Dulcie paced up and down the length of her office at the Maine Museum of Art. She knew what she had to do. She had to call Nick. She had to tell him about the painting. It could change everything about Lawrence Bellamy’s conviction. Her history with Nick, however, was a consternation. He hadn’t exactly lied to her, but he hadn’t told the truth, either. She wanted to distance herself from him until she could sort out her own feelings. Fate, however, seemed to have other plans in mind.
She turned and, with head down, quickly strode back across the room. She nearly ran straight into the bottle-cap Statue of Liberty. “Dammit!” she swore under her breath, sidestepping at the last second.
Without giving herself another moment to change her mind, she picked up her phone, located Nick’s number, and pressed the call button.
It rang several times. She was about to hang up without leaving a message when he answered.
“Dulcie?”
She was silent, not sure what to say.
“Is that you?” she heard him say. “Dulcie, are you okay?”
She inhaled slowly. “Yes, it’s me, Nick. Yes, I’m fine. I just wanted to talk to you about something that’s, well, odd.” She stopped abruptly.
Nick was instantly concerned. “Dulcie, are you in any trouble?”
Now she laughed. She was being entirely too serious, and nervous, about talking with him. After all she was, in her professional capacity, simply conveying some important information to him, a police detective in his professional capacity. No need for silly feelings, really, she told herself. Without realizing it she stood up straight.
“No, Nick, I’m not in any kind of trouble. I just wanted to talk with you about something odd that I think the Police should know of.”
Now Nick was silent. She hadn’t called him for any personal reasons. It was strictly business. What else could he expect? “Sure, Dulcie. Go ahead.”
“I can’t explain it very well over the phone. It’s something that you have to see. Could you and Adam come by my office sometime today when it’s convenient?”
You and Adam. He knew what that meant. She didn’t want to see him alone. She wanted Nick’s partner, Adam Johnson, there also.
“We can be there this afternoon. Does two o’clock work for you?” Nick asked.
“That’s perfect. I’ll see you then,” she said and quickly ended the call. She sank into her chair. Whew - that was done.
Rachel poked her head around the door. “Fresh pot of coffee! Want some?”
“Seriously, you’ll get me coffee?” Dulcie exclaimed.
Rachel giggled. “Well, it’s not on the job description, but you look like you need it. Hang on.” She was back in two minutes with a steaming mug. As she handed it to Dulcie she saw the new painting by Xander Bellamy with Oscar Bernstein and his son. She cocked her head sideways, looking at it. “That’s the same guy who did that one,” she pointed at the portrait of Dulcie. “Isn’t it?”
“Good eye!” Dulcie praised. “I’m training you well!”
Rachel now rolled her eyes.
“Tell me what you see,” Dulcie added.
Rachel gazed very intently at the painting. Dulcie had been serious in giving her the compliment. Her assistant had a very good eye for detail. Dulcie waited, patiently silent.
At last Rachel stepped back. “He,” she pointed at Oscar Bernstein, “… is a total ass. And he,” she pointed at Lawrence Bellamy, “… is really annoyed. No wait, that’s not the right word. Dismayed? Yes, that’s closer. He looks like his whole world is caving in on him.” Rachel looked back at Dulcie. “Who are they?” she asked.
Dulcie was processing Rachel’s assessment. It summed everything up quite neatly. After a moment she said, “The ‘total ass’ is Oscar Bernstein, and the dismayed one is his son-in-law, Lawrence Bellamy.”
“The guy who pushed Xander’s grandfather out the window?” Rachel squeaked in surprise.
“Yes. Strange, isn’t it?” observed Dulcie.
“Yeah, I’ll say!” Rachel exclaimed. Something about the painting was oddly frightening although she could not decide what it was.
“I have a meeting at two, with detectives from the police. They want to have a look at this,” Dulcie said. She tried to be as casual as possible.
Rachel turned to her. “With that dishy detective? Nicholas Black? He’s got the hots for you!” she declared.
