Neil Olson - The Black Painting

“Because he didn’t think his heart was going to last much longer.”

“So?” she said, exasperated. “He had to tell us the errors of our ways before sailing off into eternity?”

“I like how you put things,” he said. “I should read more.”

“It rots the mind.”

“It’s about money, Tay.” James shifted uncomfortably. “We had to change these things about ourselves if we wanted to get any money. In his will.”

She looked to see if he was joking, but of course he would never make such a joke.

“You’ve got to be kidding. That’s what it was about?”

Could he be lying? Not lying, James would not consciously lie, but telling a story he believed? Why would he come up with this? No, it was a sad revelation, but all too credible. And yet more proof that she had never really known her grandfather. What would her own flaw have been? She could think of many, but what would have seemed important to the old man? And what about Audrey? Drinking, drugs, sleeping around? A list too long to consider. It did not matter now; they would never know.

A hundred feet to their right, the front door opened. And there she was, as if Teresa’s thoughts had conjured her from the mist. Audrey. She wore the same clothes from yesterday, but with an old green coat over her T-shirt. They waited for her to look in their direction, but she skipped down the steps and toward her car without a glance left or right.

“What’s she doing up at this hour?” Teresa wondered.

James shrugged, but he watched his sister carefully.

Audrey jumped into the Lexus and gunned the engine to life. Without waiting for it to warm up, she spun around the drive and out through the opening in the rhododendrons and was gone. It was only then that Teresa realized Philip’s car was also missing. Philip had gotten Miranda from the train yesterday, and James and Kenny had taken a taxi, so the drive was now empty of vehicles. Despite James standing beside her, Teresa had a panicky sensation of being abandoned on this foggy point of land. In this house of the dead.

“Where is she going?”

“It’s no use trying to figure out Audrey,” James said in resignation. “Be happy she’s gone for a while.”

His words raised questions about the sibling relationship, but a more urgent question nagged Teresa.

“How does that stuff about Grandpa make you to blame for his death?”

“I didn’t say I was to blame.”

“You said you would be blamed. Why?”

“Because,” he said, then said no more. A crow shambled from one pine tree to the next, a blue jay shrieking after it. She waited him out. “Because I was there,” James finally continued. “Every time something bad happens, I’m around. Grandma falling on the terrace. The painting vanishing. Now Grandpa dies right after I argue with him.”

“Oh, James,” Teresa said, grabbing the lapels of his coat and shaking him. “No one thinks you’re responsible for any of that.”

“Maybe you don’t,” he mumbled.

You’re the Angel of Death. Everyone you touch dies. Who had said that? Where had Teresa just heard it?

“Has anyone accused you of something?” she asked.

“They don’t have to. I can see it in their faces.”

“Grandma fell because she had a stroke,” Teresa said patiently. “It was, like, her fourth. One of them was going to kill her. Audrey was there, too. And she and I were both there when the theft happened. As for Grandpa, well, it sounds like he started the fight. With Kenny also. It’s not your fault.”

It was like talking to stone. He was still as a stone, too, his whole body gone rigid. He stared at the ocean with absolutely no expression. Teresa was good at reading people, but could read nothing in that blank visage. Despite the sun, the damp had penetrated her clothes and she began to shiver.

“I’m sorry, I have to go inside.”

“I saw someone,” James said then. “Or I thought I did. In the pines.”

“Just now, when you were walking?” Philip and Audrey had clearly been awake, but what would either have been doing out there? “Anybody you recognized?”

“No. I couldn’t tell. He, um, he had...” James’ voice shrunk to a whisper. “He had something covering his face.”

What did it mean? Did it mean anything?

“But you’re not sure you saw him?” she asked, confused.

“Afterward, it didn’t seem to make sense. I’ve been told to question the things I see. That I think I see.”

“Who told you that?” Teresa demanded to know.

He shook his head firmly. Doors opened and closed within him swiftly, and hammering on them never seemed to do any good. James looked down and noticed her shaking.

“You’re cold,” he said in surprise. “You should go in.”

“Will you come with me?” she asked.

“In a while. I don’t like it in that house.”

“Please? I don’t like it either. I’ll make you an omelet.”

It was one of the few things she could make, and she hoped there were eggs.

“I want to hear about your school,” James said. “I’ve been reading a lot about art lately, and I have some questions.”

“You’re full of surprises,” said Teresa. “Come inside, then, and we’ll talk.”

She moved toward the front door, willing him to follow. Reluctantly, he did.

5

It was the right house, but no one was home. How he could know that without leaving the car was a fair question, yet Dave felt certain. There were obvious tells. No vehicles in the drive, no lights, no gently parted curtain. It was more than that, though. There was something about houses, about the way they sat. They announced their occupancy. This one was empty. No spirits within, living or dead. He drank his coffee and read the New York Times.

He was early. He was always early, a habit picked up during the years when meetings carried potential threat. Arrive first, check out the location, see who else is watching. Dave supposed there might be threats today. The guy was a lawyer, after all, and had reason to dislike him. They would not be of the lethal kind, however, and he was not worried. More curious, which he had not been for some time. Which was the reason he was here at all. That and needing money.

At 8:55 a.m. he decided to survey the property. It was a nice house. Yellow clapboard with white trim, a porch running along two sides. Big, but no mansion. A top attorney from a wealthy family could do better. It certainly could not compare to the old man’s pile of brick by the sea. Then again, maybe the son would inherit that, the father having keeled over yesterday. Dave had read the obituary in the car. The collector got two columns with a photo. The tone was decidedly negative, which was sad. Dave had known the man a little, and it was hard to like Alfred Morse, but he felt a grudging respect.

Tennis court, luridly green lawn, bushes all around the house—laurel, azalea? He wasn’t good with shrubs. Primitive security system. Dave was ready to give hidden cameras a friendly wave, as if he were not casing the joint, but he saw none. He was back in the car sipping coffee when Philip Morse drove up, fifteen minutes late. Older model Mercedes, well maintained. The man was also well maintained, yet stress showed around his cold blue eyes. The eyes always give you away, thought Dave, stepping out of his car.

“Thanks for your patience,” said the attorney. No doubt he had read some asshole’s success-in-business guide that said never apologize. He did not shake hands but headed straight for the house. Dave followed, not hurrying. The side door opened into the kitchen, which was large and white and appointed with the latest gadgets. For the wife, Dave guessed. He would bet twenty bucks that Philip Morse could not boil an egg.