The Stroke of Winter(66)

“Wow,” he said, stepping closer to the paintings to get a better look. “I’ll be damned.”

“I know,” Tess said. “That’s just how I felt when I saw them.”

“Getting a look at these before the whole world does is, well, really a privilege,” Nick said. “But why show them to me?”

“See?” Tess said, pointing from one to the other. “They’re sort of like a storyboard, in a way.”

Nick stepped closer still, looking at each one in turn. First the paintings of Wharton’s darkened streets. Then the scene of the woman Tess now knew was Daisy, and her monstrous husband, Frank. Next, the scene following Daisy down a rainy street. The portrait, which came next, now looked ghastly to Tess. And finally, the macabre scene on the cliff.

After studying the paintings for a while, Nick looked up at Tess and Wyatt. “I’m not sure what you’re wanting me to see here,” he said, his words coming out slowly. “I mean, I get that these are rather . . . disturbing paintings of Wharton. Not exactly typical of Sebastian Bell, but not that different, either. But beyond that . . .”

Tess and Wyatt exchanged a glance. Wyatt took a deep breath. “We had Pop here yesterday,” he said.

Nick smiled. “Oh? How’s he doing?”

Wyatt returned that smile. “Great. We took him for lunch and then back here for a bit. Tess and I were curious about the woman in the portrait. And in the rather voyeuristic paintings from the vantage point of looking into a house from a darkened street.”

Nick turned his gaze back to the paintings. “Oh, yes. I see now. They do all seem to be the same woman. Family scenes.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not very happy ones.”

“Exactly,” Wyatt said. “Tess and I were really curious, especially because of the . . . well, the strange things going on here. The scratching, for one. What we all experienced yesterday, for another. We were both just sort of compelled to find out who this woman was.”

Nick nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. How does Joe fit in?”

“We thought, since Sebastian Bell was a contemporary of Pop’s, this woman would be from that same era. Wharton’s a small town, and we thought he might know who she was.”

“Aren’t you two the amateur sleuths?” Nick said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “And?”

“And, he did know her. The woman’s name is Daisy Erickson. That’s her husband, Frank.” He pointed to the angry man. “Those are her kids.”

“Okay, it’s Daisy Erickson. I still don’t see . . .”

“Daisy Erickson and my uncle Grey were high school sweethearts,” Tess piped up. “She ended up marrying this Frank—it’s a long story—but apparently she was desperately unhappy.”

Nick furrowed his brow. “Joe told you all of this?”

Wyatt shook his head. “No,” he said. “He identified her, and also said she was a good friend of my mother’s. So, after we dropped him off back at his place, we called her. And she told us the rest of the story.”

Nick crossed his arms. “And what is the rest of the story?”

“Frank was abusive,” Wyatt said. “That’s what my mom said, but she also said everyone in town knew it.”

Nick nodded. “Sounds like Wharton. I’m sure the cops knew it, too.”

“My mom said as much,” Wyatt said. “Anyway, Daisy disappeared.”

Now Nick’s eyes grew wide. “Okay. Now we’re talking. Tell me more about that.”

“My mom, who was her closest friend, believes Frank killed her,” Wyatt said. “Either that, or she left town with Grey.”

“Grey?”

“He disappeared around the same time,” Tess said.

Nick took this in. She could almost see the wheels turning.

“But this woman, Daisy, had children, according to the paintings, right?” he said. “Would she have left them with an abusive man?”

“That’s the wild card,” Wyatt said. “My mother doesn’t think she would have done anything of the kind. If she was going to leave her husband, she said, she would’ve taken her kids with her.”

Nick sank down onto the sofa. “Maybe Frank killed them both.”

“That’s what the police thought, well, about Daisy, anyway,” Tess said, joining him on the couch. “They investigated, but didn’t find anything.”

“And where is this Frank now?”

Wyatt shrugged. “Nobody knows. He took the kids and left town shortly after she disappeared.”

Nick took his phone out of his pocket. “Frank Erickson,” he said. “I can make some inquiries. We have ways of finding people now.” He grinned. “Do we know any more about him? Like what he did for a living here in Wharton? That might point us in a direction.”

“My mom would probably know,” Wyatt said.

Nick pushed himself off the sofa and seemed ready to go. But then he turned back to Tess and Wyatt.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “You found the paintings in the studio, which was covered in blood and sealed off years ago. The paintings are of a woman who went missing. Your uncle went missing. Prime suspect, Frank. Are you thinking that the blood in the studio is Daisy’s? Or Grey’s? Or both?”