Nightsong (6 page)

“Yes, Master.”

She sounded subdued, but Phillip knew it wouldn’t last, and he took advantage. “When you arrive at the office in the morning, get the van Warner file from my desk, find the two newspaper clippings inside, and—”

“I have them.”

“What?”

“I have the clippings here at my apartment. In fact, I have the whole file.”

Phillip raked his fingers through his hair and propped his feet on the bed, waiting for the explanation he knew he was about to hear. Most of the time he and Sylvie maintained a strict hands-off policy on each other’s cases, but he was very glad that she hadn’t done that this time ... whatever her reasons.

“When I didn’t hear from you all week…,” Sylvie began. “I thought I should at least check the file and find out exactly where you went. Really, Phillip, you did tear out of here with no better explanation than that you were following a hunch to Missouri.” She paused and then sighed in noisy self-defense. “Frankly, I don’t know how you added those newspaper articles together in the first place and came up with any lead worth following.”

“I’ve been telling you for years. I’m good at this business.” Phillip rubbed a thumb along the angle of his jaw. “Look, I may be all wrong, but I think it’s possible that Mark Damon stole the van Warner painting and substituted the forgery. We know that Bernerd Thayer is a respected art collector and critic, and we know that he’s inordinately proud of himself for discovering that particular van Warner. Now, one of the clippings is a critical review written by Thayer.”

“On Mark Damon’s first exhibit,” Sylvie interrupted in a rush of understanding. “The article was brutal.”

“Yes, and Thayer went further to state that Mark couldn’t hope to achieve the artistry of his father, Jesse. Keeping that in mind, move on to the second clipping.  It’s a fairly recent feature article about the high incidence of forged art works over the past decade. There’s a quote by a gallery owner in Missouri who said that he knew of a son who’d forged the work of his own father, even down to the signature. The article went on to state that subsequent works by
both
father and son had since been taken off the market.”

Phillip flexed his grip on the telephone receiver and reached to untie his shoes. “I guess it was the mention of father and son in both articles that made me start thinking. But it occurred to me that if Mark Damon had forged his father’s paintings, it was entirely possible that he could have forged the van Warner. The styles are quite similar, and after that critical review Mark undoubtedly hated Thayer enough to steal his prized watercolor.”

“Not only steal it, but substitute a copy that went undetected for over a year.” Sylvie paused. “I don’t know, though, Phillip. You’ve made several assumptions that may or may not be true.”

It was a valid point and one that had been bothering him ever since his first morning in Cedar Springs. What if he was wrong? What if he upset Elleny’s world all for nothing? Phillip slipped off his shoes and let them drop to the floor. “Have you got a better idea?”

“No, but then this isn’t my case, you know. Besides, your sixth sense about these things always amazes me. You’re probably right about this one, too.”

He was beginning to think he didn’t want to be right this time, but he couldn’t say that to Sylvie. “Well, assuming that Mark is the artist who forged the van Warner, it stands to reason that the original is here in Cedar Springs somewhere. Whatever Mark might have intended to do with the painting, he died before he had time to do it.”

“So where does that leave you?”

“As an aspiring artist, soaking up local inspiration.”

“What about Damon’s widow? Does she know any of this?”

“I don’t think so, but…. No, I don’t believe she knows.”

There was a suspended quiet. “Did you say she has
nice
brown eyes?”

“I said,
very
nice, Sylvie. Do me a favor, would you? I can’t find the piece of paper that has the name of that art dealer who was quoted in the clipping. Could you get the file and tell me?”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll get in touch with him for you. What information do you want? Just verification on the identity of the father and son in the article?”

“I doubt he’ll be willing to specify names. Just talk to him. Find out anything you can about Jesse Damon.”

“Mark, too?”

Phillip tipped back his chin and frowned at the ceiling. He already knew more than he cared to know about Elleny’s late husband. “Sure,” he said to Sylvie. “Mark, too.”

“Do I get a fifteen-percent cut for doing your legwork?” Sylvie was back to normal.

“Not even five,” he answered. “You did volunteer.”

