The Portrait of Doreene Gray (3 page)

Angus thrust out a hand. “Sorry we're late. Angus MacGregor,
Tripping,
the international travel magazine. I take it we're supposed to be in there?” He walked toward the door she had exited. The murmur of a crowd could be heard behind it.

She blocked his way. “I'm sorry, but access to the press conference is restricted, and I don't recall your publication being on the list.”

He smiled graciously at her. “We might be listed under our parent corporation. I'm sure you recall Condé Nast.”

Her brows rose, and she looked at the clipboard uncertainly. “Um, there are several people from—” A sudden roar of voices behind the door made her turn.

“I think perhaps we'd better see what's happened, don't you?” Angus said kindly.

She didn't respond, just trotted toward the door. Angus and the others slipped in behind her.

More than thirty journalists and photographers jostled inside a space large enough to serve as a ballroom, shouting questions and taking pictures. Most of the questions seemed to be “Why can't we use a flash?” and “Will you have pictures available online?” On the far wall, a velvet rope and two uniformed guards kept photographers a good fifteen feet from the famous painting. The canvas measured twenty-four by thirty inches without the frame, and was poorly lit.

“See what you can do,” Angus muttered in Suki's ear.

She disappeared into the crowd.

Michael craned his neck to see over the people in front of him. “I assume the retired
GQ
model behind the podium is Maxwell Thorne?”

Angus nodded, and inserted a shoulder between two men. “Excuse me,” he said to their outraged stares. “My photographer is having an asthma attack and needs her medication.” He held up his hand, clasped as though he held something.

They parted reluctantly and let him through.

Michael leaned against the wall and sighed. That trick wouldn't work twice.

At the podium, Maxwell Thorne succeeded in getting the crowd to quiet down. “I understand your frustration, but Ms. Gray feels that every painting has aspects of its personality that should be made available only to the eventual owner.”

A murmur of confused speculation greeted this statement.

Max smiled. “I know it's unusual, but this is not your typical art auction. And after all, there is no question of this painting's provenance.”

The door beside Michael opened, and a woman in her late fifties slid through. She wore a canvas jacket, splotched with paint, over baggy jeans. Despite gray hair, wrinkles, and thirty extra pounds, she was clearly Doreene's twin, Maureene Pinter.

Maureene stood on tiptoe and stared at the front of the room. After a moment, she sagged, blew out a breath, and opened the door to leave.

Michael followed her. In the foyer beyond, he spoke to her retreating back. “I'm a great admirer of your work, Ms. Pinter, especially
Girl in an Apple Tree
. The colors are so joyous, yet there's something wistful there, too. Maybe it's the little scratch on her face.”

Maureene turned.

“Also, the apple she's holding has a bruise on it. You can see the brown at the edge of the bite she's taken,” said Michael, who had made good use of Wikipedia and Google.

Maureene smiled slightly. “You have good eyes. Are you with an art journal?”

“A travel magazine, but I'm a fan.” He shrugged and gave a half-smile.

Maureene put her hands in the pockets of her canvas jacket. “Are you an artist yourself?”

“I'm working on a novel, but this job pays the bills.” Michael took a step forward. “Ms. Pinter, have you modified your sister's portrait since you first painted it?”

“I'm not answering any questions about the portrait.” She turned on her heel and stalked toward the front door.

It opened before she reached it and a young man of exceptional beauty came in. “Maureene! Has she sold it yet?” he asked, taking her hand. His musical voice had a strong foreign accent.

She pulled free. “Today isn't the sale, Reynaldo, it's just the gathering of the vultures.”

His large, dark eyes squinted slightly. “The what?”

Michael waved to get his attention. “May I ask who you are?”

Reynaldo stuck out his hand. “Reynaldo Cruz. I am
Senhora
Doreene's man, from Brazil.”

“And how do you feel about the sale of the painting?”

“She
should
sell it! It is an evil thing—” Reynaldo broke off and touched Maureene's arm. “
Perdoem-me, senhora.
I am sure it is not your fault.”

“Thanks for that,” Maureene said dryly.

