Restoration (17 page)

“Yeah? Like what?”

“You’re saying that Levette’s mural still belongs to the federal government. Or at least that the government might well claim ownership if ever it were pulled out of Wheeler, restored and shopped around.”

“You have been paying attention.”

“Tell me if I got this right, Rhys. In ’41 the government orders Levette’s mural painted over, effectively destroying it. But if tomorrow the painting were offered for sale at auction, the government likely would intervene, stop the transaction and order that the painting be donated to a public institution. Either that or it would demand that it be returned to them… I mean, returned to
it
—to the same government that tried to get rid of the painting in the first place and, furthermore, that might’ve prompted Levette to kill himself.”

“Good, Jack. Now let me ask you this question: Do you think the government gave a damn that Levette’s mural was still in the post office when it decided to deaccession that old building?”

“No.”

“More than just that, Jack. Shit no, fuck no and hell no. And the only reason the government would care about the mural today—notwithstanding its potential historic significance—is because it’s worth a lot of money.”

“How much is a lot?” I said.

She pushed her door open and stepped out in the street. “One million? Two million? We’ll never know for sure until we put it out there and let the likes of Tommy Smallwood fight for it.”

I followed her across the street, but when she reached the entrance there was no invitation to join her inside. She closed and locked the security door behind her and stood leaning against the bars, her face framed in the narrow space. “It came to me while I was in Mrs. Wheeler’s office,” she said. “I’m sitting there trying to figure out how to help this woman and I actually pray for an answer and you know what, Jack? I got one.”

“God spoke to you,” I said. “Is that what you’re telling me?” Rhys held me with another of her weird stares. “You know how we know things, Jack? How as human beings we just know things or at least intuit them? You might think I’m crazier than shit but all of a sudden I knew what to do. Levette’s mural. We go in, Jack. We go in and get the sonofabitch.”

That night the storm blew in and knocked out power all along Bayou Saint John. The wind blew the trees in the garden into odd configurations against the black sky and rain fell so hard it sounded as if the roof of the garçonnière was going to cave in. I stayed in my bedroom waiting for the electrical service to be restored. I read art books by the light of a lantern until it ran low on oil. Then I read by flashlight until the batteries went dead. I listened to weather coverage on my transistor radio. Local meteorologists were calling it a storm but it packed the intensity of a hurricane. I stepped outside for a minute and the air smelled of a briny sea and the birds weren’t moving. It was so hot and damp the walls were sweating.

Toward dawn I fell asleep and when I awoke it was to the shift of the floor taking on new weight. Someone was in the room, stepping across the wood and making it creak.
You’re dreaming
, I said to myself. But I listened more closely and there was no denying it. Either Lowenstein’s ghost was checking up on me or a burglar was investigating the place. I’d kept a baseball bat near my bed in anticipation of just such a development, and it was what I reached for now. Raising the length of fire-tempered wood above my head, and pausing long
enough to register Pete Rose’s signature scripted across the barrel, I raced into the adjoining room and spotted the intruder advancing for the door. In seconds I was upon him, whooping in full battle cry. He wheeled around to confront me and I somehow stopped the bat’s momentum and sent it smashing against the wall. Plaster broke off in chunks and a heave of white dust. “Jesus,” I shouted, the word lost in the fount of obscenities spoken by my intruder.

It was Lowenstein. Although I’d never met the man, I had no doubt as to his identity, having glimpsed him enough times fleeing from windows to build an adequate physical profile. Rainwater streaked down his large, gray face and the few remaining strands of hair on his head clung to his scalp. He looked terrified. Flannel night-clothes, soaked, hung from his small, shivering form. He held a flashlight by his side, and he lifted it now, however late, to protect himself. “Don’t you touch me,” he croaked.

“God, man, you’re the one who came uninvited into my apartment. What are you doing here? Why didn’t you knock?”

“I did knock,” he said. “I knocked repeatedly.” He pointed to the French doors that led to the cloister and the garden. “My nurse left to make sure her home was safe against the storm. And, look there, a branch from the old oak came down. I was concerned about your well-being, Mr. Charbonnet.”

I nudged past him and stood at the window. The branch had leveled the garden bench where I’d spent so many solitary hours napping and reading my art publications. “Who was Wiltz Lowenstein?” I suddenly heard myself say. “Are you Wiltz Lowenstein, Mr. Lowenstein?”

He reached a trembling hand for the doorknob. “I don’t know why I should be expected to answer that,” he said.

“Was it your nickname? Was it that, by chance? Was it Wiltz?”

“Good-bye, Mr. Charbonnet.”

His wheelchair stood on the damp bricks of the cloister, and outside now he sat in it and began pushing himself back to the house. I
stepped out after him, into the swirling mist. “For a second I thought you were somebody else,” I shouted after him.

“And you were right,” he called out in response, never looking back.

