Last Night, page 26
“Genevieve?” Kate asked.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Kate Woodward.”
“Didn’t you realize that when I didn’t answer the buzzer, it meant I didn’t feel like having company? Why are you here, anyway?” Genevieve asked.
“I’m a gallery owner,” Kate said.
That perked Genevieve up. “Oh?” she asked.
“I’ve heard about you from Hadley Cooke.”
“Maddie’s sister,” Genevieve said. “They were so close. I started to go see her after I heard about Maddie, but I just couldn’t bear how sad it would have been. I read that Maddie’s daughter was found. Thank God for that.”
Genevieve led Kate into the living room. It was cluttered, books tilting everywhere—on shelves, tables, the floor. Framed photographs were jammed onto the mantel. Two of them were of Maddie.
“Guess you like to read,” Kate said.
“My parents were professors. I inherited their library.”
Kate followed her into another room that was set up as a studio. It had north light, and there was a canvas on a tall wooden easel, turned away from the door. A worktable was piled high with tubes of paint, some crimped and almost empty. Brushes stood soaking in a murky glass jar of linseed oil.
“A work in progress,” Kate said, starting toward the easel, always eager to see what an artist was painting.
“No!” Genevieve said forcefully, blocking Kate’s way.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”
“It’s fine,” Genevieve said, relaxing slightly. “I just don’t let anyone see until I’m finished. It’s a superstition of mine.”
“Of course,” Kate said. She backed away, to ease Genevieve’s mind, and glanced around the studio.
“You can look at anything else,” Genevieve said. “I should let you know, though—I already have a gallery. I’m represented by L. P. Nason, in town.”
“Oh,” Kate said, adding a note of disappointment, glad that Genevieve assumed she was here to offer representation. “Well, I’m not surprised. You’re very talented,” she said, and meant it.
Genevieve led her around the studio, watching Kate’s reactions as she examined various landscapes and still lifes. They stopped in front of a framed image of Maddie’s famous painting of the whale and swan hanging on the wall opposite Genevieve’s easel. Kate wondered why Genevieve would want that picture here—wouldn’t it remind her of losing the lawsuit? Or was it incentive to follow through on the receipt?
At first Kate thought the image was a print, but as she drifted over, she saw that it was an original painting. Leaning closer, she saw a detail missing from Maddie’s version.
“A watercolor,” she said, turning to Genevieve. “It’s beautiful.”
“The subject matter is,” Genevieve said. “I paint it over and over, once every few months. I probably have a hundred.”
“Because it means so much to you,” Kate said.
“Yes,” Genevieve said, arms folded across her chest, her lips tight. “Why have you come? Not to see my art, I’m guessing.”
“That’s not true. I am always interested in artists and their work. Hadley told me about you, and I was curious to see your work,” Kate said. “Tell me about this one.” She pointed at the watercolor.
“What about it?”
“It’s similar to the famous one that Maddie did. But it has its own grace—you’ve made it all yours.”
“You mean MC?” Genevieve asked, then snorted. “She cheapened the inspiration.”
“How?” Kate asked. “By commercializing it?”
“She sold out. The original was beautiful—truly enchanted—but she ruined that. Sold it to advertisers, manufacturers, whoever would pay—she turned it into a visual cliché, and it lost its magic.”
“Is that why you paint the scene over and over?” Kate asked. “To bring back the magic?”
Genevieve nodded. She ducked her head, as if not wanting Kate to see her tears.
“And the magic you feel for Maddie?” Kate asked.
“She used to be my best friend,” Genevieve said. “But she ruined that, too. And now she’s dead, so there’s no chance . . .”
To Kate, it sounded as if Genevieve had been in love with Maddie. Had the feelings ever been returned?
“No chance of reconciling? Of fixing your friendship after the lawsuit?” Kate pressed.
“We did fix it,” Genevieve said. “I am sorry I ever sued her. It caused more grief than anything. But I was mad . . .”