“That’s enough,” Dulcie huffed. “Yes, if you must know, it’s with him and his partner, Adam Johnson, and it’s strictly business. So don’t go getting any ideas or spreading any gossip,” she concluded.
Rachel said nothing but left the room whistling softly, taunting her boss.
“I could fire you, you know!” Dulcie called after her.
“But you won’t!” Rachel jested quietly in a song-song voice from outside the door.
Dulcie grinned.
At two o’clock Dulcie heard a soft tapping at her office door. She quickly slipped on the black pumps that she had kicked off under her desk. Her heels clicked across the floor as she crossed the room, pulling open the door.
“Thanks for coming,” she said to both Nicholas Black and Adam Johnson as a general greeting. She wanted to address them as a group. She had vowed not to engage in an individual conversation with Nick.
She had no reason to avoid him, really. He hadn’t actually done anything wrong. True, her pride had been bruised, but looking back, he had simply been kind toward her, only bordering on affectionate. She was sure he had not intentionally ‘led her on’ as the phrase went, yet he had not been straightforward as to his own status and availability. He had been married. Technically, he had been separated and going through an overly prolonged divorce, but none of this information had been provided. As a result, she had begun to develop feelings for him, only to have them snuffed out by an embarrassing encounter with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Dulcie still felt like a complete idiot every time she thought about it.
She refocused on the two men standing in the doorway and stepped aside, motioning for them to come in.
“So this has to do with that Bernstein case?” Johnson asked. Dulcie was glad he had spoken first and not Nick.
“Yes,” she said, looking directly at Johnson. “I realize the case is closed, that Lawrence Bellamy confessed, but I’ve had reason to talk with the family. I’ve even been to the house a couple of times. It’s just that everything seems odd.”
Nick and his partner exchanged glances. They had used the exact same word on the way over when talking about the case.
Dulcie continued. “I’ve been putting together a new exhibit, and wanted to feature some of Xander Bellamy’s work. I’m sure you know about his talents. He’s an autistic savant with an eidetic memory.”
Johnson’s brow wrinkled. “Do you mean a photographic memory?”
“Basically yes, although no one has yet proven that the concept of a photographic memory truly exists. An eidetic memory is the ability to recall what has been seen, or in some cases heard, with extreme precision for a time afterward. A small percentage of very young children, five years old or less, have it but it seems to fade when language skills develop. In Xander’s case, he may have maintained the ability since he has no language skills.”
“Interesting…” murmured Nick.
“Here’s a painting that Xander did of me after he had seen me for only a few minutes,” she walked over to the portrait of herself. “I was standing behind him when he actually painted it, so he was not looking at me at all while he painted.” The two men followed her and stared at the canvas.
“It’s so detailed, and looks exactly like you,” Nick remarked.
“Wow,” Johnson simply stated.
“The point is, Xander takes in an image, a scene, a person, then paints exactly what he has seen. Rather quickly, too.” Dulcie reached for the other painting and turned it around. She had deliberately placed it against the wall so that the men couldn’t see it when they first came in. “Edith Bernstein, Oscar Bernstein’s sister, gave this to me, knowing that I would show it to you. Tell me what you see.”
The two men leaned forward and bumped each other on the shoulders. Johnson grunted and stepped back slightly. He fished for his glasses in his shirt pocket and put them on. “Looks like an old man with a maniacal laugh, and a pretty upset guy walking away from him.”
Nick was silent.
Johnson straightened and turned back to Dulcie. “I’m assuming the older one is Oscar Bernstein and the younger is Lawrence Bellamy?”
“Yes,” Dulcie replied. “How did you know?”
“Well, otherwise you wouldn’t be showing it to us,” he said with a smirk. “But seriously, what’s the story?”
Nick, still silent, stood up as well and faced Dulcie.
“Here’s what happened. I’m planning to video Xander as he works as kind of a mini-documentary for the upcoming exhibit. I was at the house this morning to observe him and to just get an idea of how things are situated so that I can cause the least amount of intrusion. While the housekeeper was showing me around, Edith Bernstein caught up with us and asked me to look at this painting. She said that it shows both Oscar and Lawrence Bellamy in the same clothes that they wore the night Oscar was killed, and judging form the light outside the window, it shows them right around the same time that he was killed, just before sunset.”
