Perry Halliday couldn’t believe it. This was it. He’d hit the big time. Patrick Sullivan had handed him a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and he wasn’t about to blow it now.
To think, all those years reading detective novels from the likes of Chandler, Hammett, and Cain, and now he had the chance to be just like one of those dime novel detectives. Well, not exactly like them, but it was a start. It was an opportunity.
He wasn’t sure how it was all going to work, but he’d at least try and give it his best shot. That was all he could do, right?
“Can I help you?”
Perry gawked at the young secretary inside the foyer of The Society of Arts & Culture building, not saying a word. She was gorgeous. Easily a ten out of ten. With luminous auburn hair tied back into a ponytail and straight bangs that brushed just above her brown eyes and dark-rimmed glasses, she had plump glossy lips and a slim, athletic build. She wore a tan turtleneck that hung loose around her slim neck. For a moment, he completely forgot where he was, and what it was that he was supposed to be doing.
Women tended to have that effect on him.
What could he say? He didn’t get out very much. It was hard to get out and have a night life when you were the sole owner of a bookstore and duty-bound to running your own business. Sometimes life wasn’t very fair.
Where have you been all my life, sweetheart?
He sauntered over to the main reception area.
The secretary leaned forward on her elbows. “Sir? Is there something I can help you with?”
Perry cleared his throat.
Act natural. Don’t screw it up.
“Ah, yes,” Perry said. “I was wondering if I could speak to Ms. Brashear?”
“Do you have an appointment, Sir?”
“Appointment? No, I wasn’t aware that I needed one.”
“Yes, you do. Ms. Brashear is a very busy woman, Sir.”
“Are you sure that she doesn’t have a spare moment? This won’t take long.”
Perry could tell that she wanted to sigh at him, but she didn’t. She remained composed, took off her dark-rimmed glasses, and held them in one hand. They dangled from her fingertips.
She was tolerating him, but for how long?
He wasn’t sure what else to do so he averted his eyes and stared at the back of her computer monitor. Scanning the contents of her desk, his eyes finally settling on a coffee cup from Morning Cravings next to her right hand.
What was it that Patrick had said earlier? Something about another woman…
“Sir, may I ask what this is about?”
He subconsciously adjusted his collar. Earlier, he had changed into a baby blue dress shirt and a pair of grey slacks. He’d argued with himself over whether to go tie or no tie, but ultimately, he settled on no tie since he wanted that, ‘in the moment’ sort of look. After all, he wasn’t some kind of salesman. No, he had something else in mind for this duplicity. “It’s…” He took a breath. “It’s regarding a mutual acquaintance of ours.”
“Oh?”
“A Mr. Marc Wagner. He passed away recently.”
“Yes,” she said, looking down at her keyboard. “I heard about that. Such awful news.” A muscle in her jaw twitched. Then she picked up her cup of coffee to take a sip. “I’m not sure that Ms. Brashear will be available to meet with you, Mr…?”
Uh-oh. Think, think.
You’d come up with a plan but completely forgot to think of what to call yourself. You dimwit.
“Montauk,” he said, regretting it immediately. “I’m a reporter with The Garden Chronicle.”
She was quiet for a period. Then she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Montauk, but I don’t think—”
“Could you please check for me?” he asked. “I hate to be a bother, but I’m on a strict deadline for tomorrow’s edition. We were hoping to do a feature obituary on Marc Wagner. I can wait, if you’d like to check with Ms. Brashear.”
Now she sighed.
It was bound to happen sooner or later.
“Wait here a moment, please.” She slid out from behind the desk and strolled down the hall, presumably to Olivia Brashear’s office.
“Righty-o,” he told her, shaking his head at the absurdity of the whole thing. What was he doing? He didn’t know the first thing about being a reporter.
He sat down on one of the vacant seats in the lobby. There were three chairs in the lobby; a wide glass table lay out in front of them. Months old magazines and various brochures about artistic events in the community sat in rumpled stacks on the table. He picked up one of the brochures and pretended to leaf through it while keeping an eye on the hallway for the girl’s return.
Growing restless, he got up out of the chair and scanned the unassuming office, scrutinizing the numerous pieces of art displayed on the walls.
Some of the pieces were quite remarkable. There was one that featured a spacious open sidewalk that appeared to shimmer in the moonlight after a recent rainfall. Strangely enough, there was no rain in the painting, though. And there was no moonlight, either. It all came down to the synergy between the colours and the way that the artist had applied the paint to the canvas. A smeary, drippy effect on the sidewalk made it look like it was wet and hollow. An empty void full of colour that reflected off the colours from above.
Was this an abstract?
Symmetrical in design, the open sidewalk became the dominant focal point in the center illuminated by a glowing whitish-yellow light in the background. On the left and right-hand sides, bordering the sidewalk, were tall black lanterns that gleamed in pineapple yellow. Sparse splotches of the same yellow colour were applied in spots and dots around the top of the lantern giving the impression that the lanterns were lit. Next to the lanterns were two trees with blossoming petals on their branches in the colours of red and pink with larger white flowers in the shapes of daisies. At least they looked like daisies, right down to the hint of another yellow flower directly in their center. The background was awash in a gentle blue at the top, working its way down to a somber, murky grey where the sidewalk met the horizon.
