The Art of Inheriting Secrets(90)

“Yeah, I tried that,” I said.

He promised he’d do his best to expedite the hearing, but I could tell he didn’t think it would happen at all fast. In the meantime, the money was in escrow so the sale could move forward from the buyer’s end.

I hung up, wondering if he was right, if I should just give in and let Grant have half of the sale of the Menlo house. Make him go away.

I called my mother’s art dealer. “I’ve come across a puzzle,” I said and explained the paintings my mother—I assumed it was my mother—had left in the wardrobe. “Any idea why she might have done that?”

“No idea,” Madeline said. “Which ones are copies?”

“A Monet, a Constable, and another one by an artist I can’t identify. I can send you pictures.”

“Do that. I’ll see what I can find out. What else was in the group? Anything I might be interested in?”

I parried. “Not sure. I have an appraiser coming in this week”—a lie—“but you’ll be my first choice if there’s anything interesting.”

“Mmm. Just remember, Americans pay a lot more for European paintings than anyone in Europe will.”

I laughed. “I’ll remember.” I took a breath. “In the meantime, I’m wondering if there are any of my mother’s paintings that I might be able to sell?”

“Maybe. Do you want to go through them, first? That was what we were waiting for.”

“I do, but I’m not sure when I’ll be back to the Bay Area. Things are complicated here—and expensive. I’d like to make a sale as soon as possible.”

“Still the ex?”

“He won’t back off.”

“That asshole. I’d like to set the dogs on him for all this.”

I let go of a harsh laugh. “You and me both.”

“All right. Let me see what I can do. I can also have my assistant email you digital copies of the paintings, at least all of the ones we have in our catalogue.”

“Great idea.” I paused. “Madeline, do you know what she was working on the last few months before she died? She was working all the time, but I don’t remember seeing what she finished.”

A soft pause fell, which made me sure she was lying when she said, “I have no idea.”

Was this like the earl pretending to know nothing of my mother, when actually he’d seen her? “Thanks, Madeline. I’ll look for those digital copies.”

“Olivia, I would caution you to be careful. You don’t want to make decisions in your grief period that you’ll regret later.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not making big decisions is a luxury I don’t have right now. But thanks. I’ll be careful.”

“I’m going to talk to a guy I know who specializes in intellectual property and estates. It would infuriate me if Grant were able to get his hands on your mother’s money.”

“Thanks.”

It had been a long day. The air was cold and damp. Maybe a nice fire and a hot bath. A good book. Since Samir’s books had caused all this trouble today, I was inclined to avoid them, but I was sure I had something in my bag or on my reader.

From below came the sound of braying laughter, a girl trying too hard. The chip shop was always busy this time of day, and it was the only time I really had a sense of how many people lived in the area, really. The smell of frying food wafted upward, not unpleasant, but it grew wearying after a while. This place was better than the hotel had been, but it still had the feeling of a skin that I’d shed any second.

I imagined again the carriage house flat, what it would be like to cook on that AGA, how much I loved the finishes and the space. I could bring some of my mother’s paintings over and hang them on the walls. In my imagination, the vision started to take shape—I would paint the walls a pale celery and add accents in shades of magenta. A giant bed for the generous bedroom, with excellent sheets and big fluffy pillows. I imagined waking up in that room and looking out toward the fields and the distant hills.

Maybe I should go shopping in London. Take a day off from all the madness and see what I could find.

But in the back of my mind, I was still rolling the puzzles around, trying to fit the scrambled pieces into something that made sense. Or at least pointed in a single direction.

From the table, I picked up the key the earl had given me. Nothing at all remarkable about it. A little smaller than a standard house key. Shiny new, as if she’d had it made for me. What did it open?

Samir had sent the photos he’d shot of the paintings, along with a note that said, simply, “Very sorry about our dinner plans tonight. Will call when I’ve finished with family obligations.”

Again that hollow feeling of being on the outside. It would have been unseemly for me to be there, but somehow Pavi and Samir had become my cornerstones in this world. Without them, I was untethered.

Focus.

I opened the paintings one by one, arranging them on my screen so that I could see them clearly. No commonality of subject matter—there were portraits and landscapes and still lifes. Again, I moved them around until they formed the colors of a rainbow and found a sweet, nostalgic pleasure in the exercise, but it didn’t seem to point to anything I understood.

Next, I laboriously copied each painting into a Google image search. A few came up with nothing, but I matched several others to minor painters over the centuries: a sixteenth-century portrait painter, Joseph Highmore, who’d also illustrated the original novel Pamela; a minor pre-Raphaelite John Wharlton Bunney.