"You mean Resnick?" I said. "He's the biographer?"
"Bingo," Michael said, setting down the photo.
"How do you know?"
"Well, right at the moment, it's sort of a hunch, but now that the power's on, I bet we can find the drafts of the thing in his computer."
"Okay," I said, reaching for the switch to turn on the computer. "So you think it was an autobiography?"
"No, I think he wanted it published under a pseudonym, so it would look like a genuine critical biography."
"Fat chance," I said. "Only one person in the world has that high an opinion of Victor Resnick. That should have given us a clue right there."
"Too true."
"Yeah, and I guess if he planned to reveal the scandals of his youth, it was a lot easier to pretend that someone else had dug it up, instead of having to face the criticism if anyone like Mother objected. It makes sense, but I still don't understand what gave you the idea that Resnick was the biographer."
"The paintings," Michael said.
"The paintings? What about them?"
He held up his hand to show me a smear of blue paint on the palm.
"He did those paintings recently," Michael said. "Recently enough that the one we used to help escape from the studio was still wet--I got this on my hand helping you carry it."
"You're sure it wasn't just melting from the fire?"
"No, the painting wasn't hot when we picked it up, and it wasn't wet on the surface--I put my finger on a blob and paint squished out That's what happens when you put on a thick layer of oil paint; it dries from the outside in."
"But how does that explain the headless paintings?" I asked. "He was getting them ready, but he couldn't do the heads until Mother showed up? It's not as if he could use the present-day Mother as a model, you know."
"I also found this," Michael said, plucking something out of his shirt pocket.
A faded photograph of Mother as a teenager, clothed. In fact, she wore the same bathing suit we'd seen in Aunt Phoebe's photo album.
"I suspect we've just solved the mystery of the missing photos," he said. "And maybe he only recently managed to get into your aunt Phoebe's cottage to filch these."
"Everyone kept telling us he painted from photos," I said, shaking my head.
"Yes, and that his style hadn't changed appreciably during his whole career," Michael said. "So if he just waited until they dried, who would have any doubt that they were older paintings?"
"I think they have ways of figuring out the age of a painting," I said. "For example, do you really think they're still manufacturing the same oil paint, canvas, and varnish he used forty or fifty years ago, with no modern improvements that would show up in an analysis?"
"But why would they even bother if they got it from the artist and it was clearly in his style?"
"Yes, and why would anyone bother to forge a Resnick when for the same amount of effort they could forge the work of someone a lot more famous? And for that matter, does it really count as forgery if the only thing false is the date he painted it?"
"I don't understand why he painted them in the first place," Michael said. "Was writing about his youth making him nostalgic? Or did he think he had to have some paintings of the people involved to prove the truth of his biography?"
"More likely, he just wanted to stir up trouble," I said. "That's perfectly in character. In fact--my God, that's it!"
"What's it?" Michael said.
"Consider the detective's report."
"You're right," Michael said, his shoulders slumping. "That doesn't add up. I can see why he would have the detective's report on your mother, maybe to try to find out what she'd done with her life after they'd parted. But why those other women--unless maybe it was camouflage," he added, looking up with a hopeful expression.
"No, I think the detective's reports were just what they looked like--he wanted to find out more about those women to see who could be his long-lost sweetheart."
"But surely he knew who she was."
"Not if he invented the whole love affair," I said. "And wanted to find out which woman had a gap in her life that would match the story he'd made up."
"Made up? But why? That's an absolutely crazy idea!"
"Crazy like a fox," I said. "I know exactly why he did it. Just look at that stack of books on his desk."
"Books?" Michael said, glancing over. "They're art books; wouldn't you expect a painter to have them?"
"Yes, but these aren't books with pictures of paintings. They're biographies. The one on top's a dead giveaway: a biography of Andrew Wyeth."