Salem's Cipher (4 page)

7

Minneapolis Institute of Art

S
alem wasn't well acquainted with Dr. David Keller, Assistant Curator at the nonprofit Minneapolis Institute of Art. He had been an occasional guest at Vida and Daniel's dinner parties, and then after Daniel's death, Vida would bring Salem by his office when they visited the institute. She remembered him as a stern man who rarely spoke except to critique what someone else was saying.

Talk: to Keller about revenge then go home follow the trail trust no one

They'd been waiting in the car until the institute, recently nicknamed “Mia” in a marketing blitz, opened at ten. When the doors were finally unlocked, Salem and Bel breezed past the welcome desk, under the gigantic Chihuly Sunburst chandelier, and up the stairs until they reached the Target Galleries. Their impatience condensed around their feet, spurring their movements.

“Excuse me?”

Salem, agitated and out of breath, whipped her head toward the woman behind the special exhibitions desk. She'd been so intent on their destination that she hadn't noticed her. “Yes?”

The staff member pointed toward the “Woman in the Arts” sign perched on her desk, then toward the doorway of the Target Galleries. “You're going into the special exhibition. It's sixteen dollars for members, twenty for nonmembers. Do you have tickets?”

Salem's brow furrowed. “We're actually looking for Dr. Keller. His office used to be down here.”

“Ah.” The woman smiled. “All the offices moved a few years ago. Before my time. But I have good news: Dr. Keller curated this exhibit. He's inside right now.”

Salem touched her pocketbook without thinking. Teaching at-risk youth how to navigate Excel spreadsheets paid about as well as one would expect. “We have to buy tickets?”

The museum worker put her finger to her coral-colored lips. They matched the beads at her neck. “I won't tell. As long as you're just here to speak with him.”

Salem beamed with gratitude and continued through the glass doors. The Target Galleries were quieter than the rest of Mia and crowded for a Monday morning.

“You think he'll help us?” Bel asked, her voice pitched low.

“I think he will if he can.”

They hurried across the herringbone parquet floor, their footsteps muffled. Salem scoured the room for Dr. Keller, her attention drawn to the sculptures displayed in the center. According to the sign outside the gallery, every piece of art in the exhibit had been created by a female artist. A breathtaking Sarah Bernhardt marble sculpture of a grandmother holding the dying body of her grandson dominated the center of the room. Display blocks were arranged around the sculpture to
create a movement path. The cubes held ornate silver urns crafted by Hester Bateman and an exquisite silver tea caddy designed by Elizabeth Godfrey in the 1700s, and under glass, an oval tobacco box silversmithed by Elisabeth Haselwood in the 1600s.

Salem was drawn toward the paintings decorating the walls, most especially the Maria Sibylla Merian plates. Her dad was the one who'd introduced her to Merian's botany-based sketches, first created after Merian traveled with her daughter to Suriname in 1699. They were grotesquely, grandly beautiful in their realism. The blending of periods and styles created a gorgeous visual cacophony inside the gallery.

“Salem?” Across the room, a short, trim man in his fifties separated himself from a group of patrons and made his way to Bel and Salem. “How are you?”

“Good, Dr. Keller.” The lie was automatic. She held out her hand, and he clasped it briefly. “This is my friend Bel.” They also shook hands.

And then Salem was at a loss.

She pushed her hair behind her ears and frowned, grasping for a way to explain what they needed.
My mom and her best friend have disappeared, and Mom left instructions for me to talk with you about revenge, and I have no idea what it means so me and my friend bundled ourselves into a car and drove straight here, and can you tell me who my mother really is because I am beginning to wonder if I knew her at all
. It sounded ridiculous any way she parsed it, even if Dr. Keller didn't intimidate her.

He tossed a sentence into the awkwardness. “You're here to see the exhibit?”

Salem shook her head vigorously. “Um, no. At least I don't think so. I'm wondering if you know anything about this.” She shoved her hand into her coat pocket, yanked out the note, and held it toward Dr. Keller, realizing too late that her scribbles would be indecipherable to him.

“Sorry.” She jerked the note back. Was Dr. Keller looking at her strangely? “It's a note from my mom.” She held it up. “I'm afraid it's a bit cryptic. I'm wondering if you can help us figure out what it means?”