“You owe me a favor, then.”

“Somehow, Sylvie, I always do.”

She laughed, and he smiled as he ended the call. But the smile faded as he continued to sit staring at nothing, but visualizing Elleny’s expressive eyes.

He had almost kissed her today. Standing in her living room, in front of the watercolor that was the first rung of evidence in his case against Mark Damon, he had wanted to kiss Elleny. And what if he had touched her, bent his head and tasted the soft contours of her lips? What would she have done?

Phillip let his feet slide from the bed to the floor in a jarring thump. What was
he
doing?

Getting personally involved, that’s what.

He couldn’t believe it. Elleny Damon was definitely not his type. She was too ... vulnerable. On one hand, he found himself wanting to protect her and wondering if he should forget he’d ever heard of Mark Damon or the stolen painting.

And on the other hand, he felt like demanding she admit that the person she’d married was a sorry excuse for a man.

But did he actually know that as fact? All he had to go on at the moment was a hunch based on a couple of unrelated newspaper articles and the picture he’d seen today. He was convinced that Mark had stolen it, altered the signature by changing his father’s initials into a symbol, and presented the painting as his own. How could Jesse Damon, a truly gifted artist, have allowed such a blatant outrage? Surely he hadn’t been a part of a scheme that deceived the public and brought no glory to the perpetrators.

No, he had to have known but chose to protect the Damon name in the only way he knew. Who else would have spent the time and money to buy back the paintings and quiet the rumors?

Phillip stood and walked to the window, as restless tonight as his thoughts. It didn’t make any difference to him what sort of man Mark Damon had been. Finding the van Warner was the only thing that mattered.

He parted the blinds to look out and thought that in a few days he would be settled in the studio. And Elleny would be close. Too close, perhaps. The attraction was there. He felt it even now, just remembering the way she smiled. And he was pretty sure she felt it, too. He’d just have to be careful.

Letting the blinds close again, he adjusted the temperature control and decided to go to bed. He intended to begin cleaning that garage apartment tomorrow. If there was anything of interest beneath all that dust, he wanted to be the one to find it.

What would he tell Elleny when he did?

Phillip had a feeling that question was going to keep him awake. Not only tonight, but for many nights to come.

The dishwasher made a watery hum in the otherwise silent kitchen. Elleny sniffed the elusive scent of soap and steam as she walked to the back door and lifted one side of the eyelet curtains. She could imagine another mother in an earlier decade looking through this same window, scanning the large yard for a reassuring glimpse of another towheaded Damon youngster.

Her
towhead was in plain sight … if she discounted the layer of topsoil that clung to his jeans from knee to hem and made a smudge of war paint across his cheeks. Elleny shook her head. It was only the first week in February. Spring was just around the corner. For A.J., however, the snowmen of winter already had melted into the mud puddles of summer.

Elleny looked past the busy activity of A.J. and his friend to the man who stood on the landing outside the open door of the garage apartment. His back was to her, and he appeared to be pensively regarding the interior of the studio. The breeze touched his hair, lifting a toasty strand to the glinting gold of the sunset. A sensation, not quite a shiver, too definite to be imagination, slipped through her.
Phillip.

He had made remarkable progress during the week and a half since she’d agreed to rent the room to him. She had helped in the evenings after work, but he had done most of the cleaning, and she had to admit a certain amount of relief that the responsibility hadn’t fallen wholly to her. At one time the job of packing Mark’s brushes, paints, and tools might have had some cathartic value, but now she was simply glad to have it done. She and Phillip had looked through the stack of a dozen or so canvases and then carried them into the house.

It was such a waste, Elleny thought. The paintings should be in galleries or collections, seen and enjoyed by the public. Instead they had gathered dust in an unused studio for years, and now they cluttered the closets in her home. But she had promised Jesse.

Phillip moved, turning to answer a summons from the boys at the bottom of the steps. On impulse Elleny opened the door and then checked her intention. She paused, watching as he rested his arms on the railing and began to talk with A.J. Phillip’s smile was for her son, but her lips curved in response.

