“To commemorate the fact that my father basically lives with someone else? And has a kid with her? I think my mother had a boyfriend too.”
“Really?” Isabel asked. Sam could see it came as a shock—everyone thought her mother was pretty much a saint.
“I’m almost positive. He’s this guy we knew from New London. I didn’t think about it before she died, but now, looking back, she was happy when she was around him.”
“That must suck, thinking that,” Isabel said.
“It doesn’t,” Sam said. “It should, right? As Julie would say, ‘It’s weird; it’s strange,’ but for some reason, it doesn’t suck. I’m just glad my mother was happy.”
“You have to quote my sister?” Isabel asked.
“Come on. You know I love Julie. She’s the only one who tells it straight. Everyone else is so polite and walking on eggshells around me. Not wanting to upset me. I know they talk about it when I’m not there.”
“Are you grouping me in with the polite people?” Isabel asked.
“No,” Sam said. “You’re my best friend. But to be honest, it fucked me up to hear about the book just now, and you talking to the detective. I mean, I know he’s interviewing everyone, but I still hate it.”
“How do you think I felt?” Isabel asked. “Having to talk about how my best friend’s dad might have killed her mom?”
And then, because she just couldn’t take it anymore, Sam ran out of Foley’s and left Isabel sitting there.
40
Sam returned to school just before Labor Day, and Kate took a leave of absence from Intrepid Aviation. Nearly two months after Beth’s death, she began spending days at the gallery. It was just a quarter mile from Black Hall High, so she and Sam could drive together from New London.
Being at the gallery made Kate feel closer to Beth. She sat at her sister’s desk, Popcorn lying at her feet. Time was passing, and still Beth’s killer hadn’t been caught. Conor seemed sure Jed hadn’t done it. Her thoughts veered wildly between still believing it was Pete and starting to wonder if it really had been an art theft. And a sexual assault. She thought of the horribly torn underwear beside Beth’s bed—and what it had been used to do to her.
It was all unthinkable. She tried to get the picture of Beth lying on her bed out of her mind, the marks around her neck, her blankly staring eyes. Her fingers trembled as she paged through a thick black ledger Beth kept of all the paintings that came through the gallery. It calmed and soothed her to think of the things Beth had always loved, had been good at. After a few minutes, she lost herself in Beth’s notes.
Kate had always been informed about the most important acquisitions and sales. A few key paintings stood out; Beth had written about them, filled paragraphs with question marks and red arrows, words that were circled or boldly underlined. She’d been searching for clues, more information than the previous owners had been able—or willing—to supply. Works of art were a mystery—their meaning, provenance, and authenticity—and to study them, one had to become a detective and an academic.
Kate examined the small oil on a display easel beside Beth’s desk. Beth had determined that the landscape, unsigned, was by Ben Morrison, the same artist who’d paintedMoonlight. Could there be any significance to Beth’s having had it right next to her desk?
It had been found with over fifty other paintings in the attic of a saltbox on Sill Lane. Edith Peck, a ninety-five-year-old recluse who had never married, had collected works of the American Impressionists who had painted in the Black Hall Art Colony. Morrison had lived there from 1898 to 1905. After Peck’s death last December, it had come to light that she had two great-nephews in Bangor and a great-niece in Rochester, none of whom had any interest in owning the paintings.
Miss Peck’s family wanted the Lathrop Gallery to sell the paintings on consignment, but Beth had asked Kate to agree that the family purchase them outright.
Beth worked out a price, and Kate concurred. Edith Peck’s family had felt it was fair, and the deal was made. Pete objected. He thought they were paying too much.
“They’re not Metcalf caliber,” he’d said. “We’re talking about a couple of LeBlancs, a Potter, a Giddings, and a few unsigned thatmightbe Morrison? What you’ve got is a bunch of barely-knowns.”
Pete was correct about the fact that the works Miss Peck had collected—other than the possible Morrisons—were by artists not terribly sought after, but the passion of collectors had always escaped him: the thrill of discovering a new artist; the love of beauty; the deep satisfaction of owning a picture done over a hundred years ago, outdoors on local hills or riverbanks, of scenes that still existed today.
He would never comprehend the role the gallery played in creating reputations. Artists represented by the Harkness-Woodward—now Lathrop—Gallerybecamesought after. Once they secured the gallery’s imprimatur, the value of their work went up substantially. Many artists who showed here later had work acquired by museums from the Farnsworth to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Pete might have done well in another field; he would never understand that soul was more necessary to the art business than a calculator.
Kate examined the painting at hand, the one Beth had attributed to Morrison. The canvas was 8 by 12 inches. It depicted a brook in spring. The water’s strong zigzag and diminishing diagonal drew the eye back and forth from the foreground into the distance. Light glinted on the surface and through pine needles, a wash of gold-green and clear pale blue. Claude Monet had said, “Nature does not stand still.”
Kate was thinking of those words when she suddenly recognized the brook: it was on the island, running down the hill from where Jed had pitched his tent. She recognized the rock contours and the serpentine of water flowing toward the distant blue river. She had observed that exact scene the day she’d found the sonogram.
Was that the reason Beth had the painting propped up where she could see it at all times? Because it reminded her of Jed and the island? The painting was undeniably lovely, idealistic, and romantic. Could that pine grove by the brook be where she had conceived Matthew?
Lost in thought, Kate heard the discreet bell that rang only upstairs in the office, announcing that someone had entered the front door. She heard footfalls on the bare wood floor, and Popcorn loped downstairs to investigate. Kate’s fists clenched—an involuntary reaction to the sound of footsteps in the gallery. After all these years, that sound reminded her of the day the intruders had come. The bell had rung upon their entrance as well.
“Hello,” came a familiar voice.
She walked downstairs to see Conor bending down to pet Popcorn. He wore what she’d come to realize was his uniform: gray slacks, a white broadcloth shirt, a striped tie, and a rumpled blue blazer. He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes, sparkling with warmth.
“I drove by and spotted your car,” he said. Then, “I’m surprised you’re here.”
