Читать книгу The Black Painting - Neil Olson - Страница 11

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For madness, no one could top Goya. Drunks, murderers, victims of violence. Lunatics beset by demons or witches summoning them. Gods destroying their children. The Spaniard had seen it all, in the war-torn landscape of his country or in his own troubled mind, and captured it on canvas. Including at least one thing he should not have caught.

Francisco José de Goya. Teresa had known the name always. It was synonymous with fear. She was as easily scared as any sensitive girl who read too much, and the scariest things were those left to your imagination. Her grandfather, usually kind, was stern and absolute in one matter. Stay out of the study. Never go in for any reason. The fear could not be explained away as Teresa grew older because it was so obviously shared by her mother and uncles. They had also known of the painting all their lives, although only the eldest, Philip, had actually seen it. And he never spoke to his brother or sister about what he saw. Of course the old man saw it every day, and he was neither struck dead nor driven mad. There was a trick to it, or there was a type of person able to withstand the portrait’s awful gaze. More than withstand it, but learn and prosper from the contact. This was explained to Teresa by her father, Ramón, who counted himself among those so gifted. For he had seen the painting many times. Whether and how it had damaged him was anyone’s guess.

There were many reasons Teresa could invent for her obsession with art. Because it was something she shared with her father and grandfather, who took her to all the best museums in New York and Boston. Because her impulse toward the mystical and curiosity about her Spanish heritage found their perfect union and expression in the artists she adored: El Greco, Zurbarán, Goya. Because she was so bad at the hard sciences that a humanities degree was her only choice. But she knew very well that the obsession had its roots in that first terror and fascination of childhood. The haunted self-portrait by Goya from his solitary days in the Quinta del Sordo. A painting that had left one man dead in Teresa’s lifetime, and carried the rumor of death and insanity in a long train behind it. A painting she had never seen, and never would.

* * *

The ambulance made its slow way around the drive and out of sight. No lights or siren. There was no need. A police cruiser escorted it, but the nondescript brown sedan that arrived later was still parked out there. The detective must be somewhere talking to Audrey, yet the house was quiet. Teresa was in the sitting room. She had been lying down, recovering from her migraine. But the settee was too hard, made for perching, not reclining. She was sitting up now, sipping from a glass of water Audrey had left for her. Everything that had happened since finding the dead man was vague and disjointed.

She was ashamed of her uselessness. She should be calling people, starting with her mother. She should be speaking to the sad-faced detective—it was she who had found the body, after all. Mostly she should not be falling to pieces like a fragile girl, leaving Audrey to handle everything. Audrey, who had been praising Teresa’s toughness only an hour ago. Who had kept her cool in the presence of death. Whatever her faults, the woman clearly had strengths which Teresa had been slow to perceive. Slow or unwilling. Her sense of Audrey as a person was trapped in the past, in a wounded child’s perceptions.

Voices approached down the hall, and Teresa stood. She was unsteady, but did not want to seem meek or ill. Audrey’s voice rose sharply just outside of the room, then fell silent. One set of footsteps retreated, and a moment later the detective appeared in the door.

He was tall and lean, though his face was puffy. Dark hair retreated from his forehead, and his hound dog eyes made you want to comfort him. It was a face you trusted, which must be useful for a detective.

“Miss Marías. How are you?”

“Fine,” she said, pleased by the firmness of her voice. “Call me Teresa.”

“I’m Detective Waldron.”

“You introduced yourself before,” she remembered.

“Right, I wasn’t sure if you, ah...”

“Was in my right mind?” she supplied, forcing a smile. “I really am okay now. Won’t you sit down?”

Won’t you sit down! Who was she, a society hostess? This wasn’t even her house. But he did sit, and she did, too, which was a relief.

“This shouldn’t take long,” he said, flipping through a small notepad. “Ms. Morse has filled me in pretty thoroughly. I wonder if you could run through your arrival here, and the um, the discovery of your grandfather’s body?”

Your grandfather’s body, thought Teresa, reality hitting home. Not “the body” or “the dead man” but Alfred Arthur Morse. Arrogant, secretive collector of and dealer in European art, with a big house, a bad heart and three estranged children. A man to whom Teresa had once felt close, and for whom she harbored a lingering affection. She had suppressed how deeply she was looking forward to seeing him, and tears welled up in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Waldron said, closing the notepad and beginning to stand. “Your cousin said it was too soon.”

“Is this normal?” Teresa asked tightly. Humiliated by his sympathy.

He slumped back into the chair.

“Your shock? It’s absolutely normal, most people never have to—”

“I mean you being here,” she corrected. “He obviously had a heart attack or a stroke or something. Why would they send a detective? Is it because he’s rich or, or what?”

