“No, dear, but Clay’s room isn’t very much to your taste, is it?” she said.
“True,” I said. “I thought I’d ask Vermillion for some help. They’ve both got that black-and-red color thing going on.”
Mother and Eustace both froze.
“I think she’s kidding,” Mother said, after a few moments.
“I certainly hope so,” Eustace muttered.
“I was,” I said. “Actually, I know exactly what to hang there. Clay’s own paintings.”
Mother and Eustace were silent, and obviously startled. But they didn’t ask, “What do you mean, his own paintings?” Interesting.
“I suppose that would work,” Mother said.
“Assuming you can find any of his paintings,” Eustace said. “It’s not something he’d ever have done, though. I think he was trying to forget his old life.”
“If he was trying to forget it, then why did he have some of his paintings hanging in his living room?” I asked. “At least I’m pretty sure they’re his. I saw them when the chief called me over to look at the packages Clay stole—you heard about that, right?”
They nodded.
“I don’t think he was trying to forget his old life,” I went on. “Just trying to hide it from the rest of the world.”
“Which means he’d definitely never have hung his own paintings in the show house,” Eustace said. “But now that he’s gone—why not? Can’t hurt him now. And it’s about the only thing I can think to put there that would be absolutely, undeniably his work.”
“Yes,” Mother said. “A good idea.”
“Just out of curiosity,” I went on. “Does everyone know about Clay’s checkered past?”
They exchanged a look.
“People will talk,” Mother said.
“Martha will talk,” Eustace said. “And she’s not exactly an unbiased source. I assumed she was just spreading lies about Clay until I checked with a friend who runs a gallery in New York.”
“And he confirmed her story?” I asked.
“He told me the facts, which were a lot less damning than Martha made them out to be,” Eustace said. “To hear her talk, you’d think he was a serial killer who’d gotten off with a slap on the wrist.”
“Well, she had considerable provocation,” Mother said.
“To slander the guy?”
“Slander is a little strong, don’t you think?” Mother murmured.
They went back to their rooms, still amicably debating whether Martha’s dislike of Clay had motivated her to judge his past actions too harshly. I left them to it.
I pulled out my cell phone and called the chief about getting back into the house to borrow Clay’s paintings.
“I have no objection,” he said. “But I think you should get permission from the estate first.”
“Do we even know who inherits?” I asked.
“A brother in Richmond,” the chief said. “Runs a used-car dealership there. I can give you his number.”
“Do you think it’s okay to call so soon after Clay’s death?” I asked.
“I didn’t get the feeling he was too distraught,” the chief said. “They hadn’t seen each other in five years.”
The brother was, at first, baffled by my request.
“Sure I can sell you the paintings,” he said. “If we can agree on a price. But not till we finish probating the estate, and who knows how long that will take.”
“I don’t want to buy the paintings,” I said. “I want to borrow them. To display in the show house, in the room Clay decorated.”
“Show house?”
“The last project he did before his untimely death,” I said. “As a memorial to his life and work.”
I was laying it on a bit thick, but the brother didn’t seem to be grasping the concept.
“I’m not sure we want to do that,” he said. “They could be worth something. Not my cup of tea, but for a while there he was getting a pretty high price for them.”
“Yes, but he’s fallen off the radar in the last fifteen years,” I said. “An artist needs to keep producing new work to keep people interested, and I got the impression he hasn’t been painting these last few years.”
“Not since he went off to prison,” the brother said. “He came and stayed with me when he got out. I thought maybe he’d start up painting again, but he never did. Just hung around moping until I told him he had to get a job or get out.”
“What happened then?” I asked.
“He managed to get a job working for a woman decorator,” he said. “Old girlfriend of his.”