Finch saw a flash of curiosity. “Seven hundred Stonehope Way?” Phinneaus asked. “In Woodridge?” The man’s tone changed.
“You’re familiar with the house?”
“I know Natalie and Alice grew up there.”
“Yes. And then disappeared from that same house rather abruptly when they were both in their early twenties. No one was able to find them.”
Phinneaus stared at the photograph of the triptych panel. “Which implies someone was looking for them,” he said.
Finch nodded.
“This man,” Phinneaus said. It was not a question.
Finch’s acquaintance was with Thomas, not the Kesslers, so his protective instincts were somewhat tempered, and the shock he’d felt the first time he saw the painting had dissipated over his many subsequent viewings of it. Nonetheless, he could easily recall that initial reaction; his immediate understanding that something had transpired between these three people that should not have. Everyone who’d looked at the painting was discomforted and uneasy, as if barbed wire was the thing linking Thomas to Natalie and Alice, piercing the heart of each. Regardless of the physical distance between the sisters, there was the feeling that Natalie and Alice were barely cognizant of each other’s presence, that each girl was alone with Thomas in the painting.
What was equally obvious to Finch now, seeing the pained expression on Phinneaus’s face, was that this man was in love with one of the girls. A man might desire Natalie based on the painting, providing he didn’t look too closely. Viewed from a distance, Natalie hypnotized and beguiled; she was a study in gold—her hair, her skin, her eyes, her youth, all of it swirled together and shimmering up from the canvas. But when one looked closer, what was beneath her expression became visible: a quiet, contained rage, a measure of ruthlessness, a determination to have her way. No, Finch decided, Phinneaus would be in love with Alice. In that moment, he felt as if something small and private had been stolen from him.
“Mr. Bayber’s family had a summer house in upstate New York. The Kesslers vacationed there as well, staying at the home of a family friend. Thomas Bayber met them in the late summer of 1963 and composed the sketch of the family, most likely as a gift for them. The painting was done at a much later date.”
“And who is the man in the painting?” Phinneaus asked.
Finch swallowed, wishing there was a way not to have to answer the question. “Thomas Bayber.”
Phinneaus closed his eyes for a moment, and his expression did not change, although Finch could tell by the way he clenched his hand into a hard knot he was exercising a great deal of control. “The artist.”
“Yes.” He rushed on, hoping a barrage of facts would defuse the situation. “Mr. Jameson is an authenticator. He believes this panel of the painting was done sometime in the early seventies, maybe ten years or so after the family sat for this sketch.”
“This panel?” Phinneaus turned to Stephen, who had assigned himself a corner chair and was folding and unfolding his napkin like a piece of origami. “You mentioned coming here for the paintings. There are more like this?”
Stephen nodded. “Two. The painting you see is the main panel in a triptych. We are looking for the adjoining panels, which would have hung on either side.”
“I know what a triptych is. This may be a small town, Mr. Jameson, but you’d be wise not to make assumptions about the people who live here without getting to know them, and I doubt you’re interested in staying around long enough to do that. What makes you think the other panels are here?”
“Because Bayber said he sent them to her.”
Phinneaus stood up suddenly, nearly knocking over his chair. Whether he was angry or confused, Finch wasn’t sure, but Stephen’s tone, which Finch had long ago become accustomed to, wasn’t helping the situation.
“Saisee, we’ve imposed upon you so much already, but I wonder if I might ask an additional favor?” Finch said.
The woman had been standing all the while, still and listening.
“Mr. Jameson suffers from low blood sugar and usually becomes intolerably rude just before he faints. Is it possible you could find something for him in the kitchen?”
She nodded, perhaps sensing it would be in everyone’s interest to separate Stephen and Phinneaus before they came to blows, although if Stephen’s eye was any indication, he’d again be on the receiving end.
“You come with me, Mr. Jameson. I was making cheddar grits and a pork roast for dinner. We have plenty, and I’d be happy to make you a plate. You ever had grits before?”
“I’ve had mush.”
