The Blue Bath (28 page)

Weeks ago. The day after his opening.

When had she last seen him?

That day.

Had she seen him since then?

He had asked that already. Kat swallowed. She had seen no other photos in the uniformed officer’s file.

No.

Jonathan sat silent as she answered. The detective’s questions a proxy for his own. Questions that he had not known he needed to ask.

Did she know of any reason he would want to harm himself?

She didn’t really know him, but she couldn’t imagine why he would want to do that.

Did she know of any reason someone else would want to harm him?

Again, she was sorry that she was unable to shed any light on this, but she didn’t really know him.

Was she in town last Thursday?

Jonathan stood suddenly, the detective’s final question rousing him from his spell. The detective followed suit, but more slowly, shifting his heavy form from the couch.

“My wife has been in town since she returned from her mother’s funeral last month. Is there anything else?”

“No. I think that is everything for now. Thank you for your time.” The detective turned back to Kat, still sitting on the couch. “Mrs. Lind.”

As he turned to leave, Kat stood.

“I don’t understand. The papers … they said it was an accident. The fire.”

The detective looked at Jonathan briefly and then back at her. “Cause of death has yet to be determined.”

As they left, Kat saw that the car had arrived to take Jonathan to the office. As the door to the house opened, she saw the driver move quickly, climbing out of the car to stand expectantly by the side of the vehicle. Ignoring him, Jonathan closed the door behind the detectives and turned to her, his face deliberately calm.

“What was that? Who is this person?”

“Someone I knew when I was in Paris. I heard about it on the news. That he had been killed in a fire.”

Jonathan stepped closer to her, but didn’t touch her. “That’s terrible. You didn’t say anything about it.”

“Didn’t I?”

He shook his head.

“I guess I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“How did you know him? You were … close?”

“No. I mean, yes—in Paris, we were.”

He waited for her to continue. Jonathan had never asked her about her past relationships. She had volunteered some information in their early days together, but the subject had made him uncomfortable. Although she had been curious about his romantic history, the mutual discretion was a compromise she had accepted willingly.

“We were together when I was a student. But it ended when I came back home. I hadn’t seen him or spoken with him since then. And then, Jorie took me to a show he had at a gallery in Mayfair a few weeks ago.”

“Right, I remember.…”

She took a quick breath. He would see the paintings. He would see the paintings and he would know that it was her.

“When I went to the show. The paintings … they were of me. He was still painting me.”

“What do you mean? How was he still painting you, if he hadn’t seen you in twenty years?”

“He just painted me the way I used to be. The way I used to look. The way he remembered me, I guess.”

“And you went to his studio with him?”

“Yes. To see some other paintings.”

“Paintings of yourself?”

“No. Other things. He painted other things, too. And then I heard it on the news—that there was a fire. And now this…” Her voice had taken on a breathless quality that she did not fully recognize.

They stood in the hall. He ran his fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower.

“Okay. Listen, I’ll call the lawyers about this, just to let them know. I’m sure the police are just doing their homework. But, probably best not to talk to them or to anybody else about this.”

“Yes.”

He put his arms around her, hugging her close.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m just a little shocked.”

“Understandable.”

His arms were heavy on her shoulders. She drew back from him. “I think I’m fighting off a cold or something. Just a little under the weather.”

He frowned. “Well, take it easy today. I’ve got a few calls this afternoon, but I’ll see if I can come home early.”

“Okay.”

They stood in the front hall. He seemed to have forgotten where he was going.

“The car is here,” she suggested after a moment.

“Right.” He nodded and headed upstairs to retrieve his briefcase.

She returned to the kitchen. After emptying the kettle and refilling it with fresh water, she stood at the window, waiting for the water to boil. Cause of death had yet to be determined. That was what the officer had said. He had asked her if she knew of any reason Daniel would want to harm himself. He had also asked her if she knew of any reason someone else would want to harm him. What had happened in the studio after she had left?

“Kat.”

