Key Trilogy (15 page)

“The only thing I’ve been absolutely sure I wanted . . . ever,” he realized, “is you.”

She glanced back as nervous wings began to stir in her belly. “I don’t imagine I’m the only woman you’ve wanted to sleep with.”

“No. Actually, the first was Joley Ridenbecker. We
were thirteen. And that particular desire was never fulfilled.”

“Now you’re making a joke of it.”

“I’m not. Not really.” He stepped toward her and his voice was gentle. “I wanted Joley, as much as I knew what that meant at thirteen. It was intense, even painful, and kind of sweet. Eventually I found out what that meant. I wanted other women along the way. I even loved one, which is why I know the difference between wanting a woman, and wanting you. If it was just sex, it wouldn’t piss me off.”

“It’s hardly my fault you’re pissed off.” She scowled at him. “And you don’t look or sound as if you are.”

“I tend to get really reasonable when I’m seriously annoyed. It’s a curse.” He picked up the ball Moe spat at his feet, then threw it with a strong whiplash of arm. “And if you think it’s a joy to be able to see both sides of an argument, to see the validity on each end, let me tell you, it’s a pain in the ass.”

“Who was she?”

He shrugged, then picked up the ball Moe returned, threw it again. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I’d say it does. And that she still does.”

“It just didn’t work out.”

“Fine. I should be getting back now.” She walked back to kneel on the blanket and tidy the remains of their impromptu picnic.

“That’s a skill I admire, and nobody does it like a woman. The implied ‘fuck you,’ ” he explained, then shot the ball in the air for Moe once more. “She left me. Or I didn’t go with her. Depends on your point of view. We were together the best part of a year. She was a reporter for the local station, moved up to weekend anchor, then evening anchor. She was good, and we got to have all these arguments and discussions over the impact and value of our particular news medium. Which is sexier than it may sound. Anyway, we planned to get married, move
to New York. Eventually, on the moving part. Then she got an offer from an affiliate up there. She went. I stayed.”

“Why did you stay?”

“Because I’m George fucking Bailey.” The ball burst out of his hand again like a rocket.

“I don’t understand.”

“George Bailey, giving up his dreams of travel and adventure to stay in his hometown and rescue the old savings and loan. I’m no Jimmy Stewart, but the
Dispatch
sure as hell turned out to be my savings and loan. My stepfather, Dana’s dad, had been ill. My mother shifted some of the responsibilities of editor in chief to me. I assumed it was temporary, until Joe got back on his feet. But the doctors, and my mother, wanted him out of the cold winters. And they wanted, deserved, to enjoy a retirement period. She threatened that if I didn’t take over for her at the paper, she would shut it down. My mother doesn’t make idle threats.”

With a humorless laugh, he tossed the ball again. “You can bet your ass she doesn’t. A Flynn runs the
Valley Dispatch
or there is no
Dispatch
.”

Michael Flynn Hennessy, she thought. So Flynn was a family name
and
a legacy. “If she knew you wanted something different . . .”

He managed to smile. “She didn’t want something different. I could’ve gone, just kicked the dust off my heels and gone with Lily to New York. And all the people who work at the paper would’ve been out of a job. Half of them, maybe more, wouldn’t have been picked up by whoever started another paper. She knew I wouldn’t go.”

He studied the ball in his hand, turned it slowly, spoke softly. “She never did like Lily anyway.”

“Flynn—”

He gave in to Moe’s desperate excitement and heaved the ball. “Before I make it sound pitiful and pathetic—I did want to go, then. I loved Lily, then. But I didn’t love her enough to pack up and go when she gave me the
ultimatum. She didn’t love me enough to stay, or to give me the time to work things out here and meet up with her.”

Then you didn’t love each other at all, Malory thought, but she remained silent.

“Less than a month after she’d landed in New York, she called and broke our engagement. She needed to concentrate on her career, couldn’t handle the stress of a relationship, much less a long-distance one. I should be free to see other people and make a life, while she was going to be married to her job.

