She unlocked the front door. The space was very much as it had been in her grandmother’s day: wide-plank pine floors, eight-over-eight windows, white walls hung sparely, each with one or two large-scale, gilded-framed, nineteenth-century paintings. A fireplace with a white marble mantel hadn’t been used in recent years.
Upstairs was a second gallery space. There the walls were packed tightly with small paintings, drawings, and etchings, floor to ceiling, salon style, the way art was hung in Gertrude Stein’s home at 27 rue de Fleurus. The arrangement had inspired Mathilda during a visit to the house in Paris immediately after the war.
Beth and Pete shared an 1875 mahogany partners desk, flush against the back wall. One of Beth’s sweaters hung over the back of her chair. Kate’s fingers trailed over the soft blue wool. She felt vertigo imagining how recently Beth had sat here. Her sister’s work surface contained stacks of books and monographs.
Across the desk’s tooled green leather surface, Pete’s work area was laid out with invoices and letters. His chair had been neatly pushed in. She wondered what it had been like for Beth to spend her days sitting opposite the husband who had betrayed her.
“What are you hoping to find here?” she asked.
“Mainly the missing canvas,” he said. “Moonlight.”
“So, you still think Pete did it?”
“He’s my strongest suspect.”
“You think he’d put it in the gallery? Isn’t that a little obvious?”
“Pete thinks he’s smart, right?”
“That’s for sure,” Kate said.
“Well, I believe he’d hide it in plain sight. Rolled up with other canvases, hanging on the wall, anywhere. And he would laugh at everyone for not figuring it out.”
Kate nodded. They started at opposite sides of the room, taking down every frame, looking behind the paintings. Conor lifted the antique rugs, checked the umbrella stand, went through the upright compartments in the third-floor storage room. He moved slowly, taking his time, meticulously gazing at the art.
“Could someone have painted over the original painting, to hide it?” he asked.
“Pentimento,” Kate said. “Theoretically, yes. But I can’t imagine Pete would have that done with a picture that valuable.”
“‘Have that done’?” Conor asked, jumping on the phrase.
“Pete’s not an artist. He would have had to hire someone.”
“Well, he must know a lot of painters. What about Nicola?”
“She’s an art historian, not an artist. She wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”
“Then someone else?”
“Who’s going to desecrateMoonlight, then not come forward after hearing Beth was murdered?”
“You’d be surprised what people do,” Conor said.
Kate couldn’t disagree with him. She thought of her father. Her gaze was pulled to the basement door. When she dreamed about what had happened to her family down those stairs, she always saw her mother and father dissolving away. They had turned into memories.
She drifted away from Conor back to the partners desk and sat in her sister’s chair. Beth’s absence felt as real and solid as the furniture. It was an actual, physical force. Her sister had been flesh and blood and kindness and humor—and now she was gone. Now Beth was a memory too.
Kate stared at the top book in a tall pile, a volume about the flag paintings of Childe Hassam. Beth had flagged many pages with yellow Post-its, each covered with her neat handwriting. Kate read:Hassam was the only major American Impressionist to paint the home front during World War I. Between 1916 and 1919, he produced his flag series, over thirty paintings of flag-draped Fifth Avenue. Stars and Stripes/British Union Jack/French Tricolor—celebration of the allies, Armistice. Exhibition—next July 4th? Dedicated to Mathilda? Discuss with Katy.
Kate moaned softly, her shoulders curved forward. She felt actual pain, seeing her name in her sister’s handwriting. Childe Hassam and his World War I paintings had been a favorite subject of Mathilda’s. She had been moved by his patriotic dedication, the way it had emboldened his primary colors and broken brushwork. It was incredibly poignant to think of a gallery show to honor their grandmother.
Kate’s heart broke to know that Beth had wanted to talk to her about the exhibit and that she would never have the chance. She was glad Mathilda wasn’t here anymore. She would never have to bear what had happened to Beth.
She began opening drawers. Each one seemed to contain a gift from her to Beth. Whenever she traveled, she always picked up souvenirs, the tackier the better, and brought them home for her sister. She’d found a slot machine key fob from Las Vegas, a teddy bear wearing a straw hat from Miami, an Eiffel Tower–shaped pen from Paris, a beer stein pencil holder from Munich. She reached into the drawer for the small box she’d bought at Liberty in London last April. Covered with deep-red William Morris print cotton, it was an uncharacteristically serious present, something she’d thought Beth might actually use, instead of only making her laugh.
She took the top off and looked inside. It seemed empty. She and Beth had always loved boxes and bags with hiding places, a legacy of their grandmother. She pried open the silk-covered rectangular false bottom that had made the box irresistible to her and was shocked to the core by what she saw.
There was a key, a slip of paper with a phone number, and a small beautiful charcoal drawing of a nude woman. The subject of the drawing stood looking out a window, completely unselfconscious, hair cascading over her shoulders and full breasts. The artist had signed itJH.