“Some things, they are so beautiful, they invite evil.” Reynaldo dropped his voice. “My uncle had a wooden bowl, a work of art. But a demon possessed it and kept him up at night, telling him to kill his wife and children. Finally the priest came and burned the bowl, speaking the correct words.”

“Are you talking about an exorcism?” Michael asked.

“Yes,
um exorcismo,
” Reynaldo said eagerly.

Maureene snorted. “I doubt the painting talks to my sister.”

“She talks to it,” Reynaldo said. “At night, I hear her.”

Maureene's frown deepened. “That's weird.”

“Right? I am telling you so!” Reynaldo nodded so hard, a lock of hair fell across his bronzed forehead.

Michael tapped his arm. “When you say she
talks to it,
do you mean casual conversation, or are we talking about chanting?”

Maureene gave Michael a pointed look. “Thanks for being such a fan.” She turned to go.

“I'm sorry, but it's my job.”

Maureene glanced over her shoulder as she headed toward the door. “Good luck, Reynaldo. I assume you have a word for
paparazzi
in Brazil.”

Reynaldo's brow furrowed. “Yes. We call them paparazzi.” The front door closed behind Maureene, and he turned back to Michael. “Excuse, but I want to see my
princessa
talk. Already I am late.”

Michael followed him back into the press conference.

Behind the podium, Maxwell Thorne said, “Since then, Maureene Pinter has painted the crown prince of Dubai, Freddie Mercury, and Elizabeth Taylor, among many other notables. And now I'd like to introduce the subject of this portrait, painted some thirty years ago, Ms. Doreene Gray. She'll be happy to take your questions.”

A door behind the podium opened, and Doreene entered, carrying a cream-and-white long-haired Chihuahua. Elizabeth Canter, the publicist, joined her as she made her way to the microphone.

Doreene stepped onto the temporary dais and took her place behind the podium. Her rose-colored dress revealed youthful-looking arms and excellent legs. Her golden hair was swept up on one side and held with a decorative clip.

Elizabeth stood beside her and scanned the crowd. “Mr. Crawford,” she said, pointing to a man in a blue shirt.

“Ms. Gray, the painting has clearly altered since your sister first painted it. Who is responsible for those alterations?”

“You could say the painting is a joint project of my sister and mine.” Doreene looked down at her dog and stroked its head, a secretive smile on her lips.

Elizabeth pointed into the crowd again. “Ms. White.”

“What did you use to make the changes?” the reporter asked.

“Time,” Doreene said.

The reporter waved a hand. “I mean, what artistic media?”

“That's a secret.” Doreene's mouth quirked. “I'm sure the new owner will be happy to tell you.” She pointed to Angus. “The gentleman in the tweed jacket.” Elizabeth murmured something in Doreene's ear, but Doreene shook her head impatiently.

“Ms. Gray, you're an extremely youthful and attractive woman,” Angus said.

“Why, thank you.” Doreene gave him a seductive smile.

“Do you attribute your youthfulness to the painting in any way?” Angus went on.

“Being an art lover has definitely helped keep me young.” Doreene pointed to someone else. “The gentleman in the gray suit.”

This reporter crossed his arms. “Ms. Gray, if you're not going to give a straight answer to any of our questions, why are we here?”

Doreene's smile faded. “To announce that the picture is for sale and give you a chance to see it.”

The young woman quickly pointed to another journalist. “Ms. Chandler.”

Ms. Chandler continued the attack. “If you want us to see it, why are there two guards keeping us away from it?”

Doreene turned to her publicist. Thanks to the lavaliere mike clipped to her dress, her irate whisper could be heard throughout the room. “Now would be a good time to earn your keep, sunshine.”

Elizabeth reached toward Doreene's chest, only to have Doreene slap her hand. “I'm trying to turn off your mike, Ms. Gray!”

The dog gave a sharp bark, ending in a growl.

At the back of the room, Reynaldo jumped so he could see above the crowd and shouted, “Doreene,
meu amor
! Do you need help?”

Every camera in the room immediately swiveled in his direction.

“No!” Doreene shouted back. She put a hand over the microphone clipped to her dress, but her next comment was still audible. “Turn this thing off, and don't let him talk to anyone.”

