Page 3 of The Light House

Connie flinched, and felt an electric jolt jump along her nerves. “Wait,” she said suddenly. “There are other paintings like this one, by the same artist?”

“That’s right,” the man nodded. “Two others.”

And then he said no more.

2.

Connie burst through the front doors of the Hoyt Harbor grocery store and stood blinking owlishly in the sudden gloom. Heads turned towards her. She was breathing hard. A man wearing a long grey apron tied around his waist came towards her with a frown of concern.

“Can I help you, lady?”

Connie nodded her head, caught her breath. Her shoes were in her hands. She looked up into the man’s worried face.

“I need to see Mr. Ryan,” she said. Her heart was thumping in her chest and she could feel the throb of a twitching nerve at her temple. “Mr. Warren Ryan, please.”

The man bobbed his head, then looked past Connie through the open door of the store as though maybe there was some kind of a crisis out on the street. It wouldn’t be the first time two cars had collided or a child had been clipped and knocked down by the choke of tourist traffic. “Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Connie said, “but it’s important I speak with Mr. Ryan personally. Is he here? My name is Connie Dixon. The people at the gallery on the waterfront sent me.”

The man’s face went through a myriad of puzzled, confused expressions like he was trying to piece this all together to make sense. Finally he seemed to give up. He shrugged his shoulders. “Wait here,” he said, then turned on his heel and disappeared down an aisle full of tourists.

Connie slipped her feet back into her shoes and stood impatiently in the doorway for several minutes until a tall, stooped man came wading through the crowds of shoppers. He saw Connie and his face registered blank confusion. He hitched up his sagging pants with both his elbows and then wiped his palm on the front of his shirt.

“I’m Warren Ryan,” the man said, extending his hand. “I understand you’re in some kind of trouble?”

Connie gave the man a flicker of a smile and shook her head. “No trouble,” she said. She pressed at her hair and straightened her shoulders like she was meeting an employer for an interview. “I just need a little of your time – and hopefully your help.”

Warren Ryan was in his mid-fifties – old enough to appreciate a beautiful young woman, but not so old that he had given up flirting. He had thick wavy hair, going grey at the temples, and a wide friendly face. He held Connie’s hand for a second longer than necessary and then gave her his most charming smile. “Follow me,” he said. “We’ll go to my office. Damsels in distress deserve a little privacy.”

The building was old and long – stretching the full width of the block. Connie followed the man down an aisle of soda bottles and packaged snacks, and then up a concealed flight of steps to a small door. The grocery store was air-conditioned, but up here the air was warmer. Ryan unlocked his office door and stood aside. He gestured with an elegant flourish of his hand and Connie stepped into a little cubicle with a desk, a couple of chairs and a filing cabinet. It looked to Connie like the local police had gone through the office with a search warrant. There were piles of papers strewn across the desk and a tower of folders propped on the cushion of a chair. Over the desk was a small lamp, casting a bright pool of light onto a telephone and a small black iron box. Ryan muttered an apology and put the cash box in the top drawer of the filing cabinet, then scooped up the folders and set them on the floor. He gave the upholstered seat cushion a perfunctory brush with his hand and motioned for Connie to sit.

“It’s tourist season,” he said apologetically as if that explained the clutter.

Connie smiled and sat like a beautiful bird alighting. She swept the hem of her dress demurely down over her knees and clutched her handbag in her lap. Ryan dropped down into his chair with a weary sigh and then his expression became grave.

“Okay, you have my attention. Now, how can I help you?”

Connie hesitated for just a moment, searching for the right words, and then realized there were no right words. No matter how she phrased it in her head, she sounded on the edge of insanity.

“I understand from the people at the local gallery that you own two paintings that were made by a local man named Bill Mason. I would like to see them if I may.”

Ryan made a curious face and sat back in his chair. He steepled his hands together and gazed thoughtfully at Connie past the tips of his fingers.

“What makes you think I have these paintings?”

“The gallery owners. They told me. I offered to buy the painting they own, but they refused. They said you had two other works by him.”

“And you’d like to see them?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Connie handed her card across the desk without a word. Ryan plucked the business card from her fingers and studied it carefully under the light of the lamp.

“New York?” he eyed her speculatively.

“That’s right.”

“You’re a long way from home. Why are you here in Hoyt Harbor?” He didn’t hand the card back. Instead he slipped it into the top drawer of his desk.

“I’m on vacation,” Connie admitted, “and I’m also on the lookout for local artists worthy of representation by one of the most renowned galleries in the country.”

“And you’re interested in Bill’s work?”

Connie nodded. “I liked the small painting the gallery had on display and offered to buy it. They said you might be willing to sell the pieces you own. I’d also like to meet Mr. Mason and talk to him about a career and possible exhibitions.”

Warren Ryan leaned back in his chair and rocked in silent thought. His eyes were narrowed, his brow furrowed into a heavy frown. For long seconds there was only the sound of a squeaking chair spring. Connie watched the man carefully. The air in the cubicle was stifling. The man’s shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and there were sweat stains under his armpits. He gave a heavy sigh at la

st and swung his chair around until they were facing each other across the desk.

“I do have two paintings,” Ryan admitted. “And…” he took a deep breath and paused on the threshold of decision. The winter had been lean for business, and no matter how strong the summer season was, he was already a long way behind with bank payments. “And, they are for sale,” he said with reluctance. “If the price is right.”

Connie felt a sudden leap of exhilaration and relief. She felt her heart slam in her chest and she had to fight the urge to bound from her chair. She choked back a gasp of breath and disguised it into a sound like clearing her throat. “I will need to see the paintings first,” she said with restraint.

Ryan nodded. He rose to his feet and leaned over the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. Connie found herself craning her neck with expectation, trying to catch a glimpse of the two new works. Ryan brought a cloth-wrapped bundle over to the desk and set it down. His expression was heavy with a reluctant remorse.

“I’ve had these paintings for five years,” he said. He slumped back into the chair and left the bundle wrapped. “Ever since I met Bill and started taking care of his needs.”

Connie tore her eyes from the tantalizing promise of the bundle. “His needs?”

Ryan nodded. “We make a delivery to his home each week – groceries,” he shrugged. “Those kinds of things. Mr. Mason gave me these paintings the first time I delivered to his home. Their value to me is sentimental – you understand that?”

Connie nodded. “Doesn’t he ever come into town?”

Ryan almost laughed. “Maybe once a year,” he said. “Other than that he keeps private, keeps to himself. No one ever sees him and no one ever bothers him.”

Connie couldn’t help herself. Her curiosity was like an obsessive itch. “Is he… strange…?”

Ryan arched his eyebrows as though the question was a shock. He started to smile, but it wasn’t an expression of amusement. Maybe irony, Connie guessed.

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