“Because she stole your idea?” Kate said, not believing it but thinking of the receipt and wanting to hear how Genevieve would answer.
“Partly.”
“It really was your idea?” Kate asked. “You saw that happen, with the whale? Up north on the schooner?”
“I saw the North Star,” Genevieve said.
“Polaris?” Kate said.
Genevieve nodded. “See, we loved the stars—Maddie, Hadley, and I. We were inspired by the Summer Triangle. Maddie was Deneb, Hadley was Vega, and I was Altair. The triangle points away from Polaris, so Maddie didn’t really notice it that night.”
“But you did,” Kate said.
“Yes. And I told her the North Star was for guidance—safety, especially inspiration. I told her that she was my North Star. So that’s why I put Polaris in the paintings I do, instead of the other stars. To remind me of Maddie.”
“You loved her?” Kate asked.
“Yes, and still do. Unrequited, to this day, and now forever.”
“Did she know?” Kate asked.
“Of course. I never hid it. It wasn’t that she didn’t like me—it was that she didn’t mind me. She tolerated me, like a puppy dog.”
“That must have hurt,” Kate said.
“It did. But I’ve made peace with it. And she forgave me for the lawsuit. She told me it felt like a divorce. She said I was creating havoc and ugliness as a way to hate her, to give her up and get her out of my life for good. You know what? She was right.”
“But at least you got to make up, before she died,” Kate said.
“Yes.”
“I still don’t get it,” Kate said. “You thought the idea was partly yours because of seeing the star?”
“Not just that,” Genevieve said. “But it’s over now. I told you—I’m at peace. I have a cool job that I love. I get to travel, work on interesting films, and come home to paint between projects. And Maddie and I were good with each other before she died. We came to an agreement, and that makes everything okay.”
Kate felt prickles on the top of her head, a sign from inside that she wasn’t buying Genevieve’s story.
“I brought something I’d like to show you,” Kate said, taking her phone from her jacket pocket. “I’d like to email it to you so you can read it on a larger screen. The print is rather small.”
Genevieve gave Kate her email address, and Kate hit “Send.” While Genevieve opened her laptop and waited for the email to land, Kate glanced around the room. She saw how absorbed Genevieve was in reading the document. It gave her the chance to peek at the work on the easel.
Kate had no idea what she would see, but nothing in the world prepared her for this. She was shocked and had to compose herself. She lifted her phone, took a quick photo, and walked over to the desk where Genevieve sat, hoping she hadn’t been seen looking at the painting, hoping Genevieve couldn’t hear her heart pounding. Genevieve bent forward, peering at the screen.
“Our agreement,” Genevieve said, reading the receipt Hadley had found in Maddie’s desk.
“What does it mean?” Kate asked.
“Exactly what it says,” Genevieve said. “She was going to pay me a million dollars and give me credit, publicly, for The Whale and the Swan.”
“But now she’s dead, so . . .”
“That’s what an estate plan is for,” Genevieve said. “She put these terms into her will and trust.”
“Why would she do it?” Kate asked, making herself sound stunned.
“Because she had so much. All I really wanted was her, but this was an okay second best. It was her way of showing she loved me. Not the way I wished for, but something that would show the world I mattered to her.”
“Wow,” Kate said. And the prickling on the top of her head was now spreading all over. She had the photo of Genevieve’s work in progress, and she knew she had to get out of there.
“Listen,” Genevieve said, “I hope I’ve answered your questions. Because that’s why you came, right?”
“Like I said, I was curious about your connection to The Whale and the Swan.”
“So, now you know.”
“Thank you very much,” Kate said. “I really appreciate your time.”
Genevieve walked Kate to the door. Kate felt an air of impatience coming from her, as if she were in a rush for her to leave. Kate said goodbye and walked down to the second-floor landing. As much as she wanted to run out of there as fast as she could, she thought she had stirred Genevieve up, and she needed to know what would come of that. She tiptoed back up to the third floor, leaned close to Genevieve’s door.
