Deep Night Page 10
The differences between the background and this figure in the fore were more than merely stylistic; a careful observance of the shape, from the red frill of the umbrella, down to the white feet that disappeared into vague, white stubs, showed that this thing had been cast through a very different technique. None of the care afforded to the rest of the painting had been put to use in crafting this pale effigy; it looked like the paint had been smeared on with a finger, rather than applied with a brush. Where Cosloy's work was uniformly smooth, here small globs of paint stuck out from the surface of the canvas in grotesque pockets which lent the figure both a messy, childish aspect, as well as an unwholesome reality.
His disgust mounted the longer he looked at it; it was like studying a particularly nasty and many-legged species of insect under glass. Though he told himself it was simply the poor lighting in his office, there were several instances where Ulrich, staring at the amorphous figure, could have sworn he'd seen it move. Each time, he'd blink, wipe at his sleep-starved eyes, assure himself it was impossible. But then... hadn't that thin, white arm been located a few millimeters to the right during his last glance? And what of that raven-colored lock of hair—hadn't it been draped over one shoulder, rather than fluttering in the wind?
Having tired of looking at the thing, Ulrich dropped onto his stool and stretched for a long while. The painting, as best he could tell, was just a painting. Save for that awful figure on it, there were no marks anywhere on the thing he could ascribe to devilry. The riddle could not be solved by mere study; in order to find out what was behind the specter, Ulrich would have no choice but to look beyond the art.
That next afternoon, he already had plans to speak to Stephen Cosloy, the man who'd painted the thing. Then there was its previous owner—William Villefort. Ulrich was going to have a hell of a time asking him about the painting, seeing as how his own wife couldn't get ahold of him, and there was no guarantee that he'd know anything about the painting's newest addition, either. The only other angle Ulrich could think of was to visit the place depicted; that is, to stop by this remote property owned by William to see if there were any clues tying it to the apparition.
Standing up, Ulrich collected his things and shuffled through the morass of cleaning supplies and printer paper to put out the light. He would leave the painting in his office overnight—he couldn't stomach the thought of bringing it home with him—and retrieve it the following afternoon before visiting Cosloy's studio. Plunging the room into darkness and sidling over to the door, the detective paused to lock up.
His eyes were shot by then, but for whatever reason he felt compelled to cast one last look into his dark office as he departed. He didn't see anything as he shut the door, and yet in his instant's survey of that black hovel, he thought he sensed someone lurking there. Even as he shut the door and locked it, he could feel a presence on the other side of the door.
Ulrich made haste, jogging down the three flights and bursting out onto the first level. There, with a start, he encountered the custodian again.
Percival placed a hand against his chest, feigning a heart attack. “Damn, you scared the piss outta me! We've gotta stop running into each other like this!”
Ulrich spared a weak smile, stepping past him. “Sorry about that.” He'd tired of the dark office building. The sooner he put some distance between himself and that wretched painting, the better. He strode across the bookshop towards the side door, but as he gunned for the exit, the janitor called out to him once more.
“Hey, uh, be careful out there,” said Percy, adjusting his ponytail. “I think we're expecting some rain.”
“Rain, huh?” muttered the detective. The night had been foggy, but so far he'd seen no evidence of rain.
Percy shrugged. “Well, I haven't watched the forecast, mind you, but I was mopping up the entryway there and I saw some woman hanging around outside. She had an umbrella on her, so I just figured we must be in for some of the wet stuff.”
Ulrich held his breath, a single hand against the exit door. He suddenly yanked it away, like the metal was burning hot. “A... A woman with an umbrella?” he asked, turning.
Percy nodded. “Yeah, must've been ten or fifteen minutes ago. Why? Was it someone you know? You weren't expecting someone, were ya? If I'd known, I'd have let 'em in!”