“So Xander saw them right before it happened?” Johnson asked. “That doesn’t really tell us anything, does it? Why would Edith give it to you?”
Dulcie was thoughtful. “For two reasons. First of all, the painting shows something interesting. A shadow of someone else in the room. It’s right here,” she pointed. “Secondly, she had found this painting in Xander’s studio. He has stacks of his discarded works in there. He was in the studio when she found it and must have been aware that she brought it back to her room. Later, Edith found another painting of me, one that Xander had done previously, also in her room next to this one. She believes that Xander was trying to convey that she should show the painting to me.”
“Seems odd,” said Johnson taking off his glasses.
Nick finally spoke. “I looked over the Bernstein file before we came over. There were four people at home when Oscar was killed: Oscar himself, his son-in-law Lawrence, the housekeeper, and Xander. Evidence pointed to Xander at first, but then Lawrence stepped forward and confessed. He said that the housekeeper had taken Xander for a walk. When they were gone, the two men had argued, and in anger, Lawrence shoved him out the window.” Nick glanced back at the painting. “I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but I don’t see that this disproves any of that.”
Dulcie shook her head. “It doesn’t really. But it does seem strange. Who is the other person in the room? I doubt it would have been Giselle. She’s the housekeeper,” Dulcie added. Both men nodded. “The whole thing struck Edith Bernstein as strange, too. Plus, why would Xander want me to see it?”
“You don’t think this kid was just using artistic license? I mean, maybe he walked by the room and saw some of this, but just put the rest in?” Johnson asked.
“No. That’s not how his mind works. He only paints what he sees. He doesn’t create a scene, he captures an image. No, someone else was definitely there.”
Nick felt an odd, prickly sensation creeping up his neck. He reached back and rubbed beneath his collar. Dulcie was right. Something seemed very strange about the whole scenario. He pulled out his cell phone. “Mind if I take a picture of this for reference?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” said Dulcie as she moved out of the way. Nick took several photos with his phone.
Johnson cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll have a look at that file too. Nick, you sure no one else was around when it happened?”
“Yeah, that’s what it said,” Nick replied, refocusing on a close-up of Oscar Bernstein.
“We can’t exactly go around asking questions. Case is closed, so no one would go for that.” Johnson was thinking out loud.
“You couldn’t, but I could,” said Dulcie. Both men wheeled around and stared at her.
“Look, Dulcie,” Nick started, “I know you’ve helped with other investigations, but it might not be a good idea…”
Now Dulcie was annoyed. She had not only ‘helped’ with other investigations, she had actually been instrumental in solving them. She knew that it was probably some sort of misplaced male protective instinct that made Nick hesitate, but she wasn’t about to allow him to tell her what she could or couldn’t say to these people. “Fine,” she lied.
Johnson chuckled. “Now see what you’ve done,” he said in a stage-whisper to Nick. “No tellin’ what she’ll do now, but she sure as heck isn’t gonna let this drop!” He continued at normal volume, “Think about it, though. She is in the best position to get a little more information. Plus, if nothing is conclusive, we can just let the whole thing go.”
Nick sighed. He knew that Johnson was right. “Okay, Dulcie. You win. But let us,” he nodded at his partner, “talk about this first and figure out exactly what we need to know. I’ll be in touch. Please don’t try to find out anything on your own in the meantime?”
Dulcie smiled sweetly. “Of course not, sir!”
Nick groaned inwardly.
#
Detective Nicholas Black and his partner walked back down the street toward the police station. Nick zipped his leather jacket higher on his chest. Fall had definitely begun to chill the air. “So what do you make of that?” he said to Johnson without looking at him.
“I think you better start making some moves, or she won’t know you’re still interested.”