He barked out a short laugh and glanced incredulously from Salem to Bel. “You want me to translate a note from your mother? Is this a parlor game? Can't you ask her yourself?”

“I'm afraid not, Dr. Keller.” Bel used her official-police-interview voice. There was no broaching it. “We really need your help. Now.” She shot Salem an encouraging glance, cuing her to share the contents of the note.

Salem nodded, grateful that Bel was taking charge. She'd memorized the translated message, but it was still a challenge to get it past the cotton of her tongue. “The note says ‘talk to Keller about revenge.' Any idea what it means?”

All around them, art patrons murmured respectfully, appreciating centuries-old art.

Security guards discreetly patrolled the perimeters.

Dr. Keller didn't immediately answer. Salem couldn't read his expression. He appeared to be annoyed, but maybe he was trying not to laugh? Or, more likely, he was considering the safest route to a phone so he could call the nearest mental institution to haul her and Bel away.

Turns out it was none of these.

Dr. Keller stepped aside so the women had a clear view of the wall immediately behind him. A proud smile bloomed on his face, and he held up his hands, Vanna White style. “I'd like to introduce you to the greatest representation of revenge ever painted.”

8

Minneapolis Institute of Art

S
alem knew from a junior-year art history class that Artemisia Gentileschi painted in the first half of the 1600s. She was prosperous during her lifetime, gaining acclaim and making a living in an era when only a handful of female painters were recognized. She became even more popular after her death. Today, the Baroque painter is considered one of the most gifted artists of the 1600s, and she is known for one depiction above all others
: Judith Slaying Holofernes
.

Salem walked toward the painting as if pulled by a rope.

Dr. Keller, the patrons, the whole museum fell away.

“Breathtaking.” Salem stood inches away from the canvas, Bel nodding in silent agreement at her elbow. The seven-foot-tall, centuries-­old composition was so vibrant that Salem imagined she could smell the rich oil of the paint, the lead white, the sulfur-scented vermilion, the chalky clay of red and yellow ochre, the bone black.

The painting featured a powerful Judith poised over General Holofernes, a glistening blade to his throat, her hands twisted in his hair as she sawed off his head. Judith's maid was helping to pin him down. Both women were straining, their muscles and ferocity displayed as Holofernes's blood spurted into the air and dripped down the white sheets of the bed. His face was a perfect shock of agony, his hands futilely pushing the women away as Judith hacked at his neck.

Salem held her own throat, grimacing at the violence.

“It's on loan from the Uffizi in Florence. Stunning, isn't it?”

Salem jumped, Dr. Keller's nearness startling her. He stood less than a yard away, watching them, his expression still peculiar.

“We studied this painting in one of my college art electives,” Salem said, inhaling deeply to steady her heartbeat. “It always stuck with me.”

Bel pointed at Holofernes's agonized face. “Poor guy.”

“No,” Dr. Keller said, “he's not. The story is from the Old Testament. General Holofernes attacked Israel, raping and killing indiscriminately. He fancied Judith and had her brought to his tent. Judith and her maid waited until he was passed-out drunk and killed him, saving her people.”

Bel's facial response suggested that she wouldn't have minded hanging out with Judith and her maid. “Gentileschi was religious?”

Dr. Keller pointed toward the interpretative square next to the painting. “Not particularly. The portrayal is widely interpreted as Artemisia Gentileschi's painted revenge on her own convicted rapist.”

“Hunh.” Bel looked away from the painting and did a quick and automatic survey of the gallery. “I'm surprised rape was illegal in the 1600s.”

Dr. Keller grimaced. “Rape may have been technically illegal, but justice was not swift. Gentileschi had to undergo a gynecological examination and was tortured with thumbscrews during the trial to prove she wasn't lying. Her rapist, her tutor Agostino Tassi, was merely questioned.”

“He was found guilty, wasn't he?” Salem asked.

“Yes, in 1611. He didn't serve any time, though. In fact, he wasn't punished at all.” Dr. Keller indicated the painting with his chin. “Artemisia Gentileschi completed
Judith Slaying Holofernes
immediately after the trial. We are led to assume that Gentileschi fancied herself Judith and Agostino Tassi became Holofernes.”

Revenge.

Talk to Keller about revenge.

“Do you have any idea why my mom may have been interested in it?” Salem asked.