Genevieve’s voice came through the cracked wood loud and clear, talking to someone on the phone. Although Kate didn’t know who she was talking to, she heard the words:
“She pretended she was here as a gallery owner, like she wanted me to think she might represent me. But that was bullshit—she came all the way to show me the receipt and catch my reaction,” Genevieve was saying. She paused, as if listening to the person on the other end. “It wound up being perfect. I got to tell her my side of things, and she bought it. We are almost there. Just a little longer, my love. It’s all happening . . .”
When the conversation ended, Kate hurried down to street level. She caught a cab and told the driver to take her to the airport. The whole way there, she stared at the photo she had taken of the painting on Genevieve’s easel.
She climbed into her plane, and just before taxiing, she texted Conor and said she’d see him at the Ocean House in just a few hours. The flight back to Rhode Island was as calm as the one up to Maine, but inside, Kate felt nothing but turbulence.
47
It was midafternoon on the winter solstice, and Conor felt nervous, wanting Kate to get back from Maine. He hadn’t wanted her to go at all, but she had made up her mind, said she knew how to talk to artists, and that was how she planned to approach Genevieve. She’d texted him to say she was on the way back, and he couldn’t wait to see her.
Meanwhile, he and Tom returned to the Anna G, still high off the ground in a cradle at the boatyard. The sun glowed white in a snow sky, throwing no warmth into the day. The brothers climbed the ladder from the sandy, ice-slicked lot up to the deck and entered the cabin. Tom had told Conor about the racks, but seeing them for himself confirmed that they had been built to transport paintings.
“I take it this isn’t the average lobster-boat interior,” Conor said.
“Far from it,” Tom said. “Zane went to town on these racks.”
Conor examined the construction. The pine planks were crude, but the frame was solid. Whoever had built it knew what he was doing but hadn’t the funds to use wood—like mahogany or walnut—that wouldn’t splinter and potentially damage any stored canvases.
“Check this out,” Tom said, pointing at a blurry purple ink stamp on one of the boards.
Conor saw the insignia—stylized ocean waves in the shape of a W, inside an oval. It was about three inches long, two inches high.
“What is it from?” Conor asked.
“Wickenden Lumber, a yard in Providence,” Tom said. “On Fox Point.”
“I passed Wickenden Street on the way to Hadley and Johnny’s studio,” Conor said.
“Yeah, that’s where it is. It’s part of the Providence Arts District, just across the bridge from the old Davol Square.”
“What’s the significance?”
“This isn’t typical wood for fishing boats,” Tom said. “It’s soft, doesn’t hold up. Zane didn’t have it lying around his dock, waiting for the next project. He went to Wickenden Lumber specifically to buy these slats. Or someone bought them for him. I think he probably had them custom cut, too.”
“Or the frame prebuilt somewhere else, then installed here?” Conor asked.
“Possibly,” Tom said, looking at the frame’s footings. “They’re not bolted to the deck. Zane attached them by these brackets.” He pointed at flimsy metal plates that lined up with the hull and looked as if they had been twisted off. “Obviously they were less than effective.”
“The blizzard?”
“Yes. The wind and wave action tossed this boat so violently that the screws tore out. Lucky for Zane, whatever art he’d been planning to transport wasn’t aboard. It would have gotten slashed.” Tom gestured at fishing gear in the corner and bolts protruding from a wooden beam. Conor could imagine the job they would have done on an oil painting’s canvas. Amateur, he thought. Zane should have built a reinforced crate, especially if the artwork was valuable.
The lighting was dim, so Conor had to squint as he explored his way around the boat. Tom handed him a pocket flashlight, and that helped. He made his way from the main cabin to the forward section, where there was a V-berth for the captain to sleep.
The police would have gone through everything, but Conor moved carefully, trusting his impressions. There was nothing fancy about this boat. The bow was V shaped, with thin mattresses, fitting the V. The bedding was musty, soaked over the years with salt air. Shelves were guarded by slats, built to protect books and toiletries from flying around the cabin in rough seas.
