Chapter 15

Carson pushes back some when I go to get the car keys from her Tuesday morning. She gives them up when I threaten to have the dye sent to her.

I return by early afternoon with a couple bags of stuff and my brain full of the Pavilion. It’s garish and over the top and it started falling apart as soon as it was built, but you can’t look at it without smiling.

I put the “Do Not Disturb” flag in the door’s card slot, throw a fluffy white towel over the desk, and empty the bags. There’s a dreadful little marine oil-on-canvas, a sort of Victorian motel art; an eight-ounce bottle of Inkodye magenta (a compliment to the green of Dorotea’s dress); a small can of turpentine; a box of a hundred art swabs; blue nitrile gloves; and an LED lightbulb.

Before I go anywhere near Dorotea, I want to make sure the dye will come off her. I also want to see if the dye will develop in a low-UV environment. Even if I completely ruin this miserable £45 excuse for a painting, it’ll be an improvement.

I lay the canvas on its back on the desk, open the Inkodye bottle, and carefully pour a quarter-sized dot right in the middle of the distorted sailing ship wallowing in really badly drafted waves. I tilt the piece to let the dye run down almost to the frame. It’s totally clear and flows like thick water. Then I swap the new LED bulb into the reading light at the head of my bed. The sales guy said it emits “almost no” UV rays, so I figure it’s as good a match for the museum’s lighting as I’ll get. The painting goes on the walnut drum table next to my bed, then I fiddle with the lamp’s wall-mounted articulated arm to center the light on the canvas.

It’s 2:18.

At 4:35, the dye’s still completely clear. I go back to studying the “Stealing Beauty” exhibition catalog and thinking about Plan B. There isn’t one.

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Carson’s pounding on my door breaks my concentration. It’s 6:20, the dye’s still clear and I realize I’m hungry. I find Carson standing outside with her arms folded. “Yeah?”

She tosses her head toward the stairs. “C’mon.”

“Where?”

“Pub.”

“Why?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just fucking come.”

The Florence Arms is buzzing with after-work business. There’s a snooker game happening, and the nook I shared with Julie on Sunday is now stuffed with working guys. Carson orders drinks at the bar, then leads me back into a larger, open function room set with ranks of wooden four-tops. We head for a table in the far corner. It’s held down by an older woman who’s watching us like we’re a bad floorshow.

She squints up at Carson. “Aye, hen, Ah ken nae be rid’v ye.”

Oh, hell. She’s Scottish. Subtitles on.

Carson stops on the other side of the table, puts her fists on her hips and shakes her head. “They still let you out with that face?”

For the record, it’s not a bad face, but it has miles on it. A roundish head, smallish mouth, apple cheeks, steel-gray hair cropped almost as short as Carson’s. It’s her eyes that catch me: bright blue, but hard, like thick ice in sunshine.

“It only scares the bairns.” It doesn’t sound that way; I’m translating. She stands and circles the table, then opens her arms wide. “C’mon, hen.” Now she sounds like a mom. “Give us a hug.”

Carson hugs?

Miranda’s a head shorter than Carson and sturdy, like you could drop her off the Spinnaker and she wouldn’t break. Her heathery tweed suit’s respectable enough for the Rotary or whatever it’s called over here. Look at her on the street and you’d see someone’s granny.

Carson and I sit opposite the woman. She gives Carson a once-over and chuckles. “Yer still too feckin’ tall.” She thumbs in my direction. “What’s this, then?”

“The art guy. Matt? Miranda.”

I expect to arm-wrestle, but her handshake’s dry and gentle. “You work for Allyson?”

“Aye, for years. Number Forty-Six.” The agency gives us all numbers; I’m 179. She turns to Carson. “Herself says you need a posh lass. What’s the job?”

Carson nudges me. I give Miranda an outline of what we need. She listens carefully, pecking at her red wine now and then. I pause when the barmaid sets down our order (Carson remembered I drink vodka). Miranda says “Ta, lass” in a grandmotherly way that fits her look.

When I’m done, Miranda sits there staring at me with her mouth collapsed on itself. Finally she says, “Right. When do we start?”

“Tomorrow,” Carson says. “We need—”

“Wait.” I hold up my hand. “Do you have any questions? Problems?”

Her mouth twists like it’s fighting to keep a laugh in. “Laddie, I was doing this when you were a wean. Questions? There’s time. Problems? The whole thing’s daft, you ask me.” She shrugs. “I’ve done daft things me whole life, so it’s no bother.”

Fine, except nobody south of Hadrian’s Wall can understand her. I’m not sure there’s a graceful way to bring that up, though. “Well, we’ll have to figure out why you’re down here—”

“Instead of Glesca where I belong?” She laughs. It’s not a pretty laugh. “What’s a wee Scots hen doing in the South splashing money about? That’s your question?”

“Um… yeah.”

“Dinna fash yirsel. I can be a right booley mooth when I please.” Huh? Her features even out and she holds her head like she’s sitting for a portrait. “Is this more what you’ve in mind?” The accent comes from closer to the Thames than the Clyde. “I can be as posh as you need.” She smiles for the portrait.

I turn to Carson. “You could’ve told me.”

She smirks. “More fun watching you find out.”

I negotiate with Miranda over when and where we’ll meet tomorrow morning so I can fill her in on the plan and turn over the background material. She changes her accent every answer, wearing a cat-digesting-the-bird smile the whole time. It sounds like she can place herself in any part of the English-speaking world. “What do you do for Allyson?” I finally ask her.

“Why, sugar, I do this.” This time, it’s a dead-on Deep South drawl. “I pretend I’m someone else. Ain’t nobody cottons on, on account I look like Great-Aunt Lulie.”

This is going to be interesting.

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I order takeout lamb rogan josh from the bar. By the time I get back to my room, it’s 7:26.

There’s a hazy magenta splotch on the painting. Yes!

By eight, the blob is clearly visible even on the dark paint. The dye’s dry to the touch, which doesn’t necessarily mean “dry.” I’ll let it sit some more.

At 10:31, the magenta has stopped getting brighter and the blob feels flat and dry. I move the painting to the desk. I pour some turpentine into a bathroom glass, snap on a pair of gloves, and start to clean the canvas.

At the gallery, we’d send pieces that needed lots of work to a restorer, but we’d do our own light cleaning—removing dust and dirt, foxing and other mildew, and the occasional dried-on food, cigarette smoke, or other gunk we didn’t try to identify. It was slow then and it’s slow now. I grab a swab (like a Q-tip with a six-inch handle), dip it in the turpentine, squeeze it out against the glass, then dab at a small stained area until the cotton’s too gunky to use anymore. Reload, repeat. The dye’s stubborn, but each swab comes away tinted red.

By midnight, I have a mound of used swabs—they’ll go down the toilet—and a bad painting that’s cleaner than it’s been since World War One.

It works.