“No,” replied the detective. “It's fine. Take it easy, Percy.” With grit teeth, the investigator pushed open the door and set out into the mist-ridden night. He paused under the awning a moment, studying the lane that ran beside the Otterbein building, and when he felt reasonably sure there was no one lurking in the fog, he took off running for the back lot.
Though his drive home took only a few minutes and he encountered no other cars on the road, Ulrich found himself glancing repeatedly into his mirrors, looking in the fog-choked streets for lone figures. He didn't find any, but more than once—especially at the stop signs—he felt himself watched from somewhere close-by. Every shadow, every knot of fog that drifted by, might contain the apparition. To him, each street sign looked almost like an umbrella, every fire hydrant like a figure crouched in wait by the roadside.
When he made it home, the first thing he did after bursting inside was to lock the door and put on all the lights. Beardsley had been napping on the futon and looked up at him with annoyance for the racket he made. Where usually he would have gotten after the cat for knocking the mail off the counter, or clawing up the futon cover, Ulrich prepared for bed without a word. He tossed his clothes over the shower rod and threw on some pajamas. Stewing in the silence of his home a few minutes saw him calm down a bit—though not enough to put out all of the lights. He left the kitchen lights on and settled into bed.
As a rule, Beardsley wasn't allowed to sleep on Ulrich's bed. The cat was fond of cozying up to the detective's face while he slept, and he'd been jostled awake one too many times by the animal's suffocating bulk to allow it. This night, though, when Beardsley hopped onto the edge of the bed and stretched out at his feet, Ulrich couldn't bring himself to shoo the cat away.
14
Morning came sooner than he liked.
Rinsing off in the shower and scarfing down a bruised apple he'd forgotten behind his microwave, the detective set out around nine with a mind towards putting the pieces together. He had a few items on his mental to-do list: He needed to speak to Stephen Cosloy, the painter, though couldn't meet him till that afternoon, and he'd need an audience with the philandering William Villefort. Depending on what these conversations brought to light, he might have to pay the property depicted in Nancy's painting a personal visit, too.
Arranging these in order of convenience, he settled on revisiting the Villefort residence out in Zeiss Cove, first. Laura Villefort wasn't going to be very happy to see him, but he had no choice but to drop by and ask her a few more questions if he was going to have any chance of tracking down and speaking to her husband. So that he might make himself less a nuisance, he stalled for an hour at Peter Cat, sipping espressos and arguing with Harry about the merits of the Bill Evans Trios' Trio '65 album before finally striking out for the Villefort place around 10:30.
He parked his heap out front and shuffled up the gently-sloping lawn, rapping out a few friendly-sounding knocks at the door. These were answered in due time by Laura who, by the looks of it, was still wearing the same robe. She appraised him with surprise; at least, for an instant. Her true feelings at discovering him on the porch were revealed when she asked, “What're you doing here?”
Ulrich nodded sheepishly, offering a warm smile. “Mighty sorry to bother you again. I hate to show up unannounced like this, but I have a few more questions. Can I come in? It won't take more than ten, fifteen minutes.”
Laura's eyes were ringed with dark circles, and she blinked at the detective with unveiled annoyance. “A few more questions? About what?” She looked poised to order him away, and yet she stopped short of slamming the door in his face. “What is this about? The painting again?”
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br /> He gave a slight nod. “Sort of. You see, I'm looking to speak to your husband about the piece but I don't know how to get ahold of him.”
The frown she wore only deepened at this. She threw her hands out, leveling a steely gaze on him. “You deaf? Didn't we go through this the last time? I haven't spoken to my husband in more than a week. He's off humping that trollop.” She waved him off, shaking her head. “If I knew where to find his sorry ass I'd give him a piece of my mind.”
Ulrich nodded sympathetically. “Yes, I know, and I'm sorry to have to bring him up again. I understand this is a sensitive subject, but it just so happens, as a previous owner of this painting, he figures into my case. Even if he doesn't answer, a phone number or email address of his would be much appreciated. Or, if you have some idea of where he might have run off to, I could look into it. Is it possible he and this woman have gone to your other property, the one depicted in the painting?”
