Who Are You? (9780307823533) (5 page)

She goes on, “Now, Frederick, I’m going to ask you to do something. It’s not for me. Oh no, it’s definitely not a favor for me. It’s for poor, dear Douglas.”

She pauses and dramatically sighs again. I’m totally caught up in this conversation, hoping for some clue.

“Douglas has two paintings for the gallery,” Ms. Chase tells Frederick. “I was supposed to pick them up when I returned from Austin, so I’m sure they’re wrapped and ready. May I have them, please?”

I’m positive Frederick will say he doesn’t know anything about them, so I’m surprised when he holds the door open wide and steps aside so that Ms. Chase can enter. She trots across the hall and up the broad stairway.

I suck in my breath as I’m treated to a view of an entry hall right out of the pages of a designer magazine. My eyes survey the place quickly. The room is round, with a staircase that curves down the right side, and it’s light and bright with sunlight streaming through the broad front windows. A table with a crystal vase of white gladioli stands at the center of the room, but what catches my eye and holds it is on the wall facing the door. A canvas is covered with vertical splashes of reds, oranges, yellows, blues, and greens that shimmer like a stained-glass window. At the top of the painting a woman’s face peers down through the blinding strips of color.

“I think of her as the heart and soul of the painting,” Ms. Montero told our art class as she showed us a slide of this painting. I’ve forgotten the name of the painting, but I can remember the name of the artist—Frank Kupka. I also remember that the painting is supposed to be hanging in New York’s Museum of Modern Art.

Puzzled, I actually step forward to see better. It is
not a print, and it’s not a lithograph. I can see the strong brush strokes in the oil paint.

Suddenly Frederick steps in front of me, blocking my view. As Frederick moves forward, I stumble back, my face burning with embarrassment. I’ve entered this house without being invited, and now I’m being forced to leave. When I reach the front steps I stammer, “I—I’m sorry. The painting … it’s so beautiful … I had to get a closer look … I wasn’t thinking.”

Frederick gives a stiff nod, then silently closes the big door.

Lindy waits on the drive. She looks a little scared. “What were you doing?” she asks me as I join her.

“There’s a painting in the entry hall. I mean a real painting. The real thing, Lindy. It’s gorgeous.”

Lindy gives me an odd look. “What’s so exciting about somebody having a painting in his house? Lots of people do.”

“Not this painting. This is a museum piece. I saw it on a slide in Ms. Montero’s class. But she said it was hanging in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.”

Lindy climbs into the passenger seat of the car and fastens her seat belt. “Calm down,” she tells me. “Douglas Merson obviously has a lot of money. He probably got the artist to paint another, just like the one in the museum.”

“No way,” I insist. “The artist who painted it died around the late fifties—1957, I think Ms. Montero said.”

As I begin to follow the curve of the drive, I
glance back at the house. There’s a shadow in one of the entry hall windows. Frederick. He’s standing there watching. I shiver.

I turn onto Buffalo Bayou Lane, looking for a cross street that will cut through to San Felipe, and think out loud. “Ms. Montero told us that lots of artists have made copies of their own work, like Van Gogh, who copied his painting of sunflowers for his friend Paul Gauguin. And Stuart, who painted more than seventy-five copies of his famous ‘Athenaeum Head’ painting of George Washington to get out of debt.

“Sometimes artists wanted to save what they’d done, but thought of ways of making their paintings better by changing just one little thing, so they’d paint practically the same scene. And some of the artists way back when, like Rembrandt, assigned students and assistants to copy their work. Ms. Montero told us that Rembrandt even signed some of their paintings with his own name. Maybe this is one of those almost-alike paintings.”

“Ask Ms. Montero,” Lindy answers. I can hear the boredom in her voice. She doesn’t share my interest in art, and if I talk about it too long she clicks a switch in her brain and tunes me out. I can’t get that fantastic painting with its explosion of color out of my mind, but to please Lindy I search for something else to talk about.

