Deep Night Page 7

  Ulrich finished his coffee and teetered on the stool. “Well, thanks.”

  Harry moved to the turntable, lowering the stylus onto a record. It was Portrait in Jazz again.

  Hesitant to start his work and wishing to hash out the details of this pressing case with someone else, Ulrich had a look about the cafe as Bill Evans took to the keys. They were the only two in the building, by the looks of it. Still, when he spoke to Harry, it was in a hushed tone. “Tell me, do you know any artists in the area?”

  Harry turned down the volume and gave the matter some thought. “Artists?” he asked, arms akimbo. “I know a few, yes. What kind of artist are you looking for?”

  “Landscapes,” replied Ulrich. “What's more, I think his first name is Stephen or something like that?”

  The owner's eyes lit up with recognition and he snapped his fingers. “Yes, I know the one. You're talking about Stephen Cosloy. Why, he's damn good—he ought to be world-famous. The local museum put on an exhibition of his landscapes a year or two back, and I popped in. Gorgeous work; his paintings are so detailed they look like photographs.”

  Ulrich nodded. That sounded like his man. He reached into his blazer pocket for his notebook, thumbed to a clean page and jotted down the full name. “Know where he lives, by chance?”

  Harry couldn't help furnishing a wicked grin. “Goodness, are you investigating him? What has he gotten himself into? Something juicy?”

  “That's strictly classified,” said the detective. With a wink, he added, “Anyway, for all you know, I'm just in the market for a landscape to hang over my mantle.”

  The owner chuckled, pacing around behind the counter. “I don't know for certain where he lives, but if I had to guess he's in one of the ritzier neighborhoods. Maybe Oakwood or The Ridge. If you look him up online or in the phone book you may be able to find him.” He paused, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Come to think of it, he's got a studio here in town. It's a small place—he occasionally does showcases there. I haven't been, but it isn't very far.” He did a bit of scrolling. “It's closed today, but will be open tomorrow afternoon.”

  Ulrich craned his neck and studied Harry's phone. “That'll do nicely. Thanks for the tip.” When he had the address of the studio down, Ulrich put his notebook away. Just then, his phone began to ring; a glance at the screen told him it was Nancy. “Well, I guess I should be on my way. Duty calls.” He planted a few bills under his cup and headed for the door. “Thanks for everything, Harry.”

  “It's my pleasure!” Harry cranked up the music as the investigator left the premises to take his call.

  “How did you sleep?” asked Nancy as Ulrich plopped down onto a bench outside the cafe.

  “Not particularly well,” he replied. “How about you? Any other visits last night?”

  “No,” she replied with a lilt of relief, “there was no more tapping. Though, my sleep wasn't great after...” Nancy cleared her throat. “I've been thinking about it—this ghost thing. Maybe you're right, maybe it isn't so silly after all. I've never been very superstitious, but considering everything that's happened in the last few days, there does seem to be an... inexplicable element to all of this.” She managed a small laugh. “Anyway, I figure I already paid you an advance, and there's no getting it back, so I'll just have to trust you on this and hope you can get rid of the ghost.”

  Ulrich grinned. “Even if you doubt it now, I'll probably have enough proof to convince you before this is through.”

  “Anyhow, I made it to the shop this morning and did some digging in my files. It turns out the painting was pawned by a Mrs. Laura Villefort. She came in and sold it four mornings ago—”

  “About the same amount of time as the tapping's been going on,” interrupted the detective.

  “That's right.”

  “And the painter?” asked Ulrich. “Any chance it was done by a Stephen Cosloy?”

  “Yes, that's him. How did you know?”

  Ulrich smirked down at his notebook as he carefully penned his notes. “I did a little digging of my own this morning. Turns out he has a studio in town. I might run by for a visit tomorrow, ask him why the subject of his painting is harassing my client. Say, this Mrs. Villefort who sold it to you... I'd like to have a chat with her, too, if possible. Got an address on her by chance?”

