As I begin to follow the curve of the drive, I glance back at the house. There’s a shadow in one of the entry hall windows. Frederick. He’s standing there watching. I shiver.
I turn onto Buffalo Bayou Lane, looking for a cross street that will cut through to San Felipe, and think out loud. “Ms. Montero told us that lots of artists have made copies of their own work, like Van Gogh, who copied his painting of sunflowers for his friend Paul Gauguin. And Stuart, who painted more than seventy-five copies of his famous ‘Athenaeum Head’ painting of George Washington to get out of debt.
“Sometimes artists wanted to save what they’d done, but thought of ways of making their paintings better by changing just one little thing, so they’d paint practically the same scene. And some of the artists way back when, like Rembrandt, assigned students and assistants to copy their work. Ms. Montero told us that Rembrandt even signed some of their paintings with his own name. Maybe this is one of those almost-alike paintings.”
“Ask Ms. Montero,” Lindy answers. I can hear the boredom in her voice. She doesn’t share my interest in art, and if I talk about it too long she clicks a switch in her brain and tunes me out. I can’t get that fantastic painting with its explosion of color out of my mind, but to please Lindy I search for something else to talk about.
Lindy suddenly stares at me, then turns and glances out the back window of the car. “Nobody’s following us,” she says.
“What?”
“You keep looking in the rearview mirror every few seconds, Kristi, like you think someone’s going to look back. If you weren’t already jumpy enough to drive into a tree, I’d be tempted to yell, ‘Boo!’ ” She shakes her head. “You know for a fact that Mr. Merson’s in the hospital. You saw him there.”
“I know. But now that we’ve seen how Mr. Merson lives and how rich he must be, I can’t imagine that he’s the one who followed me or took photos of me. It would be more realistic if he hired someone to do it.”
“Like Frederick?”
I shiver again. “I don’t know.”
“He’s creepy enough,” Lindy says. “I wonder if he feels anything.”
I suddenly make a right turn off San Felipe into a quiet side street and pull the car to a stop at the curb.
“Now what?” Lindy asks.
“We asked the wrong person,” I tell her.
“Don’t say we. You did the asking. I didn’t ask anybody anything.”
“You know what I mean. Look. We found out that Frederick works for Mr. Merson and he’s loyal. He made it clear he wouldn’t talk about Mr. Merson or anything connected with him. But other people wouldn’t feel so loyal. Like neighbors. Or even that Ms. Chase.”
Lindy’s eyes are wide with surprise. “I don’t think any of them would know about the folder.”
“I’m not talking about the folder. I’m talking about Douglas Merson. The people who lived next to him would know what he was like. And Ms. Chase said she was a friend. We could find out more about Mr. Merson through them.”
“I don’t think so,” Lindy says. “To begin with, we don’t know Ms. Chase’s first name. And she looks like the kind of person who’d have an unlisted phone number. How are we going to find her?”
“Easy. She came to pick up two paintings and she talked about a friend who used to work with her and now has her own art gallery. And she said she’d come back from Austin, so that means her home is in the Houston area. We can find her by calling the art galleries.”
“She’ll ignore us again.”
“Maybe not. She had her mind set on convincing Frederick to give her the paintings. We weren’t of any use to her.”
“We still won’t be.”
I grin at Lindy. “Why don’t we find out?”
We cruise back to Buffalo Bayou Lane. Ms. Chase’s car is no longer parked in front of the Merson house.
The front windows of the house are as blank as closed eyes, not giving even a hint that behind them hangs one of the most exciting paintings I’ve ever seen.
The homes on either side of the Merson house snuggle back among the trees like recluses who want to be left alone. Two dark sedans are parked down the street, but not a person is in sight.
Lindy gives an exaggerated sigh and asks, “You’re not going to ring doorbells, are you?”
“Good idea,” I tell her.
“Kristi! You don’t mean it! The people who live in this part of River Oaks don’t want to talk to people like us. And listen, it’s getting late.”
“I’ll be quick. And what’s wrong with us?”