What was it that alternately drew her toward him and then held her away? They had worked side by side, straightening and cleaning the studio, yet Elleny felt she had learned little about who he was and what he wanted. She had formed a number of impressions that strengthened with each day. Phillip was a quiet man, a man who lived within himself and for the most part was content with being alone. Yet there were moments when Elleny was positive he wanted to reach out to her, to share his thoughts. And it was those moments that caught her by surprise and drew her like the lark to the morning.

But there were other times when she sensed his caution, the wariness that avoided even the most casual touch and maintained a discreet distance between his hand and hers. She acknowledged the attraction that scintillated between them, just as she acknowledged Phillip’s conflict over it. She sometimes wondered if he was uncomfortable because she was Mark’s widow or if her imagination was creating something from nothing.

Elleny rubbed the sleeves of her soft, yellow sweater. Why was she standing in an open doorway internally debating an issue she wasn’t even sure she wanted to resolve?

“Mom!” A.J. claimed her attention and her smile. “I’m going to Todd’s house.”

“Tell his mother you have to be home in thirty minutes,” Elleny called, as the boys ran toward the house next door. She knew that neither of the boys would mention the time limit, but she knew as well that Todd’s mother wouldn’t let A.J. stay past dusk. Slowly, Elleny let her gaze return to Phillip, and before she quite knew her intention, she was walking toward him.

Pausing at the base of the stairs, she placed a hand on the wooden banister and looked up. “How was your first day of residence in the new, improved, and disinfected studio?”

“Nonproductive.” He continued to rest his arms on the railing above her, his eyes darkly teasing, his mouth barely tipped in greeting, “I didn’t so much as pick up a brush today. That’s why I’m outside. I’m waiting for inspiration to descend.” The tilt of his smile deepened. “Or maybe I should be honest and say, I’m waiting for you to ‘ascend’ the stairs and talk to me.”

“If you’re expecting inspiration from me, I’m afraid you’d be better off waiting for nightfall.”

“No. I’ve been waiting for you, Elleny. Now that you’re here, I’m sure of it.” His voice was persuasive and warm ... and subtly daring.

He was flirting with her. Just as she managed to put their relationship in perspective, he tampered with her judgment, caught her by surprise, and invited her upstairs to talk. Well, she could handle this – there was nothing wrong with a little light flirtation as long as no one took it seriously. She started up the steps, then stopped. “You’re not hiding a dustrag behind your back, are you?”

In answer he extended his hands, palms out. “You know we flicked the last speck of dirt from sight last night at nine-thirty. I even recall a slight disagreement over who deserved credit for the apartment’s new image.”

“Which we finally awarded to the person who invented air freshener.” Elleny reached the landing and moved to stand beside Phillip. The porch, if it could be called that, was narrow and there wasn’t room to establish any degree of distance. But somehow, Elleny sensed that tonight he wanted her, or someone, close by.

Mimicking his pose, she leaned against the wooden rail and let the evening quiet settle around her. In less than an hour daylight would be gone, and the cool breeze would give way to a cold night wind. Next week might bring freezing rain or even snow, but for now nature basked in the warmth of a false spring.

“You were right about evening being the best part of the day.” Phillip clasped his hands and slanted a dark glance at her. “It must be something indigenous to Cedar Springs because I don’t remember ever before having so many pleasant evenings in the same week.”

Elleny considered the silky teasing in his voice and smiled to herself. “It isn’t always this warm in February, but occasionally the weather turns mild for several days. Then just when everyone is convinced that winter has called an early retreat, the wind whips up a snowstorm, and the warm days are gone.”

“Elleny,” he said softly. “I wasn’t referring to the weather.”

With her heartbeat under strict control, she met his eyes and wondered how far he would go before initiating his own retreat. “I knew what you meant, Phillip.”

Gazes locked, lips parted, and the breeze became a common bond that caressed first him, then her. He looked away and silence circled the narrow landing with a sighing awareness. “Your son is quite creative,” Phillip said after a while. “He wanted to borrow my paintbrushes for his
landscape
.”