Neil Olson - The Black Painting

“You okay?” Teresa asked.

“He was trying to twist my words.”

“I don’t know what—”

“He was trying to make it sound like I thought you were coming from the house. I never said that. I never implied it.”

“Of course not,” said Teresa. Was that what upset her so much? Or was it shock finally kicking in? That seemed more likely. Teresa looked steadily into those blue eyes until the other woman met her gaze. A phrase popped into her head. “Mental cruelty?”

Her cousin blinked rapidly. Then giggled, and just like that the old Audrey was back.

“Okay, maybe I had a divorce proceedings flashback.”

“It sounded good,” Teresa said, relieved. “I think you scared him.”

“Nah, only embarrassed him a little. I’ve yelled at cops before. They don’t listen to most of what you say.”

“Maybe just as well. But it’s weird, right? Him coming here?”

“Not really,” Audrey replied, wandering into the sitting room and throwing herself down on the blue settee. “Ouch, how did you sleep on this?”

“I didn’t.”

“Are you all right now? You scared the shit out of me.”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking medication?”

“I do,” Teresa lied. In fact, she did, but not lately. “It doesn’t always work. So why do you think he was here?” she persisted.

“Ilsa’s disappearing act, for one thing. And, you know. The history.”

Her father’s face appeared to Teresa. Or her memory of it, she could no longer attest to the accuracy. Long nose, black hair to his shoulders, black eyes. An expression which said that he had seen things others could not see. That he knew things which he would impart, if you only had the means of understanding. Maybe when you were older.

“That was a long time ago.”

“A long time to you,” Audrey said. “You were just a kid. I doubt enough happens in this boring town that they’re going to forget something like that.”

“They convicted Jenny’s brother.”

“His name is Pete.”

“I know his name,” Teresa said, though in truth she had forgotten. He was always simply Jenny’s brother, with his shaggy beard and crazy eyes, who helped out with the yard work. And helped himself to whatever was lying around. Silver serving utensils that no one used, fine china collecting dust in the cellar. The occasional brooch or cigarette case. He had never touched any of the artwork before that day of the funeral. “He went to prison. What would that have to do with this?”

“He’s been out of prison awhile,” said Audrey, letting the fact hang there a moment. “And a lot of people don’t believe he took the painting.”

“I know what they believe,” Teresa snapped.

“I didn’t mean that,” Audrey groaned. “God, you and your mother, so defensive.”

“He was my father.”

“So what? You can say what you like about my father, I don’t care. He bailed out on the two of you.”

“He had problems,” said Teresa, barely above a whisper. Her throat was almost too tight to speak. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Anyway, it isn’t only the theft. There was that appraiser keeling over a few years before. You probably don’t even remember that.”

“I remember,” said Teresa.

“Right in front of the painting. On that same leather sofa! You don’t think that might seem odd to the cops?”

“That an obese art historian and a sick old man had heart attacks on the same sofa twenty years apart?” she replied. Incredulous. “What should that mean? I really hope the police are smarter than that.”

“Well,” said Audrey in a reasonable tone. “Maybe it’s just me that finds it odd.”

“Even if you believe in fairy tales,” Teresa went on, wondering why she did, “like a portrait killing the appraiser, it still makes no sense. Grandpa looked at that painting for decades. And it’s not even here anymore.”

“You don’t believe in the painting?” Audrey asked, eyeing her closely. “You used to.”

“Like you said, I was a kid.”

Teresa retrieved her water glass and sat in the chair the detective had used. She was twice as tired after her outburst. The chair was hard. The room was hard. You were supposed to look at it, not actually use it. One of those stupid customs of the rich.

“I spoke to my dad,” Audrey said. “And Philip. I didn’t call your mom, I figured it would be weird me calling since you’re here. She may have heard from one of them by now.”

“I’ll call her,” Teresa said, wondering where her phone was. “Thanks for doing all that. For taking care of everything.”

“That’s what I do.”

“Yeah?” Teresa said, her mind elsewhere.

“You thought I just made messes that my father had to clean up,” Audrey replied, a hard edge beneath her light tone.

“I didn’t mean anything.”

“I admit that’s been true too often,” Audrey went on. “But I also watch out for everyone. Don’t you be surprised if—”

She was interrupted by the front door opening.

“What now?” Audrey complained, jumping up. “Did he forget his plastic badge?”

It was not Waldron but their uncle Philip. The very man who was to terrorize the Langford police force, in Audrey’s overblown threat. The attorney’s face was more lined, and his hair grayer than when Teresa last saw him. He wore a suit, though it was Sunday. No tie, loafers without socks, and a deeper tan than his niece, though he never took a vacation. Through the lenses of his designer glasses, his eyes looked startled.

“Audrey,” he said softly. “You poor thing.”

The words rang false. Perhaps because Teresa had never heard gentleness from her uncle’s lips. Or perhaps because she was a fault-finding bitch who had swallowed her mother’s hatred for her family whole. And yet she did not mistake the distaste with which her cousin recoiled from their uncle’s embrace.

“Hey, Philip,” Audrey said. “Sorry about Grandpa.”

“Yes,” he said distractedly. “Yes, it’s... Teresa, look at you.”

Not wanting to embarrass the man twice, Teresa gave him a quick hug. He was tall, like all the Morse men. Philip patted her back perfunctorily, then took her by the shoulders.

“Are you all right?” he asked. How many times would she have to answer that today? Not this time, anyway, since he went on immediately. “Have you called your mother?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ve spoken to her already, but you should call. She’s worried about you. Audrey, where is your father?”

“Don’t know,” she said with shrug.

“You don’t know? You told me you talked.”

“He was in an airport. In the States, I think. Said he would get here as soon as he could.”

Philip shook his head in annoyance. Audrey’s father did some kind of international finance, or maybe it was mergers and acquisitions. Teresa could not keep it straight. But he was always flying around the world. Making and losing fortunes, but mostly losing them. Philip turned back to Teresa.

“You found his body?”

“Yes,” she said.

“That must have been terrible. Terrible. I’m so sorry. Where are the police?” he asked Audrey accusingly. As if she had made up their presence. Or as if she had chased them away, which was in fact the case.

“The detective just left,” Audrey replied. “I told him he would be hearing from you.”

“Damn right he will,” the attorney said, though what he meant was unclear. True to form, Philip seemed supercharged with purpose. Yet in these circumstances, uncertain where to direct it. “He was in the study?”

“We’re not supposed to go in there,” Teresa said automatically.

“Girl Scout,” Audrey snarked.