“And in six months she was married to an NBC news exec and moving steadily up the ladder. She got what she wanted, and in the end so did I.”

He turned back to Malory. His face was calm again, the deep green eyes clear as if the fury had never been behind them. “My mother was right—and I really hate that part. But she was right. This is my place, and I’m doing exactly what I want to do.”

“The fact that you see that says a lot more about you than about either one of them.”

He threw the ball one last time. “I made you feel sorry for me.”

“No.” Though he had. “You made me respect you.” She rose, walked to him and kissed his cheek. “I think I remember this Lily from the local news. Redhead, right? Lots of teeth.”

“That’d be Lily.”

“Her voice was entirely too nasal, and she had a weak chin.”

He leaned over, kissed her cheek in turn. “That’s a really nice thing to say. Thanks.”

Moe raced back and spat out the ball on the ground between them. “How long will he do that?” Malory asked.

“For all eternity, or until my arm falls off.”

She gave the ball a good boot with her foot. “It’s
getting dark,” she said as Moe raced happily off. “You should take me home.”

“Or I could take Moe home and we could—ah, I see by the way your eyebrows have arched and your lip has curled that your mind is in the gutter. I was going to say we could go to the movies.”

“You were not.”

“I certainly was. In fact, it so happens I have the movie section in the car, for your perusal.”

They were all right again, she realized, and wanted to kiss him—this time in friendship. Instead, she fell into the rhythm and played the game out. “You have the entire paper in the car, because it’s your paper.”

“Be that as it may, I’ll still let you pick the flick.”

“What if it’s an art film with subtitles?”

“Then I’ll suffer in silence.”

“You already know there aren’t any such films playing at the local multiplex, don’t you?”

“That’s neither here nor there. Come on, Moe, let’s go for a ride.”

IT
had done her good, Malory decided, to step away from the puzzle and the problems for an evening. She felt fresher this morning, and more optimistic. And it felt good to be interested in and attracted to a complicated man.

He
was
complicated, she thought. Only more so because he gave the impression, at least initially, of being simple. And so that made him yet another puzzle to solve.

She couldn’t deny that
click
he’d spoken of. Why should she? She wasn’t a game player when it came to relationships—she was cautious. It meant she needed to find out if the click was merely sexual or tangled around something more.

Puzzle number three, she decided as she hunkered down to continue her research.

Her first phone call of the morning left her stunned.
Moments after hanging up, she was tearing through her old college textbooks on art history.

THE
door of the Vane house was wide open. A number of burly men were hauling furniture and boxes in, or hauling furniture and boxes out. Just watching them gave Flynn a backache.

He recalled the weekend years before when he and Jordan had moved into an apartment. How they, with Brad’s help, had carted a secondhand sofa that weighed as much as a Honda up three flights of stairs.

Those were the days, Flynn reminisced. Thank God they were over.

Moe leaped out of the car behind him and without waiting for an invitation raced straight into the house. There was a crash, a curse. Flynn could only pray that one of the Vane family antiques hadn’t bit the dust as he hurriedly followed.

“Jesus Christ. You call this a puppy?”

“He was a puppy—a year ago.” Flynn looked at his oldest friend, currently being greeted by and slobbered on by his dog. And his heart simply sang.

“Sorry about the . . . was that a lamp?”

Brad glanced at the broken china scattered in the foyer. “It was a minute ago. All right, big guy. Down.”

“Outside, Moe. Chase the rabbit!”

In response, Moe let out a series of barks and bombed out the door.

“What rabbit?”

“The one that lives in his dreams. Hey.” Flynn stepped forward, crunching broken shards under his feet, and caught Brad in one hard hug. “Looking good. For a suit.”

“Who’s a suit?”

He couldn’t have looked less like one in worn jeans and a denim work shirt. He looked, Flynn thought, tall and lean and fit. The Vanes’ golden child, the family
prince, who was as happy running a construction crew as he was a board meeting.

Maybe happier.

