The Sense of Reckoning Read online

  The drapes and the rod came crashing down on him as he hit the floor. He thrashed his way out of the yards of fabric, gasping with a mounting panic, but then he was free and—thank God—in the library.

  And there she was, her dark eyes on Chip—abandoned by the people who should have taken care of her. The Lady.

  Chapter 34

  After the spirit revealed the location of the painting to Ann, there followed a period when he was obviously trying to tell her its story, but her ability to understand him seemed to decrease in inverse proportion to his enthusiasm. Eventually all she could perceive was a bright but amorphous light that had lost all semblance of human form.

  At last, her frustration with her inability to understand him trumped her sympathy for this spirit who so obviously wanted some connection with a living person.

  “I’m sorry, Loring, I still can’t understand what you’re saying. Why don’t you tell Garrick? He’ll be able to understand, and he can tell me.” The light dimmed somewhat, but again took on a somewhat more human form.

  She wasn’t sure Garrick would, in fact, tell her—he seemed pretty hung up about the theoretical confidentiality of the engagement—but, as far as she could tell, Loring had taken a liking to her and perhaps this would be an incentive for him to be more forthcoming with Garrick.

  Taking one last look at the painting in the dim light from the hallway, she closed up the panel and pulled down the wainscoting, then replaced the bale of paper towels in front of it. “Maybe once the hotel is safe, I can come back and spend more time—I do want to hear your story. And the story about the painting.”

  The light brightened a bit. She felt like she should give it an encouraging pat but, since that seemed impractical, she gave a little wave and sensed a tendril of grayish light returning the gesture. She made her way downstairs, locking the door and replacing the key under the flowerpot.

  She glanced at her watch. Garrick wasn’t due back to pick her up for some time, and Ann didn’t fancy hanging out at the hotel waiting for him to arrive. There had been no text from Scott, so it was likely that Ellen was still with him. She decided to walk back along the road—she figured if she heard a vehicle coming, she could hide in the woods.

  As she walked, she realized that although the canopy of pine boughs overhead was dense, there wasn’t much undergrowth to hide behind. Well, she thought, in the unlikely event that Ellen came back unannounced, she could fall back on the excuse of being a (rather obsessive) prospective bride taking one more look at her favorite wedding venue.

  She got back to Indian Point Road without seeing anyone—Ellen Lynam or otherwise. She turned right toward where Garrick was waiting and he must have seen her because she heard the engine start and then the car glided out from behind the pines. He stopped and she got in.

  “Did he show it to you?”

  “Yup, he—”

  “Do we need anything else at the hotel?”

  “No, he—”

  “Wait, not while I’m driving.” Garrick turned around in the intersection and then drove off to the south, concentrating resolutely on the road. In a mile or so they pulled off onto another road, which ended a short while later in a parking lot and boat launch. Garrick pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine. He turned to her expectantly.

  “It’s on the fourth floor, last room on the left.”

  “The storage room?”

  “Yes.”

  Garrick looked out past the boat launch to the water beyond. “That’s where Loring hung himself.”

  “You didn’t tell me he killed himself!”

  “It didn’t seem germane.”

  “Well, it would have been nice to know. I would have been more, I don’t know, respectful.”

  “I’m sure you were admirably respectful, although I hardly think—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Where was it in the room?”

  She described the location and operation of the secret compartment. “It’s a portrait. Finely done—and it looks old.”

  “Interesting,” said Garrick, sounding only moderately interested.

  “Maybe if having the painting helps Ellen save the hotel, I could go back later and try to communicate with Loring again, even if I have to keep pretending I’m Bride-zilla. It seems like he still has some things he wants to talk about.”

  “It won’t be necessary at that point.”

  “Yes, but I feel bad for him. He seems like a nice enough guy. I don’t know why you have such problems with him.”

  “Perhaps your gender has enabled you to ingratiate yourself with him.”

  “I don’t think that’s the only reason,” Ann muttered.

  Garrick raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you can be a little ...” She considered. “... off-putting.”

  He raised his eyebrows further. “Off-putting?”

  “Not very approachable.”

  Garrick snorted. “I would in fact prefer not to be in a position to be ‘approached’ by Loring Lynam—”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Hmph,” said Garrick, looking grumpy.

  “What will you do now?” Ann asked.

  “I’ll go back to the hotel tonight at the regular time and take Ellen to the painting.”

  “Pretending that you’ve finally convinced Loring to give you the information.”

  “Of course.”

  “Clever.”

  Garrick glanced at her suspiciously. “As you say.”

  Chapter 35

  Garrick drove back to Somesville via a roundabout route to reduce the possibility of passing Ellen, in case they had missed a message from Scott that she was on her way back from Ellsworth. Ann texted Scott that he didn’t have to detain Ellen any longer and soon received his response: okey doke she just left. Ann tried a few times to open a discussion with Garrick about the painting, but he shushed her each time—evidently driving and talking were incompatible activities.

  When they got back to Somesville, he got out of the car to open the double doors on the garage and pulled the Cadillac in. It was the only garage Ann had ever seen that contained absolutely nothing other than the car.