  “I do, actually.” Nancy set down the phone a moment to leaf through some papers. “We scan the licenses of everyone who pawns things to us—that way if something turns up stolen we can send the cops after them.” She read a few lines under her breath and then happened upon what she was looking for. “Right, the address. I've got 4311 Zeiss Cove. It's a pricy area—too rich for my blood, anyhow.”

  Ulrich noted the address and then snapped his moleskine shut. “Perfect. I'll be in touch as soon as I can make heads or tails of the thing. I'll speak to Mrs. Villefort today and to our artist tomorrow afternoon. Now, what are you up to tonight? Any chance I could swing by around nightfall again and observe?”

  “Tonight?” she asked. “Oh, no, I'm sorry. I should have mentioned this earlier. I'm actually heading out of town after work today—meeting some friends down in Columbus. I'll be gone two nights.” She hesitated. “That won't be a problem, will it? For the investigation, I mean?”

  “No,” replied the detective. “In fact, it may present a unique opportunity. If you're going to be out of town then we'll get to test this apparition. Will it still show up while you're out of the house, at your window—thus proving its link to the painting? Or... will you and your friends enjoy its company down in Columbus?”

  “Y-You don't think it'll really follow me there, do you?”

  “I can't say for sure, but if I were a betting man, I'd say it's stuck to the painting. You're probably safe. Make sure to call me immediately if you do notice anything off while you're out. I'll do the same. Would it be all right with you if I staked out the property again tonight, even if you won't be there? I'm curious as to how the spirit will behave without you.”

  “Sure, that's fine,” said Nancy. “And if you need to get inside for any reason, there's a spare key under the flower pot, next to the front steps.”

  “Excellent, will do.” Ulrich checked the time on his watch and then stood. “I'm going to pay this Villefort woman a visit. I'll let you know if I dig anything up.”

  “Thank you, please do.”

  Ulrich crossed the street and started for his apartment, keeping his phone handy. On his leisurely walk of twenty minutes, Ulrich tapped the woman's address into a search engine and got an idea of where the neighborhood was located. Stopping home just long enough to drink some water and check on the cat, the detective hopped into his car and was on the road to 4311 Zeiss Cove before noon.

  10

  Nancy hadn't been lying; Zeiss Cove looked to be a moneyed neighborhood, and that was putting it lightly. The massive houses he took in as he started down the smooth, freshly-paved roads cast imposing shadows, and the lawns attached to them were unanimously lush. There were probably closets in these houses that were bigger than his entire studio.

  Ulrich scanned the numbers on the mailboxes and eventually found his way to 4311. Easing his jalopy to a sputtering halt against the curb, he stepped out and straightened his tie, cringing at the decrepit figure his sedan cut into an otherwise flawless scene.

  The Villefort house was as ostentatious as any other on the street, with a cobblestone exterior and handsome porch columns, though it looked a touch smaller than its neighbors; probably it had only eight bedrooms, rather than the standard ten. The lawn sloped gently, necessitating a short stone stairwell to bridge the gap between the sidewalk and front door, and on both sides of this construction were gorgeous rows of wildflowers—each of them planted equidistantly from the next. The front-facing windows—there must have been a dozen—were all hung with the same dense, white curtains and the attached garage to the right appeared capable of housing three full-sized cars, at minimum.

  On the po
rch, Ulrich took a few moments to wipe his scuffed-up dress shoes on the welcome mat and then hit the doorbell. The klaxon produced a warm and resonant note that seemed to go on for ages, but as it died out there came from the other side of the sturdy mahogany door the sound of shuffling feet. A series of bolts were turned and the door opened a few inches. From this opening—seemingly from thin air—came a woman's voice, haggard and tinged with impatience. “Who is it?”

  “Good afternoon,” began the detective. “My name is Harlan Ulrich. I'm a private investigator working here in town. I've dropped by today in search of a Mrs. Laura Villefort. Do I have the right address?” He leaned to the side, spying the slight figure of the woman just beyond the threshold. She was very short, a hair over five feet, perhaps, and with platinum blonde hair of shoulder-length—firmly planted in middle-age.

