The Black Painting. Neil Olson

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      Teresa retrieved her water glass and sat in the chair the detective had used. She was twice as tired after her outburst. The chair was hard. The room was hard. You were supposed to look at it, not actually use it. One of those stupid customs of the rich.

      “I spoke to my dad,” Audrey said. “And Philip. I didn’t call your mom, I figured it would be weird me calling since you’re here. She may have heard from one of them by now.”

      “I’ll call her,” Teresa said, wondering where her phone was. “Thanks for doing all that. For taking care of everything.”

      “That’s what I do.”

      “Yeah?” Teresa said, her mind elsewhere.

      “You thought I just made messes that my father had to clean up,” Audrey replied, a hard edge beneath her light tone.

      “I didn’t mean anything.”

      “I admit that’s been true too often,” Audrey went on. “But I also watch out for everyone. Don’t you be surprised if—”

      She was interrupted by the front door opening.

      “What now?” Audrey complained, jumping up. “Did he forget his plastic badge?”

      It was not Waldron but their uncle Philip. The very man who was to terrorize the Langford police force, in Audrey’s overblown threat. The attorney’s face was more lined, and his hair grayer than when Teresa last saw him. He wore a suit, though it was Sunday. No tie, loafers without socks, and a deeper tan than his niece, though he never took a vacation. Through the lenses of his designer glasses, his eyes looked startled.

      “Audrey,” he said softly. “You poor thing.”

      The words rang false. Perhaps because Teresa had never heard gentleness from her uncle’s lips. Or perhaps because she was a fault-finding bitch who had swallowed her mother’s hatred for her family whole. And yet she did not mistake the distaste with which her cousin recoiled from their uncle’s embrace.

      “Hey, Philip,” Audrey said. “Sorry about Grandpa.”

      “Yes,” he said distractedly. “Yes, it’s... Teresa, look at you.”

      Not wanting to embarrass the man twice, Teresa gave him a quick hug. He was tall, like all the Morse men. Philip patted her back perfunctorily, then took her by the shoulders.

      “Are you all right?” he asked. How many times would she have to answer that today? Not this time, anyway, since he went on immediately. “Have you called your mother?”

      “Not yet.”

      “I’ve spoken to her already, but you should call. She’s worried about you. Audrey, where is your father?”

      “Don’t know,” she said with shrug.

      “You don’t know? You told me you talked.”

      “He was in an airport. In the States, I think. Said he would get here as soon as he could.”

      Philip shook his head in annoyance. Audrey’s father did some kind of international finance, or maybe it was mergers and acquisitions. Teresa could not keep it straight. But he was always flying around the world. Making and losing fortunes, but mostly losing them. Philip turned back to Teresa.

      “You found his body?”

      “Yes,” she said.

      “That must have been terrible. Terrible. I’m so sorry. Where are the police?” he asked Audrey accusingly. As if she had made up their presence. Or as if she had chased them away, which was in fact the case.

      “The detective just left,” Audrey replied. “I told him he would be hearing from you.”

      “Damn right he will,” the attorney said, though what he meant was unclear. True to form, Philip seemed supercharged with purpose. Yet in these circumstances, uncertain where to direct it. “He was in the study?”

      “We’re not supposed to go in there,” Teresa said automatically.

      “Girl Scout,” Audrey snarked.

      “Why not?” asked Philip. “Did they say there was an investigation?”

      “No, but they’re worried about Ilsa.”

      “As we all are,” he said, moving swiftly down the hall. “I don’t see what that has to do with sealing off rooms. The study is where Father keeps his papers.”

      “Action Man is here,” Audrey announced, as they listened to Philip rattle the handle to the study door.

      “What in God’s name,” he called. “They locked it? Where is the key?”

      Audrey reached into her pocket and pulled out a key, dangling it before her cousin and putting a finger to her lips. Audrey was always stealing keys when they were young. She even claimed to have been in the forbidden study. Teresa shook her head in puzzlement.

      “You’re Waldron’s watchdog now?”

      “Nah, I just enjoy pissing off Philip. But it’s funny,” Audrey mused. “I don’t remember telling him that Grandpa was in the study.”

       3

      Miranda surprised her. Teresa’s mother had done nothing but disparage her father for years, and was all business when Teresa finally called. Caring only that her daughter was well. But her arrival at Owl’s Point that evening told a different story. Her eyes were red and damp, her face haggard. She clutched Teresa fiercely and would not let go for a long time. They were not a warm family. Neither Grandpa Morse nor Ramón Marías were physically demonstrative. Yet there had once been this kind of strong affection between mother and daughter, so long ago that Teresa had nearly forgotten. When did it stop? And which of them had been the one to pull away?

      “He loved you very much,” Miranda said as she drew back. “I’m sorry he didn’t get to tell you. I’m sorry I kept the two of you apart all these years.”

      Her tone was matter-of-fact. No hair-pulling theatrics from Miranda; that was not her style. But Teresa heard the depth of grief in those few words.

      “He told me,” she said. Had he? In one of those occasional phone calls? If he had not used the word, he had surely conveyed love in the ways of which he was capable. In his curiosity about Teresa’s life, her studies, her desires and fears. “I could have gone to see him anytime. I spent four years half an hour away from here.”

      “You knew it would upset me,” her mother countered. Which was true, but not the whole truth.

      “It doesn’t matter now. I’m sorry for you. You must have been close to him once.”

      “No.” Miranda dabbed her face with an overworked tissue. “I don’t know, maybe when I was small. Mostly he was this faraway figure. Always traveling, or locked in the study. Then he would come crashing over us like a storm. Poor СКАЧАТЬ