Chapter Four
FOUR
“Fliss?” Dad’s voice echoes down the hallway as I leave my room. I steel myself as he clocks the bits of plaster on the floor and the portrait in its new spot, facing the wall. “Fliss, is everything okay? What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, slightly out of breath as I approach him.
He turns the painting round to face him.
He’s flanked by Kim and a bespectacled Black man in a very dapper suit.
“There was some kind of power cut, and then the painting fell off the wall. I was asleep and…” I shake my head, forcing myself to make sense.
“The painting is fine, but the card at the back of the frame is coming away. I think it was too heavy for that little nail in the wall, that’s all. ”
“But you’re okay?” Kim asks as Dad and the man study the frame.
“I’m fine.” I brush off her concern, though my heart is still pounding a little. “Is it damaged?” I ask.
“No, no,” the man says, opening a monogrammed leather bag that makes him look like a painting doctor. He must be the appraiser. “It doesn’t appear to have been harmed, and this card will be removed eventually, I’m sure. It’s the disturbing anomalies I’m really looking for—”
“Yes, it’s fine, Fliss.” Dad cuts across him, finally looking up at me. “It didn’t hurt you, did it? When it fell?”
“No, I was asleep.” I don’t mention that I probably bled on it a bit. “It just woke me up.”
“Oh, good.” His attention drifts back to the portrait. Good talk, Dad.
Kim holds a paper bag aloft. “Your dad said you’d like the penne Alfredo. Are you hungry?”
My stomach rumbles at the thought of food. “I’m starving, actually.”
“Let’s leave them to it, then. I’ll stick it in the oven and warm it up for you.”
I follow Kim into the kitchen and snag one of Dad’s Diet Cokes from the fridge as she shoves a foil container in the oven.
The scent of garlic fills the air, and my stomach rumbles again.
Kim grins at me, and I feel my cheeks flush, so I press the can to them before popping the tab and taking a long, crisp drink.
“It will only take a couple of minutes. The restaurant made it just before we left,” she says. I watch her fill the kettle. “Tea?” she asks, removing a selection of mismatched mugs and a glass teapot from the cupboard next to the fridge.
“No thanks.” I mull over the papers I just found as she busies herself, finally pouring two mugs and taking them out to the hall.
It seems weird that Professor Williams was not only keeping the find of the century to himself but was also writing secret notes about it and hiding them.
I wait until Kim returns before trying for information. “Kim?”
“Hmm?” She absentmindedly opens the oven door, and a blast of hot air makes her back away. “Every time,” she sighs, picking up a tea towel from the counter and removing the tray that holds my dinner. I let her dish it out, thinking maybe she’ll answer a little more honestly if she’s distracted.
“Do you know much about Professor Williams?” I ask.
Kim pauses, her back to me as she spoons steaming pasta into a wide bowl. “No,” she says, rooting in another cupboard and producing some salt and pepper shakers in the shape of birds. They’re cute. “Your dad never mentioned him until he was offered this new job. Why?”
“No reason,” I say as she places the bowl in front of me. Maybe Dad will have more of an idea what Professor Williams was like. “This looks so good! Thank you.”
“And here’s the garlic bread.” Kim puts the plate of buttery flatbread on the table, and I almost groan at the smell.
I pick up my fork as she sits across from me, her hands wrapped round a chipped blue mug. I swallow a mouthful of creamy sauce, and we sit in almost comfortable silence for a couple of minutes as I make short work of the pasta and Kim scrolls through her phone.
Snippets of muffled conversation filter in from the hallway, mainly phrases I don’t fully understand, like “veracity” and “carbon dating.” I keep one ear open and tear off the corners of the garlic bread to mop up the sauce, leaving the middle for last—it’s always the best bit.
I lick garlic butter from my thumb and decide to ask Kim the question nagging at me.
“Why do you think he didn’t tell anyone he had the painting?” Kim looks up from her phone. “Professor Williams, I mean. Dad practically jumped for joy when he saw it, and then he rang the gallery right away. Why didn’t Professor Williams do the same?”
“You know, I’ve been wondering the same thing.
” She sighs, putting her phone on the table.
“Part of me thinks that he could have had it for years. Maybe he acquired it in a less than legal manner—the art world has a history of corruption in that sense. But another part of me thinks he was only in possession of it more recently. Who knows, he may not have been in his right mind before he died.”
She pauses, and I know she thinks she’s said too much in front of me, like I’m a kid.
I stay quiet in the hope she will continue, and eventually she does, but she lowers her voice so Dad can’t hear from the hallway.
“I think he struggled after his wife passed. Your dad told me that some of the other professors implied that he wasn’t keeping up with his workload, that he was coming in looking unkempt, that kind of thing.
” She shrugs and raises her eyebrows at me.