Laura tongued her molars and loosed a heavy sigh. “Come on, let's make this quick.” As he stepped inside, she slammed the door behind him and trudged off to what looked like a kitchen. She returned in short order with a slip of paper bearing a phone number. “This is his cell. It's possible he's gone to the other property, but I wouldn't know. He doesn't pick up his phone or call to check in with me. I guess I don't blame him for ignoring my calls—he knows I'd rip him a new asshole if he answered.”
“Thank you,” said the detective, placing the phone number behind the front cover of his notebook. “Do you have a picture of your husband, by chance?”
With a snort, she shoved her hands into the robe pockets. “A picture? What for? You really going to go through the trouble of tracking him down just to ask him some questions about that damn picture?” She shook her head dismissively. “What, is someone paying you to track him down; if anyone ought to be doing that, it's me.”
“No,” replied Ulrich, “it would just be useful to me. Like I said, as the painting's last owner, he's a person of interest in the case I'm working.”
With a toss of her shoulders, Laura started off to the right, entering the living room. Scooping a picture frame from one of the side tables there, she unfastened the closure on the back and removed the photo within. Folding it carefully in half, she then tore it in two. As she brought it back to him, Ulrich saw that it'd been a picture of Laura and her husband; she offered only the half featuring William. “There you go. He's gained some weight since that one was taken. Probably lost some hair, too.”
Ulrich scanned the picture for a beat. William Villefort had a common look; nothing about him was remarkable. He wore a blue polo in the picture, looked around fifty and had a slight paunch. Clean shaven with a weak jaw, his hair was more silver than brown. “I appreciate it,” he said, slipping the photo between the pages of his notebook. “One last thing.”
Hands on her hips, Laura stared up at him expectantly.
“This housekeeper he's involved with...”
Laura's eyes narrowed to pinpoints. “If you think I've got any pictures of my husband's pet whore to give you, then you're dumber than you look. Why don't you get the hell out of here, ask an art critic about that ugly picture if your client is so damn curious about it?”
“I'm sorry,” said the detective, “I know I've been a nuisance. I don't need a picture of her, just a name or something. It'll really help me out.”
Nostrils flared, Laura paced across the marble floors of the entryway and wrenched the front door open. Nodding to the porch and indicating that the interview was over, she mumbled, “Her name is Gloria. Gloria Ramos. Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't care to talk much more about her. In case you haven't noticed, I've dwelt on her enough the past week. Kindly leave. And don't come back. I'm not interested in answering any more of your questions.”
“I understand,” replied Ulrich, stepping outside. “I'm sorry for the intrusion.”
“I want you to tell your client something for me, whoever they are.” Laura stood in the doorway, her hand resting on the handle.
“Sure, what is it?”
“Tell them to go fuck themselves.” The door slammed shut with a loud crack and Ulrich was left stunned on the porch.
He paused under the awning just long enough to jot down the housekeeper's name in his notebook, and then started quickly down the steps. He'd more than worn out his welcome, it was clear. Still, he'd come away from the encounter with a bit of new information. He had a photo of William to work with, along with his number and the name of his newest squeeze. It might take some elbow grease, but he could do something with this intel.
As he filed back into the car and pulled away from the curb, he noticed Laura watching him from the window, felt her cold stare upon him as he drove down the street. He felt guilty; the woman had enough to deal with. She didn't need him poking around, re-opening wounds before they'd even had a chance to fully heal. He couldn't hold the icy reception against her.
Leaving the neighborhood and starting back to the center of town, Ulrich glanced at the clock. There was still more than an hour before Cosloy's studio opened. Deciding to grab a bite to eat, he swung into the parking lot of a fast food joint, but before heading into the restaurant he pulled out his phone and gave Nancy a call.
The client picked up after a few rings, sounding a bit tired. “Hey, Mr. Ulrich,” she began with a yawn. “How are things?”