Perry leaned in close and inspected the signature painted in white on the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas. Marc Wagner.
“Ah, I see you’ve discovered my most prized possession,” a female voice called.
“It’s quite lovely,” Perry said, somewhat startled. “Didn’t Marc Wagner paint wildlife paintings, though?”
“He did,” the woman said, “but this one is rather unique. One of a kind. It was a special request from a client.”
Perry eyed the woman, anticipating her response. “You?”
“That’s right. I’m Olivia Brashear, I hear you’d like to speak to me about Marc.”
“I would, but I have to admit, now that I’ve seen this beautiful painting I’d kind of like to hear more about it.”
Olivia nodded and proceeded to pace around the room while looking down at the carpeted floor. The years had been kind to Olivia, her face appearing soft and smooth save a few wrinkles on her forehead. She wore a green blouse that formed a V shape revealing an exposed neckline and a long gold chain around her neck. Her long blonde hair had the faintest hints of grey streaking throughout. If he had to guess, he’d say that she was maybe in her early 60s. It was the smell of her perfume that gave it away: gardenia, jasmine, and just a hint of sandalwood. It eerily reminded him of his own mother. She had worn something just like it once upon a time.
“When I was a young girl,” Olivia said, “my family and I visited Les Invalides in Paris. Have you ever been to France, Mr. Montauk?”
“Me? No. It’s a little out of my price range, I’m afraid. Especially on my salary.”
She tsk-tsked him as if he were a child. “Thomas Jefferson once said, ‘A walk about Paris will provide lessons in history, beauty, and in the point of Life.’ I couldn’t put it any better myself. Anyway, my mother and father wanted to visit Les Invalides since it’s the final resting place of Napoleon Bonaparte. As I’m sure you’re aware, Napoleon had some history with our town. My parents—they were both teachers, you see—believed that teaching wasn’t just about learning. It was also about the heart. About seeing things that touch you. Move you. It was about turning mirrors into windows.”
“They sound like great parents.”
“And they were.”
Perry turned back to the painting on the wall.
She moved closer and stood next to him. “Later that day, when we came out of the military museum and hospital for war veterans, there was this tremendous downpour. We scrambled and dashed for cover—why we didn’t just go back inside, I do not know, but—Paris is known for having abrupt heavy showers, you see. Eventually we came across a nearby park, and to this day, I’ve never been able to get that image out of my head. I had never seen anything so elegant in all my life. The sky warning of gloom yet, full of luster; the glistening sidewalk nearly translucent, and the petals on the tree branches, oh, the petals! So brilliant and pure. Innocent and child-like as if they were plucked right out of a fairy tale.” She paused and took a breath. “This is that park, Mr. Montauk. Or as close to it as I can remember.”
“You’ve never gone back?”
“No. Like you, I don’t have the privilege to just up and leave and get onto a plane to Paris. That’s one of the downsides to being such an important figure in the art community around here. I’m needed more often than I am not.”
“And you asked Wagner to paint this memory of yours?”
“That’s correct. As the years went on, I could feel the memory slipping away from me. You must understand…I couldn’t let that happen, Mr. Montauk. That day was such an essential part of who I am and who I turned out to be that I would have never been able to forgive myself if I let that fade away, lost to the echoes of time.
“Marc was such a kind man. He approached his work in a way that I had never seen before, such gusto and imagination, that one day while watching him work, I asked him if he could lend his talents and replicate this memory onto canvas for me. I’ll admit, in the beginning, he was skeptical. He had been painting wildlife for years. It was obviously his strong suit. But somewhere in those paintings, possibly in the backgrounds of his paintings, I saw the underlying truth. Marc Wagner was the one. The one artist who could satisfy this hunger and need that I had to freeze that moment in time. Thankfully, he agreed and pulled it off brilliantly.”
“I’m no art major or anything, but I think he did a wonderful job. It’s obviously a swell painting.”
“He captured it admirably, yes.” She studied the painting for a few more seconds and he allowed her to take in the moment. While he waited for her, he took off his glasses and inspected them, scrubbing away at the spots and blemishes that had formed on his lenses throughout the day.
Finally, she said, “My apologies, Mr. Montauk. Charlotte tells me that you’re here because you’d like to speak with me about Marc. That you are a reporter. Are you doing a story on him? Is that why you are here?”
He slid his glasses back into place and looked at her, puzzled. “Charlotte?”
“Yes, my secretary, Mr. Montauk. I assume you spoke with her when you came in?”
The pretty girl had a name.
“Oh, right,” he said, giving way to a small laugh. “We were never formally introduced.”
Just then, Charlotte returned to her desk and sat down.
Perry leaned toward Olivia and said, “Um, is there somewhere that we can maybe talk in private?”
“Certainly,” she said as she extended a hand toward the hall. “Right this way, Mr. Montauk.”
Montauk. What was he thinking?
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