Nick sighed. “I mean…”
Johnson grinned. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
They were approaching their unofficial second office, the coffee shop Roasters. “Wanna get a coffee?” Nick asked.
Johnson stopped dead in his tracks. “I can’t go in there,” he stammered.
Nick suddenly remembered Johnson’s bet with his wife. “Oh, I forgot! Sorry. Want me to grab us a couple of coffees? I’ll just bring them back out.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
“Should I ask how the diet is going?” Nick said as they approached the front steps of Roasters.
“No,” Johnson said flatly.
Nick left it at that.
When he came back out, Johnson was coming back down the street in the same direction that they had just walked. Nick chuckled softly. “Getting the extra steps in?” he asked, handing Johnson a large, very warm cup.
“Might as well,” his partner said, shrugging his shoulders.
They crossed the street and headed for the ferry terminal. Outdoors, but covered from the weather, it was a good place to sit and think. They found an empty bench and sipped their coffee in silence.
A loud blast from a departing boat interrupted Nick’s thoughts. He looked over at it, watching the seagulls swooping dangerously close, but never actually hitting anything. He’d always marveled at how birds could do that. His mind drifted back to the Bernstein case. It was the same thing. All of the suspects had been flitting around, near the crime but not close enough to pin any of them down. It had all seemed so strange to him.
“We’re gonna have to get at the files again and go through everything,” Johnson said. Nick nodded in response. “Chief won’t be happy,” Johnson added.
“You’ve got that right. He likes a tidy finish so he can move on. We’ll have to just keep it as quiet as possible,” Nick replied.
Johnson finished his coffee with one large swig, then tossed the cup into the trash can about ten feet away. It bounced off the rim, but went in. He gestured two fingers, points for the basket. Johnson was a kid at heart. One corner of Nick’s mouth tugged up in a half-smile, but it was his only acknowledgement.
“What’s your gut?” Johnson asked.
“Good question. My gut says that Lawrence Bellamy didn’t do it. We both agree on that. But your real question is, who do I think did? Damned if I don’t have a good answer to that. That painting is interesting. The kid isn’t stupid, he just thinks differently. What I don’t know is, is he really trying to tell us something with that image, or is it just something random he did showing the night that his grandfather just happened to be killed?”
“My gut says it isn’t random. He did it for a reason. He also got it to Dulcie for a reason. We just don’t know what that reason is.”
“That’s what we need to figure out,” Nick said. The last inch of his coffee was cold. He stood up and dropped the cup in the trash. “All right, let’s get back and start digging.”
Johnson grunted in agreement.
#
Dr. Raymond Armand sprinkled a small quantity of aftershave on his hands, rubbed them together, then slapped them on his cheeks. He was meeting Dulcie for dinner and decided to be ready for anything. He had called her earlier in the day, telling her that he had been so busy with appointments that the only time he had available to talk about the project would be over dinner. Of course, there had been no appointments at all during the day. He simply intended to mix business with pleasure.
His file on Xander Bellamy was sitting on the desk. Dr. Armand had just read through the contents again. As far as he was concerned, it seemed pretty standard, if an autistic savant could be considered standard. Xander had been diagnosed at an early age. Thanks to his grandfather’s money, he had received a great deal of therapy. Raymond knew that the earlier therapy happened, the better, and that had certainly been true in Xander’s case. He’d learned enough life skills, such as feeding himself properly, hygiene, dressing, etc., to function well. Raymond thought about his plan to make a case study of Xander, publishing the results in one of the Boston medical journals for psychology. The grandfather had interfered. When Oscar Bernstein learned of Raymond’s plans, he was immediately dismissed. To Oscar, his grandson was nothing more than a disgrace. Oscar had only paid for the therapy in an attempt to make him “normal” and less of what he considered to be an embarrassment. It hadn’t worked to his satisfaction. He wanted as few people to know about Xander as possible.
Raymond had been livid. Publishing his own case study would have been a big step in his career. His name would be linked to Xander’s. It could have led to more studies of Xander and others like him, followed by more publications. He had imagined giving lectures to his so called ‘esteemed colleagues,’ the very same people who had snubbed him so recently before. Oscar Bernstein had certainly thrown a wrench into Raymond’s career.
