The Portrait of Doreene Gray (4 page)

She gave him her hand. “Call me Doreene.”

Angus, holding it in both of his, looked over his shoulder. “Oh, dear. I think I hear the other reporters. We tried to give them the slip, but they're a wee bit angry with Michael for keeping them away from Mr. Cruz.”

“Please, come inside,” Reynaldo offered.

Doreene gave him a look, but stepped back so they could come through the door. “I suppose it might be easier to leave through the house.”

Inside, a golden-oak dining table with eight chairs took up the center of the room. A matching sideboard sat on one wall, and shelves of plants took up the other. A kitchen was visible through an open door.

As Suki came inside, camera around her neck, Doreene's mouth tightened. “This must be your photographer.”

“Suki Oota.” Suki shook her head wonderingly. “Wow. You are even more beautiful up close. I can see why the camera loves you.”

“Why thank you,” Doreene said, dimpling. “You're quite pretty yourself.”

Suki went by Reynaldo, both of them avoiding eye contact with the other.

Reynaldo closed the door, then stepped close to Doreene and kissed her neck under her ear. “My
princessa
has had a difficult day. I will be glad when this painting is gone from our lives.”

Angus nodded sympathetically. “If it causes this much trouble, I can see why you'd want to be shut of it.” He sat down in a wicker chair and rubbed one calf. “I think I may have pulled a muscle.”

Doreene made a sympathetic noise. “Reynaldo, would you be a dear and ask Lupita to bring some water and ibuprofen?” As soon as Reynaldo was out of hearing, she sat in the chair next to Angus and leaned over the arm, toward him. “Let's get one thing straight. I'm not giving you a story.”

“Thanks to Reynaldo's earlier talk with Michael, we already have a story,” Angus said.

Doreene gave a slight laugh. “I wouldn't put much stock in that. His English is terrible. What exactly did he say?”

Michael, who had been wandering the room, stopped by an orchid and turned the pot slightly. “That his uncle also had an evil, possessed item, and that you talk to the portrait.” He looked at Doreene. “Maybe you'd like to give us your version?”

Doreene smiled grimly. “My version is that if you print a word of that, I'll sue your ass faster than you can say ‘Rupert Murdoch.'”

Angus shook his head. “Doreene, you misunderstand us. What Michael means is that because of that silly girl's handling of the press, there's bound to be a lot of misinformation.
Tripping
isn't a tabloid paper. It's a travel magazine with a focus on special places and the fascinating people who live there. We're more interested in you and Port Townsend than in a painting.”

Doreene gazed at him, her mouth pursed. “I'll look up your magazine and get back to you, okay?”

“Can I at least have a picture?” Suki asked. “It'll make up for any shots where you look like you have peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth and are trying to suck it off.”

Doreene glared at her. “Why would I look like that?”

“Usually because you're saying a
G
or an
N,
but if you piss off reporters, that's the one they'll use. I'll even let you look at what I take, and delete anything you don't like.”

Doreene considered a moment, lips pressed together. “All right,” she said grudgingly, “but make it quick.”

Suki looked around the room. “If you'll stand next to those little purple and pink flowers, I think the light will be softest.”

“Just a minute.” Doreene went to the doorway and whistled breathily, then yelled, “Gigi!
Gigi!
”

A few seconds later, the Chihuahua came in, its claws clicking on the floor.

Doreene scooped up the dog and stood where Suki had suggested. She smoothed her skirt.

“That's good.” Suki reached over to adjust a swathe of the dog's silky fur.

Gigi growled and snapped the air next to her hand, causing Suki to gasp and jerk her hand away.

Doreene burst into delighted laughter. “Did my little-bitty girl scare the big, tough photographer?” She leaned down and kissed the top of Gigi's head. Gigi laughed up at her, pink tongue hanging out of her mouth.

Suki took a deep breath and looked through the viewfinder. “Hold that pose.”

Doreene remained motionless as Suki took the picture. Then she plunked the dog on the floor and stretched out a hand. “Let's see it.”

Suki showed her the camera's screen.

“It's not bad,” Doreene said. “You can use it.”