“I came by last evening, but the place was deserted. When did you get in?”

“Late. Let’s get out of the way,” Brad suggested as the movers carried in another load. He jerked a thumb and led the way to the kitchen.

The house was always furnished, and made available to execs or visiting brass from the Vane corporation. Once it had been their home in the Valley, a place Flynn had known as well as his own.

The kitchen had been redone since the days when he’d begged cookies there, but the view out the windows, off the surrounding deck, was the same. Woods and water, and the rising hills beyond.

Some of the best parts of his childhood were tied up in this house. Just as they were tied up in the man who now owned it.

Brad poured coffee, then led Flynn out on the deck.

“How’s it feel to be back?” Flynn asked him.

“Don’t know yet. Odd, mostly.” He leaned on the rail, looked out beyond.

Everything was the same. Nothing was the same.

He turned back, a man comfortable in his frame. He had a layer or two of big city on him, and was comfortable with that as well.

His hair was blond that had darkened with the years, just as the dimples in his cheeks were closer to creases now. Much to his relief. His eyes were a stone gray under straight brows. They tended to look intense, even when the rest of his face smiled.

Flynn knew it wasn’t the mouth that showed Brad’s mood. It was the eyes. When they smiled, he meant it.

They did so now. “Son of a bitch. It’s good to see you.”

“I never figured you for coming back, not for any length of time.”

“Neither did I. Things change, Flynn. They’re meant to, I guess. I’ve been itchy the last few years. I finally figured out I was itchy for home. How are things with you, Mr. Editor in Chief?”

“They’re okay. I assume you’ll be subscribing to our paper. I’ll make arrangements for that,” he added with a grin. “We put up a nice red box next to the mailbox on the road. Morning delivery out here usually hits by seven.”

“Sign me up.”

“I will. And I’m going to want to interview Bradley Charles Vane IV at his earliest convenience.”

“Shit. Give me a while to settle in before I have to put on my corporate hat.”

“How about next Monday? I’ll come to you.”

“Christ, you’ve become Clark Kent. No, worse, Lois Lane—without the great legs. I don’t know what I’ve got going on Monday, but I’ll have my assistant set it up.”

“Great. How about we grab some beer and catch up tonight?”

“I can get behind that. How’s your family?”

“Mom and Joe are doing fine out in Phoenix.”

“Actually, I was thinking more about the delicious Dana.”

“You’re not going to start hitting on my sister again? It’s embarrassing.”

“She hooked up with anybody?”

“No, she’s not hooked up with anybody.”

“She still built?”

Flynn winced. “Shut up, Vane.”

“I love yanking your chain over that one.” And with a sigh, Brad was home. “Though it’s entertaining, that’s not why I asked you to come out. There’s something I think you’re going to want to see. I did some thinking when
you told me about this deal Dana and her friends got themselves into.”

“You know something about these people up at Warrior’s Peak?”

“No. But I know something about art. Come on. I had them put it in the great room. I’d just finished uncrating it personally when I heard you drive up.”

He walked along the deck, around the corner of the house to the double glass doors bordered by etched panels.

The great room boasted a towering ceiling with a circling balcony, a generous fireplace with hearth and mantel of hunter-green granite framed in golden oak. There was space for two sofas, one in the center of the room, the other tucked into a cozy conversation area along the far wall.

More space spilled through a wide arch, where the piano stood and where Brad had spent countless tedious hours practicing.

There, propped against the hearth of a second fireplace, was the painting.

The muscles in Flynn’s belly went loose. “Jesus. Oh, Jesus.”

“It’s called
After the Spell
. I got it at an auction about three years ago. Do you remember I mentioned I’d bought a painting because one of the figures in it looked like Dana?”

“I didn’t pay any attention. You were always razzing me about Dana.” He crouched down now, stared hard at the painting. He didn’t know art, but even with his limited eye, he’d have bet the farm that the same hand had painted this that had created the painting at Warrior’s Peak.

