Page 82 of The Attic on Queen Street
“Otis?”
“The dog I saw in the parlor playing with the other dogs. And in the back garden. I believe he belonged to the ghost girl who’s been haunting Nola. That’s how we know his name is Otis. Nola said the girl told her.”
“The girl with the melted face. Evangeline.”
I nodded, studying the painting again. “At least we know we’re talking about the right historical period since this shows Otis in 1861,apparently before the fire. I just wish I knew where to get the answers to the rest of our questions. Because every time we ask a question, we just get another one in response.” I picked up my phone and snapped a close-up of the kitchen house and the dog.
Jack’s voice came very close to my ear. “As I’ve said before, we always figure it out. That’s why we make such a great team.”
Our gazes met. “I’m not the one who needs convincing.”
His eyes drifted down to my mouth. “I want—”
There was a brief tap on the door and a young man wearing a vest and a bow tie and with a Mohawk hairstyle opened the door. “Mandy just sent me up to see if you two needed anything. Maybe a glass of water?”
Jack stepped back. “Not for me, but thanks.”
“Me, neither,” I said. “We’re almost done here.”
“Okay. My name’s Tim—so just call down to the front desk if you change your minds.”
Jack had already shifted his attention to the remaining portraits by the time Tim closed the door behind him.
“Wow.” Jack sat back on his heels. “This would have made a great cover for my book if it had ever gotten published.” He held up a small painting, maybe three feet by two feet, in an elaborate gold filigree frame. “ ‘Louisa Gibbes Vanderhorst, 1921.’ ”
I’d seen black-and-white photographs of Louisa, but this oil painting showed her beauty and grace more eloquently than any photograph. It was as if the artist had captured her spirit in the paint, evolving it into a three-dimensional depiction not available from the quick snap of a camera. I’d seen her as only a wispy filament, but this rendition of Louisa in full color brought her to life.
“I wish we had the money to buy this painting from the museum,” I said. “She should be back at the house, where she belongs, not in some storage room where nobody can see her.” I held up my phone and took a picture.
The remaining two paintings were watercolors of Louisa’s roses in full bloom and of the oak tree that had stood sentinel in the yard for overa century. A little boy sat in the dangling swing, and even though no plaque identified its occupant, I knew it was a young Nevin Vanderhorst.
“And these, too,” I said as I snapped my final photos, stepping closer to capture the boy on the swing. “They’re part of our house and its history. They belong with the house.” My voice caught, surprising me. I could almost hear Mr.Vanderhorst whispering in my ear.It’s a piece of history you can hold in your hand.I had come a long way since viewing my inherited house as just bricks and mortar. Yet somehow I’d managed to let the foundation crumble. Without Jack, it no longer felt like home.
A freshly pressed handkerchief appeared in front of my blurry vision. I took it with surprise—not at the fact that Jack carried a handkerchief with him, but that I was crying.
“It’s going to be all right, Mellie. I promise you. I have a good feeling that we’re going to come out on top, and Marc will be the one wondering what hit him.”
I wiped my eyes and nodded, wanting desperately to tell him it wasn’t our finances that consumed most of my waking—and sleeping—hours.
I composed myself while Jack placed all the paintings in their original order, then followed me out of the office and back down to the museum’s lobby. Mandy was still in her meeting, so we left a message at the front desk to let her know we were done. Then we exited the building in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I wanted to know how he could be so certain that everything would be all right. Either he was a lot more optimistic than I realized, or he knew something that I didn’t.
Jack started the engine of the van but didn’t put it in gear. Instead he stared out the windshield as if the ugly brown bricks of the building were immensely fascinating. Finally, he turned to me.
“I think that would have been almost kiss number seven if you hadn’t attacked me at the bottom of the stairs the other day. So now I’m wondering if we need to go back to the beginning.”
“I didnotattack you! And even if I did, you sure didn’t fight back.”
His wicked smile told me that he knew he’d accomplished his goalof dragging me out of my black mood. Before he could say anything else, his phone buzzed with a text.
He looked down. “It’s from Mandy.”
I resisted the impulse to look over his shoulder and read it myself.
“Well, that’s interesting.”
“What is it?”
“She was just informed by a staff member that there’s a painting from the Vanderhorst collection that we didn’t get to see. It’s a small painting of the fountain in the Vanderhorst garden. Apparently, it was taken out on loan without her knowledge or approval.”