“Can I get a few more?”

“One is all you need.”

Suki reached into her camera bag. “I need you to sign this release.” She handed Doreene a card and a small pen.

As Doreene read the form and signed it, a Latina woman in her late forties entered with a tray. She had a black ponytail and wore an apron over her powder-blue skirted uniform. “Who wanted the ibuprofen?”

Angus raised his hand. “Thank you very much.”

Doreene let Angus swallow the pill before getting up to stand by the door to the rest of the house. “I'll show you out. I have a lot of things that need to be done.”

“Of course.” Angus got up and took her hand again. “Thank you for your time.”

Reynaldo smiled at everyone. “This has been a nice visit.”

As promised, Doreene led them through the house to the front door, the dog trotting at her heels. Antique furniture and intricately woven carpets gave the house a luxurious feel. Custom paint picked up the colors in the rugs.

The walls were ornamented not with paintings, but with mirrors and large photographs of Doreene in exotic locales. In them, she stood next to one or more attractive young men. Although the settings and companions changed, Doreene looked roughly the same in all of them. Only her hairstyle and clothing changed with time.

As they went through the room where the press conference had been held, they heard Maxwell Thorne's voice in the foyer beyond. This time, he didn't sound calm, although the words were difficult to make out.

Doreene frowned and jerked open the door to the foyer. As it opened, they heard Maxwell say, “It'll only take a second. I know you can understand me!”

Inside the foyer, the two guards from the press conference stood at the bottom of the stairs. One of them carried what was presumably the portrait, draped in a white cloth. The other held out a hand to keep Maxwell Thorne back.

As Doreene and the
Tripping
staff entered, the guard holding the portrait turned, and the painting hit the banister with a dull smack.

“Be careful!” Doreene yelled. She wrapped both arms around her waist and groaned.

Gigi the Chihuahua looked up, her brow furrowed.

Reynaldo gripped Doreene's upper arms. “
Preciosa,
what is it?”

Maxwell Thorne trotted across the floor toward them. “What's wrong?”

“Reynaldo,” Doreene said, panting. “Get the pills. In my nightstand drawer.”

Reynaldo darted past the guards and took the stairs two at a time. Maxwell tried to support Doreene, but she gave him a venomous glare and pulled away.

“Should I call nine-one-one?” Michael asked, cell phone already in his hand.

“No.” Doreene raised her head and looked at the guards, who still stood at the bottom of the stairs with the painting.
“Anda!”
she croaked, waving at them to go on.

As the guards resumed their climb, she slowly collapsed.

Angus caught her and lowered her gently to the ground.

Behind him, Suki took a picture of their hostess as she lay sprawled on the floor.

 

Six

Fifteen minutes later, Doreene reclined on a love seat at the back of the ballroom, pale but apparently recovered.

“Cara,”
Reynaldo murmured as he knelt at her feet. He laid his cheek against her hand. “My angel.”

“Are you sure we shouldn't call a doctor?” Maxwell asked.

Reynaldo looked up at Doreene. “Please, can we?”

She shook her head. “I already saw a doctor. He's the one who gave me those pills, and that's all I need. It's just a minor thing, nothing to worry about.”

“It didn't look minor,” Maxwell said.

“It was the shock of realizing I couldn't trust you,” Doreene snapped. “I saw you trying to look at the painting.”

Maxwell glanced at Angus and the others. “All right, if you want to discuss this now, let's discuss it. Yes, I think I should be allowed to see the portrait before the day of the sale. How am I supposed to appraise it, let alone—”

Doreene cut him off, grimacing. “You're making me hurt again.”

At the sound of footsteps on the wood floor, they all turned toward the back of the room.

Maureene slouched toward them, hands in the pockets of her coat. “Lupita said you had some kind of attack. Are you all right?”

Doreene leaned over the love seat. “Where's Gigi?” She picked up the dog and clasped it to her chest. “I'm fine.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Maureene frowned and jerked her head at Angus and the others. “You know they're reporters, right?”

Maxwell turned a professional smile on Angus. “What publication are you with?”

