WHEN
Emma left that night to go back to her apartment, her mother gave her a real hug good-bye. Emma was surprised to see Priscilla had tears in her eyes.
“You’ve been a wonderful support to me,” she said as she squeezed Emma tight.
Emma hugged her back. “Say hello to Dad for me.”
“Next time, we’ll both come. And as soon as you can take some time off, come down to Florida. And”—she winked at Emma—“bring your young man with you.”
“I will,” Emma promised. Emma found her own eyes tearing up as she waved a final good-bye and headed down the steps toward her car.
The clouds parted, and a broad beam of light from the moon illuminated Emma’s drive home. She pulled her car up under the sodium light in the parking lot, got out and beeped it closed. Her cell phone rang just as she reached the top step and was fumbling for the keys to her apartment.
She finally found them, got the key in the lock and pushed open the door. She dumped the contents of her purse onto the sofa and retrieved her phone.
“Hello?” she said somewhat breathlessly.
It was Brian.
“Hi. I just called to make sure you got home okay and to say good night.”
A feeling of warmth and contentment coursed through Emma.
“I wish I could come over there right now.”
“I wish you could, too,” Emma said, smiling.
“It feels like I’ve been in this cast forever.”
“Hopefully soon . . .”
“I see the doctor tomorrow. I’m hoping he can give me some good news.” Brian was quiet for a moment. “I wish you didn’t have to go back to the Grangers’.”
“It’ll be fine,” Emma reassured him. “Besides, I’m almost finished with the project.” She sighed. “I’m afraid I didn’t discover much of anything.”
“Is Detective Walker still bothering Arabella?”
“She’s still on his list, although she did explain to him about the pills she was taking causing temporary memory loss. He seemed slightly mollified by that. I fear he doesn’t have any other ideas at the moment.”
“What was that all about with your mother?”
“Oh, that. She’d gotten up the nerve to call my father earlier, but he was out. He returned her call and said he was more than willing to take her back.”
“Let’s not let that ever happen to us—where we grow apart,” he said, his voice husky.
“We won’t.” Emma’s voice was a whisper.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The warmth Emma felt from hearing Brian’s voice stayed with her as she got ready for bed and slipped between the covers. The sheets were icy cold, and she wished that Brian were there to keep her warm. She had to be content to snuggling up to Bette instead.
• • •
EMMA
was a little late leaving Sweet Nothings on Monday afternoon. Sylvia’s ancient Caddy had refused to start, and Emma didn’t want to leave Arabella alone. Finally, they heard the familiar belching that heralded the arrival of Sylvia and her automobile.
“Don’t bust a gasket, I’m here,” Sylvia said, barreling through the door. She had a paisley scarf, which had slipped slightly askew, tied over her hair.
Emma noticed raindrops on the shoulders of Sylvia’s coat. “Is it raining?”
“Yeah, it’s coming down pretty good.” Sylvia pulled off her kerchief and shook it out. “But if the temperature drops any lower, we’ll be getting some more of that white stuff.”
Emma groaned. “I’m ready for spring.”
“Me, too,” Arabella said.
Sylvia looked at the clock. “You’d better get going, kid.”
• • •
EMMA
pulled on her coat, gave Bette one last scratch behind the ears and headed out the door. Although it wasn’t too long after noon, the dark skies made it look and feel much later. An icy, slanted rain splashed into the puddles that had already formed in the parking lot’s ruts. Emma skirted one carefully. She looked back at Sweet Nothings, where mellow light poured from the window in the back door. She was tempted to turn around and go back but instead she beeped open the Bug and got in.
Rain drummed on the roof of the car, sounding a staccato beat that matched Emma’s heart rate. She switched on the windshield wipers and pulled onto Washington Street. As she drove she tried to put her finger on what was causing her sense of unease, but there was nothing in particular that she could think of. She shook her head. She was just being fanciful. She forced herself to think about Brian, but the warm glow she’d experienced last night failed to materialize. She shivered and reached out to crank up the heat.
Emma pulled into the driveway in front of the Grangers’ house and parked off to the side. Mariel’s red Porsche was in front of the door. Emma wondered if she had just gotten in or was about to go out.
The rain had turned to fat drops of snow that melted almost as soon as they hit the ground. Emma started up the front steps, and her foot slipped on the slick surface. She grabbed the railing just in time to avoid falling, but the incident left her heart pounding.
She opened the door and stepped into the foyer. No lights were on, and the house seemed unusually chilly. Footsteps clattered down the hall, and Molly came around the corner. She had her coat on, a long, knitted scarf around her neck and a serviceable black purse hanging over her arm.
“You’re here,” she said when she saw Emma. She grabbed Emma’s arm in a tight grip. “Those men were here again—the ones in the black suits. Mr. Jackson has gone off with them. I’m worried.” She tightened her grasp on Emma’s arm. “Do you know who they are?”
Emma shook her head. “Not for sure. But I think they might be with the FBI.”
Molly’s face turned pale. “What would they be wanting with Mr. Jackson?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Emma said although she thought she could guess. Was Jackson under arrest? she wondered.
Molly twisted the handle of her purse. “I don’t know what the world is coming to, that’s for sure.”
“Are you going out?”
“Yes. We’ll be needing some milk and some butter. I’ll just have a quick run to the grocer’s.”
“Is Joy home?”
“What do you think? She’s out riding. She can’t stay away from those horses.” Molly started toward the door.
“Be careful,” Emma warned. “It’s getting slippery out there. I almost fell coming up the steps.”
Before Molly could open the door, Mariel came down the hall, her high-heeled boots tapping against the wood floor.