A member of Mia's staff walked toward Dr. Keller, smiled apologetically at the women, and whispered into his ear. He nodded and then returned his attention to the painting. “I don't. But I can tell you that she requested a private viewing of it.”

“She did?” Salem's voice was too loud. She lowered it. “When?”

“She stopped by last Monday, after hours. We've only had the exhibit open for seven days.”

“And you showed this painting to her?”

Dr. Keller glanced toward the door and then at his watch. “Not exactly. She wanted to be alone with it.” He raised and dropped a shoulder. “We've been friends for years. It was a small favor.”

“Did she say anything afterward?” Bel was scanning the painting with renewed interest.

Dr. Keller shook his head. “I had a dinner meeting and had to leave before she was done. She did email me a thank-you on Tuesday or Wednesday. That was the last time we communicated. Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Salem said, too quickly. Of course nothing was all right, maybe never had been. Vida Wiley was an enigma to her own daughter.

9

Seven Years Old

“
T
ime to take the leap, honey.”

Salem can tell Vida is losing patience because her mom only refers to her as “honey” when she's trying not to yell. Anyhow, she could call her Wonder Woman and Salem still isn't going into that lake.

“No.”

“Please? Momma'll make sure the fish don't bite you. We'll only wade in up to our knees.”

It isn't the fish that Salem is worried about, or at least, those are a new addition to her concerns. It's the water itself, the huge, black expanse of it, sun sluicing across the top to reveal a poisonous pool of mercury. Salem knows better than she knows her own name that if she steps into it, into any body of water where she can't see the bottom, no one will ever lay eyes on her again.

She'd been born knowing that.

It wouldn't be an easy death. There'd be a swirl of silt, and then something horribly cold and muscular would wrap around her ankle and tug her down, down, down into a chill so inescapable it'd freeze her heart. In the final, terrible moment of consciousness, she'd see her mom above the water, just out of reach, the sun haloing her head, safety, love, and home cruelly just beyond Salem's grasp. She would struggle and fight to reach Vida, open her mouth to scream, and the evil water would rush in to fill her lungs, pop out her eyes from the inside, steal her voice and her life.

There is no question in her mind that she can't enter the water. She pushes the afro of soft curls out of her eyes and repeats herself. “No.”

Vida takes an angry drag off of her Virginia Slims 120. She cut quite the figure with her thick black hair tied up in a Pucci scarf, oversized glasses, skin a tawny brown that a Midwesterner couldn't obtain with all the baby oil and summer sun in the world. She still has her accent, too, a faintly exotic lilt from spending the first ten years of her life in Iran.

“We didn't drive all this way to sit in the cabin,” she says.

The “honey” has vanished, both the word and the tenor.

Salem rubs nervously at the webbing between her thumb and pointer finger, trying not to cry. “Daddy wouldn't make me.”

“Daddy isn't here, is he?”

10

Minneapolis Institute of Art

S
alem suddenly became aware that Dr. Keller, the Mia staff member, and Bel were all watching her. Dr. Keller's brow furrowed, his body language saying that he didn't want to leave but was forced to. “If you don't mind?”

“Not at all,” Salem said. “Thanks for your help.”

He seemed poised to add something but unsure how to word it. Finally, duty winning out, he turned and hurried through the exhibit doorway.

Salem and Bel returned their attention to the painting.

A small group had gathered behind them to admire the Gentileschi, murmuring about the grand drama of it, the beauty, the violence. Bel leaned closer to Salem. “You move to one side, I'll go to the other. Check for notes Vida may have hidden on it as best as you can, okay?”

Both women stepped back a few feet, and as surreptitiously as possible they eyeballed the back rim of the frame in the three inches between the wood and the wall.

Nothing jumped out.

They returned to front of the painting. Tension made Salem's hands clammy.

“You think there's a secret panel in the frame and that's what Vida sent us to find?” Bel asked.

Salem crossed her arms, analyzing the gilt of the simple beveled mount. Before his death, her father had taught her everything a person could know about concealing drawers and compartments in wood. Looking back, it seemed a weird specialty for a carpenter, but her puzzling mind had loved it. She knew that if a craftsperson had hidden something in the Gentileschi frame, it would be nearly impossible to locate it without physically touching the wood.

