The Portrait of Doreene Gray (7 page)

“Pendergast pays my salary, and it's not a lot,” Michael countered. “Suki, what do you think?”

“No clue. I did notice something odd, though. Reynaldo took a strip of paper out of his bowl but he didn't really look at it. I mean, he glanced at it, but he didn't study it the way we did. Maybe he already knew what was on it.”

“He seemed pretty afraid,” Angus said. “He could simply have not wanted to have anything to do with it.”

“Or,”
Michael said, “maybe Reynaldo is trying to frighten Doreene into destroying the painting instead of selling it, although that seems counterproductive. Wouldn't he want his lover to have more money?” He thought for a moment. “How about this—Reynaldo is afraid Doreene is getting tired of him and will send him back to Brazil. So he's trying to scare her so she'll want a man around to protect her.”

They considered the idea that Doreene might want Reynaldo to protect her.

“I'm not seeing it,” Suki said.

Angus nodded. “Agreed.”

Michael pointed a finger. “I know!
Doreene
put the strips in the soup to enhance the painting's supernatural reputation, so it would sell for more.”

“But Doreene told us we couldn't publish a story until
after
the sale,” Angus said. “So how is that going to help?”

“Lupita and Reynaldo were there. They could spread the word.”

Angus shook his head. “If Doreene wanted that kind of publicity, she'd be better off having Max to lunch.” He rubbed his chin. “If we were the intended audience, surely it was Maureene who put the paper in the soup. Doreene didn't even know we'd be coming. I think Maureene must have wanted us there. She's the one who agreed to give us an interview, after all.”

Suki huffed in disgust. “Yeah, the lamest interview ever. I think you're right, and it was just an excuse to get us to lunch.”

“Shhh…” Angus waved a hand to quiet them. “Someone's coming.”

Maureene came stumping down the trail toward them, Hilda trotting in front of her. At the sight of Angus and the others, Hilda broke into excited barking.

“Quiet, Hilda.” She picked up the dog and spoke to Angus. “What do you want?”

“I realize now may not be the best time,” Angus said, “but we still have an interview to do with you.”

“I gave you an interview.”

Michael tapped his chin. “Was that the part where you asked what we thought about the painting or the part where you asked if we wanted a drink?”

Angus gave him a look. “Forgive my colleague, Ms. Pinter, but there are still a lot of things I'd like to ask you about. For instance, can you think of any reason there would be strips of paper in the soup at lunch?”

Maureene stared at him blankly. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“After you left Doreene's house, we found bits of paper in the soup.” Angus took the folded napkin out of his pocket and opened it.

Maureene came closer as he took out one of the strips. “Are those words written on it? I don't have my reading glasses with me.”

“They are. Words like ‘devil,' ‘lost,' and ‘soul.'”

Maureene took a step back. “It must be getting stronger,” she whispered.

“What's getting stronger?” Angus asked.

Her eyes focused on him. “Nothing. I can't think about an interview right now.” As Maureene turned toward her cottage, Hilda leaned over her arm and uttered a final bark.

They watched Maureene clomp into her house and slam the door.

Michael blew out a breath. “Is there an online database that tells which families have insanity? 'Cause that would be really handy.”

“Why the glum face, Angus?” Suki asked. “A story this freaky, you should be rubbing your hands with glee.”

Angus shook his head. “That woman is in a lot of pain.” He gave the cottage one last look before heading down the path, toward the main road and their van.

 

Eight

They had lunch at a tiny café that featured art for sale, closely packed tables, and a bohemian vibe.

Suki took a few photos of the interior before they sat. “It's like we never left Boulder.”

They picked a table in the corner and ordered.

Michael rested his crossed arms on the table. “You know, this story doesn't need paranormal elements to be creepy. What do you think it's like for Maureene to see her lost youth whenever she looks at Doreene?”

Suki put her napkin in her lap. “I like how the portrait originally showed young Doreene, but now it essentially shows current Maureene. Maybe Doreene sticks pins in it.” She made little jabbing motions.

