Aaron Elkins: Old Scores

Somewhere toward the end of the meal I began edging toward the question of her commission, but the time hadn't been right for it, and we veered back to less threatening topics. She told me about her conference, I told her about what had been happening in Dijon and Paris. We laughed about the dachshunds painted on the Parisian sidewalks.

Afterward, when we went back to the hotel, we didn't talk about much of anything; there was a lot of lost time to make up for. Then this morning I'd awakened with my face against her smooth, honey-colored hair, and there hadn't been a lot of talk then either. We'd taken particular pains to stay well clear of the topic of her commission. Right up until that pair of wells.

I forced down a hunk of croissant.

"So," I said.

"So," she said.

This was serious stuff, all right. Bull-by-the-horns time. "What's it going to be, Anne?" I said. "Are you resigning or not?"

She tore off a tiny piece of croissant and rolled it in her fingers. "Which do you want first, the good news or the bad?" I'd been hoping it was all going to be good. "Bad," I said.

"All right. I'm staying in, Chris."

"I see."

"Don't look like that, Chris. Can't you be happy for me? I'll be heading up my own training unit." She smiled, proud and shy at the same time. "I got my line number for major. I'm right up at the top."

"Of course I'm happy for you." I leaned forward, put my hand on top of hers. "You deserve it. Congratulations, Anne, it's wonderful news."

It was the lousiest news I'd heard all year.

I couldn't have been too convincing, because she went into a long explanation of how the new assignment would tap her potential in ways that the old one hadn't, and what a wonderful career opportunity it was for her, and how the old notions of a sexual dichotomy of labor no longer applied in today's world.

I sat there doing my best to look liberated, but all I could think of was the dreary routine of seeing her only three or four times a year, and all the logistical coordination it took to make even that much work out. My face must have fallen enough for her to take pity on me, because she broke off her spiel and laughed.

"Are you about ready for the good news?"

"Good news?" I'd thought her promotion to major was the good news.

She nodded. "I haven't told you where I'm being assigned." I frowned. "Not Kaiserslautern?

She shook her head, her eyes sparkling. She looked like a kid with a secret she couldn't hang on to for another second. "I'll be at the Air Force Academy. I just got it all worked out yesterday, at the conference. I still can't believe it."

"You mean in Colorado?"

"Colorado Springs, yes. Chris, we'll practically be next-door neighbors."

"Next door? Anne, Colorado's a thousand miles from Seattle."

"That's a whole lot better than six thousand. Denver's only three hours from Seattle by air, and less than another hour to Colorado Springs. It's practically commuting distance. We could have lots of whole weekends together-with no jet lag. We'd only be one time zone apart, Chris!"

Oddly enough, it was the time zone that got through to me. There is something about living nine time zones away from your significant other that brings home the fact that you are rather a long way apart. A single time zone sounded like just around the corner.

"I could get on a plane on Friday after work," I said slowly, "and be there the same evening."

"Now you're getting the idea." She smiled tentatively. The faint tic appeared below her eyes. "It is good news, isn't it? It's going to work for us, isn't it? At least for now?"

"It's terrific," I said softly. I put my hand on her cheek, just under her eye, and felt the tender, trembling flesh quiet down. "It'll be great. Just think of those frequent-flyer bonuses we're going to earn."

She laughed and went happily back to eating. "Well, then, let's finish up. I want to see the famous Rembrandt I've been hearing so much about."

Pepin welcomed us at the door of the Galerie Vachey with his customary bonhomie. "I cannot understand why you are unable to make your visits in the afternoons, when the exhibition is open. And you cannot see Monsieur Vachey-Monsieur Christian Vachey. Inspector Lefevre is with him."

"Take heart, Monsieur Pepin," I said. "It's Madame Guyot I want, and it's the last time I'll bother you." I lifted my head and sniffed the air. "Do I smell something burning?"

"Madame Guyot has asked me to get rid of some old packing material. I'm burning it in the kitchen fireplace downstairs. You needn't concern yourself; every precaution is being taken."

"I never doubted it," I said with a comradely smile. Now that I had Anne beside me, was I going to let Marius Pepin get under my skin?

Ten minutes later, with the necessary locks unlocked and alarms disarmed, Anne and I stood alone in front of the Rembrandt. I resisted the temptation to deliver an explanatory lecture and let her look at the painting in peace, which she did for a couple of minutes.

"It's wonderful, Chris," she said simply. "It's as if you're looking into that old man's soul. And he's looking into yours." She turned to me. "Are you going to accept it?"

"Yes, I think so. It's not the painting Mann was talking about. Now that I've seen the Flinck for myself, I can stop worrying about that."

"And you think this is really painted by Rembrandt?"

"I do, yes. Where Vachey did get it, I don't have a clue. I'm starting to wonder if he didn't actually pick it up in that junk shop."

"Is that possible? Do things like that really happen?"

"If they happened to anybody, they'd happen to Vachey."

She wanted to see the other pictures, too, so we walked around the gallery for a while. Her tastes being a bit more modern than mine, we spent most of the time in the French section, where the twentieth-century works were.

"And this is the Leger?"

I nodded. "Violon et Cruche"

"It's quite handsome, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said. She'd been gratifyingly appreciative of the Rembrandt. I figured I could afford to be generous about the Leger.

She stepped closer to it. "It's not in very good condition, though, is it? Look here, where the paint's come away, and you can see signs of another picture underneath. I think I can see part of an ear or something…"

I smiled indulgently. "No, you just think you see what's underneath," I explained. "The juxtapositions and perspectives can be a little startling if you're not familiar with his techniques, and sometimes you get the illusion that you're looking at more than one layer."

"How interesting," she said. "And do his techniques include peeling paint?"

"Peeling-" I took a hard look at the painting and let out a long breath. "You're right."

Except that it wasn't the paint that was peeling, it was the gesso underneath; the smooth white undercoat that provided the actual surface to which the oil paints were applied. An inch-wide curl stood out from near the center of the canvas like a wood paring, with another crack just erupting a few inches away.

There were some blisters in the surface as well, and in two places along the edges the gesso, along with its film of paint, had begun to pull away from the frame. On the wooden floor at my feet there were flecks of sloughed-off pigment. It was as if the surface of the painting were molting. Underneath it, as Anne had said, another painting peeked through.

"I think the other shoe just hit," I said quietly, my eyes on the picture. "This is the stink bomb. It has to be."

"Vachey's stink bomb? Do you mean he knew this would happen? I don't understand."

I didn't either, not entirely, but I was getting close. Gingerly, I touched the curl of paint. It came away and spiraled to the floor.