Tomorrow's Vengeance (15 page)

I felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioner kicking in. ‘What's the next step, Hutch? Do you contact the gallery, let them know that a claim is being made and find out who sold them the painting?'

‘Let me make a few calls, Hannah.' He turned to Izzy. ‘It could be simple, Mrs Milanesi, or it could be complicated. Most likely it will take someone with more expertise than I.'

A tear rolled down Izzy's cheek. ‘I don't want any money, Mr Hutchinson. Except for the single painting I have at home, I have nothing,
nothing
that once belonged to my family. That painting …' She paused, then took a deep, steadying breath. ‘That painting may
legally
belong to the gallery, but not morally. It was as good as stolen.'

Izzy wrapped both hands around the mug of coffee on the table in front of her, raised it to her lips and took a sip. ‘And I just thought of another thing, Mr Hutchinson. We didn't get to see all the pictures in the gallery. There could be more of my father's paintings there, maybe on display, or maybe even in storage.'

Hutch clicked the retractor on his ballpoint and said, ‘Hmmm.'

Hmmm
is not the response one wants to hear from one's doctor or lawyer.

We waited him out.

After a thoughtful silence, he said, ‘I need to ask you a few questions.'

‘Please, anything you need to know, Mr Hutchinson. Go ahead.'

‘These confiscated paintings were hanging in your father's gallery, right?'

She nodded.

‘Do you know if they were your father's property or were they simply hung there, on consignment from various artists, waiting to be sold?'

‘I don't know the answer to that. But the portrait of my brother – that particular painting hung on the wall in our dining room, and it's the companion piece to mine.'

‘You told me you secreted your painting in your suitcase?'

‘My parents did, yes.'

‘Why didn't your parents do the same thing for your brother?'

‘They did but he was too young to appreciate it, Mr Hutchinson. Before we left home
Abba
asked Umberto which painting he wanted and my brother picked a charcoal drawing of a horse.' She smiled sadly. ‘Umberto loved horses. When we were on the farm, he had a favorite. Albina.'

‘Do you still have that drawing?' I asked my friend.

‘Umberto slept with Albina at his side, Hannah. You understand?'

I did. My niece, Julie, still had her ‘lovie,' a bedraggled, threadbare rabbit named Abby. Julie was fourteen, but her mother still tucked Abby's pitiful remains into the toe of her sleeping bag whenever my niece went on an overnight. There was no chance the fragile drawing had survived Umberto's loving.

Hutch swiped at his cheek, visibly moved. ‘Mrs Milanesi, I'm no expert in art law. It's an amalgam of personal property law, contract law, estate law, tax law and intellectual property law relating to the acquisition, retention and disposition of fine art.' After getting that sentence out he had to take a deep breath. ‘The first thing that occurs to me, and this is basic, is to ask do you have proof that your family once owned these particular works of art? Is there anything – a sale catalog, perhaps?'

I bounced in my chair. ‘I seem to remember that the Smithsonian keeps a collection of art auction catalogs, maybe even on microfilm. We could check there.'

Izzy raised a hand to cut me off. ‘I don't think we'll need to do that, Hannah. When our children were in their teens Bruno and I took them to Italy so they could see where, where … well, back to their roots.' She paused for a moment, swallowed hard, then continued. ‘One of the places we visited was the farmhouse where my brother and I were sheltered by the DeLucas. The DeLucas had long since passed away, but amazingly the farm was still there, being managed by their son. He invited us in and after a short visit he gave me a scrapbook that my mother, Letizia Rossi, had made. He told us that he found it under the floorboards in the bedroom, in the same space where my brother and I had hidden from the Nazis. Mother had taken photographs of all the paintings, you see, room by room by room, and pasted them on the pages of the scrapbook, writing by hand under each photograph what it was in white ink. I have the scrapbook packed away somewhere at home.'

‘Ah, that's excellent.' Hutch relaxed into the cushions of the chair and tapped the point of his pen absent-mindedly against the table. ‘I think you should bring the scrapbook in as soon as possible. We'll make several copies then store the original in the safe. How does that sound?'

Izzy nodded. ‘Very good.'

