SEVENTY-SIX

DO whatever you can to relax . . .

Not so easy in a freezing-cold bedroom.

On the way to my posh igloo, I climbed the mansion’s staircase. Quinn didn’t follow. Instead, he pulled out his phone and headed for the sofa. I got the feeling he’d stayed behind to give me privacy as I went up to the second floor.

A considerate man, I thought, and for that, I was grateful—and a little more trustful.

Cresting the stairs, I noticed Matt’s door was now firmly shut. For some reason this made me melancholy. My ex-husband was no longer the man for me, but he was the only man I could remember being a part of my life, including my love life.

With a sigh, I opened the master bedroom door and began to shiver with more than regret. Earlier today, I had cracked a window for fresh air. But the drop in temperature and the wet storm winds killed any coziness in the large space.

I hurried to shut the window and turn on the gas fireplace. The chill was so strong that I grabbed Esther’s Poetry in Motion jacket from the closet. Pulling it on, I felt something inside. Reaching into a pocket, I found a small stack of postcard-sized art prints.

“Where did these come from?”

My mind went blank. Then I remembered—and this memory was recent: When Madame took me up to the Parkview’s Gotham Suite, these prints had fallen out of Annette Brewster’s private black folder—the one from which her last will and testament was suspiciously missing. I had gathered the cards off the floor and forgotten to put them back. Until now, I’d never taken the time to examine them.

As I shuffled through the six images—beautiful, witty, wistful images—I wondered why they held such significance for Annette. These paintings, reproduced on the small cards, were quite accomplished, but I’d never seen them in books or magazines, or even heard of the artist.

“James Mazur,” I read on the back of all the cards, along with a gallery address in Paris, and the name for each painting written in English and French.

The first, titled Unexpected Kindness, showed a cold, rainy day on a Paris street. A sad, defeated old man, caught in the downpour, displayed surprise when a smiling young woman offered him an umbrella.

Two more paintings included one of a quiet, dusky Paris street with the only light coming from the golden glow of windows and a standing streetlamp; the companion painting showed the same location alive with activity at midday, flower boxes overflowing with color.

A fourth painting, Parting, portrayed a scene on a lonely train platform of two lovers kissing goodbye. The fifth, Waiting, featured a young waiter in an apron, leaning against a café doorway, gazing with open infatuation at his only customer, a stylish woman sipping her coffee, oblivious to her admirer as she absently stared out the window.

Finally, Sunset Basket depicted the lush French countryside. In the foreground sat a picnic basket filled with bread, cheese, fruit, and wine. In the distance, an older woman rode an old-fashioned bicycle toward a silver-haired gentleman gathering wildflowers.

The narratives of Mazur’s work reminded me of Hopper, but with a much softer, more romantic approach to his subjects. In fact, the style and palette were exactly like the duet of paintings I’d seen hanging in the Gotham Suite—one depicting the Parkview Palace with the horse and carriage out front; the other a portrait of Annette Brewster. I remembered those paintings were unsigned.

But why?

That surreal feeling began creeping through me again. I was sure I knew more about these paintings. But my mind’s blank walls carried only vague shadows and empty frames.

I shoved the cards back into my jacket’s pocket. I felt so alone tonight, so disconnected and displaced, staring at Matt’s empty walls.

Do whatever you can to relax . . .

Detective Quinn’s deep voice came back to me. It was a comforting voice with good advice, and it chased away some of the shadows.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Enough wallowing. Time to get out of this frigid room.”

Moving to the attached bath, I ran the shower until steam fogged the mirrors. Then I stripped down and washed up. Toweling off, I spied the Japanese soaking tub, and remembered Matt had encouraged me to try it.

What the heck? I thought. It’s my last night here.

After filling the oversized copper bucket, I slipped into the warm water, closed my eyes, and uttered one word—

“Nice.”

A state of deep, natural relaxation overtook my muscles, mind, and spirit for the first time in . . . I wasn’t sure how long.

I had started the week on a park bench, moved to a hapless hospital bed, a getaway car, and a strange house in the Hamptons. Was it any wonder high anxiety was my constant companion?

Now I let it all go and just . . . drifted . . .

As I listened to the rain beating on the window, that stormy Paris street of Mazur’s Unexpected Kindness came back to me, but not from the small cards.

I remembered admiring the original canvas of the work, and it was glorious. Annette was with me. She was talking with great affection about James Mazur. She loved James. All her life she’d loved him. And she loved him still.

We were standing in a warehouse, Annette and I, looking at all six of Mazur’s paintings. This was Tessa’s warehouse, I realized. Tessa Simmons, Annette’s niece!

Suddenly, I felt woozy and the rest of the memory flowed over me with the force of an Atlantic windstorm.