Lindy suddenly stares at me, then turns and glances out the back window of the car. “Nobody’s following us,” she says.

“What?”

“You keep looking in the rearview mirror every few seconds, Kristi, like you think someone’s going to look back. If you weren’t already jumpy enough to drive into a tree, I’d be tempted to yell, ‘Boo!’ ” She shakes her head. “You know for a fact that Mr. Merson’s in the hospital. You saw him there.”

“I know. But now that we’ve seen how Mr. Merson lives and how rich he must be, I can’t imagine that he’s the one who followed me or took photos of me. It would be more realistic if he hired someone to do it.”

“Like Frederick?”

I shiver again. “I don’t know.”

“He’s creepy enough,” Lindy says. “I wonder if he feels anything.”

I suddenly make a right turn off San Felipe into a quiet side street and pull the car to a stop at the curb.

“Now what?” Lindy asks.

“We asked the wrong person,” I tell her.

“Don’t say
we. You
did the asking. I didn’t ask anybody anything.”

“You know what I mean. Look. We found out that Frederick works for Mr. Merson and he’s loyal. He made it clear he wouldn’t talk about Mr. Merson or anything connected with him. But other people wouldn’t feel so loyal. Like neighbors. Or even that Ms. Chase.”

Lindy’s eyes are wide with surprise. “I don’t think any of them would know about the folder.”

“I’m not talking about the folder. I’m talking about Douglas Merson. The people who lived next
to him would know what he was like. And Ms. Chase said she was a friend. We could find out more about Mr. Merson through them.”

“I don’t think so,” Lindy says. “To begin with, we don’t know Ms. Chase’s first name. And she looks like the kind of person who’d have an unlisted phone number. How are we going to find her?”

“Easy. She came to pick up two paintings and she talked about a friend who used to work with her and now has her own art gallery. And she said she’d come
back
from Austin, so that means her home is in the Houston area. We can find her by calling the art galleries.”

“She’ll ignore us again.”

“Maybe not. She had her mind set on convincing Frederick to give her the paintings. We weren’t of any use to her.”

“We still won’t be.”

I grin at Lindy. “Why don’t we find out?”

We cruise back to Buffalo Bayou Lane. Ms. Chase’s car is no longer parked in front of the Merson house.

The front windows of the house are as blank as closed eyes, not giving even a hint that behind them hangs one of the most exciting paintings I’ve ever seen.

The homes on either side of the Merson house snuggle back among the trees like recluses who want to be left alone. Two dark sedans are parked down the street, but not a person is in sight.

Lindy gives an exaggerated sigh and asks, “You’re not going to ring doorbells, are you?”

“Good idea,” I tell her.

“Kristi! You don’t mean it! The people who live in this part of River Oaks don’t want to talk to people like us. And listen, it’s getting late.”

“I’ll be quick. And what’s wrong with us?”

“You know what I mean. Even if you do get someone to come to the door, it will probably be a maid or a butler.” She pauses and adds, “Or someone like Frederick.”

But I’ve come this far, and I know I’ve only just begun what might be a difficult search for the truth. What does Douglas Merson have to do with me? I have to find out.

As I turn into the long drive that leads to the Louisiana-plantation-style mansion next to Mr, Merson’s property, Lindy groans and slumps down in her seat. “I never saw you before in my life,” she says. “I’m not going to get out of this car.”

“You don’t need to,” I answer as I park the car. I’d feel a little braver if Lindy stood near me on the veranda, with its gleaming white columns, but this is something I can do without any help.

I hear the doorbell echo through the house, then the click of footsteps. The door swings open, and a short, plump woman dressed in a white uniform smiles up at me. “Yes?” she asks.

I wish I’d planned what to say, but I haven’t, so I blurt out, “I’m wondering if you can tell me something about Mr. Merson, who lives next door.”

The woman gives me a puzzled look. “You’re too young to be a reporter or with the police. Why do you want to know about the shooting?”