Saisee laughed. “Well, unless you had it dipped in flour and pan-fried in butter ’til it turned a real pretty golden brown, and then you doused it in honey, you didn’t even have grits’ poor cousin.”
Stephen followed her from the room like a puppy dog, and as soon as he was out of earshot, Finch sat up and put his feet firmly on the floor.
“Mr. Lapine, I’ve handled this badly. I came here to keep a promise to Thomas Bayber, a promise I shouldn’t have made. I don’t know Alice Kessler, and you don’t know Thomas, but of the two of them, whatever faults they may have, I have little doubt Alice is the better human being. You question Thomas Bayber’s character. I can’t blame you for that. I had similar feelings the first time I saw the painting, and I’ve struggled at times to remind myself it is a painting, not a photograph. It’s Thomas’s vision, interpretation, and imagination you’re looking at. He’s far from perfect, but I cannot begrudge him his talent, and his talent is very great, indeed.”
“You gave him your word to do something. So he’s a friend of yours?”
Finch smiled and shook his head. “You’re asking a complicated question. There have been times when I thought perhaps we were friends. I’ve come to the conclusion I’m not sure friendship is something he’s capable of, at least not in the way you or I might define it. I’ve studied him, and his career, for more years than I care to count. Like many of the artists I’ve met, he can be difficult to understand, and even harder to get to know. Thomas is driven by inner demons, hasn’t had a relationship that’s lasted more than a year as far as I know, and is reckless with his health. His initial reaction to everything and everyone is suspicion, because he believes anyone who has an interest in meeting him wants something.”
“Forgive my saying so, but he doesn’t sound like a good person.”
“No. I’m not portraying him in a very positive light, am I? The thing of it is, Mr. Lapine, I’m afraid the same could be said of any of us at some point in our lives. Would you agree?”
Phinneaus considered this, then said, “That may be true. But it doesn’t make me want to help him, and it doesn’t explain why you would want to either. Is he paying you?”
“No. My sole reward would be in seeing another of his works come to light. But you don’t know anything about the other two panels, do you?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t. It’s odd I never considered it before, but there hasn’t been any art on these walls since the day Natalie and Alice moved in. Plenty of mirrors—that would have been Natalie’s doing—but no artwork.”
“You didn’t like her?”
“Natalie died a few months ago, so whether I liked her or not doesn’t have much bearing on anything.” Phinneaus’s look was honest but indifferent. Finch understood the man had his own code, which he would not violate.
“Mr. Lapine, there’s something else I should tell you. Thomas had a stroke in late October, almost immediately after he asked Mr. Jameson and me to try to locate the missing panels of the painting. He’s been unable to speak, his health is very poor. The doctors aren’t optimistic about his recovery.” Finch took a deep breath. If Phinneaus knew what he was about to say, he wasn’t giving anything away with his expression. But if Alice hadn’t confided in him about her past, how much could he tell the man, guessing the impact it might have?
“As the person responsible for cataloging Bayber’s works, I was given ac
cess to all his correspondence. There were years of it to sift through—articles, letters, requests for showings.” Finch cleared his throat. Where was the damn glass of water when he needed it?
“Natalie Kessler sent Thomas a photograph in the late spring or early summer of 1972. The return address she used was that of the house in Woodridge. Bayber was in Europe for several months that year, and didn’t return to the States until late in the fall. When he had a chance to review his correspondence, he was very anxious to get in touch with the sisters, Alice in particular.”
“When did you find out the letter existed?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“If you only found out about the letter a few weeks ago, how can you know he was anxious to get in touch with Alice?”
Beads of sweat pearled on Finch’s forehead. In his nervousness, he had clenched and unclenched his toes with a degree of ferocity that gave him raging foot cramp. When did the task fall to him, to speculate and hypothesize about what Alice and Natalie may or may not have done? Why couldn’t he have remained pleasantly ignorant? None of this was his business after all. He was not cut out for a life of treachery and innuendo.
“I found several letters Thomas wrote to Alice and to Natalie, all of them returned, unopened. I believe there was another reason he wanted me to find the paintings, the primary reason. It has nothing to do with the work itself. However, his present condition has prevented me from confirming any of this, and I am a poor excuse for a detective.”
