Twenty-Five

After making a real effort to leave Silvia’s room the way we had found it, the three of us quietly left the inn to walk across the dimly lit, eerily vacant parking lot. The behemoth of a trailer was still connected to the Escalade, and both were parked at the edge of the pavement near a row of tall pines. I thought the trailer had been disconnected from the SUV when Silvia arrived, but Peter confirmed that it hadn’t been.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he began, his loose flip-flops making muffled slapping sounds on the asphalt as he walked. “Like, I didn’t realize the extent of Silvia’s money problems. I mean, the woman was always cheap, and, like, never paid for anything she could get for free, my services included. But I thought it was just another one of her nasty ways. I probably shoulda realized she was in trouble before we left Chicago. The day before we left she hired a couple of movers to pack up all her paintings and some of her furniture, mostly the heavy antique stuff. I thought she was being eccentric, ya know, like, she couldn’t be creative unless she was surrounded by all her stuff? Kinda in the same way that tormenting the young and promising, like Hannah, Erik, you, and me, made her feel superior and important. But packing up the old paintings and antiques, that’s different. Silvia was in real trouble.”

As he stood before the trailer, a flash of sorrow or possibly remorse crossed his face and disappeared. “Anyhow,” he continued, brightening a measure, “Silvia insisted we take the white beast with us wherever we went.”

As Peter went for the lock with his ring of keys, Giff and I pulled out our phones and engaged our flashlight apps to assist him. Although the back of the trailer was bathed in warm light, Peter’s fine motor skills were still suffering the effects of his recent bender. It took close to a minute before he put the correct key into the lock.

“Okay,” he finally said, throwing the double doors wide. “The records are in here.”

Giff and I stood a moment in silent amazement. There were far more than just records staring back at us in the packed, cavernous space lovingly referred to as the white beast. Back in Chicago, after I had lost my job in advertising, I attempted to drown my sorrows in wine and sketchy reality TV. I had seen my share of compelling, unsolvable mysteries about ghostly encounters, Sasquatch sightings, the Loch Ness Monster, aliens, and angels. I had watched them all with suspended disbelief. It was what I lovingly referred to as my “dark period.” Since moving back home to Cherry Cove I’d been so busy working at the inn that I didn’t even have a social life, let alone time to watch any TV, reality or otherwise. However, peering into Silvia’s trailer with the help of two smartphone flashlights, I felt like I had walked onto the set of one of those unsolvable mysteries, only this one was about the dead and the secrets that surrounded them. The thought sent a ripple of excited fear coursing through me.

“So, um, it’s a bit crowded aboard the white beast,” Peter warned in his languid hippie tone, utterly breaking the spell I’d been under. “I’ve made an aisle on the right for easier access, so, like, follow me.” He stepped up into the trailer. Giff jumped up next and gave me his hand.

The moment I was aboard, Giff whispered “Get a load of this” and ran his phone light over the contents of the white beast. A jumble of folded easels sat near the entrance along with an old wooden chest containing a variety of high-end paintbrushes. Just behind this was a long rack filled with rows and rows of paint tubes in every color under the sun. Next to the paints and easels sat a stack of blank canvases in a myriad of sizes, and directly next to these were what appeared to be framed paintings, although each one was covered by a heavy black cloth.

“Dudes. The record book’s down this way.” As Peter talked, he continued down the darkened aisle. Clearly he wanted us to follow, or, at the very least, he wanted our light. But Giff and I stayed where we were, our lights trained on a stack of covered paintings.

“Are these all Silvia’s paintings?” I asked his retreating form.

Peter stopped and poked his head around an antique floor-length mirror. “Um, nope. Damn,” he uttered. “I like almost forgot about those.”

“Short term memory loss,” Giff whispered to me, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Classic symptom of habitual self-medicating.”

“Dude,” Peter hissed, overhearing him. “I’m gonna stop. Okay? And, like, I know what those are. They’re what’s left of last year’s commissions, only I forgot that someone’s going to have to deliver them now that Silvia’s gone.”

“These are the paintings Silvia hadn’t gotten around to unveiling?” I asked aloud, staring at the vertical stack of covered rectangles that ranged in size from four feet high to a manageable two-foot by two-foot square. I focused my phone light on the first in the row. As I ran my hand over the black cloth covering the painting, I felt like an archaeologist who’d just discovered the burial chamber of an ancient queen. This metallic cavern on wheels housed the painter’s last remaining possessions, a somber thought for a woman who’d spent a lifetime devoted to her art. Noticing that Giff was growing impatient, I peeled back the cloth and inhaled sharply.

Giff’s reaction was just as violent. He jumped back a step while crying out like a wounded animal. “What the heck am I looking at?” Although he was horrified, his eyes were glued to the painting before him. “Is it just me or is that man ghosting himself on the pottery wheel?”

“Ghosting?” I questioned, looking at my friend.

