Watchers (33 page)
He did not distance himself by staying behind his desk, but sat with Nora and Travis in comfortable armchairs around a coffee table on which stood a large Waterford bowl. “I don’t know what you came here expecting to learn. There are no secrets about your aunt. No great dark revelations that will change your life—”
“I knew as much,” Nora said. “I’m sorry we’ve bothered you.”
“Wait,” Travis said. “Let Mr. Dilworth finish.”
The attorney said, “Violet Devon was my client, and an attorney has a responsibility to protect clients’ confidences even after their death. At least that’s my view, though some in the profession might not feel such a lasting obligation. Of course, as I’m speaking to Violet’s closest living relative and heir, I suppose there’s little I would choose not to divulge—if in fact there
were
any secrets to reveal. And I certainly see no moral constraint against my expressing an honest opinion of your aunt. Even attorneys, priests, and doctors are allowed to have opinions of people.” He took a deep breath and frowned. “I never liked her. I thought she was a narrow-minded, totally self-involved woman who was at least slightly . . . well, mentally unstable. And the way she raised you was criminal, Nora. Not abusive in any legal sense that would interest the authorities, but criminal nonetheless. And cruel.”
were
any secrets to reveal. And I certainly see no moral constraint against my expressing an honest opinion of your aunt. Even attorneys, priests, and doctors are allowed to have opinions of people.” He took a deep breath and frowned. “I never liked her. I thought she was a narrow-minded, totally self-involved woman who was at least slightly . . . well, mentally unstable. And the way she raised you was criminal, Nora. Not abusive in any legal sense that would interest the authorities, but criminal nonetheless. And cruel.”
For as long as Nora could recall, a large knot had seemed to be tied tight inside of her, pinching vital organs and vessels, leaving her tense, restricting the flow of blood and making it necessary for her to live with all her senses damped down, forcing her to struggle along as if she were a machine getting insufficient power. Suddenly, Garrison Dilworth’s words untied that knot, and a full, unrestricted current of life rushed through her for the first time.
She had known what Violet Devon had done to her, but knowing was not enough to help her overcome that grim upbringing. She needed to hear her aunt condemned by someone else. Travis had already denounced Violet, and Nora had felt some small release at hearing what he said. But that had not been enough to free her because Travis hadn’t known Violet and, therefore, spoke without complete authority. Garrison knew Violet well, however, and his words released Nora from bondage.
She was trembling violently, and tears were trickling down her face, but she was unaware of both conditions until Travis reached out from his chair to put one hand consolingly upon her shoulder. She fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief. “I’m sorry.”
“Dear lady,” Garrison said, “don’t apologize for breaking through that iron shell you’ve been in all your life. This is the first time I’ve seen you show a strong emotion, the first time I’ve seen you in any condition other than extreme shyness, and it’s lovely to behold.” Turning to Travis, giving Nora time to blot her eyes, he said, “What more
did
you hope to hear me say?”
did
you hope to hear me say?”
“There are some things Nora doesn’t know, things she ought to know and that I don’t believe would violate even your strict code of client privilege if you were to divulge them.”
“Such as?”
Travis said, “Violet Devon never worked yet lived reasonably well, never in want, and she left enough funds to keep Nora pretty much for the rest of her life, at least as long as Nora stays in that house and lives like a recluse. Where did her money come from?”
“Come from?” Garrison sounded surprised. “Nora knows that, surely.”
“But she doesn’t,” Travis said.
Nora looked up and saw Garrison Dilworth staring at her in astonishment. He blinked and said, “Violet’s husband was moderately well-to-do. He died quite young, and she inherited everything.”
Nora gaped at him and could barely find sufficient breath to speak.
“Husband?”
“Husband?”
“George Olmstead,” the attorney said.
“I’ve never heard that name.”
Garrison blinked rapidly again, as if sand had blown in his face. “She never mentioned a husband?”
“Never.”
“But didn’t a neighbor ever mention—”
“We had nothing to do with our neighbors,” Nora said. “Violet didn’t approve of them.”
“And in fact,” Garrison said, “now that I think about it, there might have been new neighbors on both sides by the time you came to live with Violet.”
Nora blew her nose and put away her handkerchief. She was still trembling. Her sudden sense of release from bondage had generated powerful emotions, but now they subsided somewhat to make room for curiosity.
“All right?” Travis asked.
She nodded, then stared hard at him and said, “You knew, didn’t you? About the husband, I mean. That’s why you brought me here.”
“I suspected,” Travis said. “If she’d inherited everything from her parents, she would have mentioned it. The fact that she didn’t talk about where the money came from . . . well, it seemed to me to leave only one possibility—a husband, and very likely a husband with whom she’d had troubles. Which made even more sense when you think about how down she was on people in general and on men in particular.”
The attorney was so dismayed and agitated that he could not sit still. He got up and paced past an enormous antique globe that was lighted from within and seemed made of parchment. “I’m flabbergasted. So you never really understood
why
she was bitterly misanthropic, why she suspected everyone of having her worst interests at heart?”
why
she was bitterly misanthropic, why she suspected everyone of having her worst interests at heart?”
“No,” Nora said. “I didn’t need to know why, I guess. It was just the way she was.”
Still pacing, Garrison said, “Yes. That’s true. I’m convinced she was a borderline paranoid even in her youth. And then, when she discovered that George had betrayed her with other women, the switch clicked all the way over in her. She got much worse after that.”
Travis said, “Why did Violet still use her maiden name, Devon, if she’d been married to Olmstead?”
