Nightsong (13 page)

He walked into the bathroom, eyed his less-than-inspiring appearance in the mirror, rubbed the stubble of morning beard, and reached for his shaving kit. His hand closed over a piece of paper stuck, curled and upright, in the zippered pouch. With a slow smile he pulled it free.

Good morning, Sleepyhead. Sorry I had to leave so early. If you wake before eight, meet me at Dan’s. If not, there’s coffee at the house. Think of me today. I’ll be thinking of you.

Phillip folded the paper carefully, then opened it to read the note once again. He wished he hadn’t slept late on this particular morning. Lifting his eyes to the mirror, he studied his reflection with wry appraisal.

“The truth is, my friend,” he said solemnly, “you’re not used to late nights and a wanton woman.” But even as he voiced the random observation, even as he smiled with thoughts of Elleny, he felt a surge of energy pumping through his veins.

Today he would begin tying up the loose ends, stringing together the clues, and narrowing down the possible hiding places for the van Warner. Today he would devise a plan to investigate the only place in the Damon house he hadn’t seen. Jesse’s studio.

Phillip didn’t know how he would go about doing that, but he would think of something. He needed to find that painting. It seemed suddenly more important now than ever before.

For Elleny’s sake. And for his.

With the evidence in front of her, she wouldn’t be able to argue in Mark’s defense. She would have to face the issue and seek comfort and healing in the love Phillip offered.

That impetus for finding the watercolor lent efficiency to his movements as he shaved, dressed, and planned his strategy. But first, coffee.

There was a brisk March wind blowing when he stepped onto his landing and closed the studio door behind him. He thought about going back for his jacket, but it seemed hardly worth the trouble when the kitchen was just a few yards away. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Phillip moved down the steps and across the yard to the back door.

As he raised his hand to knock, the door was pushed out from inside, and Mrs. Sanders regarded him with a surprised smile. She was wearing a gray coat and a plaid scarf. Her oversize purse was held firmly in one hand, and A.J., bundled in muffler, coat, and cap, was attached to her other hand. “Mr. Kessler,” she said. “We were just on our way out. A.J. has preschool today. It’s Tuesday, you know. I have some shopping to do. Was there something you needed?”

“No.” Phillip reassured her with a smile. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll just go in and get a cup of coffee.” He concentrated the smile on A.J. “You didn’t drink all the coffee, did you?”

The baby-blue eyes widened, and then A.J. chuckled in husky, little-boy amusement. “I had chocolate milk.”

“And now you have a chocolate moustache.” Phillip teased, really wanting to reach past the boy’s shyness and find a friend.

In quick, grandmotherly concern, Mrs. Sanders leaned down and touched a gloved finger to either side of A.J.’s mouth. “There, not a trace.”

A.J. turned his head at the touch. “You already washed my face, Mrs. Sanders. Phillip was only kiddin’.”

“You should call him Mr. Kessler,” she corrected, and started forward. Phillip stepped back and allowed them to pass.

“Bye, Phillip!” A.J. called back over his shoulder as he was being led to the car.

“Help yourself to coffee,” Mrs. Sanders said.

With a wave of his hand, Phillip walked inside and shut the door. He found a cup in the cabinet beside the sink and filled it with hot coffee.

The kitchen was homey with the lingering aroma of bacon. He thought he detected a faint trace of Elleny’s favorite perfume, but he knew that was simply imagination. Still, it felt good to be in the house where she lived, in the center of her world. How long would that remain true? he wondered. Would she leave this home to come with him? Did he really intend to ask her?

Work through one complication at a time, he told himself, and with coffee cup in hand, he walked from the kitchen to the dining area and then to the wide entrance of the living room. Standing there, he sipped his drink and let his gaze drift toward the far wall and the painting that hung there. It compelled him now as it had every time he entered this room, and he moved to stand before it.

It hadn’t changed. Nor had his own conviction that its haunting beauty had flowed from the brush of Jesse Damon and been claimed by his son. Phillip narrowed his eyes and tried to imagine what sort of man would steal not just a painting but the recognition of accomplishment, the critical acclaim of peers, the praise and acknowledgment of the general public. But Mark Damon had stolen those things. And much, much more.

