The Black Painting by Neil Olson

Author:Neil Olson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Published: 2017-10-18T18:44:02+00:00

15

Fred met her at the train. She was spooked to see him driving his father’s Jaguar, but more alarmed to smell whisky on his breath. Yet they made it to the house without incident. Teresa looked out the windshield at the brick mansion and sighed. Forty hours away, now back to this haunted place. She could have remained longer in the city. Could have gone downtown to inventory the works in storage, which were the more valuable ones. Could have seen Marc, or caught up with her pal Julian, or spent more than two blessed nights in her own bed. But Teresa knew that if she stayed away from Owl’s Point for too long she would not be able to return. Especially with everyone gone.

Not everyone, of course. Not with all that art on the walls. Teresa being there alone was acceptable to no one. Ilsa had communicated her intentions. She would not support Philip in contesting the will; indeed she would fight for ownership. Not from any strong desire, but because it was Alfred’s long deliberated wish. She had no interest in taking up residence, however. Philip wanted to hire a security firm, but Fred insisted he had nothing to do for a while, and there were guns in the house. Guns, booze and jangled nerves, thought Teresa. Great.

“Well,” Freddie muttered. “Let’s go inside.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, popping her door and stepping into the autumn chill.

The season had advanced dramatically in a few days. October was here, and leaves were yellowing. Her eyes strayed to the pines across the lawn, and she halted. Had a figure stepped back into the trees? Not a branch swayed; nothing was visible. Don’t do this, she told herself. Do not give in to this, you don’t have time. And you don’t want poor Freddie to have to lock you in the cellar.

“What is it?” Fred asked. Teresa noted that his suspicious gaze was aimed not at her but the tree line.

“Nothing,” she said. “Those pines always creep me out.”

“Christ, you spent enough time in them,” Fred grumbled, continuing toward the house. “I guess kids like to be scared.”

“Am I still a kid?”

“You are to me.”

The job would take days. She started in the attic and worked her way down. Match the painting with the inventory list. Make sure it was the correct work—subject, style, dimensions. Check the condition. Warping, holes, nicks in the frame, those were easy. Harder was determining residue buildup on the surface, discoloration, the degree of craquelure. Especially with her lack of training and the poor light. Some pieces had been photographed at the time of purchase, some had not. Several were by major artists, but none were famous, so the records were spotty. Teresa knew she should not overworry it. Institutions to which works were promised would soon send their own appraisers. Her focus should be on the lesser pieces whose fate had not been decided. But the bigger works interested her more, and overworrying is what she did.

On

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