There was no joy or innocence here, however. The tone was dark, a kind of grieving, with the only light, pale, pale light, glowing from the three glass coffins where three women seemed to sleep.

His sister’s face, and Malory’s, and Zoe’s.

“I have to make a phone call.” Flynn straightened and dug out his cell phone. “There’s someone who has to see this right away.”

S
HE
didn’t like to be told to hurry, especially when she wasn’t given a good reason why. So, on principle, Malory took her time driving to the Vane house.

She had a lot on her mind, and a little drive in the country was just the ticket, she decided, to line those thoughts up in some organized fashion.

And she liked tooling along in her little car over the windy road that followed the river, and the way the sun sprinkled through the leaves overhead to splatter patterns of light on the roadbed.

If she could paint, she would do a study of that—just the way light and shadow played on something as simple and ordinary as a country road. If she could paint, she thought again—which she couldn’t, despite all the desire, all the study, all the years of trying.

But someone sure as hell could.

She should’ve tried to track down Dana and Zoe before driving out here. Really, she was supposed to be working with them, not with Flynn. He was . . . like an accessory,
she told herself. A really attractive, sexy, interesting accessory.

Boy, she loved accessories.

Not a productive train of thought.

She switched the car radio off, steeped herself in silence. What she needed to do was find Dana and Zoe, tell them what she’d discovered. Maybe if she said it all out loud she, or they, could decipher what it meant.

Because at the moment she didn’t have a clue.

All she knew, in her gut, was that it was important. Even vital. If not the answer, it was one of the bread crumbs that would lead to the answer.

She turned off the road and onto the private lane. No gates here. No circling walls. The Vanes were certainly wealthy enough to rate them. She wondered why they hadn’t chosen to buy Warrior’s Peak instead of building by the river, closer to town.

Then the house came into view and answered her question. It was beautiful, and it was wood. A lumber baron would hardly build or buy in stone or brick. He would, as he had, build to illustrate the art of his product.

The wood was honey gold, set off by copper trim that had gone dreamy green with age and weather. There was a complex arrangement of decks and terraces, skirting or jutting from both stories. Half a dozen rooflines peaked or sloped, all with a kind of artful symmetry that brought harmony to the whole.

The grounds were informal, as suited the site and the style, but she imagined that the placement of every shrub, every tree, every flower bed had been meticulously selected and designed.

Malory approved of meticulous design and execution.

She pulled up beside a moving van and was about to step out when she heard the wild, delighted barking.

“Oh, no, not this time. I’ve got your number, buddy.” She reached into the box on the floor beside her and pulled out a large dog biscuit.

Even as Moe’s homely face smooshed against the car window, she rolled it down. “Moe! Get the cookie!” And threw the dog biscuit as far as she could manage.

As he raced in pursuit, she nipped out of the car and made a dash for the house.

“Nice job.” Flynn met her at the door.

“I’m a quick study.”

“Counting on that. Malory Price, Brad Vane. Already called it,” Flynn added in subtle warning as he saw the interest light in Brad’s eye.

“Oh? Well, can’t blame you.” Brad smiled at Malory. “It’s still nice to meet you, Malory.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s guy-speak,” Flynn told her, and dipped his head to kiss her. “Just bringing Brad up-to-date. Dana and Zoe on the way?”

“No. Dana’s working, and I couldn’t reach Zoe. I left messages for both of them. What’s this all about?”

“You’re going to want to see it for yourself.”

“See what? You drag me out here—no offense,” she added to Brad, “you have a beautiful house—without any explanation. And I was busy. The time factor—”

“I’m starting to think time’s a real factor.” Flynn tugged her along toward the great room.

“Excuse the disorder. I’ve got a lot going out, a lot coming in today.” Brad kicked aside a chunk of broken lamp. “Flynn tells me you managed the art gallery in town.”

“Yes, until recently. Oh, what a fabulous room.” She stopped, absorbed the space. It needed paintings, sculpture, more color, more texture. Such a wonderful space deserved art.