She startled. She hadn’t seen him come to the doorway. He stood at the threshold, draped in his long black wool coat.

“Is there anything else I need to know?”

Under the intense scrutiny of Jonathan’s gaze, she felt something. Something that she had not felt from him in a while. He was right. She definitely had his attention. She thought fleetingly that she might tell him. She believed that he would forgive her. She did. But she knew that the wound would never mend completely. That she would see it in his face every time he looked at her. That maybe Will would see it there, too.

The fire had destroyed it all. Eradicated the evidence of her being there. No one would ever see the new drawings or paintings of her. It was all ashes.

“No.”

With that one smooth, round syllable, she blew away any last remnants.

“Okay.” He paused. “Kat.”

“Yes?”

“Works a lot better if you turn it on.” He nodded at the kettle.

*   *   *

A
FTER
J
ONATHAN LEFT,
Kat stood before the silent kettle. She stared out the window into the garden beyond and watched the detail come into focus. Will’s yellow Wellies on the mat just outside the door. The bits of brightly colored chalk that had become lodged in the small spaces between the paving stones. The prone form of a scooter, washed clean by the rain. She saw it so clearly now. In all of its quotidian detail. Will’s whole world. All that was hers to lose.

Her phone was ringing. Jorie.

“You haven’t been returning my calls.”

“I know. I’m sorry.…” Kat thought briefly about telling her about her visitors.

“I heard. About Daniel.”

“Yes.”

“My God, Kat. How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re fine?”

“Yes.”

“So, that’s it, then? I thought he was your soul mate. Now you return to your life as if nothing happened? Now it all matters to you because you almost lost it? Is that it?”

“It was a mistake. I see that now.” The words profane and bitter on her tongue.

When Jorie spoke again, her voice was cold. “I should have known. Your kind always land on their feet.” The words struck squarely, rendering Kat speechless. Before she could respond, Jorie continued, “Although I think you have a bigger problem.”

“What’s that?” Did she already know about the police?

“Rumor is that there is a painting that survived the fire. It’s meant to be the last one he did before he died. It’s a portrait. A nude portrait.”

Kat watched the scene outside the window recede, replaced by the faint ghost of her face in the glass.

chapter nineteen

The lobby of the Dorchester was busy that time of morning. People coming and going amid the jungle of palms and upholstered furniture in the promenade. Kat pushed her hair farther under the collar of her coat as she crossed the expanse of lobby. Exiting the lift, she made her way down the now-familiar corridor. The door was open. Room service was just leaving. In the back of her throat she could taste the bit of banana that she had eaten off Will’s breakfast plate earlier that morning. She felt vaguely ill.

“Katherine. This is a surprise.” Standing in the doorway, Martin seemed anything but surprised. “Come in.”

She stepped into the room. The desk was covered in paperwork, as was the table next to it, except where it had been pushed aside to make space for the room-service tray. The doors to both bedrooms were open. She could see the edge of Daniel’s bed, the corner of its undisturbed coverlet forming a perfect right angle. She looked away.

Martin had settled into a chair next to his breakfast. He gestured to the papers. “Daniel hated paperwork. I handled it all for him. Valuations, appraisals, insurance. Now, of course, there is more than ever.” He shook his head and his face grew serious. “Such a terrible tragedy. Such an immeasurable loss for us all. Of course, given the circumstances, I didn’t expect to see you at the funeral, but it is kind of you to come today.”

“I heard about it on the radio.”

“Yes. Of course.”

He smiled mildly, waiting. He was pretending. That none of it had happened. As if someone were watching. But no one was watching.

She stood awkwardly before him. “Is it true that there is a painting that survived the fire?”

“Ah, yes.” He nodded. “Incredible accident of fortune. There are two actually. Although one is clearly superior.”

“Can I see it?”

“Arrangements are being made to add one of them to the Penfields show.”

“You can’t show it.”

“Can’t I?”

“I’ll buy it. I’ll pay you for it. Fair market price.”