“She didn’t want his name anymore. Loathed the name. She sent him packing, very nearly drove him out of the house with a stick! She was about to divorce him when he died,” Garrison said. “She had learned about his affairs with other women, as I’ve said. She was furious. Ashamed and enraged. I must say . . . I can’t entirely blame poor George because I don’t think he found much love and affection at home. He knew the marriage was a mistake within a month of the wedding.”
Garrison paused beside the globe, one hand resting lightly on top of the world, staring far into the past. Ordinarily, he did not look his age. Now, as he gazed back across the years, the lines in his face seemed to deepen, and his blue eyes appeared faded. After a moment he shook his head and continued:
“Anyway, those were different times, when a woman betrayed by a husband was an object of pity, ridicule. But even for those days, I thought Violet’s reaction was overblown. She burned all his clothes and changed the locks on the house . . . she even killed a dog, a spaniel, of which he was fond. Poisoned it. And mailed it to him in a box.”
“Dear God,” Travis said.
Garrison said, “Violet took back her maiden name because she didn’t want his anymore. The thought of carrying George Olmstead’s name through life repelled her, she said, even though he was dead. She was an unforgiving woman.”
“Yes,” Nora agreed.
His face pinched with distaste at the memory, and Garrison said, “When George was killed, she didn’t bother to conceal her pleasure.”
“Killed?” Nora half expected to hear that Violet had murdered George Olmstead yet had somehow escaped prosecution.
“It was an auto accident, forty years ago,” Garrison said. “He lost control on the Coast Highway driving home from Los Angeles, went over the edge where, in those days, there wasn’t a guardrail. The embankment was sixty or eighty feet high, very steep, and George’s car—a large black Packard—rolled over several times on the way down to the rocks below. Violet inherited everything because, though she had initiated divorce proceedings against him, George had not gotten around to changing his will.”
Travis said, “So George Olmstead not only betrayed Violet but, in dying, left her with no target for her anger. So she directed that anger at the world in general.”
“And at me in particular,” Nora said.
That same afternoon, Nora told Travis about her painting. She had not mentioned her artistic pursuits before, and he had not been in her bedroom to see her easel, supply cabinet, and drawing board. She was not sure why she had kept this aspect of her life a secret from him. She had mentioned an interest in art, which was why they had gone to galleries and museums, but perhaps she had never spoken of her own work because she was afraid that, on seeing her canvases, he would be unimpressed.
What if he felt that she had no real talent?
Aside from the escape provided by books, the thing that kept Nora going through many grim, lonely years was her painting. She believed that she was good, perhaps very good, though she was too shy and too vulnerable to voice that conviction to anyone. What if she was wrong? What if she had no talent and had been merely filling time? Her art was the primary medium by which she defined herself. She had little else with which to sustain even her thin and shaky self-image, so she desperately needed to believe in her talent. Travis’s opinion meant more to her than she could say, and if his reaction to her painting was negative, she would be devastated.
But after leaving Garrison Dilworth’s office, Nora knew that the time had come to take the risk. The truth about Violet Devon had been a key that had unlocked Nora’s emotional prison. She would need a long time to move from her cell, down the long hall to the outside world, but the journey would inevitably continue. Therefore, she would have to open herself to all the experiences that her new life provided, including the awful possibility of rejection and severe disappointment. Without risk, there was no hope of gain.
Back at the house, she considered taking Travis upstairs to have a look at a half dozen of her most recent paintings. But the idea of having a man in her bedroom, even with the most innocent intentions, was too unsettling. Garrison Dilworth’s revelations freed her, yes, and her world was rapidly broadening, but she was not yet
that
free. Instead, she insisted that Travis and Einstein sit on one of the big sofas in the furniture-stuffed living room, where she would bring some of her canvases for viewing. She turned on all the lights, drew the drapes away from the windows, and said, “I’ll be right back.”
that
free. Instead, she insisted that Travis and Einstein sit on one of the big sofas in the furniture-stuffed living room, where she would bring some of her canvases for viewing. She turned on all the lights, drew the drapes away from the windows, and said, “I’ll be right back.”
But upstairs she dithered over the ten paintings in her bedroom, unable to decide which two she should take to him first. Finally she settled on four pieces, though it was a bit awkward carrying that many at once. Halfway down the stairs, she halted, trembling, and decided to take the paintings back and select others. But she retreated only four steps before she realized that she could spend the entire day in vacillation. Reminding herself that nothing could be gained without risk, she took a deep breath and went quickly downstairs with the four paintings that she had originally chosen.
Travis liked them. More than liked them. He raved about them. “My God, Nora, this is no hobby painting. This is the real thing. This is
art
.”
art
.”
She propped the paintings on four chairs, and he was not content to study them from the sofa. He got up for a closer look, moved from one canvas to another and back again.
“You’re a superb photorealist,” he said. “Okay, so I’m no art critic, but by God you’re as skilled as Wyeth. But this other thing . . . this eerie quality in two of these . . .”
His compliments had left her blushing furiously, and she had to swallow hard to find her voice. “A touch of surrealism.”
She had brought two landscapes and two still lifes. One of each was, indeed, strictly a photorealist work. But the other two were photorealism with a strong element of surrealism. In the still life, for example, several water glasses, a pitcher, spoons, and a sliced lemon were on a table, portrayed in excruciating detail, and at first glance the scene looked very realistic; but at second glance you noticed that one of the glasses was melting into the surface on which it stood, and that one slice of lemon was penetrating the side of a glass as if the glass had been formed around it.
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