Instead of answering his question, Danielle smiled sweetly and said, “You haven’t introduced me to your friends.”
Macbeth glanced briefly to the men at his side and then back to Danielle. “They’re my cousins; they live in Oregon. I stopped to see them after I left here this morning.” He then rattled off their names so quickly that had Danielle been asked to repeat them ten minutes later, she would have been unable to. The men nodded their hellos, yet made no attempt to shake her hand when Macbeth introduced them.
“From what I understand, the crate wasn’t hurt in the crash. It was still locked and in the back of the van when the paramedics arrived. I have no idea if the paintings inside were damaged at all,” Danielle said.
“Where is the crate now? I thought they might have brought it back here. If so, I was wondering if I could check on them—just to make sure the paintings are okay. I’m afraid they might have shifted in the crate during the impact. With fresh paint like that, one of them could easily get damaged if the other one managed to get loose.” Macbeth flashed Danielle an insincere smile.
“No, they aren’t here. Not sure why you imagined they would be. The police have them. Anyway, without the key, you really couldn’t get in the crate.”
“You’re such a brat,” Walt said with a chuckle. “You know he has his own key. Although, I don’t imagine one of his cousins would have a problem breaking that lock.”
“Who was at the door?” Lily asked when Danielle returned to the living room a few minutes later.
“Jim Macbeth,” Danielle told her. “And he had three intimidating men with him. According to Walt, they were the same men who helped switch the paintings.”
Ian stood up from his chair and set his paper plate of food on the game table. He walked over to the front window and pulled the curtains to one side. It was dark out, but he could see the lights from a vehicle pulling away from the front of Marlow House.
“What did they want?” Chris asked.
“The paintings, of course,” Walt said.
“The paintings?” Lily asked.
“I told them the police have them.” Danielle sat back down on the sofa and picked up her plate of food.
“I wonder what they’re going to think when it’s announced the Bonnet paintings are now at the museum—under heavy guard,” Chris said.
It was quiet in Marlow House. Everyone had gone home. Only Walt, Danielle, and Max remained. Max, who had slept through dinner in the attic, was now awake but downstairs sitting on the windowsill in the living room, looking outside, with his head and upper body sandwiched between the curtain and windowpane, and his tail swishing back and forth on the living room side of the curtain.
Danielle had taken a quick shower and shampooed her hair. Now with it shorter, it seemed an easier task. After drying off, she slipped on a pair of fleece pajama bottoms—white with red hearts—and a red T-shirt. Since one of her earliest encounters with Walt, she had made a habit of dressing and undressing in her bathroom. It was because of a bargain she and Walt had struck right after she had moved to Marlow House. Walt had promised never to intrude on her privacy when she was in any of the bathrooms. It was comforting knowing some pervy ghost wasn’t going to suddenly appear in her shower when she was bathing.
She didn’t have a problem with Walt showing up in her bedroom at night when she was getting ready to turn in. In fact, she had come to expect it. In some ways, she felt like they were an old married couple, who in the evenings, before going to sleep, would lie side by side, hashing over the day’s events.
Marie, who had decided to delay continuing on her journey and instead hang around as a spirit, wasn’t aware of their nightly ritual. However, she had expressed her disapproval of Walt popping in and out of Danielle’s bedroom whenever he felt like it. Fortunately for Walt and Danielle, Marie enjoyed going out in the evenings. And after spending much of the last two weeks helping Walt look after the portraits, she was looking forward to getting away from Marlow House for a while.
Danielle was just climbing into bed when Walt appeared in the room.
“I’m sorry you aren’t getting your birthday wish,” he told her.
Danielle scooted over to one side of the bed, making room for Walt.
“You mean because your cousin hasn’t actually left Frederickport?” Leaning against a pile of pillows, she crossed her arms over her chest and watched as Walt took the place next to her.
“Yes.” He settled on the bed, his arms crossed over his chest in the same manner as Danielle’s crossed over hers.
“Are you alright with Chris buying your portraits?” he asked.
“You mean your portraits. Frankly, I’m a little surprised you’re okay with it,” Danielle said.
Walt shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not particularly attached to them. I’d like to think I’m not such a narcissist that I need to have a life-sized portrait of myself, and as for Angela’s—to be honest, I’ll be happy to get that out of the house.”
“I had no idea you felt that way.” Danielle studied Walt. “And you were so adamant about not selling them to Clint.”
“It was the principle of it all. He was cocky to assume you would practically hand them over to him. As if it were his right.”
“About Clint…” Danielle uncrossed her arms and scooted down a bit on the pillows. She looked over at Walt.
“About Clint, what?”
“Oh…I was thinking about what Heather suggested. Have you…well…do you ever wish you could be alive again?”
“Just every day,” he whispered.
It was quiet for a few moments. Finally, Danielle asked, “Are you ever tempted…I mean…knowing Clint is wandering around…leaving his body vulnerable…look what happened to Kent.”
“Tempted?” Walt shook his head. “No. It would be wrong. And I don’t need that crime on my soul.”
