Seventeen portraits.
Seventeen paintings to be carefully wrapped and carried upstairs. Seventeen paintings to be driven back to that storage facility in Albany, hidden from the police or anyone else.
Remington lost track of time as he readied the paintings for transport. He came up with his plan as he worked. He would be able to bundle up the paintings down here during the day. But he would have to drive them to safety when it was dark. There was no way he’d be able to get them all in the station wagon at one time, but he should be able to complete the job in two trips. With a little luck, he’d be able to be back at Curtains Up, his task completed, before sunrise.
A little luck never hurt.
Systematically, Remington wound batting around each portrait. Belinda as Katharina in The Taming of the Shrew, as Cecily Cardew in The Importance of Being Earnest, as Abigail Williams in The Crucible, and all the others through the years.
“Rest well, my love,” he said as he kissed each version of Belinda’s beautiful face.
Zeke Ambrose drove up the driveway at Curtains Up, prepared with what he was going to say to persuade Remington to let the new portrait of Belinda be exhibited. Zeke was determined to have the painting in the rear of his station wagon when he drove back down the driveway.
He stopped to talk to the police officer stationed in front of the farmhouse.
“Hiya, Mo.”
“Zeke.” The officer nodded. “How are ya today?”
“Hangin’ in there. Any word on Belinda?”
“So you know?”
“News travels fast, especially in this small town,” Zeke said.
“No, nothing so far.”
“Let’s hope this is all a misunderstanding,” said Zeke. “And that she turns up real soon. I saw her in the play last night, and she was absolutely fabulous. I can’t allow myself to believe that something dreadful has happened to her.”
“Were you at the party she had here afterward, Zeke?”
“Yes. Jean and I came. Belinda has been including us for years.”
“See anything you thought was strange?”
“Nothing I can think of off the top of my head, Mo, but if I remember anything, I’ll be sure to let you know. Actually, I’m here to talk to Remington Peters.”
The police sergeant nodded toward the carriage house. “He’s a weird one, isn’t he?”
“Remington is an artist, Mo. He’s allowed to be a little strange.”
The officer waved Zeke on.
Parking at the front of the carriage house, Zeke got out, went to the front door, and knocked. He waited, then knocked again. When there was still no answer, Zeke walked around the building, cupped his hands against the glass of the giant window and looked inside. This time there was no cover draping the large canvas that sat on the easel.
Belinda stood, regally, in her sweeping green gown. She held her head high, her expression haughty, defiance in her eyes.
Zeke squinted to get a better view. He saw the pistol in Belinda’s hand just as Remington came to the window and glared out at him.
Zeke hurried back around to the front door, anxious to explain what he’d been doing peeking through the window. “I’m sorry, Remington, if I frightened you,” he said. “When there was no answer, I walked around to see if you were there but just didn’t hear me. I wasn’t trying to be nosy.”
“You saw the portrait, then?” Remington glowered. Assessing the expression on the artist’s face, Zeke decided not to acknowledge what he’d seen. If there was any hope of getting Remington to release the portrait to the gallery, Zeke didn’t want to ruin it by angering or offending the artist.
“No, actually, I couldn’t see it. There was too much glare.”
Remington fixed his eyes on Zeke’s face and studied it. “Good,” he said. “You know how I feel about people looking at my Belindas before I’m finished with them.”
“Absolutely,” said Zeke, relieved that Remington seemed satisfied. “How’s it coming anyway?”
“It’s not ready. And with all this worry about Belinda, I’m not in any frame of mind to be working on it.”
Remington’s tone was such that Zeke knew better than to push any further. And after having seen the painter’s interpretation of Belinda as Valerie, the gallery owner was so troubled that he was anxious to get away.