Promise Not To Tell(91)

“You’re lying,” Kate said.

But she wanted to believe. It was there in her eyes. Time to close the sale, Virginia thought.

“See for yourself,” she said. She motioned toward the open door of the storage closet. “The two portraits of Abigail Watkins are in there at the very back. Your mother embroidered your real names on a wall hanging and also the name of an offshore bank. There’s a string of numbers on each portrait. I think they go together to form the key to a numbered account. The money has been sitting there all these years waiting for someone to claim it.”

“I don’t believe you.” Kate moved the gun in a jerky fashion. “Get the portrait that you say has my name on it.”

“All right, but it’s big and heavy. I’m going to need Jessica’s help to drag it out here.”

Kate hesitated and then she gave Jessica a shove.

“Go on,” Kate ordered. “Get the picture. Try any tricks and I’ll shoot both of you. I can be blocks away before anyone comes to investigate.”

Jessica steeled herself and fixed her attention on Virginia. “How do you want to do this?”

“There’s not a lot of room in there,” Virginia said. “I’ll go first. You follow me. We can get the portrait out lengthwise if we each take an end.”

“Right.”

Virginia moved into the closet. With one last, nervous glance at Kate, Jessica followed her.

Kate took a few steps closer to the closet, stopped and peered into the space. A strange excitement burned in her eyes.

When Jessica reached the back of the closet, she stopped beside Virginia. They both looked at the covered portraits.

“Which one?” Jessica asked.

“I think the picture on the left is for Mary.” Virginia raised the drape partway. “Yes, this is it.”

“Mary?” Kate said. “She named me Mary?”

“Yes,” Virginia said. “She embroidered your name very clearly on the needlework in the picture. For my beautiful daughter, Mary Elaine.”

“Let me see the picture,” Kate said. “Bring it out here. Hurry.”

Virginia let the drape fall back over the picture. She looked at Jessica.

“You go first,” she said. “I’ll take this end.”

Jessica was mystified but some of her panic was giving way to a desperate hope. At the very least she seemed to comprehend that there was a plan of some sort. It was always good to have a plan, Virginia thought, even a weak one. The plan she had in mind was as weak as they came.

She thought about her late-night drill and the mantra that went with it. Any object within reach is a weapon.

Jessica hoisted one end of the painting. It was unframed and, therefore, not very heavy, but it was a fairly large canvas. Virginia thought it would look reasonably hefty or, at the very least, awkward to handle.

She picked up her end of the picture. Together she and Jessica slow-walked the portrait sideways down the aisle of Visions pictures. The closer they got to the entrance, the less hopeful Jessica looked.

She edged reluctantly through the doorway. Virginia maneuvered her end of the portrait at an angle as if trying to avoid hitting the doorframe.

For a critical few seconds Kate’s view was partially obscured by the large picture.

Gripping the back of the portrait with one hand, Virginia reached toward the pile of heavy glass paperweights and picked up the nearest one. It was about the size of a baseball, but the blazing yellow-and-green-glass sphere was thick and heavy.

She held the paperweight out of sight behind the portrait.

“Put the picture down and take off the drape,” Kate ordered.

She still had a tight grip on the gun but her attention was riveted on the painting.

Virginia looked at Jessica. “Let’s put it down on that workbench.”

Together they maneuvered the picture to the workbench and positioned it upright, the bottom edge resting on the bench, so that Kate could view it.

“All right, Jessica, you can let go of your end,” Virginia said. “I’ve got it.”

Jessica released the canvas. Virginia angled her head slightly, trying to signal her to step back. Jessica obeyed, edging away from the workbench. Kate did not seem to notice. She was wholly focused on the covered painting now.

“Hurry,” she said. “Take off the cover.”

“Why don’t you do it?” Virginia suggested. “I need both hands to hold the painting upright.”

She had done her best to set the stage. Now it was time for the dramatic reveal. In the art world, as in so many areas of life, presentation was everything.

“Keep in mind that you are about to see your mother as she was in the last year of her life,” she continued. “She was still lovely, but she was also quite ill. The message that she left for you is on the framed embroidery that hangs on the wall beside her chair. This is your inheritance, Kate. Or should I call you Mary Elaine?”

Kate reached out, grasped a corner of the dust cover and tore it aside. She gazed at the portrait of Abigail Watkins, evidently fascinated.

“That’s her?” she said. “My birth mother?”

“Yes,” Virginia said. “She was quite beautiful.”

Kate seemed to shake off some emotion she did not know how to express. Her jaw tightened.