“You know what I mean. Even if you do get someone to come to the door, it will probably be a maid or a butler.” She pauses and adds, “Or someone like Frederick.”
But I’ve come this far, and I know I’ve only just begun what might be a difficult search for the truth. What does Douglas Merson have to do with me? I have to find out.
As I turn into the long drive that leads to the Louisiana-plantation-style mansion next to Mr, Merson’s property, Lindy groans and slumps down in her seat. “I never saw you before in my life,” she says. “I’m not going to get out of this car.”
“You don’t need to,” I answer as I park the car. I’d feel a little braver if Lindy stood near me on the veranda, with its gleaming white columns, but this is something I can do without any help.
I hear the doorbell echo through the house, then the click of footsteps. The door swings open, and a short, plump woman dressed in a white uniform smiles up at me. “Yes?” she asks.
I wish I’d planned what to say, but I haven’t, so I blurt out, “I’m wondering if you can tell me something about Mr. Merson, who lives next door.”
The woman gives me a puzzled look. “You’re too young to be a reporter or with the police. Why do you want to know about the shooting?”
“I’m not asking about the shooting,” I explain. “I’m asking about Mr. Merson. I want to find out as much as I can about him.”
Shaking her head, the woman says, “Mrs. Carmody is in England. She’ll return in three weeks. You can come back then.” The woman steps away, as if she’s going to shut the door.
I let out a groan. I can’t help it. I find myself saying, “I have to find out who Douglas Merson is because it has something to do with my family,” in my best sweet help-me voice.
The woman’s eyes gleam, and the tip of her tongue sweeps one corner of her mouth, as if she’s tasting something delicious. She moves closer. “All I know is what I see,” she says. She half turns and flicks a glance toward the back of the house. “And what we in the kitchen … heard the Carmodys say about him.”
I nod. “I understand.”
“He comes and goes a lot. Trips to Europe mostly.”
I think about the paintings Ms. Chase came to pick up. “Maybe he’s an importer,” I suggest.
The woman raises one eyebrow, as if that’s the last thing she’d consider. “When he’s home he gives parties,” she tells me. “Lots of expensive cars and people with money, but nobody the Carmodys know. That houseman named Frederick who works there knows what’s going on, but he keeps mostly to himself.”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s going on’?” I ask. She shrugs. “None of us are sure. We’re just guessing. You didn’t hear it from me.”
I don’t say anything. I just nod again. She’s wound up now. She won’t need much encouragement to keep talking.
She tilts her head to one side and lowers her voice to a whisper. “When Mr. Merson’s in Houston he doesn’t go to an office. He doesn’t seem to have a job, yet he’s got a lot of money. Drives a Rolls and a Ferrari, and I heard tell that his clothes are all custom-made in Italy. You know what that adds up to, don’t you?”
I shake my head. “No. I honestly don’t know what you mean.”
“Drugs,” she whispers. “What else?”
“Drugs?” I can only stare stupidly.
“I don’t know how you and your family got mixed up with a man like that, but I think you should sta
y clear of him,” she finishes. Her interest in me has vanished, and she studies me as though she wonders if I’m involved in selling drugs too.
“Thank you,” I manage to say before she shuts the door. But I wish she hadn’t told me. Iwish I hadn’t asked. Drugs? Merson’s a drug dealer?
As I climb into the car I tell Lindy about the conversation, and she reacts with a gasp.
“Let’s go home,” she says, “and forget all about Douglas Merson. The police are going to take care of things, and they’re going to take care of you, Kristi. Snooping around about a drug dealer could be dangerous. Stop asking questions. Give it up.”
I don’t argue. At the moment I’m ready to forget I ever heard of Douglas Merson.
But as I pull into Buffalo Bayou Lane, one of the black sedans, parked at a curb a half block away, starts up. It stays behind me as I cut down to San Felipe and turn west. The car doesn’t pull up close enough so that I can see the driver or anyone else who might be in the car.
It follows me all the way to Lindy’s house.
