The Sense of Reckoning Page 14

  They wended their way back off the peninsula, and then up Indian Point Road and across Oak Hill Road to Somesville in silence.

  *****

  Garrick pulled the car up to a detached single-car garage behind the house and turned to Ann, the back porch light throwing the already severe lines of his face into sharp relief.

  “Well?”

  “The Lady isn’t a who, she’s a what,” said Ann.

  There was a long silence. Finally Ann sighed. “It’s a painting.”

  “A painting?”

  “Yes.”

  Another silence.

  “That’s it. The Lady isn’t a person, it’s a painting. That’s all I got.”

  “All you got or all he told you?”

  “All I got. There was a lot more but I couldn’t pick it up. But I’m supposed to go back tomorrow and he’ll tell me more.”

  “Really? That’s very promising,” said Garrick with unaccustomed enthusiasm. “When?”

  “He said it didn’t matter.”

  “Very good,” said Garrick, rubbing his hands together. “Perhaps during the day. How long were you there tonight before he appeared to you?”

  “I saw him pretty much as soon as I got to the hotel.”

  “Better and better. And if he is going to show you where the painting is—” He looked sharply at Ann. “Did he say he was going to show you the painting’s location, or describe it to you?”

  Ann thought back to her conversation. “Definitely ‘show.’”

  “And his visible presence—it is more perceptible to you than his verbal communications?”

  “Yes. The visible part is sort of hazy as well, but if he leads me to where it is I feel pretty certain I can follow him.”

  “Excellent. If we can devise a way to keep Ellen away from the hotel for a few hours tomorrow, that should be sufficient. Your driver can drop you off at the beginning of the road after she’s away.”

  “Okay. Garrick, can we go inside? It’s still freezing out here.”

  “Yes, yes.” Garrick killed the engine. They got out of the car and Garrick opened the back door to a kitchen that looked like it had been untouched by upgrades for half a century. Ann got a glimpse of a Sputnik-era refrigerator—the word “icebox” popped into her head—and an old wooden table and rush-seat chair before Garrick gestured her impatiently on to the hallway where he hung his coat on one of the pegs on the wall.

  “Is your driver picking you up?”

  “Oh. Yes.” Ann pulled out her cellphone and sent a text to Scott, then followed Garrick into his office, where he was lighting the fire. Ann sat in one of the leather chairs and wished he would offer her at least a mug of hot water.

  Garrick sat behind the desk. “It is promising that Loring is willing to share this information with you, but disappointing that you can’t comprehend what he’s saying.” His earlier relative good cheer seemed to have dissipated a bit.

  “Maybe I’ll be able to understand him better if I spend more time with him.”

  “Unlikely. Or at least unlikely in the time we have.” Garrick tapped his fingers together. Finally he said, “It is not ideal, but perhaps if Loring is aware that I know that ‘The Lady’ is a painting, this game he has been playing will become less entertaining to him.”

  “Maybe telling Ellen that it’s a painting would be helpful to her—maybe she doesn’t realize that.”

  “Possibly. However, I believe it would be preferable to provide her with the information she ultimately desires—the location of ‘The Lady’—rather than providing her with possibly unhelpful partial information. She seems a bit overwrought about the entire situation.”

  “You could try going during the day to talk with Loring. He didn’t seem to have a preference for nighttime when I talked with him. I could go with you.”

  “No, too great a risk of Ellen seeing us together.” Garrick stood up. “I will visit the hotel alone tomorrow during the day and speak with Loring. If he is still unwilling to give me the information, even once he is aware that I know The Lady is a painting, then we will arrange for you to meet with him again.”

  There was a knock at the front door and Garrick walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain. “Ah, it appears that your driver has arrived. Very prompt. Not local?”

  “No, not local.” Ann gathered up her knapsack and followed Garrick to the hallway. “So did Loring appear to you at all tonight?”

  “Of course not, it sounds as if he was with you most of the time, correct?”

