The Wife Who Knew Too Much(47)
We stood in a gallery that overlooked the magnificent entry foyer. Hallways branched off to the left and right, into separate wings of the house. The gallery was hung with abstract paintings that I should probably recognize. In their strangeness, they screamed “important art.” Eager to change the subject, I pointed to one that looked like a skeleton surrounded by squiggly lines.
“Interesting painting. Is that—?”
“Basquiat, yes,” Juliet said, nodding.
I was about to say Picasso. I’d never heard of Basquiat. Whoever he was, he’d painted something that looked like the Grim Reaper.
“The art in this house is priceless,” she said. “Warhols, Lichtensteins, Harings. There’s an amazing Lucian Freud portrait of Mrs. Levitt in the master suite. Come, this way.”
I would rather not see a portrait of Connor’s dead wife. But that seemed like an inappropriate thing to confess to Juliet. I followed her down a long, dark hallway. The entire east wing of the house was shuttered, the doors to the rooms closed and blank.
“This section of the house hasn’t been used much since Mrs. Levitt died,” Juliet said, following my gaze. “Mr. Ford preferred to stay in the guest wing, but now that he’s remarried, of course he’d want to use the master.”
Did that mean I’d be sleeping in Nina’s bed? The idea made me cringe.
“Did he say that? Because I’d be happy to stay in the guest wing if that’s easier for you,” I said.
“Mr. Ford texted this afternoon to let us know you were coming, and he asked us to make up the master, yes. To be honest, that’s the first we heard of your marriage. It was quite sudden, wasn’t it?”
Until I’d arrived here tonight, it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be living among people who’d known Nina well, worked for her, and presumably cared about her. The staff hadn’t had time to adjust to the idea of Connor remarrying. To me, he was mine. But in the eyes of everyone at Windswept, he belonged to Nina. They all must see it that way. Juliet must. I had a terrible sense of unease, realizing that the face she showed me—a pleasant, helpful face—probably didn’t represent her true feelings. My natural inclination was to be friendly, make conversation, answer any question I was asked. But I had to be careful. As much as I wanted to get to know Juliet, she might not be well-disposed toward me. I shouldn’t discuss my marriage with her until I knew if I could trust her. I had to be disciplined about everything I said.
I nodded and remained silent.
“In any case, we didn’t have a lot of time to get ready,” Juliet said. “The housekeeper asked me to convey her apologies that things aren’t in better order.”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful. Please, tell her not to worry about me.”
“You can tell her yourself. You’ll meet her in the morning. She lives in the staff quarters on the third floor. It just got kind of late for her. Gloria’s older. She’s been here forever. Set in her ways, but she’s a fixture.”
At the end of the hall, Juliet stopped at a set of heavy, ornate double doors, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Carved with images of angels and devils, they looked like the gates to hell.
“Florentine. Sixteenth century,” she said, mistaking my horrified glance for awe.
As we stepped into the bedroom, a smell of dust and damp rose up. Juliet flicked on the lights. The room was vast, with high ceilings, an elaborate canopy bed, and a glittering chandelier. She moved over to the windows and threw open the drapes.
“I know it’s dark out now, but the view’s so great. I just love this room.”
Powerful surf crashed on the sand below, reminding me of the last time I’d been here. I turned back in to the room, looked up, and gasped. Nina’s portrait was chilling. If not for the fact that her eyes were open, the woman in the painting might have been a cadaver on a slab. She was completely nude, reclining at an odd angle on a bed, her pale-white skin dappled with green and gray shadows. Her limbs were twisted, her legs splayed as if in spasm. Her head tilted strangely backward, exposing her vulnerable throat. The overall effect was ghoulish, with the only sign of life her crimson hair, but even that looked daubed with blood.
“Exquisite, isn’t she? Edward Levitt commissioned that painting in honor of Nina’s twenty-fifth birthday. It’s considered a masterpiece of Lucian Freud’s late period. There used to be a Warhol of Edward himself, facing her across the room. After Mrs. Levitt remarried, she moved it down to the library. She didn’t like her first husband watching her in bed with her second, I guess.”
As Juliet chuckled, I blanched, realizing that Nina would be watching me tonight as I slept. I wished I could ask Juliet to move the painting, but that felt like overstepping. What right did I have to make a change like that? This house didn’t belong to me. I’d have to wait for Connor.
“I’m afraid we haven’t had time to clear out Mrs. Levitt’s dressing room. We’ll get started first thing tomorrow. It’s a complicated process, but we’ll move as quickly as possible. When are your things arriving?”
“I don’t own a lot of things. Just what’s in my suitcase, and a couple of boxes that my friend will ship to me.”
“Oh,” Juliet said, looking taken aback. “Well, I suppose that gives us more time. It’s quite a job. I’ll show you.”