the coffin of her deceased employer, friend and—if the whispers were true—lover of decades. Ilsa did so, staring a long time at the casket, then at the dirt on her hand. Until Fred and her sister led her away from the hole. Then they wandered back to their cars. The little slope nearly made Miranda tumble off her heels, and she grabbed Teresa’s arm for balance.

  “Thanks, hon. I shouldn’t lean on you when you’re not feeling well.”

  “I’m fine today,” Teresa lied. Pointlessly.

  “Good. That’s good. You took your medication this morning?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “No need for that tone. It was brave of you to come. It would have been fine for you to rest another day.”

  “No, it would not have been fine.”

  There had been no way in hell that Teresa was going to replay her part from fifteen years ago. To be immortalized in family myth as The Sick Girl. She would have crawled to this ceremony on her hands and knees, brain on fire and blood seeping from her eyes. In fact, she did not feel that bad today, between bouts of the heebie-jeebies. And yesterday’s rest had given her time to think. Or not think, to let ideas drop fully formed into her unresisting brain.

  Such as the cause of Audrey’s disappearances the last two days. She went off cranky and keyed up and returned glowing and calm. Duh. She was seeing a guy. Whatever else she might be doing, she was getting some action off the premises. Also, Philip and Cynthia were not living together. No one had mentioned it, but it was clear from their body language. This was a formal appearance only, for the family. They were no longer a couple. How long had that been true? What other truths was she missing? The secrets eating at James and Kenny had not announced themselves, yet her certainty that such secrets existed was stronger than ever. James’ involved the lost painting. His interest was not abstract but personal, and driven by fear. Kenny was still a complete puzzle.

  Teresa helped her mother into the back seat of Philip’s Mercedes, then went around to the other side, scanning the grounds. There was no sign of Pete, but she spotted broken-nose forty yards away. Talking to Audrey, of course. And there was Philip, striding rapidly toward the two of them. Just before her uncle arrived, Audrey brushed her hand lightly over the mystery man’s cheek. Then sauntered away.

  * * *

  “Thank you for joining me,” said the attorney, targeting each of them in turn with his rheumy-eyed gaze. “I know it’s been a difficult day.”

  “Cut the formalities,” said Audrey, “and let’s get to it.”

  “Shut up, Audrey,” said Kenny in his calmest lawyerly voice. For some reason, she did. James and Teresa said nothing.

  It was just the four of them. The cousins, seated in a half circle around their grandfather’s ancient attorney. Mitchell had wanted to use the study, but there were heated protests to that plan. The other rooms downstairs were too open, not sufficiently private, so they dragged extra chairs into Alfred’s bedroom. An intern from Mitchell’s firm was posted outside the door. Officially to see people in and out and call the next group, but quite obviously to prevent eavesdropping.

  To everyone’s surprise, Ilsa had been called first. It was only with great difficulty that she had been convinced to come to the house, and purely for the sake of these legal matters. She’d spent twenty minutes sequestered with the lawyer, then staggered down the stairs in tears and went straight out to her car. “Guess she didn’t like the retirement package,” Freddie had said, a very full glass of scotch in his hand. Her sister Frieda made apologies and said goodbyes to all, then drove Ilsa away. The grandchildren were called next. Kenny had bounded ahead of them while Audrey and Teresa practically dragged James up the stairs.

  “It is customary in these modern times,” the lawyer continued, in a voice as wet as his eyes, “to simply mail the will to all appropriate parties. But your grandfather wanted things done a certain way.”

  With trembling hands, he reached to the desk beside him for a slender pile of documents. Then handed one to each of them. Teresa could read Last Will and Testament at the top of the first page, but the paragraphs below were covered by an envelope paper-clipped to the front. A sealed, cream-colored envelope with her name written on it in a shaky but elegant hand. She glanced over to see that each of them had received a similar envelope. Kenny was speed-reading the will itself while Audrey turned pages at random. James stared out the window, ignoring the papers in his lap as he would an overfriendly cat.