“I’m not asking about the shooting,” I explain. “I’m asking about Mr. Merson. I want to find out as much as I can about him.”

Shaking her head, the woman says, “Mrs. Carmody is in England. She’ll return in three weeks. You can come back then.” The woman steps away, as if she’s going to shut the door.

I let out a groan. I can’t help it. I find myself saying, “I have to find out who Douglas Merson is because it has something to do with my family,” in my best sweet help-me voice.

The woman’s eyes gleam, and the tip of her tongue sweeps one corner of her mouth, as if she’s tasting something delicious. She moves closer. “All I know is what I see,” she says. She half turns and flicks a glance toward the back of the house. “And what we in the kitchen … heard the Carmodys say about him.”

I nod. “I understand.”

“He comes and goes a lot. Trips to Europe mostly.”

I think about the paintings Ms. Chase came to pick up. “Maybe he’s an importer,” I suggest.

The woman raises one eyebrow, as if that’s the last thing she’d consider. “When he’s home he gives parties,” she tells me. “Lots of expensive cars and people with money, but nobody the Carmodys know. That houseman named Frederick who works there knows what’s going on, but he keeps mostly to himself.”

“What do you mean, ‘what’s going on’?” I ask. She shrugs. “None of us are sure. We’re just guessing. You didn’t hear it from me.”

I don’t say anything. I just nod again. She’s wound up now. She won’t need much encouragement to keep talking.

She tilts her head to one side and lowers her voice to a whisper. “When Mr. Merson’s in Houston he doesn’t go to an office. He doesn’t seem to have a job, yet he’s got a lot of money. Drives a Rolls and a Ferrari, and I heard tell that his clothes are all custom-made in Italy. You know what that adds up to, don’t you?”

I shake my head. “No. I honestly don’t know what you mean.”

“Drugs,” she whispers. “What else?”

“Drugs?” I can only stare stupidly.

“I don’t know how you and your family got mixed up with a man like that, but I think you should stay clear of him,” she finishes. Her interest in me has vanished, and she studies me as though she wonders if I’m involved in selling drugs too.

“Thank you,” I manage to say before she shuts the door. But I wish she hadn’t told me. Iwish I hadn’t asked. Drugs? Merson’s a drug dealer?

As I climb into the car I tell Lindy about the conversation, and she reacts with a gasp.

“Let’s go home,” she says, “and forget all about Douglas Merson. The police are going to take care of things, and they’re going to take care of you, Kristi. Snooping around about a drug dealer could be dangerous. Stop asking questions. Give it up.”

I don’t argue. At the moment I’m ready to forget I ever heard of Douglas Merson.

But as I pull into Buffalo Bayou Lane, one of the black sedans, parked at a curb a half block away,
starts up. It stays behind me as I cut down to San Felipe and turn west. The car doesn’t pull up close enough so that I can see the driver or anyone else who might be in the car.

It follows me all the way to Lindy’s house.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

I
drop Lindy off, and the car behind me pulls to the curb a good half block away. Lindy hasn’t noticed. She’s started comparing the super deli sandwiches at eatZi’s and Guggenheim’s, and she’s so carried away by the vision and anticipation, she hasn’t noticed that I’ve been checking the rearview mirror.

“See you at school tomorrow,” she says, and opens her car door. Then she stops and rests a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry about Mr. Merson and that folder, Kristi. There has to be a good reason for it, and whatever it is, the police will find out. Let them take care of it. Okay?”

“Okay,” I tell her, although I have no intention of following her advice. “See you tomorrow.”

I wait until she opens her front door and waves before I head toward home.

The car is still there. It’s not far behind me. The stalker is good. I’d never have noticed him if I hadn’t been afraid of being shadowed and been especially aware of anything that seemed different.

I know one way to find out who he is … if I’m lucky. Near my street is a short cul-de-sac. Without signaling. I turn into it. My stalker is intent on following me, so he turns into the street too, before he can think about what I’m doing. I speed up, swoop around the curve at the end of the street, and drive back, facing him.