Twenty-Six
Danielle opened her eyes and looked down. She was standing in the basket of a hot-air balloon, travelling down the Oregon coast. In the distance she could see Ian and Lily’s house, and beyond that was Marlow House. She could see where Heather lived and Chris’s beach house. And there was the pier. Glancing to her right, she saw she was not alone. Walt stood next to her in the basket as they glided south.
“Happy birthday,” Walt greeted. He wore what he had been wearing when Danielle went to bed—gray slacks and a white shirt. Yet now the sleeves were no longer pushed to his elbows, but down and buttoned at the wrists.
Danielle wore a long floral cotton dress in pastels; it fluttered in the breeze.
“It’s not my birthday,” she said with a smile, watching the coast move by.
“Yes, it is. This dream hop started right after midnight. Technically, it’s your birthday.”
“This is nice. Thanks, Walt.” She flashed him a smile.
“I feel bad I couldn’t get you a real birthday gift.”
Grinning at Walt, she asked, “What are you talking about? Because of you I’m probably getting over ten million dollars for my birthday. Heck, the most birthday money I used to ever get was a hundred bucks from my parents.”
Walt chuckled. “So what are you going to do with all that money?”
Resting her hands on the rim of the balloon basket, she looked out over the ocean. “Eventually give it away, I suppose.”
“Chris says if he can work it out, he plans to pick up the paintings in the morning. I think that’s a good idea.”
Danielle nodded. “I have to agree. Especially since Macbeth resurfaced. I know he thinks the Bonnets are locked up in that crate and not in our library, but it still makes me uncomfortable thinking of them here while he’s hanging around with those thug cousins of his. Of course, I doubt they’re even his cousins.”
They were silent for a moment, each lost in his and her private thoughts. Finally, Walt asked, “What do you really want to do for your birthday?”
Danielle shrugged. “It’s just another day.”
“No. It’s your birthday.”
Danielle considered the question a moment and then said, “I really don’t want to do it now, but I’d like to go dancing again. Maybe you could take me dancing in another dream hop.”
“The Charleston again?” he asked.
“No…I was thinking, what about ballroom dancing?” She looked over to Walt. “Do you know how to ballroom dance?”
“Are you trying to insult me, Miss Boatman? A gentleman of my breeding always knows how to do such things,” he said in mock seriousness. He then added, “But the question is, do you know how to? While my firsthand knowledge of your generation is limited, I don’t see much ballroom dancing on the television shows I’ve watched.”
Danielle laughed. “When I was younger—back when Cheryl was heavily into the beauty pageants thing—which was practically my entire childhood—my mother was always signing me up for random classes. One year it was ballet, another ballroom dancing. I think she was determined to make me into a little beauty princess like her niece.”
“Then ballroom dancing it is.”
“I guess if we’re to count our blessings—as my grandma used to say—if you were alive, we wouldn’t be able to have dream hops where you take me ballroom dancing.”
“Who needs a dream hop in real life? Isn’t there anywhere where you can go ballroom dancing these days?” he asked.
Danielle shrugged. “I suppose there is.”
“We could even go up in a hot-air balloon.”
Danielle laughed and shook her head. “No. That is something we most definitely could not do.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m afraid of heights. No way in the world would you ever get me up in a real hot-air balloon.” Danielle shivered at the thought.
“Oh, I suspect I might be able to get you up in one. I think the trick is being able to look down, and you seem to be mastering that without a problem.”
“Maybe. But I know if I fall out of this balloon, I’ll just wake up in my bed—or, the very worst, on my bedroom floor. If I fall out of a real one, well…then I move over to your side, and since that would mean you are on my side, it would be kinda lonely.”
Walt looked at Danielle and chuckled. “I can’t believe I actually understood what you just said.”
Danielle flashed Walt a wistful smile and then looked back out to the ocean. After a moment of silence, she said in a quiet voice, “I have to admit, ever since Heather asked you about taking Clint’s body, I have been fantasizing a bit about what it would be like to have you alive. You wouldn’t be confined to the house. We could really walk on the pier together—or down to the beach, not to mention travel. I could show you what the world looks like now—beyond television, in real life.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. But the fact is, even if Clint said, ‘Here, take my body. I don’t want it’—something I don’t think he’s going to say, and even if he did, I believe it would be taking advantage of him while he was emotionally vulnerable—there are other complications to consider.”
Now leaning back against the rim of the basket, her arms crossed over her chest, Danielle looked up to Walt. “Such as?”
“For one thing, I have no desire to be a real estate agent.”
Danielle laughed. “Why would you have to be a real estate agent?”
“I have to assume that in your time, as in mine, a person still has to make a living. Clint is a real estate agent.”
“Why would you have to do what he did?” Danielle frowned. “Anyway, you have plenty of money. You could do whatever you want.”
“The last time I looked, they didn’t bury my money with me.”
“Don’t be silly, Walt. Marlow House would still be your home. And the money from Brianna would really be yours.”
Walt looked at her and shook his head. “No, Danielle, that’s yours now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. After all, there’s more than enough money for both of us.”