  “Yes, I just thought he might have appeared in two places at once.”

  Garrick snorted. “My dear, you need to do a bit more studying if you wish to be a professional in this field.”

  *****

  Ellen tracked the lights of Garrick’s car down the road. She saw him stop—was he going to come back to tell her something?—then the car resumed its progress and eventually the lights disappeared among the pines. When the night was once again Maine-woods dark, Ellen retrieved her purse from the office, looped a long knitted scarf around her neck, and went to her Jeep. She could have waited until the morning, but there didn’t seem to be any reason—she wasn’t going to be able to sleep, and it was already breakfast time where she was calling.

  She drove to Bass Harbor—it was hard to find a payphone these days—and dialed the numbers she had been given and told to memorize. In a moment a low, cultured voice with a European accent answered.

  “Pronto?”

  “It’s me. We just had another sensing. We’re making progress.”

  “Have you found La Signora?”

  “No, not yet, but I’m sure we’re very close.”

  “Time is running short.”

  Ellen fidgeted with the metal cord of the phone. “I know. But I have a good feeling about it. Garrick is very good at what he does.”

  “You know what you must do. And you know the consequences if you do not do it. I will await further updates.” And the line went dead.

  Ellen hung up the phone, the receiver rattling against the cradle. She smoothed her hair back and took a deep, steadying breath. Garrick would find the lady, he had never failed her before. And if the hotel survived, if she had a chance to bring it back to its former glory, it would all be worth it. And she was sure Garrick would be there to help her with that, as well.

  Chapter 25

  1947

  On Friday, October 17th, a fire started in a cranberry bog about seven miles northwest of Bar Harbor. The water in the bog had burned off under months of unrelenting sun and the marsh grass and shrubs left behind were scorched to a tinder dryness. A hundred acres burned before it was contained.

  A northwest wind carried a pall of smoke over Great Hill to Jardin d’Eden. As the air thickened, Mrs. Furness’s asthmatic cough echoed from her bedroom through the upstairs hallway of Jardin. When the staff closed the windows against the smoke, the still air caused even the unafflicted to gasp. Mr. Furness decided it was time for them to relocate to their winter residence.

  As Chip went up the drive to Jardin on Saturday morning, the Furnesses’ Packard Custom Super was going down, the chauffeur whom Pritchard had hired to replace himself in the driver’s seat, Mr. and Mrs. Furness in the back. The Packard was followed by another car carrying Mr. Furness’s secretary and Mrs. Furness’s personal maid; a pile of luggage was strapped to the back.

  “Where are they going?” asked Chip when he found Pritchard preparing for the regular round of repairs and maintenance.

  “Airport. Mr. Furness chartered a plane. They’re going to the Palm Beach house.”

  “But what about the fire? Don’t they want to stay here to keep an eye on things?”

  “That’s what they pay me to do, Lynam,” Pritchard growled. “Plus, the fire’s small, just smoky. The boys will keep it in check.”

  As Chip worked at Jardin d’Eden through the weekend, adjusting sliding doors that had become balky over the summer and repairing a broken window in the gree
nhouse, he periodically heard the three blasts of the fire whistle. If Pritchard wasn’t around, Chip would go outside to see if the direction of the wind or smoke had changed.

  Passing the closed door of the library one day, he had a sudden alarm as he thought of soot settling on the painting—on The Lady, as he had come to think of her. He tapped lightly on the door and, getting no answer, tried to turn the doorknob, but the door was locked. His concern escalated slightly. Was someone keeping an eye on the painting? He went to find Millie—she would have a key.

  She was in the butler’s pantry in her usual black dress, but without the white cap and apron required when Mrs. Furness was in residence. There was a sparkling pile of silverware to her left and an even more sparkling set carefully lined up on her right. She was working her polishing cloth vigorously over a demitasse spoon.

  “Hiya, Millie,” said Chip from the doorway.

  “Hiya, Chip, what’s up?”