Michael took a small notebook from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “Possible sidebar on voodoo objects. What do you think, Angus?”

“Definitely.” Angus put the folded napkin from Doreene's house on the table and opened it. The paper strips were yellow and slightly greasy from chicken broth. “I suppose we should wash these if we want to keep them.”

Michael slid a strip between two fingers to straighten it. “This one has tooth marks.”

When all the strips were roughly flat, Angus lay them on the napkin. “Nine strips of three words apiece. Doomed evil destruction, Satan
el Diablo
Beelzebub, damned devil darkness, Hades hell horned…”

“Nice alliteration,” Michael said, tilting his head so he could see the scraps better.

“Lost fallen night,” Angus went on. “Sin sold soul, destroy decay death, persecute eternal torment, flames pay debt.”

“It's like fridge-magnet poetry for Goths.” Suki pressed down the curling end of a strip before standing to take a photo of them.

Angus waited until she was finished and arranged them into a different order. “I wonder if they make better sense if you read them top to bottom? Doomed Satan, damned Hades, lost sin destroy persecute flames.”

Michael crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. “If you're looking for an actual message, forget it. There's nothing concrete.”

“How do you know?” Angus asked.

“Because words are my life.”

“Maybe the first letters spell something,” Suki suggested.

“Twenty-seven letters, three vowels,” Michael said. “All
E
s.”

“Maybe the last letters spell something,” Angus said.

“There are only three vowels in the last letters, too.
Y, E,
and
O.
”

Angus pushed the scraps around some more. “Huh. I think you may be right.”

“Of course I'm right. This is just a generic message of occult doom, designed to scare someone.”

Angus flipped the corners of the napkin over the strips. “It certainly scared Lupita and Reynaldo, but I don't think Doreene was frightened.”

“Pretty impressive, considering you could interpret it as a death threat.” Suki stretched her legs under the table.

Michael grimaced. “That's my shin you just kicked.”

“Sorry.” She withdrew her feet.

Angus stared into space, tapping a gentle rhythm on the table with one hand. “She may not show that she's afraid, but why sell the painting—”

“And the house,” Michael interjected.

Angus nodded. “And the house. Why sell both of those right now? Is she trying to get away from something?”

Suki shrugged. “Maybe she just needs money.”

“For what?” Angus pondered. “What's changed recently in Doreene's life?”

“Reynaldo seems to be a new addition,” Michael said. “Maybe he wants her to buy a big ranch in Brazil and move there with him.”

Angus nodded slightly. “That's a possibility. Of course, he says he wants her to destroy the painting, not sell it.”

“Maybe the new thing is a fight between the sisters, and Doreene is trying to punish Maureene,” Suki said. “So she's selling the portrait and the house.”

“What we need is a good source of local gossip.” Angus spotted their server approaching with the food. “After we eat, I think we should take a tour of Port Townsend's art galleries.”

*   *   *

Port Townsend's main street had no fewer than five art galleries. They were in the fourth when Angus paused before the portrait of a young man. “Henry Gray, by Maureene Pinter,” he murmured, pointing to the small placard below the painting.

“As in Hank Gray, Doreene's dead husband?” Michael wondered. He leaned in to see the card. “Fifty-seven thousand dollars.”

Angus put his hands in his jacket pockets and studied the portrait. The subject's curly brown hair was ruffled by wind. One hand gripped a rope, and more rigging and the sea were visible over his shoulder. His blue eyes seemed to look directly at the viewer. “This is very good.”

“I hope so,” Suki said. “That's a chunk of change for two square feet of canvas.” She studied the portrait. “He looks kind of familiar, but maybe it's just the setting. I had a really good time at the America's Cup one year.”

A smiling woman in a linen pantsuit approached. Somewhere in her midfifties, her round face was weathered and pink cheeked, as though she might be a sailor herself. “Isn't it wonderful? In addition to being a superb work of art, that painting should be a very good investment. One of Maureene Pinter's other works is about to be auctioned through Rothwell's. The value of her work should rise significantly.”