“We really don’t need to argue about something that will never happen. Let’s just enjoy your balloon ride. Or I’ll have to push you out of the basket.” Walt smiled at Danielle, his blue eyes twinkling.
Chief MacDonald hadn’t been to the office for more than five minutes on Thursday morning when he was informed there was someone who needed to talk to him: Jim Hill. It took a moment for MacDonald to recognize the name. Then he remembered. It was the artist, the one whose real name was Macbeth Bandoni.
The moment Macbeth entered the chief’s office, he extended his hand and said, “Hello, Chief MacDonald, we met at Marlow House on Tuesday night. I’m Jim Hill, the artist Clint Marlow commissioned to copy the Marlow paintings.”
Standing up, the chief walked around his desk and shook the man’s hand. “Of course.” The handshake ended and the chief motioned to one of the chairs facing his desk.
“I’ve come to talk to you about my paintings,” Macbeth said, taking a seat.
“Your paintings?” MacDonald sat down behind his desk. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his desktop and studied Macbeth, who seemed nervous. Considering what the chief knew about the man, he understood why.
“Yes. I think of them as mine.”
The chief smiled. “Of course. Because you painted them?”
“Yes. That and the fact Clint hasn’t paid for them yet. So, technically, they really are mine.”
The chief leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I seem to recall, when we were loading the paintings, you mentioned he had already paid you for them.”
Macbeth shook his head. “I know I said that, but the truth is, he just paid a small down payment.”
“You said you wanted to talk about the paintings. What about?”
“I understand you have them.”
“I don’t personally have them. I assume you heard about the accident?”
“Yes. I…I heard about it on the news. I stopped by Marlow House yesterday afternoon, and Danielle mentioned the police had removed the crate from the van.”
“You stopped by Marlow House in the afternoon? I thought you headed home yesterday morning. How did you return to Marlow House so quickly?” The chief leaned forward again, pulling his chair closer to the desk. Picking up a pencil, he absently tapped its eraser against the desktop while waiting for an answer.
“I…I didn’t head home after leaving Marlow House yesterday morning. I stopped to visit some family I have in Astoria. I was there when I heard the news,” Macbeth explained.
“As for an answer to your questions, yes. We have the crate. It’s in storage along with Clint Marlow’s other personal belongings.”
“I was hoping I could pick it up—since I’m technically the rightful owner.”
“You are aware Clint is still alive, aren’t you?”
Macbeth nodded. “Yes. I called the hospital this morning, but they wouldn’t tell me how he was doing. According to Danielle, he was still unconscious yesterday. But I am praying that he will come out of this and then be able to go home.”
MacDonald arched a brow. “Yet you want to take his paintings?”
“Like I said, they belong to me. I painted them. And aside from a very small deposit, I haven’t been paid for my work.”
“Unfortunately for you, this is something you will need to work out with Clint after he comes out of this. And if for some reason he doesn’t make it, then I suppose you’ll need to work this out with his estate.”
“You don’t understand, Chief MacDonald. I’m doing this for Clint. Because I care about him.”
The chief frowned. “And how is that?”
Macbeth let out a sigh and sat back in his chair. He looked to the chief and smiled sadly. “You see, the only reason Clint wanted those paintings was for Stephanie. If you knew Clint, you would know he absolutely adored her. She meant everything to him. He told me numerous times he didn’t really want the paintings—he called them gross monstrosities.”
“
Then why did he commission you to copy them?”
“Like I said, it was because of Stephanie. It was something she wanted. From what Clint told me, he showed her Marlow House’s website, and when she saw the portraits, she wanted them. She was so disappointed when Danielle refused to sell them to Clint. That’s when he came up with the idea to hire me. Stephanie loved the idea.”
“I still don’t understand why you believe I should turn them over to you.”
“Because with Stephanie gone, I know Clint won’t want them. It will be a painful reminder of his loss. And then, to add insult to injury, he still owes me for them. I’m doing this for Clint—to make it easier on him. He won’t have to deal with any of it when he comes out of the hospital.”
“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Hill.” The chief grinned.
Macbeth perked up. “Then you’ll give them to me?”
“No.”
“No? But you just said—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hill.” The chief stood up. “But legally, I can’t turn those paintings over to you. Perhaps you could get a court order, prove to the court they belong to you. But as it stands, no. No, I’m sorry.” The chief wasn’t really sorry.
Macbeth stood. “Can I at least see them? Make sure they weren’t damaged? If one came loose in the crate, it could damage the other one.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Hill. We already checked on the paintings. There was a key in Stephanie’s purse. We used it to unlock the crate. And you have nothing to worry about. The paintings were sitting perfectly in it—just as I helped you put them in there on Tuesday.”
Twenty-Seven
The library looked larger now that one corner was no longer dominated by the two life-sized portraits. Danielle stared at the space and felt a pang of regret.
“I wish Bonnet wasn’t a famous artist,” she muttered.
“Why do you say that?” Walt asked. They were alone in the room.
The Ghost and the Doppelganger Page 17