  “You will see on the first page that I am named executor,” said Mitchell after a few moments. “You will also note that a separate party is named artistic executor, overseeing the disbursement of the art collection.”

  “Hah,” said Kenny in amusement. “Makes sense.”

  “What?” said Teresa, curious for the first time. “Who?”

  “You,” said Audrey, squinting as she read. “You don’t keep the money, though.”

  “There is a fee provided for the position,” Mitchell clarified.

  “Forty grand,” said Audrey, jutting her lip out. “Not bad.”

  “That figure can be adjusted at my discretion,” the lawyer added. “Depending upon the time and effort required.”

  “Stop,” said Teresa, trying to take in this bizarre turn. “I’m still in school. I’m not qualified to oversee a collection like his.”

  “There are detailed instructions,” Mitchell replied, shifting uncomfortably in the hard chair. “Which I will present to you upon the assumption of your duties. Little has been left to your discretion. I will, of course, assist with the legal ins and outs.”

  “I don’t know about this.”

  “You’re free to refuse. But I will say that your grandfather and I discussed your level of experience, and he was quite satisfied that you could execute the task.”

  “Suck it up, Tay,” said Kenny. “It’s a good job for you.”

  “I’ll help if you want,” Audrey offered.

  “Sure you will,” Kenny sneered. “For half the money.”

  “I’d settle for ten.”

  Teresa sat back and massaged her forehead. What a ridiculous development. Had her mother known? What would she think, what would the aunts and uncles think? Would they be as indulgent as her cousins?

  “Why are you seeing us before our parents?” she asked Mitchell.

  “The order is your grandfather’s,” Mitchell replied. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Starting with beneficiaries and moving outward to other concerned parties.”

  Audrey’s head shot up from the paper.

  “Wait. Are you saying that our parents aren’t beneficiaries?”

  “Look at the document,” said Kenny. “Page four.”

  They all flipped to that page, including Teresa and James. Their four names were in a row at the bottom, each followed by a string of legalese and a number. The same number in each case: $250,000

  “The cheap bastard,” Audrey said under her breath, yet more than loud enough
for all to hear.

  “Maybe we don’t deserve more,” said James morosely.

  “You’ll be lucky to see this,” Kenny informed them. “Between taxes, liquidation costs, what happens in probate. And the conditions precedent.”

  “The conditions...” Audrey read the passage in question with growing alarm. “To be satisfied before the disbursement of any funds. Detailed in the accompanying document, specific to each beneficiary.”

  Kenny waved his still-sealed envelope, a rueful smile on his face. None of the envelopes had been opened yet, and no one hurried to unseal his or hers. James had gone still, but there was a look of such anguish about his eyes that Teresa reached for his hand. To her surprise, he seized hers with a fierce energy, squeezing his eyes shut.

  “So we have to do whatever it says in here before we get our money?” Audrey asked, her voice pitching up a notch.

  “That’s correct,” Mitchell confirmed.

  “And our parents get nothing?”

  “The beneficiaries are all named in the document.”

  “You know my father will contest,” Kenny said, matter-of-factly.

  Mitchell gave him a long look. Despite his hangdog expression, there was ice in those eyes.

  “He will act in whatever manner seems right to him. But he will find that the document has been very carefully prepared.”

  “Doesn’t mean he can’t hang the whole thing up for months, or years. But I guess that’s good for the lawyers, right, Mr. Mitchell?”

  The old man shook his head.

  “I’m not a litigator, son. I am not even in regular practice. Your grandfather was my last client. Nothing would please me more than to see these arrangements settled in my lifetime.”

  “Wait a minute,” Audrey interjected. “Who gets the money? Who gets the house and, and everything? Is it going to charity?”

  “That’s not the last page,” Kenny said. “Flip over.”

  James was still holding Teresa’s right hand, and she fumbled the document hopelessly with her left. Not sure if she even wanted to see what was there. Audrey gasped, then growled out three words.