Angus beamed at her. “It's exciting, isn't it? We're staying at the house.”

The woman's smile remained, but uncertainty tinged her voice. “Maureene's house?”

“Well, it won't be hers for long, with the property being put on the market.”

The woman looked flabbergasted. “Maureene is leaving Port Townsend?”

“I don't know what her plans are. Doreene is the one selling the place.” Angus shook his head sadly. “Between you and me, Maureene isn't very happy about it.”

“But…” The gallery owner seemed overwhelmed by this information. “I thought their stepfather left everything to Maureene.”

“I don't understand it myself,” Angus said confidingly. “First the painting, now the house.” He leaned down and dropped his voice further. “What do you think Doreene needs all that money for?”

Her expression turned frigid. “I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”

He offered his hand. “Angus MacGregor,
Tripping
magazine. Do you have any opinion on what powers the portrait of Doreene Gray has?”

She pulled her hand from his. “I don't. Excuse me.”

They watched as she walked the length of the gallery and disappeared through a side door.

“Not the hot gossip you hoped for, huh?” Michael asked.

“You never know until you try.” Angus tilted his head in the direction the gallery owner had gone. “That's interesting, though, that she thought the stepfather left everything to Maureene.”

“Doreene probably told people that to drum up sympathy,” Suki said. “I wouldn't put it past her.”

Michael shifted impatiently. “We should get settled in Doreene's house
right now.
What do you bet the gallery owner is calling Maureene to tell her we're being nosy?”

Angus made an impatient noise. “Ach, she already knows. This story's moving too slow. We need people to start talking, so that real gossips know to approach us. Anyway, Maureene can't kick us out. Doreene is the one who asked us to stay, and she seems to call the shots.”

“I wouldn't mind going back to Doreene's place,” Suki said. “If I can't photograph the portrait, I can at least photograph the house, and daylight is better for that.” She yawned. “Plus, there are only so many pictures of boats I can look at.”

“Not a fan of nautical art?” Michael asked, already moving toward the door.

“I prefer pictures of people,” she said. “Preferably without so many clothes.”

*   *   *

They went back to the hotel, packed up, and checked out before heading to the Gray mansion. As Suki drove the last block to Doreene's, Angus pointed to a car parked across from the house. “Look. There's that white Impala again.”

In the back of the van, Michael unbuckled his seat belt and leaned forward between the two front seats. “And there's the guy, just sitting. He must be with security.”

“Let's find out.” Suki pulled over to the curb, directly behind the Impala.

The man's tanned, bald head turned as he looked in his side mirror to observe them.

“Suki, why don't you have a go at him?” Angus suggested. “Michael and I will go around the back and get the bags.”

Suki looked in the rearview mirror and tidied the line of her lip gloss with a finger. “No problem.”

They got out, Angus and Michael going to the rear of the van, Suki strolling forward.

When she reached the side of the Impala, she tapped on the window with two knuckles.

It rolled down with an electric whir, and the man looked up at her.

From this close, Suki could see that he shaved his head. She put his age at around fifty, but with that tan, it was hard to tell. The jacket of his charcoal suit was folded neatly over the back of the passenger seat. In addition to the matching pants, he wore an expensive-looking shirt in a sheeny slate blue, with no tie around his thick, muscular neck. Sunglasses hid his eyes. “Are you with security?” she asked. “Doreene asked us to stay at the house, but do we need to show you some ID?” The corners of her lips curved. “Or anything else?”

He smiled back. “No, you're fine.” His voice was husky, with some kind of accent.

Angus and Michael joined her, carrying an assortment of luggage.

“Hello,” Angus said cheerfully. “I'm Angus MacGregor, from
Tripping
magazine. This is Michael Abernathy, one of our writers, and I see you've already met our photographer, Suki Oota.”