“If there is, we're screwed. I imagine they don't look lightly on patrons groping the art.”

“So now what?”

“I don't
know
.” Salem uncrossed her arms in frustration and felt something odd in her pocket. She reached in, tugged out the ancient spectacles.

Bel spotted what she was doing. Her face reflected an array of emotions, from amusement to desperation. “You're going to put them on?”

“I guess,” Salem said, sliding them onto her face. “They were in the box with the note that directed us here. Nothing to lose, right?”

Bel wrinkled her nose. “You look like a super-fan in line for the latest Harry Potter movie.”

The glasses pinched Salem's nose, and the scratches on the lens were so profound as to render them nearly blinders. Yet, her mother had left them in the balsa box for a reason. Salem blinked myopically. “I'm hoping they're like those 3D glasses that came in our Count Chocula. Remember?”

“I remember they were supposed to let us read a secret code on the cereal box.” Bel's brow was creased. “Mine never worked.”

“Mine either, actually.” With great effort, Salem restrained herself from glancing around to see what stares the glasses were drawing. Instead, she walked forward and peered at the lower edge of the Gentileschi, her nose almost touching it. The painting was darker than it appeared in photographs and flat, the oil paint hardly built up at all. She began systematically scanning every square inch of the canvas from left to right.

Bel stood next to her. “I will kick the ass of anyone who makes fun of you,” she hissed.

Salem's lips twitched. She and Bel were still friends, but she worried that that had grown to mean something different, less potent, with Bel in Chicago. For all of today's trauma, it was nice to have Bel back as her bodyguard.

After her first complete pass, Salem risked a peek behind her. People were staring. She certainly was doing a passable impression of the world's biggest dork, swaying from side to side, nose-to-canvas, wearing a rusty pair of Coke-bottle, Ben Franklin glasses. It wouldn't be long until security guards were called. She returned her focus to the painting and sped up her pace.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bel's clenched hands.

Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left.

It was difficult to make out anything through the scratched lens.

Still, she continued, moving as if mounted on the track of a giant typewriter, methodically scouring the canvas's surface. She reached the first ribbon of Holofernes's blood on the bed, so vivid that it blazed copper even through the brutalized glasses.

She stopped—she'd spotted something. “Bel!”

“What?” Bel swiveled.

Salem peered closer. “Nothing.” She released her breath. “I thought I saw some sort of symbol. It was just a paint smudge.”

She returned to her rhythmic searching. A loud muttering erupted near the entrance, followed by silence, then more talking. A nearby walkie-talkie squawked. Salem kept surveying the painting, moving even faster if such a thing was possible.

She was operating so quickly, her heartbeat so loud, that she almost missed it.

She returned to the fringe of the blanket beneath Holofernes's bleeding head, her pulse quickening. Had she imagined something again?

She peered closer, tipping her head. Her breath caught.

She hadn't imagined it.

Words.

She yanked the glasses off of her face.

The words disappeared.

She slid them back on, and the words reappeared.

“Oh my god.”

Clancy Johnson studied the artwork at the far end of the Target Gallery. According to the placard, he was looking at Hildegard of Bingen's manuscript illustration of the universe, created circa 1140–50. It reminded him of a Persian rug with a fiery vagina drawn on it.

It wasn't really to his taste.

He'd chosen the position because it allowed him to watch the women without appearing to do so. They'd been staring at the gruesome beheading painting as if it, rather than the hoo-ha-on-a-rug, held the secrets of creation. Then the dark-haired woman, Salem Wiley, had stuck on those weird little glasses. He didn't know how he was going to explain those.

He was unsurprised when the security guards showed up. The only question was how long until they kicked the girls out. The two stood out like sore thumbs, their agitation and fear emanating off of them like the stink clouds that followed cartoon skunks.
Pepé Le Pew.
Now that was some art Clancy could get behind.

He ran his hand over his thinning hair. He couldn't blame the girls for their state, given what they'd been through in the last eight hours. Even their driving from Grace Odegaard's apartment to the Art Institute had been erratic. He pressed the ear bud more firmly into place. It was a small bit of luck that the SIGINT materials he'd packed were identical to the audio guide headphones handed out with the exhibit.

Except
his
magnified sound.

He smiled as he picked up Salem Wiley's voice.