He glanced at the file again, debating whether he should bring it with him. It probably wasn’t a bad idea. At the very least, it would make a convincing prop, showing that he was there for business. And if something else just happened to develop, well, that was certainly acceptable. He had every intention of ensuring that something else did indeed develop. Dulcie was well connected. She would be very useful. The fact that she was quite easy on the eyes was a serious bonus.
He shoved the file into his buttery leather briefcase, checked to make sure he had a pair of reading glasses in with it as well, then left the office. They were meeting at a trendy new restaurant, the Seaglass Bistro. He arrived early and secured a table at the edge of one of the large windows. He was careful not to place them too far back into a dark corner. That would be too obvious.
Dulcie arrived within ten minutes. Raymond immediately stood and, when she had attempted a standard handshake, took her hand gently in his, placing his other hand on top. He then slid her coat from her shoulders. She immediately felt uncomfortable.
Raymond handed the coat to a nearby waiter without even acknowledging him. The man looked momentarily bewildered, then put it on a hook on the wall within easy reach of them. He gave each of them menus and was about to relate the chef’s specials when Raymond interrupted. “I believe the lady would like some refreshment. If I may be so bold,” he hesitated, glancing at Dulcie. Inwardly, she was not amused, but simply gave him a slight smile and nodded. “A glass of prosecco for each of us, if you will. Your best, if you don’t mind.” He then turned his attention to Dulcie, obviously dismissing the waiter by ignoring him. “We’ll see if this place is as good as it claims to be,” he said, knowing that the waiter could easily hear him.
Dulcie was amazed that someone whose career was devoted to understanding the thoughts of others could be so oblivious to their feelings. She quickly realized, however, that he was not oblivious at all. He simply didn’t care. She reached into her bag and took out a small notepad and pen. They were meeting for work, not to review the restaurant.
“I wonder if you’ve had any thoughts regarding the best way to approach telling Xander’s story? We’ll need to be as brief as possible,” she added.
“We will, and we’ll need to make sure that it’s in terms that the lay-public can understand. I guess that means I’ll simply have to dumb it down quite a bit,” Raymond sniffed.
“This is going to be the longest dinner I’ve ever had,” Dulcie thought. Aloud she said, “I thought we could begin by showing his subject, the camera moving around him or her, then pull back and show that person sitting behind Xander. The camera could then move to a close-up of the canvas as he works, gradually pulling back as you explain his condition. He works so quickly that I think we could give our audience the essence of what he does in about five minutes.”
The waiter had just returned with the drinks. Raymond was examining his closely. He froze with it hovering in the air. “Five minutes? That’s all? I don’t see how one could explain the complexity of his condition in five minutes!” he gaped. “Especially to the general public who have no real understanding of how the mind works.” He trailed off, refocusing on his prosecco. He took a sip and made a face. “Passable,” he sneered.
Dulcie looked up at the waiter and gave him a bright smile. “I’m just going to order an appetizer; I really don’t have time for an entire dinner. The crab cakes sound delicious.”
“Very good. I’ll put that right in. And for you sir?” the waiter asked, turning to Raymond.
He was caught off guard. “Weren’t we having dinner?” he stammered.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t get a chance to mention it when I came in, but I have a conference call with a colleague in Los Angeles. It’s at half-past three, Pacific Time, so I’ll have to dash off in,” she looked at her tiny gold watch, “less than an hour!” Her eyes widened in surprise. She hoped she had fooled him.
He cleared his throat. The waiter was still standing over them. Raymond did not want to look like a fool in front of him. “Certainly! My schedule has been simply packed as well,” he recovered and glanced at the menu. “I’ll have the calamari in puttanesca.” He flipped the menu back toward the waiter.
Dulcie sipped her prosecco. “Is this the La Marca?” She asked the waiter.
He flashed a surprised smile. “Yes, it is. Do you like it?”