If she’d had a free hand and an unlimited budget she could’ve made this room a showcase.

“You must be eager to unpack your things, settle in, and . . . oh, my God.”

The shock struck the instant she saw the painting. The
stunning blast of discovery pumped straight into her blood, had her fumbling her glasses out of her purse and going down to her knees in front of it for a closer study.

The colors, the brushstrokes, the technique, even the medium. The same. The same, she thought, as the other. The three main subjects, the same.

“After the theft of the souls,” she stated. “They’re here, in this box on the pedestal in the foreground. My God, look at how the light and color seem to pulse inside the glass. It’s genius. There, in the background, the two figures from the first painting, with their backs turned here. They’re leaving. Banished. About to walk through that mist. The Curtain of Dreams. The keys.”

She scooped her hair back, held the mass of it in one hand as she peered more closely. “Where are the keys? There! You can just see them, on a chain the female figure holds in her hand. Three keys. She’s the keeper.”

Wanting to see more detail, she fished a small silver-handled magnifying glass out of a felt bag in her purse.

“She carries a magnifying glass in her purse,” Brad uttered in amazement.

“Yeah.” Flynn grinned like a fool. “Isn’t she great?”

Focused on the painting, she shut out the comments behind her and peered through the glass. “Yes, yes, it’s the same design of key. They’re not worked into the background the way they are in the other painting. Not symbolism this time, but fact. She has the keys.”

She lowered the glass, eased back slightly for an overview. “The shadow’s still in the trees, but farther back now. You can barely see his shape. His work’s done, but still he watches. Gloats?”

“Who is
he
?” Brad wanted to know.

“Quiet. She’s working.”

Malory slipped the glass back into its pouch, then returned it to her purse. “Such a sad painting, such grief in the light, in the body language of the two as they step toward that curtain of mist. The main subjects in their
crystal coffins look serene, but they’re not. It’s not serenity, it’s emptiness. And there’s such desperation in that light inside the box. It’s painful, and it’s brilliant.”

“Is it the same artist?” Flynn asked her.

“Of course. This is no student, no mimic, no homage. But that’s opinion.” She sat back on her heels. “I’m not an authority.”

Could’ve fooled me, he thought. “Between you and Brad, I figure we’ve got all the authority we need.”

She’d forgotten Brad, and flushed a bit with embarrassment. She’d all but lapped the painting up, kneeling before it like a supplicant. “Sorry.” Still kneeling, she looked up at him. “I got carried away. Could you tell me where you acquired this?”

“At auction, in New York. A small house. Banderby’s.”

“I’ve heard of them. The artist?”

“Unknown. You can just make out a partial signature—an initial, really. Might be an
R,
or a
P,
followed by the key symbol.”

Malory bent lower to study the lower left corner. “You had it dated, authenticated?”

“Of course. Seventeenth century. Though the style has a more contemporary feel, the painting was tested extensively. If you know Banderby’s you know it’s both meticulous and reputable.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

“And I had it tested independently. Just a little habit of mine,” Brad added. “The results coincided.”

“I have a theory,” Flynn began, but Malory waved him off.

“Can I ask you why you bought it? Banderby’s isn’t known for its bargains, and it’s an unknown artist.”

“One reason is I was struck how much the middle figure resembled Dana.” It was true enough, Brad thought, if not the whole truth. “The overall painting, the power of it, caught me first, then that detail drew me in. And . . .”
He hesitated, his gaze tracking across the painting. Then, feeling foolish, he shrugged. “You could say it spoke to me. I wanted it.”

“Yes, I understand that.” She took her glasses off, folded them and, slipped them carefully back in their case, then slid the case into her purse. “Flynn must have told you about the painting at Warrior’s Peak.”

“Sure, I told him. And when I saw this, I figured—”

“Ssh.” Malory tapped him on the knee, then held up a hand for him to help her to her feet. “It has to be a series. There’s another painting that comes before or after or in between. But there have to be three. It’s consistently three. Three keys, three daughters. The three of us.”