“Late night?” asked the detective.
“Sure was.”
“That makes two of us. I've just been back to chat with the lady who pawned the painting, Laura Villefort. She wasn't too happy to see me, but I got some info on her husband. I want to talk to him, see if he's had any weird experiences with the painting, but first I was wondering if you were acquainted with him. Prior to this sale, were you familiar with either William or Laura Villefort?”
Nancy paused to think. “No, not really. I knew the name—Villefort. Associated it with money. But that's about the length of it.”
“OK, what about the name Gloria Ramos? Ring any bells?”
“Uh...” Nancy yawned again. “Not really, no. Who's that?”
“Never mind.” Ulrich stepped out of the car, stretched his legs. “One other question. Laura said something strange the last time I spoke to her. When we were talking about the painting, she claimed not to remember any human figure—insisted it was just a landscape. You and I know different, of course.”
“Yeah, how could she have missed that?”
“Well, it's possible she's lying, though I don't know why she would. The other possibility is that the figure appeared after she sold it. When she brought the picture in, were you the one who handled the transaction? Did you meet her in the shop when she came in that day, or was it one of your employees?”
“It wasn't me, no,” replied Nancy. “It was my part-timer, Jack. The customer was willing to part with the painting for very little, so he scooped it up. He knew it would be worth something since it was a Cosloy piece. I came in that afternoon, after he'd bought it up, and I thought it was pretty nice, so I decided to eat the cost and bring it home. The figure on it was a little weird—really, it was the only part I didn't like. Still, I thought it would be neat to have a Cosloy painting to show off in my living room, so I didn't really question it.”
“Do you think your employee, Jack, might have put the figure there? Because if we're to believe Laura Villefort, there was no one with an umbrella in that painting while she was associated with it.”
“No, absolutely not. He wouldn't tamper with our merchandise like that; in fact, he's a big fan of the artist. I can't believe that he'd ruin the work by adding something to it. But...” Nancy trailed off. “But if the artist didn't put it there, then... who did?”
“That's what I'm trying to figure out,” said the detective. “If all parties in this are to be believed—and assuming you didn't paint the figure yourself—then the only possibility is that it popped up on the canvas sometime between the sale and your first perusal of it
. And if your employee isn't the culprit, then...”
“No way, I didn't paint it! And no, Jack wouldn't do such a thing. I got there not too long after he'd bought it, and the paint was definitely dry.”
“So, some unidentified third party had to have altered the painting somehow in that narrow window. But I have my doubts as to whether or not it was a living person.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean that, for whatever reason, when the painting changed hands, this image was cast onto it by the spirit who's been appearing at your window. It was holding onto the thing, wanted to send a message. The figure in the painting was its calling card.”
“So, what is it trying to say? Why did it alter the painting? Why's it been showing up every night?”
“Million-dollar questions, those,” said Ulrich.
“I ain't paying you a million bucks to find out,” Nancy was quick to add.
“Fact is, something about that painting is important to the spirit. Unless it's something meaningful, I can think of no other reason why a ghost would latch onto an object. If Stephen Cosloy can't tell me anything this afternoon, then maybe—if I can get ahold of him—William Villefort can. Otherwise, I guess I'm going to have to find the property depicted in the painting and have a look around.” He chuckled. “But that's my last resort, and I don't want to get nailed with criminal trespass if I don't have to.”
“All right, that makes sense,” said Nancy. “You're meeting with Cosloy today?”
“After lunch. From there, I'm going to try and find Mr. Villefort. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck. And please, let me know if I can help you in any way.”
“Sure thing.” With that, Ulrich cut the line and stepped into the restaurant. Taking his time with a value meal in a corner booth, he picked up an ice cream cone on his way out and enjoyed it in the parking lot before speeding off to the Otterbein building. Once he'd retrieved the accursed painting, his next stop would be Cosloy's studio.