Chapter Seven #2
I glance around, taking it all in. There are two large desks, one on either side of the room, a bank of filing cabinets on the back wall and a huge white printer in one corner.
I can tell my dad shares this space because of the mini-fridge filled with Diet Coke and the prints tacked on the wall over the untidy desk.
They’re by his favorite artist, Francis Bacon—warped faces and dreary, depressing colorscapes.
By comparison, the prints on the other side are a riot of color and warmth, mostly abstracts with the odd Picasso thrown in.
Alessandra sits at this desk and gestures to some paperwork.
“Boring, but you both must read and sign for me. Insurance,” she says.
I lean over, scanning the page as Izzy takes hers over to my dad’s desk, though she struggles to find a space to put it down because it’s covered in piles of paperwork and empty coffee cups.
Alessandra focuses on her laptop, filling the silence with the sound of tapping on the keyboard as I skim the fire regulations and what to do in an emergency.
After a few minutes Alessandra shakes out her heavy bangs and tosses her long hair behind her shoulders.
“If you are finished, sign here.” She taps the bottom of the page with her glossy natural nails, and I cringe as I take the pen with my own stumpy ones.
I need to stop biting them again. “Perfect! Izzy?”
“All done.” She hands over her papers.
“Good. Now let me see you both.” She waves a hand that I assume means “stand up straight,” so I do, pulling my skirt back into place, muttering apologetically.
“Sorry, it’s too big. I had to borrow one.”
“I can fix this.” Alessandra pulls open the top drawer and produces a handful of safety pins.
She lifts her hair to show me the shoulder of her black shift dress so I can see that she has used them too.
“Nobody will know.” I turn around as she works her magic on the back of my skirt, pulling it tighter and pinning it in place. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Then off we go. Izzy, sei bella,” she adds, holding the door open for us to leave. Izzy winks at me in appreciation as we pass by. Preppy boys aren’t her only type.
We wait for Alessandra to close the office door and follow her through gallery four. She gestures at a partition wall. “Here we have portraits by Cézanne, Picasso and Magritte.”
“Where are The Four?” I ask, glancing at the colorful paintings.
“They are on the other side of this wall, in their own space. We do not have time now, so make sure you see them later. They really are enchanting and deserve more than a brief walk-by.” She walks even faster and we hustle behind her.
She points at a velvet curtain just by the entrance that I didn’t notice before.
“That is the self-portrait you found, Fliss. We will unveil it here tonight so it may have the attention it so richly deserves, but it will eventually be hung with The Four.”
I don’t think The Four would appreciate that if the rumors of them being murdered by the artist are true, but I don’t say anything.
Instead, I keep up as we are given a very quick tour of the remaining rooms on the way back, all filled with weird and wonderful modern art, but as it’s getting close to opening time, we hastily head back to the locker room.
We take a seat, listening as Alessandra doles out instructions.
They’re fairly straightforward and repeat what I’ve just read on the paperwork we had to sign: Be largely invisible.
Stay away from the paintings. Only approach guests if they have an empty glass or a free hand for canapés.
Izzy and I are in charge of the food because we’re too young to handle the alcohol, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
It would not end well if I was given a tray of breakable champagne glasses.
When the clock creeps toward seven, Alessandra takes us through a door near the locker room.
It leads to a kitchen, which I assume is part of the café, and she shows us the way through the café and back to gallery four, where her office is.
I quietly try to memorize the layout as Alessandra stations the other staff member by the entrance to this room so guests can take a welcome drink as soon as they enter.
Alessandra will help hand out champagne, and Izzy and I just have to hover near the café and look invisible until the room is full enough to go and grab trays of miniature food.
Just the thought of interacting with so many strangers makes me nervous, so while Izzy is in her element looking at the art on display, I retreat to the shadows on the opposite side of the room to compose myself.
I wander around the partition wall Alessandra ushered us past earlier and come face to face with a set of paintings that I would know anywhere.
The Four stare at me, each in a simple golden frame lit from above by a single lamp.
Each woman looks different—strikingly so, in fact—but they are all undoubtedly part of a series.
Now that I’m in front of them, I can see why Dad so confidently identified the painting we found yesterday as being by the same hand.
These paintings aren’t as grotesque as the self-portrait, but they are just as disturbing, and there is a large letter “A” slashed into the paint on the bottom right-hand corner of each canvas, just like the one on the self-portrait.
Each piece depicts the head and shoulders of a woman, their torsos almost violently smeared away, and there’s an element of agony on their faces.
Each one displays a specific theme too—the first woman’s eyes are covered with something, but the second woman’s are not; instead, her hair lashes across her face in a clawlike fashion.
The remaining two are equally strange—the third woman is wearing a twisted headpiece and the fourth is surrounded by light, almost like a halo.
I notice some more telltale signs that this is the same artist as the self-portrait.
Streaks of color give the impression of decaying flesh, and the paintwork is clumpy, though this time it’s in sepia shades of yellow and brown, not furious red.
The skeletal pentimento and the brushstrokes that smear the foreheads into the background are there too.
There’s something much more delicate about these paintings, shown in the finer details, like the crinkled lines around one woman’s eyes and a small scar that runs down another’s lip—they’re ethereal, almost. You can practically see the women fading from existence, their lives slowly ebbing away as they were immortalized on canvas.
Even the light in their eyes is muted. Dimming.
Looking at them, I can see why the rumors began. There is no doubt in my mind that these women were murdered, and I finally know what my research angle needs to be. Not the artist, or his crime scene.
I’m going to find out who these women were and share their names with the world.