  The woman shifted uncomfortably and opened the door another smidgeon. The light of day brought her into clearer focus; gave dimension to the circles under her eyes, and to the redness that plagued them. Enrobed in a plush garment with a black sash, the woman pursed her lips—chapped and chewed up—and looked up at Ulrich sternly. “What... what is this about?” The annoyance remained in her voice—annoyance, along with a harsh note like suspicion. This latter tone only intensified as she peered past the detective, to the street, where his car was parked. “You're a detective?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” replied Ulrich. He took out his wallet and produced the supporting documents. She studied the card he offered—his private investigator's license—then handed it back.

  She opened the door further, buried her hands in the deep pockets of her robe. “Well, I'm Laura Villefort, but... what is this about?”

  Ulrich presented a kind smile. “I have a few questions about a painting you recently sold to Nancy Pruitt, at the Terrace View Pawnshop.”

  “Oh.” Confusion stole into the woman's puffy gaze. She stepped aside. “Come in, then.”

  The detective thanked her, stepping into a dim foyer with tiled marble floors. When she'd shut the door and refastened its many locks, Laura Villefort sulked off to the left, towards a well-furnished sitting room. Stationing herself upon a sofa and staring idly at the window, she seemed to wait for Ulrich to begin his questioning.

  As he studied the room—the spent tissues littering the lacquered side table, the half-empty bottle of liquor she'd stashed behind it, the pillows and blankets draped across the sofa—he got the impression that the woman had been spending a great deal of time there as of late; that she'd probably been camped there prior to the interruption and that she'd linger there still when he'd gone. Clearing his throat and settling into a wicker chair, Ulrich crossed his legs and tried breaking the ice. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Villefort.”

  She responded without looking at him, her voice hollow. “Thank you.”

  “Look,” continued the detective, “I'll try not to take up too much of your time. I just have a few questions about that painting you sold at the pawnshop. I understand it belonged to you and that you sold it to Nancy at the shop about four days ago?”

  Laura turned to him sharply, the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes lengthening as she snarled, “Not mine. It was my husband's.”

  “I see.” Ulrich glanced about the room. “And where is Mr. Villefort at the moment?”

  The woman snorted with laughter, then luxuriated against one arm of the sofa like an old-time starlet on a chaise. Her laughter faded and came to be replaced by a vacancy that left her red eyes misty. “That's a fine question, Mr. Detective. Maybe I ought to hire you to look into that for me.”

  Ulrich sat up. “Erm, how do you mean? You... don't know where he is?”

  She threw up a hand in a dismissive wave—a practiced movement that failed to hide the soreness in her heart. “I have some idea where he is. He ran off with that whore of a housekeeper. I know that much. But, you understand, when they have their little trysts he isn't courteous enough to leave me a note, so...”

  The detective offered a sympathetic nod. “I'm... sorry to hear that.”

  Laura shrugged, eyes scanning the window blankly. She reached out and touched the heavy curtains, rubbing the coarse fabric between her fingers. “Why apologize? That's the way of men, isn't it? They're like dogs, but without the loyalty. They seek novelty—anything to feel young again, no matter who they hurt.” She smiled wistfully. “I'm sure he'll come back in a few days, acting like nothing's happened. He'll play it cool—promise me he won't stray again. But this time I won't take him back. He's hit my last nerve. When I see him again, I'm going to drop a fat stack of divorce papers in his lap.” Finally, she sighed, turning to the detective. “Anyway, what's this about? I sold the painting at the pawnshop like you said, along with a few other things—his things. I was so angry with my husband that I couldn't stand to look at them anymore. I'll probably part with more before the week is out—and if he's got a problem with it he can come home and say it to my face. Not that he will—he's too busy romancing that whore of his.”

