"I shall start to keep it … now."
Mona's eyes flew open. She lay on the bed in the back room and though she was all alone, her body shook with an orgasm. Her fingers slid inside her wetness, that tight inner ring of muscles spasming around her own hand.
When it passed, she rolled onto her side into the fetal position. Malcolm had never left her like this before, never this suddenly, never while she was awake. It scared her. But she saw a white envelope on the pillow next to her and sat up in excitement. Perhaps he hadn't left her alone after all.
In her haste to open the envelope, she cut her finger on the fine paper and soon the white was dotted with red. She didn't care. She cared only for the words she devoured, the words written in Malcolm's loping handwriting.
Mona, my darling whore,
* * *
You don't know what a gift you've given me this past year. Although I have paid for it and paid for it dearly, it was well worth the price. I know now all will be as I wished it to be.
Someone is coming for me. I owe him a debt and as you know all too well, debts must be paid. But he kept his end of the bargain and it's my turn to keep mine. As for our bargain, I admit I didn't tell you the entire truth at our second meeting when I said you were sitting on a goldmine. You thought I referred to your body and in a way I did. What I should have said was you are sleeping on a goldmine. Open the bed knobs and you will see what I mean.
As for who I am, you will know it soon enough.
All my lust,
Malcolm
P.S. Do anything you must, but keep me forever.
The bed knobs? What on earth did he mean by "open the bed knobs"? And what on earth did he mean by keep him forever? Surely that was his responsibility, not hers. The tone of the note unnerved her greatly. Something about it seemed final. Something about it seemed like a goodbye.
Mona stood and stared at the bed knobs. The one closest to her at the foot of the bed was nothing more than a brass ball. She put her hand on the knob and turned it. At first it didn't want to give, but then she felt it twist the tiniest bit. With both hands she turned the knob again. The old bed didn't want to let the knob go, but eventually she managed to take the knob off. She looked inside the post and found that while it was hollow as she would have expected, it was not empty.
Something was inside it. Something rolled up and wrapped in yellowing linen. Carefully she extracted the linen tube from inside the bedpost. She took the linen wrapping off and discovered a rolled canvas beneath it. Mona shook as she unfurled the canvas, going slowly as she could to avoid doing any damage to the painting that had been hidden in her bed for God only knew how long. At first she saw nothing but black. Then a bit of red on either side. A pocket with a gold chain. Then buttons followed by a white collar. Then a face she knew better than her own, a devilishly handsome face, not smiling at the mouth but a little in the eyes, the eyes that were so black one couldn't tell where the pupil ended and the iris began.
Malcolm in a black three-piece suit. That was the painting. At the bottom of the canvas was a name of a portrait painter she recognized at once, because they'd had an exhibition of his portraits of women at The Red Gallery five years ago. A man famous for his paintings of England's high society. A man who had been dead since the 1950s.
Mona turned the painting over.
It couldn't be. No. It couldn't.
And yet, there it was, written in pencil on the back of the canvas.
Portrait in oil, 1938.
The Rape of the Sabine Women
Three months later
"The Times called again," Gabrielle said as she stood in the doorway of Mona's office.
"What do they want this time?" Mona asked, barely glancing up from her auction catalog.
"They say they wish to run a feature on the gallery for the Society page. I think you should do it, yes?"
Mona looked up at her assistant. Gabrielle was tall and shapely and black and had the loveliest French accent that made every word sound like it had been dipped in silver. "Society" was Zociety and "yes" was yezz. The combination of her beauty and her accent had made Gabrielle the perfect hire for The Red. No one could tell this woman no when she said, "You wish to buy it, of course. I will wrap it up for you."
"I suppose we ought to say yes," Mona said. "The Times has given us good free press."
"I'll call them and let them know tomorrow morning. It's good to let both men and newspapers sweat a little before you tell them yes."
"Good advice," Mona said. Gabrielle smiled and strode from the doorway in her black suit and towering black high heels. It was so nice to be able to afford employees again. Since the discovery of the paintings rolled up and hidden in the brass bed, The Red Gallery's telephone had been ringing day and night with buyers, reporters, and all the curious. Mona had found two paintings hidden in the bedposts, though the art world only knew of one-a lost Picasso, a painting of one of his many mistresses. The second painting she told no one about. She'd had it framed and hung in a place of honor in The Red Gallery with a tag that read "Unknown Man, 1938, artist Anthony Devas."