There was a soft sound in the room, and Phillip stiffened with the realization that he was no longer alone. Pivoting, he met the cool, blue gaze of Jesse Damon. It had to be Jesse, Phillip thought. The fact that the older man was obviously “at home” was conclusive in itself, but the resemblance to A.J. would have been noticeable anywhere. Jesse was a faded version of his grandson. His hair was overlong like A.J.’s but an indeterminate gray instead of straw-blond. His eyes were the same vivid blue, but there was no sparkle, no healthy gleam in their depths. He was tall and broad-shouldered, a big man at one time in his life but too thin now. In one clenched fist he held a dark-colored cane and seemed to rely on it for support. And unlike A.J., who vibrated with energy, Jesse looked very, very tired.

Phillip felt a tug of sympathy and offered a greeting. “Good morning, sir.”

His courtesy was not returned in kind. Instead the blue eyes narrowed in silent appraisal, and Phillip felt his sympathy for the old man diminish. Still, it would be foolish to let this opportunity pass. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Damon. I’m Phillip Kessler. I rented the studio apartment.” He paused as Jesse lifted his head with new interest. “I’m a great admirer of your work.”

Wrinkled lips pursed in an expression that somewhat resembled a smile. “I know who you are,” Jesse said, and moved slowly forward.

Phillip knew a moment’s disquiet as the artist approached, but maintained an outward show of calm. “I suppose Elleny told you I was a ... friend of Mark’s.”

“She told me.” Jesse stopped a few inches away and turned a steady regard to the watercolor on the wall before him. “Are you a great admirer of my son’s work, too?”

Phillip hesitated and settled for a deceptive truth. “Mark was very good at what he did.”

Jesse nodded almost absently, his gaze never leaving the painting. The silence stretched into awkwardness. “What do you think of this?” he said, finally breaking the quiet and indicating the picture with another nod.

The undertones in the question were indefinite, but Phillip knew they were there. He sensed the underlying emotion and chose his answer carefully. “It’s the work of a gifted artist. You must be very proud of it ... and of your son.”

For a second Phillip was afraid he’d revealed his own bias, but then the blue eyes turned to him, and he would have sworn there was an element of respect in them now. Jesse didn’t say anything though, just studied Phillip in a casually assessing way. Then he made a slow turn and proceeded to walk from the room in the manner of a man who had paid his dues and earned the right to speak or not, as he chose.

Phillip frowned and then started as he realized he was letting his opportunity to see Jesse’s studio walk away. Quickly, he set aside his coffee cup to follow the older man. At the foot of the staircase, Phillip paused. “I’d like to talk to you, sir,” he called. “If you don’t mind?”

Jesse looked back over his shoulder, shrugged an indifferent invitation, and continued his leisurely progress up the stairs. Nervous excitement blended with a distinct uneasiness in Phillip’s stomach, leaving him glad of the slow pace. His thoughts whirled with possibilities and reminders to keep his own counsel and to hide his eagerness for information. Jesse Damon was an astute man despite his apparent apathy. The next few moments could be crucial in locating the van Warner. If Jesse knew where the painting was….

Phillip called a halt to speculation as he reached the second-floor hallway. He didn’t even know if Jesse knew Mark had stolen the watercolor. But perhaps a little time in Jesse’s studio would provide the missing pieces of the puzzle.

The door at the end of the hall was partially opened and when Jesse entered, Phillip was close behind. The room was well lighted but dreary nonetheless. Natural light was blocked by heavy draperies, and there was an aura of despair in the shadowed corners. Though the room was large, furniture was minimal – a table, a chair, small desk, a rocker, and a bed. Paintings, some framed, most unadorned, received maximum attention, and there was hardly an eight-by-ten space clear.

Phillip looked around and wondered how this room could be a part of the same house in which Elleny lived.

Jesse walked to the rocking chair situated almost dead center in the middle of the floor. As he eased his weight onto the chair and laid the cane across his lap, a curious smile settled about his mouth. For a few minutes he seemed totally absorbed in the paintings surrounding him and unaware that there was anyone else in the room. Phillip’s gaze wandered over the walls, noting each canvas in turn, but unable to differentiate from a distance. Without waiting to be asked, he moved toward Jesse’s chair and a closer view.