  “Right...” Ulrich ran a hand through his hair. When he'd walked up to the door of this house, the owner's indiscretions had been the absolute last things he'd expected to talk about. “So, can you tell me more about the painting? Where did your husband get it? How long did he own it?”

  Laura pointed a finger at him, singling out the wall to his back. “As a matter of fact, it's been hanging there for a few years. He had it commissioned—some local artist that does landscapes. Cosloy was his name—kind of a prick. Guess that's why my husband got along with him so well.”

  “Your husband had it commissioned?” Ulrich pictured the painting in his mind—the dreariness, the vast field in the foreground, the house and trees in the background and, of course, the queer figure dashed onto the right side of the canvas. “Why did he commission such a piece? Did it have any significance to him?”

  Examining her nails, Laura replied, “He was pretty proud of the thing. It's damn depressing, if you ask me. I wanted to torch it every time I looked at it. The room's a lot brighter without that piece of junk fouling up the air.”

  On this point, Ulrich couldn't disagree.

  Laura continued. “He liked Cosloy's paintings, saw them at some hoity-toity art event downtown, and asked him to do one of our new house in the country.”

  “So, the scene in the painting—it's taken from real life? It's a picture of another property you own?” asked Ulrich.

  Bitterness lent her posture more rigidity as she sat up, resting her brow on her palms. “A few years back, he decided to invest in that house. It's up near the city limits, has a pond, lots of land. William—my husband—wanted us to sell this place off and move there. Even after construction ended and he'd spent a good deal of money furnishing it, we never did move there, though. Instead, he used it as a retreat. He'd spend time fishing there, drinking with his buddies, and—” She grit her teeth. “Well, I suppose he invited his various lady friends there now and then, played out his very own 120 Days of Sodom.” She sat upright, toying with one of her gold earrings. “When the divorce is finalized, I'm going to sell that stupid property off. He'll be lucky if he can afford a refrigerator box to sleep in when I'm through with him.”

  Ulrich considered these details a moment. The painting had been commissioned by William Villefort, and its subject was the couple's vast country property. What of the sinister character with the red umbrella, however? How did that figure into it? “Say,” began the investigator, crossing his legs and folding his hands atop his knee, “while you owned the painting, did you notice anything strange about it? Were there any weird occurrences about this house during your ownership of the work?”

  “Strange?” asked Laura, giving a curt shake of the head. “It seems to me that the only strange thing about it was that anyone could have such poor taste as to hang a picture of that kind in their sitting room. What do you mean, exactly?”

  “Erm... Well, what about the figure in the painting?” asked Ulr
ich. “The figure in the foreground? Who was that modeled after?”

  Laura looked at him narrowly—looked at him as though he were a sputtering idiot. “What figure?”

  “The... there's a figure in the foreground of the painting—on the right-hand side...” began the detective.

  “No,” replied Laura. “No, I looked at the thing on a daily basis for years. There's no figure there—it's a landscape. An ugly one, but just a landscape. I should know. Are you sure we're even discussing the same painting?”

  Laura Villefort, who'd owned the painting for years prior to its recent sale, claimed it featured only a landscape—that there was no human figure to be seen in it. But how was that possible? Was she lying? Could the painting have changed in the past four days, since it had been sold to Nancy at the pawnshop? The figure in the painting had seemed out of place, was of a sketchier and more impressionistic cast than the rest of it, but if the artist hadn't put it there, then who had, and for what purpose?

  This visit had produced more questions for the detective than it had answered.

  “Well, thank you very much for your time, ma'am,” said Ulrich, standing. “That's all I've got. I'm very sorry to have bothered you today.”

  Laura led him back to the foyer, spared a weak wave as she shut the door behind him. Ulrich descended the steps and returned to his car. When the engine got going and he'd pulled away from the curb, he rolled down his windows and puzzled out his next move.

  If Laura was to be believed, the figure with the red umbrella wasn't an original part of the landscape. Rather, it had been added to the canvas by someone else—and very recently, at that. Who had done it? Could it have been Nancy herself? But why would she do such a thing and not tell him about it?