As reporters converged on Reynaldo, Michael put a hand on his shoulder and spoke in his ear. “You'll never get to Doreene through this crowd. Isn't there another way to get to that side of the house?”

“Yes!” Reynaldo said, and darted out the door to the foyer.

Michael went through as well, then slammed the door behind him and held it closed.

Reynaldo turned at the sound of the slam. His eyes widened as the reporters on the other side hammered and shouted.

“Go on!” Michael said. He kept the door closed until Reynaldo made it through the foyer and out the front door of the house, then he let go and pelted through the foyer and into a side room, calling, “Reynaldo, wait!” as he went.

The reporters pounded after him. He let them catch up, let them push him aside and pass. When he was at the back of the pack, he doubled back and went outside.

There was no telling which way Reynaldo had gone, so Michael turned left at random and ran around the corner of the mansion, entering a weedy, overgrown yard. A few volunteer saplings waved their branches ahead of him, as though someone had recently passed. He pushed their rained-on leaves aside, getting wet in the process, and followed the trail of moving greenery.

Two-thirds of the way along the house, someone rapped at a window on his left. Michael turned to see Angus and Suki waving at him from inside. He pointed toward the rear and got a nod from Angus.

Twenty feet and another thirty seconds later, they came out through a side door and joined him.

“Who's the looker with the accent?” Suki asked.

“Reynaldo Cruz, Doreene's Brazilian boy toy,” Michael said. “And as long as none of the other reporters catch him,
Tripping
has an exclusive interview. I talked to him in the foyer.”

Angus clapped him on the shoulder. “You've made me proud.”

The sound of many feet crunching on the gravel drive came from around the front of the house.

“C'mon,” Michael whispered.

As they neared the back of the house, they heard the sound of raised voices from inside.

“Tell me again why I paid you an outrageous amount to let things get completely out of hand!” Doreene shouted.

“She is right,” Reynaldo said. “They would have torn me apart!”

“I very much doubt that.” Elizabeth Canter's voice was tight with anger. “If you'll recall, Ms. Gray, I did tell you that reporters are happier with a concrete, fact-based approach.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm doing their job for them—telling a story, building up interest and suspense. Max, I thought she was supposed to have a relationship with these people. Isn't that why you hired her?”

Maxwell Thorne's smooth voice was only slightly rattled. “Doreene, why don't I escort Elizabeth out so you and I can have a private chat?”

“Fine, but do
not
apologize for me, Max. She's the one who blew it.”

As the sound of the publicist's protests faded, Michael turned to Angus and whispered, “Now what?”

“Now we turn on the charm as though our livelihood depended on it, which it does,” Angus muttered. “You go first. You're checking up on Orlando, there.”

“Reynaldo,” Michael corrected.

“Right. Suki, ignore the boy toy completely and flatter Ms. Gray like she's the deciding judge at your own personal Olympics.”

“Got it.”

“Let's go.” Angus gave Michael a little push.

Michael held back the branches of an overgrown bush and turned the corner of the house. “Reynaldo,” he called quietly. “Mr. Cruz, are you back here?”

They heard Doreene hiss something, and then Reynaldo pushed open the back door and stood at the top of a flight of stairs, looking back over his shoulder. “But
princessa,
this is the man I told you about!”

“Oh, there you are,” Michael said. “I'm glad to see you got away. Pretty crazy, huh?”

Angus came up beside him. “Michael just wanted to see that you were all right. We don't want to be a bother.” He peered past Reynaldo, into what looked like a glass-roofed conservatory. “Is that Ms. Gray? Can I just say that you handled yourself beautifully? That press person should be shot.”

Doreene appeared beside Reynaldo. “Thank you.” Her flushed cheeks made her look even younger. “May I ask who you are?”

Angus went up the stairs and offered his hand. “Angus MacGregor,
Tripping
magazine. We're an international travel publication, here to do a story on Port Townsend, but I couldn't resist dropping by when we heard about the press conference.” He dipped his head and gave a shy smile. “You are something of a star, Ms. Gray.”