Page 3 of Dying to Meet You
So he’d painted over everything. He also broke some of the bedrooms into a rabbit warren of smaller rooms, forcing my demolition crew to painstakingly remove lots of slapdash drywall before the art restorers could even begin their work of rescuing the hidden paintings.
More than once I’ve stood here thinking:The balls on these guys.
“It’s very ornate,” Hank says now. “Organic. Colorful.”
“Agreed,” I say. And then I hold back my gasp as he reaches out andruns his fingertipsacross an 1860 masterwork.
Seriously, the balls on these guys.
“But it complicates the floor plan,” Hank says. “That’s the issue, right?”
“Right. Our plan had a wall right here.” I indicate a spot that’s in the center of another mural panel—this one depicting Poseidon’s horses. “We can’t unveil a rare work of art and then chop it in half.”
He frowns, possibly wondering why we can’t do exactly that. When you’re as rich as Hank, you can usually do as you please. “The director needs this space. And he’ll need to be separated from his assistant by a wall.”
That’s what I was afraid he’d say. “Can you tell me why it has to bethisroom? If we put the director’s office in the next room...”
He’s already shaking his head. “It’s the ocean view. Donors are going to sit right here”—he indicates a place on the floor—“and look at this view. They’ll contemplate the majesty of the ocean and our history upon it. And then they will open their wallets. The director needs to occupy the grandest space. It’s all about posturing.”
My heart sags. I don’t care to live in a world that’s all about posturing. Yet here we are.
Hank’s phone rings. He checks the screen, and I expect him to silence the phone. Instead—without a word of apology—he takes the call. “Hey, Mack! What do you have for me?”
Great.
Giving Hank privacy, I leave the room and tap on the door of the neighboring one.
“Enter!” comes a female voice from inside the room I’m calling the West Room on my floor plan.
I open the door to reveal Zoya, the younger of our two conservators. She’s artsy, with a septum piercing and an angular haircut that reminds me of an I. M. Pei building. She’s standing on a ladder in overalls, dabbing a brush at the wall. When she sees me, she turns down the NPR broadcast on her Bluetooth speaker and climbs off the ladder.
“He’s impressed with your work next door,” I say in a low voice. “Just thought you’d want to know.”
She gives me a sly smile. “Did he complain about the delay, though? Only a billionaire would be upset that his house has important works of art all over it.”
“It came up,” I whisper. “But I know you can only work so fast. Is Bert gone for the day?” They often start work early and leave by three.
She nods. “I should get out of here, too. But I was listening to an interesting interview.” She grabs her tool tray off the ladder. “Look, I found Poseidon again.” She points at... two horses? The larger one is nuzzling the smaller one.
“If you say so?”
Zoya grins. “Poseidon pursued Demeter, but she didn’t want to be his next side piece. So she turned herself into a mare and ran. But Greek gods don’t take no for an answer, and Poseidon changed himself into astallion to chase her down. Later, she gives birth to the horse Arion.” She shrugs. “Honestly, we’re just lucky the painting isn’t two horses fucking.”
I snort.
She grabs a drop cloth off the floor and folds it with quick competency. “Bet you ten bucks I’ll find Poseidon and Scylla next. Amos WincottlovedPoseidon. I know they were a seafaring family, and blah blah blah. But let’s face it—Amos Wincott was a dude bro. The family symbol is basically a triple penis.”
“Let’s not put that in the promotional pamphlet.” I head for the door.
“You know I would.” She chuckles. “Why keep all the interesting shit a secret? I’d also want visitors to know that there’s a sad female ghost wandering around here.”
I stop and turn around. “Have youseenher?”
“Nah.” Zoya shakes her head. “But I don’t have to. The aura is intense. Especially around the third-floor gallery.”
“Huh,” I say, because I’ve never usedaurain a sentence, and I don’t know the polite response to that.
She shrugs. “The tile guys saw her, though. They say she was one of the pregnant girls who lived here. I don’t know if that part’s true but trust me—the lady ghost has the blues. There’s some bad juju in these walls.”