“Yeah. Ghosting. It’s a term used for those who find it humorous to recreate the iconic pottery wheel scene from the movie Ghost. Fred’s a potter, so the impulse is there, but he’s far from being a Patrick Swayze look-alike. And that’s not Demi Moore he’s got clenched between his thighs. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that looks like a younger version of Fred.” It was then that Giff let out a long, pent-up hoot. Still chuckling, he asked, “What was the woman thinking, painting a portrait like this?”

“It’s farcical,” I added. “Mocking even.” And it really was, because the portrait we were staring at clearly depicted a present-day Fred making a ghostly visit to his younger self on the pottery wheel, teaching his younger self his perfected technique. The subject was oddly disturbing, and yet no one could deny that it was beautifully executed. “It’s astonishing,” I uttered. “I’m not quite sure what to make of it.”

“Hey, dudes. Can one of you throw some light over here?” Peter was still rooting around in the back looking for the record book.

Giff stood and held up his phone.

“Peter, we’re looking at a painting of Fred Beauchamp,” I said. “I didn’t know Fred commissioned a painting.”

“Yeah. Last summer. He’s not rich or anything.” Peter poked his head above a richly upholstered chair with a gilded frame. “I think he did it to impress her. Anyhow, his unveiling was scheduled for next Saturday. It’s all here in the ledger.” He held up a leather-bound book and wiggled it. “I keep it in the drawer of the big desk,” he explained, walking back toward us. He opened the book, revealing a bookmarked page. “These are her new commissions. Pricing’s over here, and on this page is the order of the unveilings. People pay a lot of money for her work. She liked to draw out the ordeal for dramatic effect. Those,” he said, pointing to the row of covered paintings, “are in order.”

“So Fred hasn’t seen this yet?” I pointed my phone light back on the painting.

“Whoa!” Peter cried upon seeing it. “Dudes! Is it just me, or is old Fred ghosting a young Fred?”

“Is this the first time you’re seeing this?” For some reason this intrigued me.

Peter, still staring at the portrait, started to giggle. A short while later he pulled himself together and replied, “Yeah. I mean, I’d totally remember this one if I’d seen it before. Silvia painted in her room at night. She always made sure I attend the sittings. After that I’d, like, catch glimpses of all her commissions in various stages of completion. But after Silvia worked on a painting she liked to cover it. She didn’t want anyone looking at her work until she held the unveiling. It was just her way.” Peter looked at the painting again and let out another wave of giggles. Giff, unable to help himself, erupted in laughter as well. “I was at Fred’s sitting,” Peter offered, stifling his laughter. “It was totally normal. This,” he added, pointing to the painting, “is totally messed up.”

I studied the painting a minute longer. It was either going to delight or feel like a slap in the face. Silvia was ether paying homage to Fred and his craft, or she was making a mockery of him by depicting him ghosting himself on the pottery wheel, guiding his own hands lovingly on the wet clay. If Fred had in fact seen this portrait, or somehow had caught wind of it, it might have been enough to throw him over the edge. Silvia had been publicly toying with his emotions for years. Was this meant to be another costly humiliation? Then another thought struck me. Silvia had been a sly woman. Maybe this painting was meant to be a challenge to Fred’s devotion. By rejecting the painting Fred would be, in a sense, rejecting Silvia. And, as a member of the arts council, he’d surely catch flack for that.

If, however, Fred proclaimed to love the painting, the council would applaud him, but Silvia would be suspicious.

“What were you playing at, Silvia Lumiere?” I asked the portrait.

While I was mentally planning an unveiling and my inevitable talk with Fred Beauchamp, I was aware that Giff and Peter had wandered off. Giff, having an eye for antiques and oddities, couldn’t help himself. I had just replaced the cover on the painting when he called me to the back of the trailer.

“Whitney! Quick, come here.” Blond highlights poked through a press of luxurious fur coats hanging on a rack. The look of urgency on Giff’s face made me jump. “Another disturbing discovery. You’re going to want to take a look at this.”

I worked my way to the back of the trailer, weaving a path through Silvia’s personal belongings. To my annoyance, Peter and Giff were at the very back. I had just climbed over a large upholstered chair when Giff turned to me.

“I’ve found it,” he said, his dark eyes glittering with excitement. “It’s the legendary missing painting.” He stepped back and focused the beam of his phone light on the canvas. For the second time since climbing aboard the white beast, I inhaled sharply. It was another exquisite painting done by the hand of Silvia Lumiere, only the subject of this one was a handsome young man wearing nothing but a fierce grimace. As shocking as this was, it wasn’t what was causing my heart to pound away in my chest like a pack of greyhounds chasing a lure. No, that was caused by the unmistakable identity of the man himself, and even if I was in any doubt about that, the huge broadsword by his side should have given it away.

“It’s Lance Van Guilder,” Giff said, looking as shocked by the discovery as I was. “Dear Lord, Whitey. He’s the man who tried to sue Silvia but was unsuccessful. He must be. Here’s the proof.”

It was undeniable, and yet I was gripped by a sickening fear. “Poor Tay. She’s not going to like this one bit.”