The Black Painting. Neil Olson

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      “Get out.”

      Teresa had not seen Audrey enter the room. She was standing very close to the detective, a murderous look in her eyes. Waldron stood and nodded politely at her, as if she had not spoken.

      “Get out,” Audrey said again, louder.

      “Your cousin and I were discussing the—”

      “I heard what you were discussing. I told you to leave her alone.”

      “I believe,” Waldron answered, “that Miss Marías is best equipped to make that decision herself.”

      “Then you obviously know nothing about trauma,” Audrey said. “So listen to me. Our uncle, who will be here any minute, is a big-time attorney. And I will sue you personally and your entire podunk department for harassment, coercion, mental cruelty and anything else I can think of, if you do not get out of this house right now.”

      The detective shook his head like a man wronged, but not overly concerned about it. He tucked the notebook into the pocket of his baggy trousers and shuffled out of the room. Audrey followed him closely, a barely restrained violence in her posture. Waldron did not seem to notice.

      “I’m sorry again for your loss,” he said by the front door. “And I apologize for causing any distress during this difficult time.”

      “Save it for the judge,” Audrey growled.

      “It’s all right,” said Teresa, coming to her senses. They were both overreacting badly; the man was only doing his job.

      “There’s no tape on that door,” Waldron mentioned, speaking of the study. “But please do keep it closed and locked. I’ll be in touch if there’s any need to follow up. Oh, and please let me know right away if you see or hear from Ms. Graff.”

      “We’ll do that,” Teresa said, a moment before Audrey slammed the door. And they were alone. Audrey turned to her with such vehemence that Teresa stepped back. She could feel her cousin wanting to lash out, and Teresa was now the only available target. Yet the angry eyes seemed blind to her presence.

      “You okay?” Teresa asked.

      “He was trying to twist my words.”

      “I don’t know what—”

      “He was trying to make it sound like I thought you were coming from the house. I never said that. I never implied it.”

      “Of course not,” said Teresa. Was that what upset her so much? Or was it shock finally kicking in? That seemed more likely. Teresa looked steadily into those blue eyes until the other woman met her gaze. A phrase popped into her head. “Mental cruelty?”

      Her cousin blinked rapidly. Then giggled, and just like that the old Audrey was back.

      “Okay, maybe I had a divorce proceedings flashback.”

      “It sounded good,” Teresa said, relieved. “I think you scared him.”

      “Nah, only embarrassed him a little. I’ve yelled at cops before. They don’t listen to most of what you say.”

      “Maybe just as well. But it’s weird, right? Him coming here?”

      “Not really,” Audrey replied, wandering into the sitting room and throwing herself down on the blue settee. “Ouch, how did you sleep on this?”

      “I didn’t.”

      “Are you all right now? You scared the shit out of me.”

      “Yeah, fine.”

      “Aren’t you supposed to be taking medication?”

      “I do,” Teresa lied. In fact, she did, but not lately. “It doesn’t always work. So why do you think he was here?” she persisted.

      “Ilsa’s disappearing act, for one thing. And, you know. The history.”

      Her father’s face appeared to Teresa. Or her memory of it, she could no longer attest to the accuracy. Long nose, black hair to his shoulders, black eyes. An expression which said that he had seen things others could not see. That he knew things which he would impart, if you only had the means of understanding. Maybe when you were older.

      “That was a long time ago.”

      “A long time to you,” Audrey said. “You were just a kid. I doubt enough happens in this boring town that they’re going to forget something like that.”

      “They convicted Jenny’s brother.”

      “His name is Pete.”

      “I know his name,” Teresa said, though in truth she had forgotten. He was always simply Jenny’s brother, with his shaggy beard and crazy eyes, who helped out with the yard work. And helped himself to whatever was lying around. Silver serving utensils that no one used, fine china collecting dust in the cellar. The occasional brooch or cigarette case. He had never touched any of the artwork before that day of the funeral. “He went to prison. What would that have to do with this?”

      “He’s been out of prison awhile,” said Audrey, letting the fact hang there a moment. “And a lot of people don’t believe he took the painting.”

      “I know what they believe,” Teresa snapped.

      “I didn’t mean that,” Audrey groaned. “God, you and your mother, so defensive.”

      “He was my father.”

      “So what? You can say what you like about my father, I don’t care. He bailed out on the two of you.”

      “He had problems,” said Teresa, barely above a whisper. Her throat was almost too tight to speak. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

      “Anyway, it isn’t only the theft. There was that appraiser keeling over a few years before. You probably don’t even remember that.”

      “I remember,” said Teresa.

      “Right in front of the painting. On that same leather sofa! You don’t think that might seem odd to the cops?”

      “That an obese art historian and a sick old man had heart attacks on the same sofa twenty years apart?” she replied. Incredulous. “What should that mean? I really hope the police are smarter than that.”

      “Well,” said Audrey in a reasonable tone. “Maybe it’s just me that finds it odd.”

      “Even if you believe in fairy tales,” Teresa went on, wondering why she did, “like a portrait killing the appraiser, it still makes no sense. Grandpa looked at that painting for decades. And it’s not even here anymore.”

      “You don’t believe in the painting?” Audrey asked, eyeing her closely. “You used to.”

      “Like you said, I was a kid.”

      Teresa retrieved her water glass and СКАЧАТЬ