Katie Oliver - Manolos In Manhattan

Holly turned back to the painting. What to do with it? She hated to leave it up here, but there was no way she could drag it down the stairs. And – she didn’t know why, exactly – but she definitely didn’t want Coco to know about this portrait.

She reached into her pocket and withdrew her cell phone. “Dad?” she said breathlessly as soon as he picked up. “I found something in the attic. You should come up and take a look.”

“Holly, I’m terribly busy. Ask Coco to look at it, she’s in charge of the attic inventory and the disposal of all the bric-a-brac—”

“This isn’t ‘bric-a-brac,’ Dad,” she said firmly. “It’s an old portrait I found stuck under one of the eaves. It might...it might be valuable. Please come up and see it. It won’t take long, I promise.”

He let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “Very well, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

Holly thanked him and clicked “end call,” then slid the phone back in her pocket.

The breeze returned, carrying the scent of lavender and vanilla once again, and this time, it was stronger than ever. Holly froze.

“Who’s there?” she demanded again, louder this time. “Who are you? You can come out,” she added cautiously. “You won’t get in trouble, I promise.”

She waited, half expecting to see a homeless person dart out and scurry across the floor to the stairs, or maybe a customer who’d crept upstairs to snoop around, or an antiques dealer who wanted to get a first look at the stuff up here.

But there was no one.

“I’m here,” Alastair said a moment later, as he appeared in the doorway and made his way across the attic to join her. “Where’s this painting you insisted I come and see?”

“It’s over here.”

He followed her to the portrait propped up against the boxes. He studied it without speaking, his brow knitted in a frown. “Where did you find this?”

“It was stuck under the eaves, over there,” she said, and pointed in the general direction of the fire escape. “Isn’t it something?”

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “It is, indeed. She’s beautiful.” He glanced at Holly. “The question is – who is she? And why is her painting hidden away up here?”

“I don’t know,” Holly admitted, “but I’d love to find out. How much do you know about this brownstone, Dad?”

He shrugged. “Not much. I bought it through an estate broker in London. I didn’t set foot in the place until after Sir Richard signed the deed. It was built at the turn of the last century, and it was a speakeasy during the Roaring Twenties.”

“Wow.” Holly’s eyes widened. “This place was a real, honest-to-goodness speakeasy, with a secret password to get in, and gangsters, and bootleg hootch?”

“Yes. I can’t tell you much else, I’m afraid. It stood empty for a number of years after the Depression.”

“Why? What happened?”

He hesitated. “As I said, I don’t have the details, but I do know the police planned to raid the place and shut it down. But the night before the raid, three men burst in with sub-machine guns and massacred five people – all of them gangsters. It was retaliation for the murder of a rival gang’s lieutenant.”

Holly suppressed a shudder. “How awful. There wasn’t...there weren’t any women killed that night, were there?” she asked suddenly as she stared at the painting. That poor girl! Had she been here that night?

“No. All five were men, hardened criminals whose passing likely wasn’t mourned by anyone.”

“Oh. Still,” Holly murmured, “what a horrible way to die. Is that why the brownstone stayed empty for so long? Because of the murders?”

“I imagine so.” He studied the portrait again. “Perhaps we should have someone take a look at this.”

A cool breeze ruffled Holly’s hair. “No,” she said, her words firm. “Her painting belongs here.”

Her father looked at her. “Indeed? What makes you say that?”

“It’s just a feeling. We should leave it here. We don’t want to damage it, after all. Maybe we can get someone to come and examine it...someone who knows about art, and the Roaring Twenties.”

“I could have a look if you like.”

Holly spun around to see Hugh Darcy standing in the doorway. “Oh. Mr Darcy.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said, and turned to her father. “I apologize for the interruption, but you’re needed downstairs, Mr James.”

“Bloody hell! Can’t this place manage for ten minutes without me?” he grumbled. “Come in, Hugh. We’d appreciate your input.” He bent forward and kissed Holly absently on the forehead. “I’ll see you later. Let me know what you find out.”

“I will.” She waited until he left. She was relieved that he hadn’t brought up the subject of her after-work arrangement with Ciaran, but wished he hadn’t left her alone with Mr Darcy. He always made her feel wrong-footed and defensive.

Darcy glanced at her. “I did my undergraduate studies in Art History at Oxford and I worked for several summers at Sotheby’s in the valuation room. Might I take a look?”

She waited for a cool breeze, which she was convinced indicated the flapper’s displeasure, but it never came. “Be my guest,” Holly replied. She stood back as he knelt down before the painting and studied it intently. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“What? Oh, yes. Yes, she is.” He frowned. “Of course we’d need to test the pigment to be sure, but judging from the clothing, I’d say this was probably painted in either 1927 or 1928.” He straightened up. “Where did you find it?”

“Shoved under the eaves,” she answered. “I found it by accident when I ran into a spider web.”

“They can be rather unpleasant.”

“I hate spider webs,” Holly agreed, and added, “Most of us shallow girls do.”

His dark eyes met hers. “Miss James—”

She had no wish to hear an apology from him, much less any more criticism. “Never mind. So tell me, how do you test the pigment?”

“Well, the painting should be examined by an art conservator, who’ll take a non-required sampling of the paint. That’s a tiny, non-invasive sample that gives a reasonably good idea of the age of the pigment and, thus, the painting. The other option is X-ray radiography. It’s a more conclusive, but also rather more invasive, method.”

The breeze, absent until then, returned. It seemed that the flapper was not pleased.

“Did you feel that?” Hugh asked suddenly.

Holly stared at him, astonished. “You felt it, too?”

He looked at her oddly. “Yes, of course I did.” He glanced past her at the windows, both shut. “It must’ve come from the attic doorway,” he murmured. “Most odd.”

“Sorry if I was rude the night of the party,” Holly said, all too anxious to change the subject from breezes and odd things and the potential ghost of a flapper. “I was, wasn’t I?”

He shrugged. “You’d just accepted a date with Ciaran Duncan, after all. I imagine he dazzles all the young women.”

“It wasn’t a date, and I wasn’t ‘dazzled,’” Holly retorted. “Well, maybe a bit,” she admitted. “It isn’t every day a girl gets asked to dinner by a film star, after all.”

“No, I expect not.”

“Why don’t you like him, anyway?” she wondered. “Do you know him?”

“Know him?” He glanced at her. “No. But I know of him. He’s charming, persuasive, and very skilled at getting what he wants, with no concern for who he might hurt in the process.”

“Oh, he can’t be that bad,” Holly scoffed. “He’s funny, in a droll, self-deprecating way. And he has very nice teeth.”

“So did the Big Bad Wolf, as I recall.” There was a distinct edge to his voice.