Finch’s sympathy for the man standing in front of him, challenging him, grew in direct proportion to his anger with Thomas for putting him in this position in the first place. “Mr. Lapine, are you a parent?”
Phinneaus’s face lost its color, but he did not seem surprised by the question. A flood of relief washed over Finch. He knows. Thank God, he knows.
“I am, you see. I have a daughter, Lydia, and I cannot imagine my life without her. You asked me earlier if Thomas Bayber was my friend. The truth is I have a great deal of sympathy for him in this one regard—as one parent to another.”
“I wish I could help you.”
The dismissal was not unkind, but it was clear. Phinneaus wasn’t going to tell him anything. Whatever he knew, he would keep it to himself in order to protect Alice.
“Wherever Ms. Kessler is, when she returns, would you ask her to contact me?”
“Of course, although I have no idea when I might see her again.” Phinneaus took Finch’s card and fingered the edge of it before sliding it into his shirt pocket. “It’s not that I don’t sympathize, Professor. You said you didn’t know Alice, just as I don’t know this Bayber. You’re right. But I can tell you this. Whatever you might think of Natalie Kessler, you’d be correct. And whatever you think of Alice, you’d be mistaken.”
“The older I get, Mr. Lapine, the more I realize it’s sometimes preferable not knowing the answers to things. In fact, I often wish I’d never heard the question.” Finch stood up and pulled his coat around him, feeling steadier on his feet. He had done all he could. Before he knew it, he would be home again. “I’ll collect Mr. Jameson, and we’ll leave you to your much-delayed dinner.”
But there was no need for him to collect Stephen, since he was very nearly run over by him in his mad rush into the room.
“Finch, well enough to travel? We need to go. Now.” Stephen tugged on his coat sleeve like a three-year-old, pulling him toward the door. With a glance over his shoulder he said, “Phinneaus, I meant no offense. I hope none was taken. Saisee, just to review, the ratio of liquid to grits is five to one, and salt the water first, correct?” He left Finch’s side just long enough to dash over to the woman and peck her quickly on the cheek. “My expectations in regards to grits were extremely low, but I believe you may be a culinary genius. I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful in my life.” She put her hand to her cheek while Phinneaus and Finch looked at the two of them in amazement.
“Have you lost your mind?” Finch asked when they were once again safely in the car.
“Finch, I hope you really are feeling better, because we’re flying to Santa Fe.”
* * *
Much of the ride back to Dyersburg was spent in a circular argument, Stephen insisting they get to Santa Fe as quickly as possible and Finch equally insistent they abandon the enterprise altogether.
“You gave him your word. How can you possibly stop now?”
“And you tricked that woman. You don’t feel guilty about that?”
“Not in the least. And how did I trick her? I only asked if she would write down her grits recipe for me so I could try to make it myself.”
“Do you even own a pan?”
The genteel niceties and false flattery, the obsequious politeness required to tease information from someone; it devoured an obscene amount of time, and Stephen had no patience for it. There was a far more straightforward approach to the problem. Go to the kitchen. The kitchen was always the hub of information. Finch had been brilliant to suggest it, actually. He should have thought of it himself. He’d been a little disappointed to learn Finch had really thought he was hungry, or in danger of being punched.
Regardless, it had turned out better than he’d expected. There was a calendar hanging on the wall next to an old-fashioned wall-mounted telephone in a horrid shade of mustard. He’d scanned the calendar while Saisee had her back to him, copying down the recipe, and found two notations that provided him with everything he needed. The first was from four days ago—“Amtrak NBN, 58—CONO, Union, 3—SWC.” The second notation was a phone number. He’d only had time to see the area code, prefix, and one other digit before Saisee turned back to the table, but that was enough.
There were 282 area codes assigned to locations in the United States and its territories. The entire state of New Mexico had used area code 505 since 1947, but just two months ago, those areas outside northwestern and central New Mexico—the majority of the state—had been assigned a new area code: 575. Santa Fe, Albuquerque, and Farmington were still 505. The prefix 982 was for the city of Santa Fe.