“Molly,” she called, “are you going to the store?”
“Yes. To Kroger’s.”
“Would you pick up a couple of bottles of club soda? We’re all out, and Jackson will want his scotch and soda tonight.”
Molly fiddled with the top button on her coat. Emma thought the thread looked loose and hoped Molly wouldn’t pull it right off.
“Mr. Jackson has gone with those men,” Molly said. “The ones in the black suits who were here the other day.”
Now Mariel’s face turned pale. “When did they leave?”
Molly consulted her watch. “About fifteen minutes ago.”
Mariel yanked open the door to the hall closet and pulled out a coat. “I’ve got to go out. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” She flew out the door without even bothering to button her jacket.
Molly continued to twirl the loose button on her coat. Emma felt sorry for her. So much had happened lately, it had obviously left her reeling.
“I guess I’ll be going then,” Molly said somewhat reluctantly.
“Be careful,” Emma said again as the door closed in back of the housekeeper.
The house was extremely quiet—so quiet Emma could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantel in the living room. She felt like making some noise just to break the silence. She cleared her throat loudly but when the sound died away, it was as quiet as before.
Perhaps if she got to work, she would get lost in the task—it had worked before. Seeing all the beautiful pieces of art was absorbing.
She headed down the hall toward the storage room, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. She opened the door and was about to let it close behind her when the thought gave her a chill. She didn’t want to be locked in the room all by herself. She looked around for something with which to prop open the door. She finally pulled over the extra chair and stuck it in front of the door, but the door was heavy, and it pushed the chair out of the way. Emma tried again—this time she angled the chair so that it was wedged between the door and the jamb. She stood back and examined it with satisfaction, then began to laugh. If anyone saw it, they would think she was crazy. But she felt considerably better being able to see into the hallway and, more important, to hear if anyone was coming.
Emma had marked the spot where she’d left off on Friday. She pulled out the next work in the rack—a small Giacometti drawing—and turned it over. The details on the label were sketchy. Emma didn’t mind—she enjoyed researching. Jackson had been quite pleased with some of the information she had unearthed for him.
Emma pulled up her favorite search engine and was soon engrossed in the task, forgetting her earlier nervousness. Before she knew it, an hour had gone by, but she was pleased to be able to fill in a little more of the drawing’s history.
Emma carried the drawing to the storage rack and put it back in its place. She was pulling out the next piece when something clattered to the floor. She gave a little cry and jumped back.
When she looked around she saw it was a cane—although she supposed it would be more appropriately called a walking stick. It was very elegant—ebony in color with a horn handle tipped with a hammered silver cap. It reminded her of the walking stick her aunt had used when she sprained her ankle. The handle of the cane had come off in the fall.
Emma picked up both pieces and tried to fit the silver-tipped handle back onto the stalk but it refused to stay. She took it over to her chair so she could sit and examine it more closely. Something was preventing the handle from screwing back onto the base. She peered at it carefully. The cane itself was hollow, and something had been rolled up and stuffed inside. Whatever it was, was sticking out of the very top and was getting in the way. It looked like a piece of canvas.
Emma stuck her finger into the cane and tried to push the item farther inside so she could screw the handle back on, but she merely succeeded in pulling it out more. It
was
a piece of canvas, with a bright splotch of blue paint at the edge.
Curious, Emma tried to tease it out of the cane. She thought she heard a noise and whirled around to look behind her, but the hallway was empty and quiet. Emma very slowly pulled the rolled-up canvas from the inside of the cane. She put it on the desk and very carefully unrolled it.
She couldn’t imagine what it was doing inside the cane or why it had been put there. As she unrolled it, a scene slowly came into view—the blue of the sea, bursts of red from two pots of geraniums sitting on a small balcony and the soft green of painted wooden shutters open to the view.
Emma stood back and gasped. It was the Matisse painting she had seen in the issue of
Art International
—the same one she was almost certain had been in the photograph on the table in Sabina’s living room—the painting that had been stolen by the Nazis from Sabina’s grandparents.
What on earth was it doing rolled up and stuffed into a cane in the Grangers’ storage room? Maybe she was mistaken, and it wasn’t the same one after all. Emma had left the copy of the magazine in her car. She quickly rolled the painting up again and tucked it out of sight. Her heart had taken up a staccato beat, and she was terrified that someone would catch her snooping.
She peered into the hallway, but no one was there. She crossed the foyer quickly, conscious of the noise her shoes made against the wood floor. The blast of cold air made her gasp when she opened the front door. Gripping the railing tightly, she made her way down the slick and slippery steps. The sharp wind immediately cut through the fabric of her pants and top. Emma shivered and sped up to a trot.
She beeped open her car and grabbed the magazine from the backseat, clutching it to her chest as she dashed back toward the house. She pulled the front door closed in back of her with a feeling of relief.
As soon as she reached the storage room, Emma began thumbing through the magazine. She missed the story on the first go-round and had to start again from the beginning, flicking through each page until she found it.
She spread the magazine open on the desk. Unless she was very much mistaken, the painting pictured in the article was the same as the one she’d just found hidden inside the hollow cane. She retrieved the canvas and unrolled it alongside the copy of
Art International
.
The works
were
the same. Emma examined both closely, but every detail in the photograph matched the painting in front of her. Emma felt her breath catch in her throat. If she was right, she was looking at a Matisse painting that had been missing since World War II.
Emma suddenly realized she had no idea what to do. Should she roll the canvas up again, put it back in the cane and pretend she’d never seen it? Should she say something to Jackson? Was it possible he didn’t know it was there? Or was he the one who had hidden it?