Hutch stood. ‘Until later, then. I have several hearings to attend in the next couple of days, but if I'm not here simply leave your mother's scrapbook with my paralegal. I'll tell her to expect it and she'll know just what to do. In the meantime,' he said as he walked us to the door of the conference room, ‘I'll check with a colleague in D.C. to see what the best plan of action may be.'

Izzy shook Hutch's hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Hutchinson.'

‘You're very welcome. And Mrs Milanesi, don't even
think
about contacting the gallery yourself.'

‘No, of course not.'

‘We don't want the painting to suddenly, say, disappear.'

As we headed down the hall, Hutch called out after me, ‘Hannah! Will you stop by Mother Earth and tell Ruth I'll be bringing pizza home for dinner?'

I tipped an imaginary hat.

Izzy and I ambled down Main Street and tried the door of Mother Earth, the New Age store owned by my sister, but she wasn't in. A sign taped to the glass read, ‘Back in Five Minutes,' so we waited for ten, admiring some wind chimes in the window, but when Ruth didn't show we left.

We returned to the parking garage where I'd left my car, saying very little. After we'd climbed into the vehicle and closed the doors, Izzy turned to me and asked, ‘Do you think there'll be a big fight over this?'

‘I honestly don't know, Izzy. My opinion? No matter what the museum might have paid for that painting of your brother, it belongs with you. They'll need to do the right thing. And if they don't …' I patted her knee. ‘Then maybe Hutch will make them.'

‘Depression is not a normal part of aging. Studies show that most seniors feel satisfied with their lives, despite having more illnesses or physical problems. However, when older adults do have depression, it may be overlooked because seniors may show different, less obvious symptoms. They may be less likely to experience or admit to feelings of sadness or grief.'

National Institute of Mental Health: www.nimh.nih.gov

A
couple of days went by before I was able to return to the memory unit.

I found Nancy Harper in bed with the covers drawn up to her chin, her fingers braided neatly across her breast which was rising and falling with every slow, even breath. At first I thought she was napping, but when I tiptoed closer I noticed that her eyes were open and she was staring at the ceiling. Gone were the carefully enhanced eyebrows and the blusher on her cheeks. Her hair was a tangle of unruly curls, white at the roots, and the lovely, decorative combs she favored were nowhere to be seen.

‘Nancy? It's Hannah. How are you doing today?'

‘Who?'

‘Hannah Ives. I've come to read to you if you feel up to it.'

‘Go away.'

‘Are you hungry? Can I bring you a snack?'

‘I said go away.'

As I was considering whether to take her summary dismissal seriously or not, she turned on her side and inched up the sheets until she was in a sitting position. After grabbing her pillow and savagely punching it into submission, she settled back against the flowered pillowcase and said, ‘I don't want you. I want Frank.'

Was she having a lucid moment? Did she mean ‘Frank' as in ‘Frank the man I married,' or did she mean, ‘Frank, the guy across the hall whose real name is Jerry'?

‘Do you want me to see if I can find him?' I asked.

Her eyes locked on mine. ‘Frank will know what to do.'

‘I'll go look for him then,' I said.

Outside in the hallway I paused, trying to remember which of the fourteen rooms that extended along both sides of the corridor belonged to Jerry Wolcott. On the unforgettable occasion when I'd seen him last he'd been in Nancy's room. Fortunately, each room had a framed name plate screwed to the wall outside the door, so I had to walk only a few yards before I found his:
Jerry Wolcott from Pikesville, Maryland. I am a retired banker. I enjoy golf and watching the Baltimore Ravens play football.
It was illustrated with crayon drawings and magazine cutouts by someone who clearly loved him; a grandchild, perhaps.

The door was shut so I knocked gently. ‘Mr Wolcott? Jerry?' I knocked again, more loudly this time, figuring the old guy might be hard of hearing. ‘Jerry?'

When he didn't answer I pushed the door open and peeked inside.

Except for a chair, an end table and a bed stripped down to the mattress, the room was empty. I stiffened, stepped back and took a deep breath as the significance of the empty, sterile room sank in. Jerry Wolcott, Nancy's beloved companion, had passed away.

I hadn't known the man all that well but the realization still stung. I pulled the door shut behind me and leaned against the chair rail in the hall, digging my fingernails into my palms, unsuccessfully fighting off the tears.