  “Is the window in the library closed?”

  “I should think so. Why?”

  “Just thinking that if someone left it open, the smoke wouldn’t be any good for that new painting of Mr. Furness’s.”

  “Ah, right. You do fancy that painting, don’t you? I’m sure Mr. Pritchard would make sure the windows are closed.”

  Chip reluctantly started to turn away, then turned back.

  “But can we check to make sure? You don’t even have to go, I’ll just borrow the key for a minute.”

  “Oh no you don’t, I’m not handing a key I’m charged with over to anyone.” Millie put down the polishing cloth and drew a large ring of keys from her dress pocket. “Let’s go see so you’ll stop fretting and get back to your real work.”

  When they got to the library, Millie knocked then, after waiting a moment, unlocked the door and peeked in. “All closed up safe and sound.”

  Chip put his hand out to keep the door open. “Can I just take a quick look?”

  Millie shook her head in wry amusement, then glanced up and down the hall. “You are a strange one, Chip Lynam. Okay, but make it quick.”

  Chip slipped past her into the room. The drapes were drawn across the window and the room was dark so he flipped on the light, illuminating the crystal chandelier.

  The painting had been hung over a giltwood console on which Mrs. Furness’s collection of antique glass paperweights was displayed. Chip crossed to the painting. It had been hung so that The Lady’s eyes were even with his own, and the proportions were life-size; Chip had an almost dizzying sense of looking through a window and seeing not the smoke-laden view of Cleftstone Road, but instead the serene eyes of this beautiful young woman with the clear air of an Italian summer day behind her. He gazed back at her, shifting slightly back and forth to enjoy that sensation of her eyes following his. He leaned forward, marveling over the detail: each strand of her dark hair, the delicate arch of her eyebrow. He leaned forward a bit more, resting a hand on the console, lightly brushing one of the paperweights, which rocked on its base.

  “For heaven’s sake, be careful!” gasped Millie from the doorway. “That’s enough—you come out now, Chip.”

  “One minute, Millie ...”

  He heard a little huff of exasperation and then Millie clicked off the light. “Now, Chip. You’ve checked that the window’s closed, you’ve seen your favorite girl, now let’s go.”

  Chip stepped reluctantly back and, with one last look—the painting still dimly illuminated by the light from the open door—followed Millie out of the room.

  Chapter 26

  The next day, unable to think of a viable excuse to get Ellen away from the hotel, Garrick decided to drive out to the hotel and merely explain to her that with time running short they needed to try a different approach, such as allowing him to speak privately with Loring. However, as he drove down Indian Point Road he passed Ellen in her Jeep going the other direction. She appeared to be rummaging around in something on the passenger seat, probably her purse—why would a driver ever take his or her eyes off the road?—and didn’t see him. He whistled a few bars of Poulenc’s Sonata for Flute and Piano.

  Garrick pulled the Cadillac up to the steps leading to the veranda—he had no wish to appear to be trying to avoid detection should Ellen return while he was still there. He walked to the west end of the hotel, where the entrance to the now-defunct kitchen was and, lifting a flower pot containing the crackly remains of an unidentifiable plant, revealed the key whose hiding place a seventeen-year-old Ellen Lynam had shown him so many years ago.

  Returning to the veranda, he unlocked the door and stepped into the lobby. He had found that one of the keys to his success in interacting with the dead was to know how a particular spirit preferred to be summoned. If you wished to summon a shy person, it did no good to be strident. If you wished to summon an aristocrat, it did no good to address them as if they were a member of the hoi polloi. If you wanted to speak with the spirit of a common man, you called to him in a common way.

  “Loring, it’s Garrick. I’m in the lobby.” He heard the empty echo of an uninhabited building, punctuated by the ticking of a clock from the office.

  He waited less than a minute before Loring appeared in the doorway leading to the lounge.

  “Not on your usual midnight schedule today?” said Loring.