“Well, there are five of us now,” Brad put in. “But, yeah, I follow you.”

“You followed me when I said the same damn thing a half hour ago,” Flynn complained. “My theory.”

“Sorry.” This time Malory patted him on the arm. “It’s all tumbling around in my head. I can almost make out the pieces, but I can’t quite see the shape, or where they go. What they mean. Do you mind if we sit down?”

“Sure. Sorry.” Immediately, Brad took her arm, led her to a sofa. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Got any brandy? I know it’s early, but I could really use just a little brandy.”

“I’ll find some.”

Flynn sat beside her as Brad left the room. “What is it, Mal? You look a little pale all of a sudden.”

“It hurts me.” She looked toward the painting again, then closed her eyes as tears gathered in them. “Even as it dazzles my mind and my spirit, it hurts to look at it. I saw this happen, Flynn. I felt this happen to them.”

“I’ll put it away.”

“No, no.” She caught his hand, and the contact comforted her. “Art’s supposed to touch you in some way. That’s its power. What will the third be? And when?”

“When?”

She shook her head. “How flexible is your mind, I wonder? I’m just starting to find out how flexible mine is. You’ve told Brad all of it?”

“Yeah.” Something here, he realized as he watched her. Something she wasn’t quite sure she could say. “You can trust him, Malory. You can trust me.”

“The question will be if either of you will trust me after I tell you both what I found out this morning and what I think it means. Your old friend might politely nudge me out the door and bolt it behind me.”

“I never lock beautiful women out of the house.” Brad walked back in with a snifter of brandy. He handed it to her, then sat on the coffee table, facing her. “Go ahead, knock it back.”

She did just that, downing the brandy as she might a quick dose of medicine. It slid smoothly down her throat and soothed her jittery stomach. “It’s a crime to treat a Napoleon that carelessly. Thanks.”

“Knows her brandy,” he said to Flynn. Color was seeping back into her cheeks. To give her a chance to recover more fully, he rapped Flynn with his elbow. “How the hell did you manage to get a woman with taste and class to look twice at you?”

“I had Moe knock her down, pin her to the ground. Better, Mal?”

“Yes.” She blew out a breath. “Yes. Your painting’s seventeenth century. That’s absolutely conclusive?”

“That’s right.”

“I found out this morning that the painting at Warrior’s Peak is twelfth century, possibly earlier but no later.”

“If you got that from Pitte or Rowena—” Flynn began.

“No. I got that from Dr. Stanley Bower, of Philadelphia. He’s an expert, and a personal acquaintance. I sent him scrapings of the painting.”

“How’d you get scrapings?” Flynn wanted to know.

More color rose in her cheeks, but it wasn’t the brandy that caused it. She cleared her throat, fussed with the clasp
of her purse. “I took them when you went up there with me last week. When you and Moe distracted them. It was completely inappropriate, absolutely unethical. I did it anyway.”

“Cool.” Pure admiration shone in Flynn’s tone. “So that means either Brad’s experts or yours is off, or you’re wrong about both being done by one artist. Or . . .”

“Or, the experts are right and so am I.” Malory set her purse aside, folded her hands tight in her lap. “Dr. Bower would have to run more complex and in-depth tests to verify the date, but he wouldn’t be off by centuries. I’ve seen both paintings, up close. Everything I know tells me they were done by the same hand. I know it sounds crazy. It
feels
crazy, but I believe it. Whoever created the portrait at Warrior’s Peak did so in the twelfth century, and that same artist painted Brad’s five hundred years later.”

Brad slid his gaze toward Flynn, surprised that his friend wasn’t goggling, or grinning. Instead, Flynn’s face was sober and considering. “You want to believe that my painting was executed by a five-hundred-year-old artist?”

“Older, I think. Much older than that. And I think the artist painted both from memory. Rethinking bolting the door?” Malory asked him.

“I’m thinking both of you have gotten caught up in a fantasy. A romantic and tragic story that has no basis in reality.”