  “Where do you store your stuff?” she asked.

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know—yard stuff.”

  “I have no yard stuff.”

  “How do you take care of your yard?”

  “I have people who take care of the yard. Is your chauffeur coming?” He shooed her out of the garage and locked it up.

  He opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen and strode toward the hallway leading to the office.

  Hoping to get some insight into Garrick’s private life, Ann said, “Maybe we can have a cup of tea in the kitchen while we wait for Scott.”

  Garrick scanned the kitchen with a look of distaste, as if the practically bare counters and table held dirty dishes or unpaid bills.

  “I have no tea.”

  “We could have something else.”

  “I hardly think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not an appropriate room for receiving visitors.” He turned back to the hallway. “We’ll wait in the consulting room.”

  Ann hurried down the hall after him. “Wow, ‘consulting room.’ You sound like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “And you sound like your brother,” said Garrick warningly, stopping to hang his coat on the peg on the wall.

  Ann followed him into the office, dropped her parka onto one of the leather wing chairs, and sat in the other. Garrick went to the fireplace, struck a match, and lit the already-laid fire.

  “We should celebrate,” said Ann.

  Garrick sat behind the desk. “What do you suggest?”

  “We could have a drink.”

  “I don’t have any tea.”

  “We could have an alcoholic drink,” she said, curious as to what response this would elicit from Garrick.

  Garrick pulled his watch out of
his pocket, looked at it pointedly, and then looked at Ann with an eyebrow raised.

  “Hey, I found The Lady, I think that deserves a celebration.”

  Garrick contemplated her for a moment, then rose and left the office. Ann wondered if he had found the suggestion so offensive that he had left in a huff but in a moment he was back, carrying a small tray holding a bottle and two small but intricately cut crystal glasses. He unstoppered the bottle and poured a few thimbles-full of a dark ruby liquid into each of the glasses and handed one to Ann. She stood to take it.

  He raised his glass. “To a successful engagement.”

  Ann blushed, pleased by what was, for Garrick, effusive praise. She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

  They sipped their drinks.

  “Port?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Garrick sat at his desk, putting the glass to one side. Ann picked up the bottle from the desk.

  “Dow’s?”

  “Very well received, but not yet at its peak.”

  “Garrick, are you a wine connoisseur?”

  “Certainly not,” he said severely.

  Ann held up her empty glass. “May I?” Garrick waved toward the bottle. She poured a few more thimbles-full of port into her glass and sat down again in the wing chair.

  Ann sipped her drink contemplatively. “The painting looked old, although the light wasn’t good. I wonder where it came from.”

  “I’m afraid that, even were I able to ascertain that, I would be unable to share that information with you.”

  “Yeah, I know. Highly confidential and all.”

  “As you say.”

  “When do you think we’ll be able to get back to the Biden Firth issue?” she asked.

  “If it is in fact a ‘Biden Firth’ issue.”

  “Do you see anything now?”

  Garrick stood and took a quick circuit around Ann’s chair. He sat back down behind the desk. “No.”

  “Maybe it’s gone.”

  “Perhaps. It would still be beneficial for me to see you in the evening. Perhaps tomorrow, assuming I can conclude the engagement with Ellen Lynam tonight.”

  They lapsed into silence, Garrick gazing at the fire, Ann wondering if it would be bad form to refill her tiny glass. She was saved from having to decide by a knock on the front door.

  She stood and set her glass on Garrick’s desk. “That’s probably Scott.”

  Garrick moved the glass to the tray and then followed her into the hall. As she reached for the doorknob he said, “Check who it is first.”

  There was a peephole in the door and she stood on her tiptoes, but it was several inches too high for her.

  “Allow me,” said Garrick, and put his eye to the door. “Yes, it’s your chauffeur.” He swung the door open but rather than ushering Ann out, as she expected, he stood aside to let Scott in.

  “Good evening,” said Garrick to Scott.

  “Good evening,” said Scott cheerfully. “I’ve brought back that book you loaned me,” he said, holding it out. “The author certainly has a number of interesting case studies to support his position.”

  Garrick took the book. “Yes, it was considered to be quite groundbreaking at the time.”

  “Seems he didn’t believe in spirits so much as believed in an explanation for why some people saw them.”

  “Yes, paranormal experience explained as a reaction to normal physical or medical conditions.”

  “Not what you and Miss Kinnear experience.”

  “Certainly not,” said Garrick. “Would you be interested in another book? One presenting a different perspective?”

  “Of course!” said Scott.

  Scott and Ann followed Garrick into the waiting room across from his office. He replaced the small book on the stand and then, after considering a moment, pulled another book from one of the shelves.

  “You may find this one of interest,” he said, handing the book to Scott.

  Scott opened the book carefully. “An Essay Towards a Theory of Apparitions,” he read.

  “It contains an interesting chapter on ‘A lawyer’s argument for the existence of witchcraft,’” said Garrick. “It presents a similar position to the first book, but with some diverting cases studies. You may skip over the sections written in Latin.”

  “What about me?” said Ann.