“Or maybe the painting really is cursed.”
“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?” I scoff, pushing my bowl away.
Kim laughs but I can see tension lines between her eyes.
“No. I’m glad your dad found it.” She looks at me.
“That you found it. This is career-making stuff. Your dad is going to be very sought after in the art world once it has been verified.” Her eyes brighten.
“I hope the MoMA will show it. I love New York.”
I sip my Coke. I still wonder why Professor Williams was making notes about the painting.
Was he already losing it, like Kim suggested, or did hiding the fact that he had the portrait push him over the edge?
If he got it on the black market he probably broke the law, so he could have been worried about getting in trouble.
Or—an unwelcome thought pushes its way into my head—the curse is real and you’re the one who found it.
There’s more mumbling in the hallway, followed by Dad profusely thanking the appraiser. They pass the kitchen door, and we wait expectantly as Dad shows him out before coming to join us.
“Good news!” He beams, the kind of smile that you can’t help but return. Excitement replaces my brief moment of worry and I grin back.
“It’s real?” I ask.
“We won’t know for a week or two, but it all looks very promising. There’s still more to do, but there seem to be…ah…similarities in the paint that can be tested.” Dad pulls out a chair and slumps into it. “I can’t believe it, Fliss. How can I ever thank you?”
“You would have found it without me,” I mumble, embarrassment washing over me. “I mean, it was right there.”
“Maybe.” Dad shrugs off his coat and shakes his head. “I wonder how long Tim had it? It doesn’t make sense for him to keep quiet about it, does it?”
Kim rehashes our conversation with Dad as I finish my drink, and I think again of the papers that were hidden in the painting.
I should really tell Dad about them, but curiosity is getting the better of me.
What if they’re about the rumors? Not the ones about the curse—though if one painting was ever going to be cursed, then this is it—but the ones about a serial killer?
What if those papers could help me solve a real cold case?
I convince myself it won’t do any harm if I take a quick look at the pages tonight and hand them over in the morning before Dad leaves.
They’re probably just the ramblings of a troubled old man, but they might shed some light on where he got the painting.
A massive yawn escapes me, despite the caffeine I’ve just downed.
“Fliss? You’re really tired, aren’t you?”
“Carb coma,” I joke, sensing my excuse to escape so I can have a sneaky peek at the papers. “But yeah, I am shattered. I could do with an early night.” I toy with stretching my arms like a sleepy cartoon character, but that’s probably overkill. “You guys should celebrate.”
“We will do plenty of celebrating over the next ten days,” Dad says. “Actually, I’d better go and finish packing. What time does the program start tomorrow? I’m assuming Izzy will be here early?”
“Yeah, her train gets in round nine. The first session starts later than usual, so it isn’t until eleven. It’s just general introductory stuff, I think. You’ll still be here in the morning, won’t you?”
“We should be, but in case I don’t see her, I do need a favor from you both.”
“Dad, I promise we’ll look after the place. We’ve only planned two…no, three ragers while you’re gone.”
“Haha. I wasn’t actually worried about that.
” He leans against the doorframe, muttering something that sounds like “but I am now” under his breath.
“No, Alessandra is going to show the painting at the gallery tomorrow evening. There’ll just be a small crowd, mainly faculty, a few important people who make big donations.
It’s too late for me to hire enough waitstaff, so I wondered if you two would pitch in?
It’ll just be for a couple of hours, serving canapés and collecting empty glasses, nothing too taxing. ”
“Is this a paid gig?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. Dad laughs.
“I’m sure I can slip you some cash given the circumstances. You’ll just need a white shirt and black skirt or pants.” I furrow my brow, knowing I didn’t pack any of the above, but Kim comes to the rescue.
“I have a plain shirt and skirt that should fit you, Fliss. I’ll leave them out for you.”
“Oh, thanks. Well, count us in, then.” I stand up and stretch, yawning for real this time. “I’m going to go and let Izzy know that she should pack something uniform-y. See you both in the morning.”
“Night, Fliss.”
I walk past the painting—now covered in a cloth, thank god—and open my bedroom door.
I stick my phone on charge near the dressing table, fire off a text to Izzy about working tomorrow and then another one to Mom, who still hasn’t seen my last message.
I check the world time on my phone—it’s just past six a.m. in Sydney, and I bet she’ll be jet-lagged for days.
I’m still gutted that I couldn’t go with them, but I am glad I didn’t miss the wedding.
My phone chimes, and I grin at Izzy’s response, which is just a long line of dollar signs.
I feel under the bed for my notebook and pull it out before cocooning myself in the brand-new duvet.
I try to focus on the untidy handwriting, but it proves too much for my tired eyes, and they start to flutter.
I push the whole thing under my pillow and close my eyes, just for a second, promising myself I won’t drift off.