“Absolutely! The melon really comes through in this vintage. Thanks so much for choosing it for us.” She wanted him to know that at least one person at the table had manners. Plus, Dulcie knew her wines. It was a hobby bordering on a passion. She usually kept quiet with her knowledge, not wanting to come across as arrogant, but in this case Dr. Raymond Armand needed to be taken down a notch. He fixed his gaze out the window, pretending to be distracted by the street traffic.
When the waiter left, Dulcie said nothing, allowing silence to descend upon them. After several increasingly awkward moments, Raymond said, “Yes, you were telling me about the video. Where do you see my role? What would you like me to do?” He had quickly decided to hand her the reigns entirely or he was in danger of losing the project.
She toyed with the pen on her notepad. “I had thought that if you narrate, essentially through a voice-over, that would give it the level of professionalism, from a psychological standpoint, that we need.”
“I would be happy to,” he said simply, inwardly relieved.
“I do have some questions about Xander. First of all, how do we know that he’ll paint the subject that we put in front of him?”
Raymond looked truly thoughtful for the first time since Dulcie had joined him at the table. “We don’t. What I mean to say is, we can’t be sure that he will. He paints what he wants to paint.”
“He seems to be communicating again. Is there a way to ask him to paint someone? Has anyone tried communicating that before?”
“I don’t think so. Xander has been given free reign with his painting.”
“That leads me to another question. How did he learn to paint?” Dulcie asked.
“From what I understand,” Raymond answered, “it was part of his therapy when he was very young. They used tempera paints with him. His skills were astonishing, so he eventually advanced to the oil paints that he uses now.”
“Acrylics,” thought Dulcie. “Not oils.” She decided not to correct him.
“I think what I’d like to have you describe is the workings of a typical person’s brain in terms of what they see and how they recreate it on paper or canvas, then describe what you believe is happening in Xander’s brain.”
“Would I do this while he’s working?” Raymond asked.
“Initially, yes,” Dulcie said. “But mainly that’s to get your impressions as he works. Then we’ll work out a script and do the voice-over for the final video.”
“You’ve done this before, I see,” Raymond observed.
“A couple of times,” she answered.
As their food arrived, Dulcie realized that when Raymond let his guard down and stopped acting the part of the ‘brilliant scientist’ he was actually quite interesting. They continued talking until Dulcie glanced at her watch and realized that she had to leave for her fictitious phone call. She quickly reached into her bag and took out her wallet.
“No, no!” Raymond waved her off. “This is on me!”
Dulcie had no intention of letting him pay. “Thank you, but I couldn’t let you. It’s work, after all. Here,” she said, laying cash on the table, “We’ll split it. But I don’t have time to wait for the check. Do you mind handling it?”
“With pleasure.”
Dulcie wondered how it could be a pleasure to sit and wait for the check, but didn’t ask. Raymond stood and helped her with her coat. His hands lingered on her shoulders a bit too long. She stepped away quickly and stuck out her hand formally, then managed a firm, quick handshake with him. “Thank you. I think we have plenty to work with now. I’ll be in touch.”
As she closed the door behind her and stepped onto the sidewalk, Dulcie initially turned toward the street she lived on, then quickly remembered that she was supposed to be on the phone with her imaginary colleague back at the office. She switched course, grateful that she was not walking in front of the window where Raymond still sat, although she was sure, somehow, that he was watching her.
She was regretting bringing him in to the whole project. Surely she could have found someone else. Yet he did have a history with Xander, so he would be able to give the needed insights in the least amount of time possible. She knew the phrase time is money all too well. The budget for the entire exhibit seemed to be sifting through her fingers. She couldn’t afford to pay Dr. Raymond Armand for any longer than was absolutely necessary.
When she was well away from the restaurant, Dulcie turned down a side street and pulled out her cell phone. She pushed the number for her favorite Chinese restaurant and ordered a large chicken fried rice with two egg rolls. Then she pocketed the phone and continued on her way. “Good!” she thought. “Now I can look forward to dinner!”