Harmony In Flesh and Black by Nicholas Kilmer Read Free Book Online Page A

who could have painted in that manner, at that time, that well. The drawing was well schooled. There was no fudging at joints or appendages. The paint was handled with confidence but without that bravura or show-offishness that could be so tiresome in work from the period. The painter had considered, and rejected, the daubery of the impressionists, but you could see that he was familiar with them because of the way color found its own shapes in the reflected image in the mirror. The painter could be direct and subtle, too, both in the same picture.
    Because he had made what could be a big mistake, Clay was going to be reticent about the unsigned painting in order to save face and seem somewhat intelligent. He’d keep his knowledge to himself. Clay’s task would be proving what he knew, making it stick. The missing letter had to do with this aspect of the matter. The letter must provide the equivalent of a clear title.
    An unsigned painting of whatever quality is trouble. If you don’t know who did it, you have to start by figuring out the author. Even once you yourself are satisfied that you know what the painting is and who it is by, you still have to demonstrate those things in a way that will satisfy the scholar who knows that painter best.
    When you go to “the guy” (also called the expert) who is the authority on a particular painter, it helps if you can give the history of the picture, where it’s been, who owned it before, where it was exhibited, how it got from there to here. It’s like a title search. If the object is of special purported value, and there’s a big hole in the record, it can be as much of a problem for a picture as it is for a house. And a picture is harder to follow into the past than a house, being more portable.
    Fred left Molly’s at about eight, with the painting in a green garbage bag to protect it from the cold drizzle that had elected to fall on Arlington. He tuned the radio to programs divulging local news, but there was no report about the body ticking on Turbridge Street, preparing to make a most unseemly noise. Fred listened for it but kept it otherwise out of his thoughts. He’d done what he could.
    The road was wet and empty, the trees dripping with rain and pink and white blossoms. What he regretted most was Sam. He’d had to tell the boy last night, before he left for Cambridge, that he likely couldn’t come to his game this morning. Sam had stared at him, disappointed and suspicious, not mollified when Fred told him that Clayton Reed had messed up something that he now had to go out and try to fix. Sam had said only, “Would you turn off the light, Fred, so I can sleep?” Fred had suspected that under the covers Sam was wearing all his clothes.
    His route took him past the damp lawns of Arlington, obediently edged with daffodils and tulips, then down Fresh Pond Parkway and along and across the Charles. Beacon Hill was almost deserted this early on a Saturday morning. It looked like what it wished to be, a piece of London, but steeper.
    Fred parked in the spot Clayton owned beside the row of houses and let himself in. Clay heard him arrive and came spiraling down into the office. Fred was taking the picture out of the green bag. Clay looked at it, gloating. It burned into the room and made Clay smaller.
    â€œShe’s not a bad little painting, is she?” Clayton said. “But what did you mean this morning on the phone? What did Smykal say? What’s happening? What do you mean, there’s trouble?”
    Clayton Reed was wearing the red satin bathrobe he called a dressing gown, which signaled that he was in a state of leisure. He wore it on top of, not instead of, his clothes, omitting only the suit jacket. Fred kept a chair empty next to his desk for Clayton’s visits, but Clay wouldn’t sit this morning. Fred had picked up a large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee to keep warm on the hot plate and was having some