  “What about you?” asked Garrick.

  “Are you going to loan me a book?”

  “Are you interested in borrowing a book?”

  “Well, not really, but it would be nice to be asked,” Ann grumbled.

  “Feel free to alert me when you develop an interest,” said Garrick pointedly, and showed them to the door.

  Ann and Scott walked to the car, Scott glancing back to admire the house. He followed her to the passenger side and opened the door for her.

  “My, how chivalrous of you,” she said.

  “He’s looking out the window at us, and I am supposed to be your chauffeur,” said Scott with a little bow.

  “I think he likes you,” said Ann when Scott got in the car.

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “No, I mean I think he likes you. Scott, is Garrick gay?”

  “Not unless my gaydar is on the fritz,” said Scott blithely.

  “Boy, if Mike thinks he doesn’t like Garrick now, just think how he’ll be when he hears Garrick has designs on his boyfriend.”

  Chapter 36

  When they got to the inn, Ann went up to her room. The nausea that used to accompany sensings now struck her only occasionally, but the experience did tire her. She intended to lie down for only a few minutes, but when she opened her eyes to a tapping on the door, full darkness had fallen.

  “Annie?” she heard Scott call softly.

  She scrubbed her face with her hand and glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 9:00. “Come in.”

  Scott opened the door, silhouetted in the light from the hallway. “Are you feeling okay, sweetie?”

  “Yes, I was just tired.”

  Scott came in and sat on the bed beside her. “I didn’t want to wake you up for dinner so I got you a lobster roll. It’s in the fridge. Mace says there’s somebody she knows who’s playing at that jazz club in Bar Harbor—want to go after you have something to eat?”

  “Gee, tempting as that sounds...” said Ann with a smile. Scott knew she found jazz annoying.

  “Is it okay if I go?”

  “Of course.” Ann nudged Scott with her knee and he stood to let her swing her legs off the bed. “I’ll just hang out here and do some reading. Thanks for getting me dinner.”

  “Sure thing. You’re going to have the place to yourself—Nan is away but Mace thought since you and I are the only guests it would be okay for her to go out as long as we left you with provisions. There’s Chardonnay in the fridge.”

  “Lobster and wine—what more could I possibly need?”

  “If it weren’t for the jazz, I’d stay in myself—it’s getting really cold out.” He examined her appraisingly. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yup. Have a good time.”

  He bent over and gave her a kiss on top of the head. “You don’t know what you’re missing!”

  “Uh, I think I do know what I’m missing,” she said pointedly.

  *****

  In an effort to snap herself out of her post-nap grogginess, Ann took a hot shower. She pulled on fresh jeans, a long-sleeved white t-shirt, and a dark red sweater. Going down to the inn’s kitchen, she took the lobster roll and a glass of wine to the dining room and settled down with her iPad. Based on the style of the painting and the clothes worn by its subject, she did some searches on “renaissance portrait,” then refined that to “italian renaissance portrait” and further to “italian renaissance portrait lady.” She was rewarded with dozens of images similar to the one she had seen in the secret compartment—formal portrayals of richly clad women against pastoral backgrounds, sometimes cradling a small dog or a lamb or, in one case, a unicorn, which wa
s much smaller than she would have expected.

  She scanned idly through the images, enlarging the ones that looked in style most like the painting she had seen. But most of them lacked the finesse of the portrait of “The Lady”—the fine brushwork, the subtle shading of the background, the detail of the material of the dress. She had at first assumed that it was a well-done reproduction, but perhaps it wasn’t impossible for a family with enough money to own a hotel to have enough money to purchase an original. She had dipped her toe into the commercial art world with her own paintings, but she had no experience with fine art dealing. On the one hand, what Garrick had said about the Lynam family’s bad financial luck made it seem unlikely that they would own an old master. On the other hand, the sale of the painting would evidently provide the funds needed to save the hotel, so its value must be significant.

  Well, she would try to get more information from Garrick once he had seen the painting—she didn’t doubt that in his well-stocked library in Somesville were some books on Renaissance portraiture.

  She flipped the cover of her iPad closed and, having finished her lobster roll, took the plate to the kitchen and refilled her glass. She went to the sitting room and scanned the shelves, locating, to her surprise, a dog-eared copy of a Nero Wolfe mystery—Rex Stout had been a favorite of her mother’s. She saw that a fire had been laid and she lit the kindling and was rewarded with the pleasing crackle and pop as the wood caught. She settled herself into one of the overstuffed chairs. Much nicer than the unpredictable warblings of small-town Maine jazz, she thought.

  But the painting in the secret compartment kept intruding on her thoughts, and eventually she flipped the book closed on the adventures of Nero and Archie and returned to her iPad in the dining room.

  She experimented for some time with various searches, for a while getting drawn into pages describing the loss and retrieval of artworks stolen by the Nazis before and during World War II. Could Ellen’s father, or possibly grandfather, have fought in the war and smuggled a masterwork home with them? She tried entering “italian renaissance portrait lynam” but none of the entries contained “lynam.” She tried “italian renaissance portrait maine” and one of the results caught her eye.