He sat quietly, looking up at her from his chair, his small fleshy hands kneading each other softly.

“Well, that is an unexpected proposition, but I don’t think so. No, this canvas belongs in the show. It will be a beautiful and fitting capstone to it.”

She crossed her arms and pulled her coat around her more tightly. “I could sue you for breach of privacy.” Her words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

“But my dear … what makes you think it is of you?”

She gaped at him. “It’s not?”

“The portrait that I am referring to is of Lady Annabel Deighton, who Daniel had been involved with. Done just before his death. It appears that he had not been painting the redhead for a while. He had moved on. That much will be clear.”

He smiled benignly up at her. She felt the blood pulsing in her temples as rage rose inside her chest.

“That’s not true. That is not the last painting that Daniel did.”

“Isn’t it? Who’s to say?”

“You. You’re editing his work. You’re using him and manipulating him, just like you did when he was alive.”

His face clouded. “You think I used Daniel? Is that what you think? I gave him what he wanted. I gave him fame. I gave him greatness. And now, immortality.”

And then she understood. There had been no ambulance. No doctor. She remembered the sound of the bolt sliding shut behind her.

“You did it, didn’t you? You killed him.”

“Please.” His eyes narrowed, receding into his face. “Daniel’s been trying to kill himself for years. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? Besides, why would I kill the golden goose?”

“He wasn’t going to do what you wanted anymore. I heard you arguing with him. This way you get the insurance money and the value of all his other work goes up.”

“Ah yes, I thought that was you in the hall.… Daniel didn’t want to get out of bed most days either, but he did. Why? Because I told him to. He needed me. He was a petulant child. So very talented, but a petulant child. And what do you care, anyway? It’s not his death that upsets you, it’s your fear that it may disturb your charmed life.”

“I’ll tell them. I’ll tell the police.”

“What will you tell them?”

“You were there.”

“If I was there, you were there.” His voice remained calm and conversational. He seemed almost to be enjoying the exchange. “And what you must understand, Katherine, is that other people may not see this the way that you do. No two people ever see the same thing in exactly the same way. Think about how this will look to others.”

He was right. How would it look if she went to the police now? She had lied to them. She had been there. Who would believe her?

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about the other painting? Of course, it’s unfinished, but complete enough to clearly identify its subject. Perhaps the police would be interested in seeing it? Or perhaps your husband would?”

He inclined his head to the side, and she turned to follow his gaze. Across the room and through the glass doors she could see the far horizon that was Kensington. Below that, she saw another horizon of opaque white plastic extending along the top edge of the couch. She moved quickly, stepping behind the couch to where it was, a large canvas resting on its side. She could see the faint outline of a figure through the thin plastic. She hesitated.

“Go on, have a look. See for yourself.”

A letter opener flashed on the desk. Reaching across the breakfast tray, she snatched it up. The thick blade was not as sharp as it appeared to be. She strained to force the reluctant edge through the brown packing tape that secured the plastic.

“Careful. Careful!” Martin’s voice rose in alarm.

Her fingers stuck in the tape as she pulled it off. She tugged violently at the smooth material, ripping it from corner to corner, leaving the painting half exposed. A pair of pale legs, bent at the knee, snaked along the lower part. She pulled the remaining plastic off the canvas—exposing the figure fully. She straightened and took a staggered step backward, dizzy from the sudden exertion, her eyes focusing gradually on the uncovered canvas. The familiar figure. The familiar linear slash through it.

“Stunning, isn’t it? Revelatory, really.” For a moment there was real awe in Martin’s voice. “Did he tell you that no one wants it?”

“What?”

“The Tate doesn’t want it. Penfields doesn’t want it. No one wants it.”

“I don’t understand.”

He continued as if he had not heard her. “Sir Richard. I thought if I showed it to him, if he saw it, he might change his mind. But you know what he said? He said he doubted that the Tate’s patrons would enjoy looking at a naked middle-aged woman while they dined.”