That was where Elaine Broering, the memory unit supervisor, found me a few minutes later as she was chugging down the hallway on her way back to her office from visiting one of the residents.

‘It gets to you, doesn't it?' she said. Elaine pulled a clean tissue from the pocket of her Donald Duck scrubs and handed it to me. ‘Like a Girl Scout, I come prepared,' she said with a comforting smile.

I pressed the tissue gratefully against my eyelids. ‘Thanks.'

‘Can I help in any way?'

I shook my head. ‘Nancy was asking for him, so I went to look. When I saw his empty room …' I took a breath then let it out. ‘When did he die?'

Elaine touched my arm. ‘Mr Wolcott isn't dead, Hannah. He's been transferred to the memory care unit at Ginger Cove.'

A wave of relief washed over me, followed almost immediately by a flood of questions. ‘But why?'

‘The family thought it was best.'

Best?
I couldn't imagine why. Calvert Colony was a state-of-the art facility and Jerry had, by all accounts, been happy here. It couldn't have been a financial issue, I thought to myself. I knew from talking to Naddie that although the buy-in plans for Ginger Cove and Calvert Colony varied in some of the finer details, the bottom-line, long-term costs were relatively the same.

‘But doesn't his son's family live nearby, on East Lake Drive? You'd think they'd want their father to stay as close as possible.'

‘It was his son's decision, Hannah. I can't have an opinion about that.'

‘Nancy must be devastated,' I said.

Elaine opened her mouth as if starting to say something, then her lips slammed shut around it. Her eyes locked on mine, as if weighing the pros and cons of telling tales out of school.

‘It was the sex, wasn't it?' I said, answering my own question.

Elaine sighed, confirming my suspicions. ‘You'll read about it in the newspapers soon enough.'

Newspapers. Plural. I didn't like the sound of that. ‘Don't tell me …' I began.

She nodded. ‘Nancy's family is suing Calvert Colony, claiming she was raped and that we failed to protect her from a dangerous predator.'

‘But that's nonsense! Those two are truly in love. You know that and so do I.'

Elaine nodded. ‘It's a damn shame. You should have seen Nancy before Jerry came into her life. Baggy double-knit pants with elasticized waistbands, soup-stained sweatshirts, shoes if she felt like it – and she usually didn't. We'd have to force them on her. After Jerry she dug into her closet again. Pulled out some classics – St Johns, Ahni, the Barbara Bush pearls. Insisted on having her hair done every week. Now?' She shrugged. ‘Well, you were in her room. You saw her.'

‘She's in bed.'

‘Can't say I blame her. We check on her every thirty minutes, of course. Make sure she's up, taking her meals, at least here in the unit. But it fries my grits that the Wolcott family didn't warn us. They just showed up one day last week and hustled Jerry out, right in front of Nancy. He's yelling, “What's going on? Where are you taking me?” and she's looking lost and confused.' She pressed a hand to her chest. ‘Honestly, it broke my heart. She's spent the last four days staring out the window, waiting for Jerry to come back.'

I pictured Nancy as she was a week ago wearing a classic, bright yellow shirtwaist dress, tripping the light fantastic with Jerry, who looked pretty spiffy himself in an oxford shirt and jaunty bow tie. ‘Oh, stop!' I said, flapping a hand in front of my face. ‘You're going to make me cry again. It's a goddam tragedy. Romeo and Juliet. Abelard and Heloise. Star-crossed lovers thwarted at every turn by well-meaning but callous …' I paused. ‘Not sure I want to call them “grownups.”'

‘Well, if it were
my
mom or dad I'd be grateful they found somebody to spend the rest of their lives with.'

‘Sometimes grieving spouses do make poor decisions,' I said, thinking of the horrible woman my father had taken up with not too many months after my mother died. But someone had hated Darlene enough to take her out of this world before Daddy could make an even bigger mistake by marrying her. ‘But in this case,' I continued, ‘I can't think of two people more perfectly matched.'

A uniformed staffer pushed through the double doors butt first, dragging a vacuum cleaner. Elaine asked the woman to start work at the other end of the hallway, then said, ‘Once Tina gets going we won't be able to hear ourselves think. Do you have to be anywhere?' When I shook my head, she said, ‘Come with me.'