He nodded several times.

“His prominence has something to do with it,” Waldron conceded. “That’s off the record, please. Also, there’s the matter of the housekeeper.”

“Ilsa.” She had forgotten all about the woman.

“Yes, um, Ilsa Graff. I understand that she lives in the house. For the last—” he consulted his notes “—thirty years or so?”

“I guess that’s right,” Teresa said.

“Do you have any idea where she is?”

“No, none. She was supposed to meet me at the train. Or I think she was. I don’t remember anymore what we agreed.”

“But you didn’t see her at the station?” he prompted.

“No,” Teresa replied, clutching the water glass nervously. Why was she nervous? “So I started walking. And I got about half a mile before Audrey pulled up.”

“There was no understanding between you two beforehand? She simply appeared?”

“There’s only one road,” Teresa said, annoyance creeping into her tone. “Whether you walk or drive.”

“Nothing implied,” Waldron said, holding up a forbearing palm. “These are routine questions. I hope you understand.”

“I don’t, to tell you the truth.” The headache was pulsing behind her eyes again. “You think Ilsa did something to my grandfather?”

He puffed up his cheeks and exhaled.

“I think her not being here when you two were expected is odd. But I have no theories at this time, and every expectation that it’ll turn out as you say. Older man, weak heart. We just have to be as thorough as possible.”

“All right.”

“So you were walking to the house when your cousin drove up?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ms. Morse said you were standing off to the side of the road. She couldn’t say with certainty which direction you had been going before she came around the turn. I just want to confirm you were coming from the station.”

As opposed to where? Teresa’s hands were shaking, and there was a buzzing in her ears. She could not tell whether she was stunned or furious or both.

“Is this about my father?” she blurted.

He sat back and gazed at her curiously.

“I don’t know. Is there some reason it should be?”

Idiot, Teresa scolded herself. That’s exactly what he wanted you to say. This is not a friendly talk, it’s a grilling. He thinks you did something.

“I already said that I was coming from the station,” she replied slowly.

“Apologies, my notes are a little messy. You mentioned your father.”

“I don’t think I have anything more to say to you, Mr. Waldron.”

“If we could cover one or two other points,” he said patiently, “then we’re done.”

“Get out.”

Teresa had not seen Audrey enter the room. She was standing very close to the detective, a murderous look in her eyes. Waldron stood and nodded politely at her, as if she had not spoken.

“Get out,” Audrey said again, louder.

“Your cousin and I were discussing the—”

“I heard what you were discussing. I told you to leave her alone.”

“I believe,” Waldron answered, “that Miss Marías is best equipped to make that decision herself.”

“Then you obviously know nothing about trauma,” Audrey said. “So listen to me. Our uncle, who will be here any minute, is a big-time attorney. And I will sue you personally and your entire podunk department for harassment, coercion, mental cruelty and anything else I can think of, if you do not get out of this house right now.”

The detective shook his head like a man wronged, but not overly concerned about it. He tucked the notebook into the pocket of his baggy trousers and shuffled out of the room. Audrey followed him closely, a barely restrained violence in her posture. Waldron did not seem to notice.

“I’m sorry again for your loss,” he said by the front door. “And I apologize for causing any distress during this difficult time.”

“Save it for the judge,” Audrey growled.

“It’s all right,” said Teresa, coming to her senses. They were both overreacting badly; the man was only doing his job.

“There’s no tape on that door,” Waldron mentioned, speaking of the study. “But please do keep it closed and locked. I’ll be in touch if there’s any need to follow up. Oh, and please let me know right away if you see or hear from Ms. Graff.”

“We’ll do that,” Teresa said, a moment before Audrey slammed the door. And they were alone. Audrey turned to her with such vehemence that Teresa stepped back. She could feel her cousin wanting to lash out, and Teresa was now the only available target. Yet the angry eyes seemed blind to her presence.

“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.

“Why not?” asked Philip. “Did they say there was an investigation?”

“No, but they’re worried about Ilsa.”

“As we all are,” he said, moving swiftly down the hall. “I don’t see what that has to do with sealing off rooms. The study is where Father keeps his papers.”

“Action Man is here,” Audrey announced, as they listened to Philip rattle the handle to the study door.

“What in God’s name,” he called. “They locked it? Where is the key?”

Audrey reached into her pocket and pulled out a key, dangling it before her cousin and putting a finger to her lips. Audrey was always stealing keys when they were young. She even claimed to have been in the forbidden study. Teresa shook her head in puzzlement.

“You’re Waldron’s watchdog now?”

“Nah, I just enjoy pissing off Philip. But it’s funny,” Audrey mused. “I don’t remember telling him that Grandpa was in the study.”