CHAPTER SIX
I drop Lindy off, and the car behind me pulls to the curb a good half block away. Lindy hasn’t noticed. She’s started comparing the super deli sandwiches at eatZi’s and Guggenheim’s, and she’s so carried away by the vision and anticipation, she hasn’t noticed that I’ve been checking the rearview mirror.
“See you at school tomorrow,” she says, and opens her car door. Then she stops and rests a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry about Mr. Merson and that folder, Kristi. There has to be a good reason for it, and whatever it is, the police will find out. Let them take care of it. Okay?”
“Okay,” I tell her, although I have no intention of following her advice. “See you tomorrow.”
I wait until she opens her front door and waves before I head toward home.
The car is still there. It’s not far behind me. The stalker is good. I’d never have noticed him if I hadn’t been afraid of being shadowed and been especially aware of anything that seemed different.
I know one way to find out who he is … if I’m lucky. Near my street is a short cul-de-sac. Without signaling. I turn into it. My stalker is intent on following me, so he turns into the street too, before he can think about what I’m doing. I speed up, swoop around the curve at the end of the street, and drive back, facing him.
He shoots into a driveway, disappearing toward the back of the house, but he’s not fast enough. I get a good look at the make of his car and his license plate and memorize the numbers and letters.
He doesn’t follow me the rest of the way to my house. He doesn’t have to. I think about the photographs taken of me on our front lawn. He knows where I live.
I call a quick hello to my parents, who are both working with tax forms on the computers in the backup office they keep at home.
“Hello, honey,” Mom calls. She leaves her work and comes to greet me. Her hug is tight, and I feel a pang of guilt as I realize that she has worried about me. I steel myself to explain what I did, but she doesn’t ask. “I know you had to see Lindy,” she says quietly. “It’s all right, Kristi.”
I give Mom an extra hug. Sometimes we don’t need to say the words to know how much we’re loved.
She smiles at me and says, “I’ll finish this form within half an hour … or thereabouts.”
I laugh as she leaves. I’ve known those “thereabouts” to stretch over a long period. I wonder what Mom has learned from her client Edna. I’ll ask later. There’s something I have to do first.
I find Detective Jerry Balker’s business card in my wallet and use the extension phone in my bedroom to call his number.
“Homicide. Al Wilson,” a deep voice answers.
“May I please speak to Sergeant Balker?” I ask.
“Jerry’s not here right now. Do you want to leave a message for him?”
I could ask for Sergeant Nims. No. It takes only a split second to decide. “Yes, I’ll leave a message. Thanks.” I tell him my name and about being followed and give him the license plate number. “When will Sergeant Balker be back?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “I’ll give him the message.”
I start to ask something else, but he’s already hung up the phone.
On Sunday evenings we have what Mom calls a “pickup supper.” Tonight there are slices of ham and “lite” Swiss cheese, sliced tomatoes and fat dill pickles, and quart cartons of potato salad and coleslaw. Mom and Dad will take the leftovers to work tomorrow for lunch. At dinnertime we relax and talk as much as eat.
But tonight, while we eat, there are no corny jokes from Dad. Mom tells us that her client Edna knew about Douglas Merson. He is a very wealthy man who travels a lot, mostly to Europe. His wealthy friends fly into Houston in their private jets for his parties. I can tell from Mom’s tone of voice that Edna was suitably impressed.
Hoping with all my heart that Edna knew all the answers, I ask Mom, “What does Mr. Merson do for a living?”
“Edna thinks he’s in financial investments.”
I sag with relief. “Oh. Then he’s a broker.”
“No,” Mom answers. “Edna said he’s probably living on the profits from investments he’s made, because he doesn’t seem to have or need a regular job.” I can hear the echo of Edna’s attitude in Mom’s voice again.
Dad looks up from his plate. He brushes a thin wisp of dark hair from his forehead. “From what she said about the amount of travel he does, they’d have to have been darned good investments.”