  “We have done our best to accommodate your evident preference for nocturnal interactions but, as you know, time is running short and I needed to find a way to accelerate our discussion.”

  “Accelerate, eh?” Loring leaned against the doorframe. “I’m all ears.”

  “I know that ‘The Lady’ is a painting.”

  Loring regarded Garrick expressionlessly for a few moments, then said, “Did Ellen tell you that?”

  “I don’t feel compelled to share the source of my information.” If Loring was going to pretend he hadn’t spoken with Ann, Garrick didn’t feel like arguing with him. “Knowing that The Lady is an object rather than a person brings a somewhat different perspective to the question. When I assumed that ‘the lady’ was a person, I wondered why Ellen didn’t engage some alternate means of obtaining the information she is looking for. However, now knowing that The Lady is a painting, then I must assume you have sequestered it in a location of which only you are aware.”

  Loring turned back to the lounge and crossed to the windows overlooking the remains of the croquet court and water beyond. Garrick followed him, standing for a moment in the doorway then crossing the room to sit in his regular chair, which was still standing in the middle of the room from the previous night. He folded his hands and waited.

  Finally Loring said, still looking out the window, “I’m going to tell you something, but I’d recommend you don’t just regurgitate it all verbatim to my sister.”

  “How charmingly put.”

  Loring glanced back at Garrick and then back out the window. “It’s not a person, but it might as well have been, the way Dad acted. It was one of those paintings where the eyes seem to follow you. And it had this little smile, like it was going to share a secret with you.”

  “It was a painting that belonged to your father?”

  Loring turned from the window, crossed the room, and sat down in his regular place. He studied Garrick appraisingly. Finally he said, “It was a gift.” He crossed his legs. “He was seventeen when he got it. You remember how it is when you’re seventeen—some obsession is practically required, right? But most seventeen-year-olds get obsessed with an actual girl—” He gave Garrick a small, unfriendly smile. “Well, maybe not you but, trust me, that’s how it is for most seventeen-year-olds. But Dad got obsessed with The Lady.” Loring stretched his legs out and leaned back, gazing at the ceiling. “In fact, he was so obsessed with it, he didn’t want anyone else to see it. He hid it away. When he was alone, he would just sit there and look at it. It was like he was hypnotized.”

  “How do you know this if he kept it such a secret?”

  “When he found out he was dying from t
he cancer, he told me. He’d invite me to join him. Father-son bonding, I guess. Thought I’d be as smitten with it as he was. Told me the story about it so many times I thought I’d scream. Happened I was seventeen at the time, but I was one of these seventeen-year-olds who would have been more interested in actual girls … if I’d had time for that sort of thing.”

  “Did Ellen participate in these discussions with your father?”

  “No. She was seven when Dad died, he thought she was too young to keep a secret. But he wrote her a letter about the painting—described it in all its poetic glory—and gave it to the lawyer to give to her when she turned seventeen, same time she got her inheritance. What there was of it, at least. Dad put a lot of store in the importance of seventeen,” he added bitterly.

  “Did the letter include mention of where he had hidden the painting?”

  “No.”

  “One would think he would have wanted her to know where it was.”

  “Guess he thought I’d show her. That the two of us would sit around admiring it and thanking Dad for leaving us such a fabulous gift.”

  Garrick crossed his legs. “It’s difficult to understand what incentive you would now have for keeping that location a secret.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “She says she needs it to save the hotel.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it would save the hotel,” said Loring, examining his nails.

  “You don’t want her to have it?”

  Loring sat forward suddenly. “I didn’t want any of us to have it,” he said savagely. “That thing sucked Dad’s energy and attention as if he’d had a mistress. Ellen never had a mother—Mom died giving birth to her—and for all I know she would have latched on to ‘The Lady’ like a gosling imprinting on a goose and spent all her time mooning over it. I was hoping there would be at least one person in the family who could help me try to keep this miserable place afloat.”

  “So what will you do now?”