“
Tripping,
international travel magazine. We're doing a feature on Port Townsend.”

Maxwell nodded. “There are a lot of artists in Port Townsend. Is that your focus?”

Maureene answered him. “Don't waste your time, Max. I looked them up online.
Tripping
is only interested in a town if it has a lake monster or a haunted graveyard. Their last story was about a ghost Chihuahua.”

“And what's wrong with that?” Doreene looked down at Gigi. “Maureene prefers her dirty old terrier.” She swung her legs over the edge of the love seat and got up.

“Where are you going?” Reynaldo asked, scrambling to his feet.

“Upstairs. I have to make sure those idiots put the painting away.”

“You gave them the key code?” Max asked.

“Of course not. That's why I'm going up there.” She left the room carrying the dog, Reynaldo trailing after her.

Maxwell took a business card from his suit-coat pocket and handed it to Angus. “This number is for Elizabeth Canter, Doreene's publicist. She'll advise you as to what you can legally print. I suggest you follow her instructions to the letter if you don't want Rothwell's coming after you.”

Angus took the card. “I'm sure there won't be any problems.”

“I'll show you out,” Maxwell said. “I have to get back to my hotel anyway.”

Maureene followed them back through the foyer and out the front door.

The line of cars was gone, leaving only
Tripping
's minivan, a white car across the street, and a silver Volvo convertible with rental plates.

“I'll be in touch, Maureene,” Max said.

“Unless you're going to help, don't bother,” she said bitterly.

He shook his head wearily and walked toward the Volvo.

Maureene turned to Angus. “Was the owner of the ghost Chihuahua really named Baskerville? That seems too good to be true.”

At the sound of Maureene striking up a conversation, Maxwell turned and gave her a surprised look.

She lifted a hand. “
Good-bye,
Max.”

He raised a hand and continued on his way to the Volvo, albeit more slowly.

Angus smiled at Maureene. “The owner's last name actually was Baskerville. Charlotte Baskerville designed clothes for small dogs.”

At the sound of Maxwell's car door closing, Maureene dropped her casual attitude and leaned forward. “If you'd like to interview me for your magazine, I'll do it.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “But I thought—”

“I know, but you heard what Reynaldo said, that my sister talked to the painting. Maybe there is something strange about the portrait. I don't have experience with that kind of mumbo jumbo. You do.”

“That's very true,” Angus agreed, just as Michael said, “Not exactly.”

They stared hard at each other for a moment until Michael sighed and looked away.

“When would be convenient for you?” Angus asked Maureene. “Is now a good time?”

“Um, no. What about late tomorrow morning, say eleven? And come directly to my house.” She pointed off to the left. “See that little path, with the mailbox? I'm just down there.”

“Wonderful!” Angus said. “We'll see you then.”

They watched Maureene go to the path, which was marked by a galvanized mailbox on a weathered post. She turned and waved once, then disappeared behind bushes and trees.

“There's an about-face,” Michael said. “Earlier she called us ‘paparazzi' and basically warned Reynaldo about talking to me.” He squinted in thought. “I suppose she might have been jealous that I stopped talking to her and started talking to him, but she didn't strike me as that kind of person.”

“Artists are weird,” Suki said.

“Hey, as a novelist, I'm an artist,” Michael pointed out.

“And I'm a photographer, so what's your point?”

“Whatever the case with Maureene,” Angus said, “I'm more interested in Doreene's reaction when that guard knocked the painting against the banister. It's clear she and the portrait are connected in some way.”

“Psychosomatic,” Michael said dismissively. “She thinks they're connected, so she reacts.”

“Would a doctor give her pills for a psychosomatic reaction?” Angus countered.

“Antianxiety meds, maybe. Anyway, we only have her word that she got them from a doctor. They could have been mints in an old prescription bottle. Trust me, it's all part of the show.”

“It's more likely she has pain from some recent surgery,” Suki said. “Did you notice all those photos of Doreene on vacation? Pretty much all of the locations—Costa Rica, Switzerland—are known for plastic surgery. Brazil is where you go for cheap boob jobs.”