Conor had always been curious about the books at a crime scene, or in a place connected to a suspect. He sat on the edge of the berth, leaned forward to examine the books. They looked to be a combination of saltwater titles, like Surfcasting Around the Block by Dennis Zambrotta, and a selection of John D. MacDonald mysteries.
He noticed carving on the side of the bookcase. There were a few dates, a rough-looking lobster, and several sets of initials. Some were obvious—ZG was Zane, RG was Ronnie. The ones that caught his attention were DA and, especially, IA.
Hadley had texted both him and Kate after she’d read Maddie’s will. Maybe it didn’t mean anything, but IA were the initials of one of the two witnesses: Isabel, from the Ocean House.
Tom edged into the bow to lean over Conor’s shoulder and see what he was so entranced by. Conor pointed at the initials.
“It’s not uncommon for captains to have their families, especially the kids, carve initials somewhere on the boats,” Tom said. “It’s a type of blessing.”
“Only family members?” Conor asked.
“Pretty much,” Tom said.
“So Isabel is related to the Garsons,” Conor said.
“One way or the other,” Tom said. “By blood, or by fishing.”
“Or by the service industry,” Conor said, thinking of how he’d seen Isabel and her sister talking to Elise at the Binnacle, how Elise had said they always gave discounts to workers.
And family.
Conor stared at the carved initials, thinking of the witnesses’ signatures on Maddie’s will, and he knew they had to get back to the Ocean House right away.
48
CeCe didn’t want to be alone, but when she and Aunt Hadley returned to the yellow hotel from the bank, her aunt was very tired. They had gotten up so early that morning. Aunt Hadley said she was going to take a little nap. She fell asleep on the couch in their Sea Garden home. CeCe finished the puzzle, and she colored for a while, but then she felt bored. She thought about waking up her aunt, to feed her, but that wouldn’t be nice.
Being with Aunt Hadley, doing things with her, had made CeCe start to feel brave again. Not as much as when Mommy was here, but she was getting better. CeCe wanted to show her aunt that she could be like she used to be. The lobby was fun, full of music, so she would go there. It was safe. She had a friend. She smiled. She would surprise her friend because she had a secret about her. And she would make her aunt proud because she could get something to eat for herself.
She kissed Aunt Hadley while she slept, and she opened the suite door and walked into the hallway. They were close to the beautiful old elevator, and she pressed the button to call it to her floor. When it came, she stepped inside and pushed the button to go to the lobby.
The Christmas trees were twinkling, just like the starry sky. The pretty blonde lady was playing the harp, just the way she did every afternoon. It was almost dinnertime, and people were talking and laughing, waiting to go into the dining room. CeCe walked past everyone and went to the reception desk, where her friend worked.
Even though there were some people waiting for their turn, Isabel saw CeCe and waved.
“Hi, Isabel,” CeCe said. “I want to tell you something.”
“Be there in a minute, CeCe,” Isabel said. She smiled, then turned back to the people she was helping. CeCe waited for a while. She didn’t want to bother her friend, but she also had something so funny to tell her. And she’d started to feel a little nervous about being down here without Aunt Hadley. Some of the guests were staring at her and whispering.
“You’re that little girl!” one lady said. “Thank God you’re safe. But where’s your adult? You’re not down here alone, are you?”
“Isabel,” CeCe said, standing as close to the desk as she could without feeling she was too close and being rude.
“Just a second, sweetheart,” Isabel said, showing some people a map and telling them how to get to their restaurant.
“Odd and even, odd and even,” CeCe began to whisper. She was thinking of being at the bank with her aunt, and how her aunt had said it was odd, so odd. Somehow, thinking of Aunt Hadley and what she had said comforted CeCe. She was just about to run to the elevator and go back upstairs when Isabel stepped out from behind the desk and crouched beside her.
“Where’s your aunt?” Isabel asked.
