“Of course,” she said. “What do you want me to draw?”
“Remember Jessica, the young woman who was hanging around the house two days ago?”
“Interviewing us for the student paper,” she said. “Yes.”
“Could you do a good likeness of her?”
She nodded, and gestured for me to stand back so she could get into the closet. She took out a sketch pad, and a bunch of pencils, and went over to sit down on the hall stairs. She looked up at the ceiling, then closed her eyes and appeared to go inward for a few moments. Then she opened her eyes and began sketching.
I remembered Clay’s sketchbook, still hidden in my tote. Should I take that to the chief as well? But getting a sketch of Jessica into the chief’s hands seemed more important. When I delivered that, I’d mention the sketchbook.
“She was strange,” Ivy said, absently, without looking up from her sketchbook.
“Strange how?”
“She kept going around tapping on the walls. She smeared some of the paint on my crèche mural. I don’t like people touching my paintings.”
More fodder for my theories. I watched over Ivy’s shoulder as she sketched in the shape of a young woman’s face. At first it didn’t look much like anyone. Then it started to look a little like Jessica, and then a little more, and eventually, after she’d added more details and tweaked others, a startling likeness emerged.
“That’s it,” I said.
“Just let me add a little color,” she said, picking up her colored pencils. A few strokes with the red, orange, and brown pencils and Jessica’s copper-red hair shone out. A touch of green to the eyes and a few strokes of flesh color to the face and it was done.
“Perfect,” I said. “May I give it to the chief?”
“I’d be delighted if you did,” she said.
And then, as if she’d used up her day’s portion of human interaction, she smiled and fled upstairs.
I pulled out my phone, took a picture of her drawing, and e-mailed it to the chief. And then I called him.
“The sketch artist can’t be here till tomorrow,” he said. “I know it’s irritating—”
“Call him off,” I said. “And check your e-mail. I had Ivy do a sketch.”
“Ivy?”
“One of the designers. The one doing all the paintings in the foyer and the upstairs hall.”
“Hold on.”
I heard random noises for a while. And then—
“This is Jessica?”
“Exactly,” I said. “And the original sketch is even better.”
“Can you bring that in?” he asked. “It could be a while before I can get anyone over there. Meanwhile, I’ll get this photo out to my officers as a preliminary. We’ll save the region-wide alert for the real thing.”
“On my way.”
Chapter 22
I was putting on my coat when I heard a crash, followed by a wail of distress.
“Oh, no!” It was Sarah’s voice, coming from the study. I peeked in and saw her mourning over a green banker’s lamp whose glass shade was now smashed into about a million pieces. “Damn—my foot caught on the cord.”
“Oh, dear,” I said. “Is it going to be hard to get a replacement?”
“I could drive down to Richmond and get one,” she said. “But not by ten a.m. tomorrow morning.”
“But the house doesn’t open until—oh. The photographer.”
“It just won’t work without the lamp.”
I tried to think of a way to suggest that while the room might not precisely match the vision in her head and in her sketches, the readers of the Richmond Times-Dispatch would still find it enchanting. But I’d figured out by now that the designers didn’t find such suggestions the least bit comforting and that it was best to stick to practical assistance.
“We have a banker’s lamp,” I said. “In Michael’s office. We could lend it to you.”
Sarah looked dubious.
“There are banker’s lamps and banker’s lamps,” she said. “They’re not all the same.”
“Yes, there are vintage originals and hideously expensive reproductions and cheap knockoffs,” I said. “I think ours is a hideously expensive reproduction.”
“Well.” She sounded less dubious.
“Mother picked it out,” I said. “To go with our Arts and Crafts décor in the library and Michael’s office.”
“Oh, well, then it should be fine. When can I get it?”
I checked my watch.
“I have to take something to town right now,” I said. “I’ll swing by the house and get it. I might have time to bring it here before Michael’s show, and if not, I’ll drop it off on my way home. How late will you be here?”