I was sitting on a patio chair in the blue shade of the cloister, watching Lowenstein’s team of gardeners remove the downed branch from the oak tree and replace the bench, when Patrick Marion surprised me with a visit. He came striding around the corner of the house, sweat running down his face and dampening his shirt. He seemed to be in a great hurry. When he saw me he signaled for me to follow him to the front of the house. “Awful loud here,” he shouted over the noise of chain saws.

I slipped my bare feet into a pair of loafers and hurried after him, watching the windows for Lowenstein, although the old geezer never did make an appearance.

“The maid let me in,” he said at the gate.

“What’s wrong, Patrick?”

“Let’s go sit somewhere.”

His face was unshaven, his hair uncombed, his eyes shot red. Another rowdy dinner party with friends, I figured. He drove me over to the coffee shop on Esplanade. He was quiet until we took our chairs at a table on the sidewalk in front. He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “Got a favor to ask,” he said.

“Sure, man. Anything.”

“Would you be willing to safe-house
Dorothy
for a few days? Rhys Goudeau and I have made an appointment with the Neal Auction Company to consign the painting on Monday, and until then the dear girl needs a place to hide.” He lifted his steaming cup of coffee and rippled the surface with his breath. “Somebody broke into my apartment last night, Jack. I’m pretty certain he was after the painting.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” I said.

He shook his head. “I wish I were.”

“Were you there when it happened?”

“I was asleep in my room. The painting was maybe ten feet away, propped up against the wall behind my chest of drawers. It was three o’clock in the morning and I could feel the bed vibrating. That’s one thing about life in the Loeber Mansion: when one of your neighbors gets up in the middle of the night to pee you know it because the house shakes. Only last night it was a heavier vibration, closer. It felt like it does when Elsa stays over, and at first I thought it might be Elsa until I remembered she’d gone to Mobile on business. My door creaked open and in the darkness I saw the figure of a man. He was a big person, dressed all in black, with a stocking cap covering his head. Had it been like most burglaries in this city, he would’ve gone straight for my TV or stereo. But this guy was checking out the walls.”

A waiter began cleaning off the table next to ours. Patrick waited until he was finished before continuing the story. “He might’ve been in the room for thirty or forty seconds—a minute at most—but I tell you it felt like forever. I pretended to be sleeping, but my heart was beating like a kettledrum and I was afraid he’d hear it. He spotted the painting behind the chest and moved toward it, then he lowered himself to a crouch and brought his face up close to the surface. He might’ve been sniffing the paint. I heard a small clicking sound and then a tiny beam of light was shining on the painting. He was holding a penlight to it, I suppose to make certain he was stealing the right one. He made a sort of gasping sound, as though he were trying to catch his breath, and that’s when I came out of the bed screaming at the top of my lungs. I think I scared hell out of him. He tucked tail and ran, in any case. I’d have gone outside after him but I wasn’t wearing any clothes. Later as I was getting dressed and waiting for the police I suffered a bout of extreme paranoia and convinced myself he was coming back. But then the cops arrived and looked around and made out a report. As soon as they were gone—it now was about five o’clock in the morning—I put
Dorothy
in the trunk of my car and left the building. I’ve been driving around since, trying to figure out what to do next.”

“By all means leave her with me,” I said.

“I was hoping you’d say that. And I thank you, Jack. I’d bring her to Elsa’s house but as I told you Elsa’s traveling. I thought about the Conservation Guild but the studio is too obvious a place for me to stash it, and my intruder’s likely to go there next. I was trying to decide on a course of action when it came to me that you would be the right person to take her.”

“This is pure coincidence, I’m sure, but the other day I had an intruder of my own, Patrick. It turned out to be Lowenstein, checking on me after the storm. But for a while I was certain it was a burglar.”

“Yes,” he said, “the old man told me. He called and explained, probably because he was afraid you were going to bail on the lease.” Patrick laughed and sipped his coffee. “He said you nearly bashed his head in with a baseball bat. I hope you’ll protect
Dorothy
the same way, Jack. You’re a Chambers man. I know she’ll be fine.”

By the time we returned to Moss Street all the workers had gone. Patrick, however, was still worried about carrying the painting to the garçonnière. I went inside for a blanket, and when he opened the trunk a splash of sunlight fell on the painting’s surface and brought as much color to the face of Dorothy Marion as when Rhys had zapped it in her office with photoflood lamps. We covered the painting and each of us held a side of the frame as we walked along the path in the garden. Even in the privacy of the garçonnière Patrick looked uncomfortable. “It’s safe here,” I said, then gave his shoulder a squeeze. “No one’s going to steal it.”

“This painting is my future,” he said. “It’s my life. You understand that, don’t you? I sell it and my worries are over.”

“I won’t let anyone near it. Trust me, Patrick.”

“It’s not insured,” he said. “If someone takes it now it’s gone and I get nothing. But it’ll carry three hundred thousand dollars in coverage as soon as Neal takes it. If somebody were to steal it from the auction
house I wouldn’t mind so much because I could file a claim and get my money.” He put a hand on my shoulder and raised a finger up to my face. “You can’t let Aunt Dottie out of your sight, Jack.”