Charlie's eyes said it all, even in the dark confines of his car.
"What do you mean 'not anymore'?"
She hesitated briefly, then answered.
"Most of the paintings in my shop were by local artists or cheap replicas of famous paintings. But I have been helping Myles acquire a small collection of paintings by Monet. That's why he was in my shop, to collect one of the paintings in the series. I had acquired it for him through Mullers in London about a year ago—we’d arranged that he would buy one piece per month over a year. There were twelve paintings altogether. The one he’d just bought was the tenth one in Monet's Charing Cross Bridge series, painted between 1899 and 1902 when Monet spent time in London."
"And these paintings were valuable?"
"If they were originals, yes, upward of twenty-seven million dollars. But these were replicas, exceptionally good ones, but replicas, nonetheless, done by another French artist who near perfected Monet's techniques. These paintings increase in value the higher the quality of the replica. Myles paid five hundred quid for them."
"Each?" Charlie could not hide the shock in his voice.
She nodded, figuring it was okay to divulge the price her client had paid considering how Myles had died. Perhaps Charlie was onto something and she was just paranoid.
“I would imagine that, in the wrong hands, something like this could create an opportunity for fraud.”
"I'm not in the business of defrauding people, Charlie."
He had touched a nerve.
"I didn't mean to insinuate that, Jorja, sorry. I just don't understand why someone would willingly pay that much money for fake paintings."
"The value lies in the pleasure of seeing a piece like that hang on your wall, Charlie, especially if it's an entire collection of one of the most famous artists of all time. Myles loved Monet's work."
Charlie suddenly fell silent.
"And you say he had intentions of buying the entire collection."
"Yes, sort of."
Charlie looked confused so she explained.
"Monet painted thirty-seven paintings in total but he only completed twelve while living in London. This was one of the most prolific periods of Monet's career, so there is definite value in these paintings. Even replicas."
Charlie digested the art lesson then finally spoke again.
"Is it possible to mistake Myles' paintings for the real thing?"
"I suppose it is to the normal man on the street, yes, but most art collectors would have them appraised before entering into any transactions worth that kind of money."
"But to someone who doesn't know, someone who might have been told they were real, they could be sold off for twenty-seven million dollars."
Jorja felt a jolt in the pit of her stomach. Charlie's words evoked something that she had buried and hidden away for decades now.
"Anything is possible, Charlie. Why are you asking me this?" She sounded defensive. It caught her off guard. Who was she so desperate to defend, she thought, then changed the tone of her voice.
"Myles would have never sold them off as originals, Charlie. He didn't have it in him." Trust me, I would know, she added in her head.
"I agree, Jorja, but something doesn't add up. We've been through Myles' house, turned it upside down trying to find anything that might have caused him to be killed, and I can't recall seeing any paintings of Charing Cross Bridge at his house."
"Perhaps he stored them somewhere else? Maybe the bank?"
"I thought you said the pleasure was seeing them hang on your walls."
He was right. She had said that.
"What are you saying then, Charlie?"
"I'm not saying anything. It's just a theory, but what if that was the reason he got killed? What if Myles was robbed and the thieves thought you had the rest of the paintings at your gallery? They would need the full set, right? So, what if they broke into his house first to get the first ten, then finished the job breaking into the gallery for the remaining two. Perhaps you being there took them by surprise and Ewan drove by, saw the lights on, and got in the way of the robbery."
Oh, how she would love that to be the truth, she thought.
The car pulled up behind the ambulance at the hospital.
"I don't know, Charlie. All I care about right now is Ewan."
Charlie leaned over and opened the car door for her.
"You go ahead and stay with him. I’ll check in with you in a bit. I think I’m onto something so I would like to run it past the chief inspector. From what I know of the man, he is most likely burning the midnight oil at the station."
She said goodbye and followed the paramedics into the hospital. Ewan's face was sallow and tubes ran from his arm into an IV bag a nurse snatched from the paramedic as soon as they rolled him through the doors. Within seconds, several doctors and nurses swarmed around him and pushed her out of their way as they wheeled him off.
"How's he doing? Is he okay?" she yelled at them but was ignored.
A friendly voice came up from behind and gently told Jorja that it was best she took a seat in the waiting area until the doctor came to talk with her. She had no choice but to comply and allowed the nurse she didn't recognize to usher her to a large open area to her right.
"There's a coffee machine over there, not the best but it does the trick, and a chapel down the hall to your right." She paused briefly then continued. "It might be a while before I have any news so feel free to spend some time in the chapel. I'll come find you when the doctor's ready."
She smiled affectionately then turned and darted back behind her station. The look in the effervescent nurse's eyes stayed with Jorja where she now stood staring through the glass of a tall window to a large terrarium. Filled with plants, a small fountain and a few large rocks that looked like a snake was going to crawl out of it at any moment, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the windowpane. Her hands were still covered in blood, so was her powder-blue blouse. If Ewan died it would be her fault. Maybe the residents of St. Ives were right all those years ago when they assumed she was nothing but trouble. Maybe they’d seen straight through her. She had tried to create a new life for herself, thought that she could do it there, in St. Ives but no matter how far she tried to run, to hide from her past, it was clear it would always haunt her. Because that person from her past was who she really was and who she would always be.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the female nurse's gentle voice suddenly spoke behind her.
"I thought you could do with this. There's a bathroom down that way." She handed Jorja a white tee shirt with the hospital logo on.
"Sorry, it's all I had, leftovers from our recent charity Fun Run. The gift shop on the second floor should have something warmer for sale if you want to pop up and have a look. They open in a little while."
"Thank you, this shirt is perfect."
"You know, dearie, the chapel is nice and quiet this time of night. You might want to swing by on your way back, just saying." She squeezed Jorja's arm gently and scuttled back to her post.
The nurse's suggestion left her feeling annoyed. It seemed everyone she knew or met constantly felt the need to tell her to turn to God, as if he would even want her. Like they were so certain he was the answer to all that troubled her, someone who could magically fix all she had done wrong in her life. From what she had heard, he was a God who easily forgave, but what if she didn't want him to forgive her? What then? Why could they not just let her be? Let her wallow in her regrets, pay for it the way she should, the way she deserved.
Fueled by her troubled emotions she set off toward the restroom. As the water washed the blood away from her hands, she watched the dark red change to a soft shade of pink before it swirled its way down the drain, disappearing as if it had never been there. If only it was that easy, she thought.
Not being able to stand the sight of her reflection in the mirror in front of her, she turned her back to it and hastily switched shirts, eager to get out of there. When she was done, she tossed her blood-stained blouse into the rubbish bin on her way out and stormed off to get a coffee.
But, as she passed the small chapel, it was as if a magnet pulled her body toward it. Perhaps it was the rebel in her, wanting to prove that she was right, wanting to test God's forgiveness and if it would extend to her. She felt her freshly cleansed hand reach for the door handle, hubris firm in her heart as she entered and took a seat in one of the narrow wooden pews of the small hospital chapel.