If he mentioned any of this, Finch would assume he’d memorized the entire list of 282 area codes. The truth was that Dylan Jameson had had dealings with several galleries in Santa Fe, and Stephen had memorized all of the numbers in his father’s Rolodex over several long and tedious summer afternoons while he was a teenager. Alice Kessler was in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and had already been there a few days. Stephen had the feeling they didn’t have much time.
“The point is, Stephen, we’re causing damage. It’s enough. I’m tired of trying to undo others’ transgressions. I haven’t the stomach for it. I want to go home and spend the holiday with my daughter and son-in-law and forget this entire business.”
“Finch, be reasonable. You say we’ve done everything we can, but that’s not true. We won’t have done everything until we find Alice and ask her about the paintings. We don’t have to ask her anything else.”
Finch rolled his eyes. “Oh, and you’d stop there. Do you have any idea what the population of Santa Fe is? No, don’t answer. I’m sure you do and that will only depress me. You think she’s going to be walking around Santa Fe waving a sign that reads, ‘I’m Alice Kessler’?”
“I can find her.”
“I’d argue the point, but say you can. What makes you think she’d tell us anything about the painting or her daughter? You don’t have children. You don’t understand a parent will do anything necessary to protect a child. For whatever reason, she chose not to tell Thomas. Do you honestly think after all this time she’s going to open up just because two strangers stroll into town, track her down like a felon, and start peppering her with questions?”
“Think of Bayber then, never getting a chance to know his own daughter. Is that fair?” Unfortunately the more agitated Stephen got, the more apparent his motivation became. Finch knew why he didn’t want to stop looking until they found the paintings.
“Of course it’s not fair, but
it’s beyond our control, Stephen. You think solving this is going to change your life. That would seem to be an unreasonable expectation, to say nothing of a wholly selfish one.”
“These aren’t just any paintings and you know it.”
“So this is all about reclaiming your former glory? To hell with anyone who gets hurt along the way?”
“You’ve picked an odd time to develop a conscience, Finch. I’m only doing the job I’ve been asked to. Maybe that’s why he wanted me in the first place. Because he knew you’d become too emotionally involved, let yourself get entangled in all these relationships or nonrelationships, whatever they are. Whereas I can focus solely on the task at hand. What’s unreasonable about that?”
Finch wheeled into the motel parking lot with a spray of gravel. “I don’t know why Thomas wanted you. Maybe he felt sorry for you. Maybe he felt he owed something to Dylan. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. I’m done.”
“Then I’ll find her on my own.” Stephen jumped out of the front seat, slamming the door behind him. Unfortunately, since Finch had upgraded their rental, the resulting gesture was not as dramatic as he’d hoped. He took the outside stairs to the second floor two at a time, unlocked the door to his room, and slipped in. He left the lights off, preferring the forgiving dark to the harsh reality of the motel room lamps, and leaned against the wall.
He hadn’t expected that from Finch, the sucker punch, the suggestion Bayber felt sorry for him. It was disappointing to consider Bayber might have been aware of his dismal prospects, his clumsy tumble from grace. Stephen had opted not to reflect too intently on why he’d been chosen, imagining it was the result of a confusing web of connections—his father, Finch, Cranston—with the weight of his prior reputation sealing the deal. Self-pity he’d had in spades, but the pity of others was something he hadn’t considered. The thought of it rooted in him like a weed.
He sat on the bed, opened his laptop and checked flights, then booked himself out of Memphis at noon the next day. He called the front desk and asked for a taxi pickup at seven-thirty. At least he’d be spared the torture of another drive with Finch. He pulled up a list of hotels in Santa Fe. Only five had the prefix and initial digit he’d seen marked on the calendar. He turned on his cell phone, punching in the first number on the list, then stopped and turned the phone off. What if she wasn’t at any of the hotels? What if she’d already checked out and was on her way back to Tennessee? She’d be chugging east on the return leg of the Southwest Chief while he was soaring overhead in the wrong direction.
The Gravity of Birds: A Novel Page 30