“Elleny tells me you’re an artist,” Jesse said, his voice sounding oddly hollow.

“Yes.”

“So you must know something about art.”

“Not as much as I hope to.” Phillip shifted his weight, conscious of being on the defensive and wary of revealing exactly how little he did know.

“Look at that.” Jesse pointed a finger at a particularly vivid painting, and Phillip obediently stepped over to it. “Too much color,” Jesse said. “Too heavy a brushstroke.”

Phillip agreed and felt certain Mark had been the artist, but there wasn’t time to comment before Jesse confirmed it. “I tried to tell him. Don’t know how many times I tried to show him. But Mark never listened. He was always too impatient.”

“He must have listened to you at least some of the time,” Phillip hooked his fingers in the back pockets of his jeans, a deceptively casual pose considering his intense interest in the conversation. “In fact, I’d say your son made a tremendous effort to copy your technique and style.”

Phillip expected a crackling silence or some form of refutation, but there was only a moment of weary quiet.

“Imitation is the sincerest flattery,” Jesse said. “Isn’t that what they say?”

“I have heard that.” Turning to another painting, Phillip studied it, dismissed it, and moved on. “You have a great number of your son’s paintings here, Mr. Damon. Don’t you believe in sharing his work with the world?”

Jesse began to stroke his cane with slow, precise movements. “No. I want them with me. All of them.”

His voice shook slightly, and Phillip felt again that twinge of sympathy. “But…?”

“No buts,” Jesse interrupted with sudden fierceness. “I’m going to keep them. Do you hear me? No one ...
no one
... is going to find out!”

It was all Phillip could do not to drop the subject then and there. He’d never wanted to upset this man, but then wasn’t it Mark who was actually responsible?

Phillip pressed the discussion with genuine reluctance, knowing it had to be done, disliking it just the same. “Find out what?”

Jesse narrowed his eyes, and the movement of his fingers against the cane stilled. The room became hushed, the air heavy, and Phillip knew he wasn’t going to get an answer. He rubbed the back of his neck, then continued his tour of the room, stopping now and then to look closely at a particular canvas just on the chance it might conceal another canvas beneath.

Nothing. Not a single painting anywhere near the size of the van Warner. Apparently, Jesse had preferred the smaller canvases for his paintings,
and Mark had faithfully copied the preference. Of course, there were a few large pictures, but Phillip could tell at a glance they had nothing to hide. Unless Jesse had stored the original van Warner somewhere else, either by design or mistake, this was another dead end. Phillip didn’t know any way to find out except to ask.

“Do you know van Warner’s work?” He brought his gaze to Jesse and kept it there. “His style is similar to your own.”

“He used too much color,” Jesse stated without even a fleeting change of expression, “But I suppose his later works showed some talent.”

“A talent worth ... imitating?”

“Not in my opinion.”

Phillip held back a sigh of frustration. Whatever Jesse’s opinion of the artist, he had no knowledge of Mark’s forgery of the van Warner. If he’d known, he would have betrayed the secret with a look or a gesture. Phillip was dead certain of that.

With a last glance around the room Phillip took a step toward the door. “Thank you for letting me see your paintings, sir. I wish....” The words wouldn’t come. What did he wish for this old man who was a self-made martyr, this artist who had sacrificed his talent and self-respect to protect a son unworthy of the name?

“I wish things had turned out differently.” Phillip offered a nebulous wish instead of the handshake he would have liked to extend. “And I wish you would paint again.”

Jesse’s expression hardened to a schooled indifference. “Wishes are for fools and old men. You’ll learn that soon enough if you haven’t already.”

The emotion that filled Phillip then was not sympathy but pity.

As he walked to the door, Jesse called after him. “Tell Elleny to bring my breakfast. I’m not going down those stairs again today.”

“Elleny is at the bookstore, but I’ll tell Mrs. Sanders when she gets back from the store.”

“Just forget it.”

Phillip decided he had little choice and left the room without a backward glance. All in all, his talk with Jesse had been frustrating and unpleasant, he decided as he reached the soothing brightness of the sunlit kitchen. His thoughts automatically turned to Elleny. But memories of holding her, of being held by her, were dimmed by the knowledge of what he had to do.