My fingers feel numb and clumsy, and I drop my fork. Carrying it to the sink and getting a clean one gives me time to get my feelings under control. Should I tell Mom and Dad about the suspicions of Mrs. Carmody’s maid? No. They’re worried enough already. If they think a drug dealer has an interest in their daughter they’ll be terrified.
I realize that Mom has stopped eating and is taking a good, hard look at me. She suddenly asks, “Kristi, you’ve got something on your mind. What is it?”
I stammer the first thing that comes to the surface, surprising myself. Maybe it’s been lurking in my brain from the beginning, hoping I’d discover it. “The police said that Mr. Merson was robbed of his watch, so they’re thinking this was a random robbery that turned into attempted murder.”
Dad has put down his fork, and he’s studying me too. I take a deep breath to steady myself and let the rest of the thought pour out. “But I was wondering, why didn’t the robber go into the house? Mr. Merson has—I mean, since he’s so rich, he must have—a lot of valuable things in his house. He was home alone, and the door was open. All the thief had to do was run inside, grab what he could, and get away fast. But he didn’t. Why not?”
Mom sighs. “Honey, how can any of us know what a criminal is thinking? Please don’t dwell on the crime. It’s depressing.”
“I can’t help wondering.”
Mom reaches out and pats my shoulder. “Sometimes I worry that you’re too quick to let your imagination take over. Please, please, stop thinking about that crime. Fill your mind with something pleasant. Will you?”
Both Mom and Dad are looking at me with such pleading in their eyes that I nod. “I’ll try,” I tell them.
Dad begins talking to Mom about investments in relation to taxes. I tune out. I made a promise, so I’ll try to keep it. I stop thinking about the robbery and shooting and think instead about the black Ford sedan that followed me home. I tried to get a look at the driver, but I couldn’t. There was a glare of sunlight on the windows, and I could make out only one shadowlike blur inside the car. One driver and no passengers. For some reason I got the impression that the driver was a man.
I don’t know why I was being followed. The idea terrifies me.
“Have you got all your homework done, Kristi?” Mom asks. She opens the refrigerator door and puts the cartons of leftover salad inside.
I awake to reality and see that I’m clearing the plates from the table. Have I eaten? I must have. �
�Uh—homework?” I answer. “Sure. I’ve finished it.” I take a deep breath, grip the edge of the counter for support, and say, “Mom, about that application for the summer art program Ms. Montero gave me for you and Dad to sign—”
“Oh, honey, I don’t want to get into that again,” Mom says.
“But I need to—”
“That art school is expensive. I wouldn’t mind the expense if it would lead you into something practical. But it will just make you more sure of your crazy idea that you want to major in art in college. When you go to college you’ll need to major in a subject that will put you into a job with a good salary. Like business, or accounting. I don’t understand why you can’t take a fair look at accounting. Didn’t you understand anything your father and I tried to explain to you?”
Mom’s eyes are tired, and her face sags with exhaustion. I know that the news we got about Mr. Merson’s folder frightened her, and she’s worried about me. I shouldn’t have brought up the application again. I realize that. For once, I don’t argue. I gulp down the lump of disappointment that tightens my throat and turn back to the sink, scraping the plates and putting them into the dishwasher.
Into my mind comes the picture of Mr. Merson, his head wrapped in bandages, his eyes closed and still. Mom and Dad will be mad at me if they learn I went to see him. But I need to know. Who are you? I silently ask, even though no one can answer.
I have art appreciation class first period, which is the perfect time for it. In the early morning my mind is open, clear, and fresh. It’s not cluttered with math problems, and history dates, and gossip, and even zapping thoughts about Jonathan Stockton, who is a really terrific guy in my art class and who so far has paid almost no attention to me.
Ms. Montero takes roll. Then she asks, “How many of you noticed the item in the Chronicle this morning about the painting, worth over a million dollars, that was stolen from the Louvre Museum in Paris?”
Only two hands go up. Neither of them are mine. The only way I’d have time to read the newspaper before school is if I got up half an hour early. There’s no way I’m going to do that.
Who Are You? (9780307823533) Page 4
