Final Settlement (10 page)

She looked at the box, wanting to take one peek before she warmed up her core temperature. It was obviously Japanese, and whatever was inside most likely had belonged to her mother. Her heart beat faster.
I don’t care how cold I am,
she thought
. I’m taking a quick look now.

She lifted the small bronze clasp and tried to raise the lid, but it did not pull apart as she’d expected. Darby scrutinized the juncture of the box’s top and bottom. It was sealed shut, glued together with some sort of hard, clear substance.

Darby put the box down and entered the shower.
So it’s not going to be that easy,
she thought, as the warm water melted the chill in her bones. The box would need a sharp object to cut through the glue before it would yield its secrets. She let the water wash away the dried blood from her face and hair and applied a small amount of shampoo, careful to treat her scratch gently.

When she was finished, Darby toweled off and dressed in jeans and a warm sweater. She quickly blew dry her long black hair, grabbed the lacquered red box, and headed down to the farmhouse’s kitchen.

A small paring knife cut through the glue easily. Moments later, Darby undid the brass clasp and eased the top up on its hinges.

She could tell right away that the box contained a number of different items. With trembling hands, Darby forced herself to go slowly, first exploring the beautiful box itself.

It was lined with bright pink satin. The inside cover was a mirror, upon which was painted a peaceful little scene. In the upper left was the edge of land, dotted with a few fir trees. In the mirror’s lower right corner was a bridge, or perhaps a balcony, with a red railing. A geisha wearing a pink and black kimono stood contemplating the beauty of the water and distant shore. Overhead, several birds winged their way through the sky.

Darby set the box on the kitchen table. She put a log in the fireplace, replaced the screen, and sat down to examine the lacquered container’s contents.

A length of straw rope with wisps of line attached was the first item. Darby pondered its significance, knowing it must have some
sort of meaning, or else it would not have been saved. She shrugged and placed it on the table.

Next was a four-inch, cast-metal Buddha, depicted in a seated position. Darby turned it over and saw some Japanese characters. She placed it next to the straw rope and pulled out the next item, a beautiful piece of silk in a deep blue shade, decorated with butterflies.

She stood and held it up. It was the sash to what must have been an exquisite kimono. Had it belonged to her mother? Or her grandmother? Darby refolded it carefully and placed it on the table. The red lacquered box had given up nearly all of its secrets.

A small Polaroid snapshot, faded with age, showed a young girl with chin-length black hair, smiling and dressed in a tiny pink kimono.
My mother
, Darby realized. She gazed at the pert little face, searching for similarities with the mother she still vaguely remembered. A perfect little smile, and a pointed, almost impish face. Yes, those were the same qualities she remembered of Jada Farr.

Last was a small, leather-bound journal, full of writing that Darby could not understand. Although her mother had taught her a few words in Japanese, she had never discussed the alphabet with her American-born daughter. Darby turned the pages carefully, but it was a puzzle, as foreign to Darby as if it had been Egyptian hieroglyphics.

She replaced the contents of the box, letting the soft silk caress her hands. She was certain this sash had belonged to her mother, as had the other items. This box held mementoes of her Japanese heritage, a culture she had willingly relinquished as the wife of John Farr. How long had the box been tucked up in the attic? Had Jada been the one to seal it shut, and why?

Darby had little time to think as her door flew open and a breathless Tina Ames burst in.

“You’ll never guess what I just saw,” she wailed, collapsing onto one of Darby’s kitchen chairs. “Donny was driving around that tramp Bitsy Carmichael! I saw her sitting there next to him, smiling like she was having a grand old time!”

“I’m sure there is a good reason why she was in his truck, Tina. Where did he take her?”

“To the police station. But they could have been all over town before that.”

“Now come on, Tina. The Chief has only one car. Bitsy probably needed a ride and Donny helped her out.”

“He shouldn’t be taking women in his car, Darby! Give me a break.”

“Wait a minute. Don’t you drive men around all the time?”

“That’s different! I’m taking them to see houses. I’m
working
.” She sniffed. “I suppose Bitsy could have called him for a ride. After all, he was the one who picked her up yesterday.”

“That’s right. Did you talk to Donny yet? Are you two over your argument?”

“Kind of.” Tina made a face. “Actually, no.”

“Did you tell him you’d go on the trip?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why not? Tina, it will be fun to go away together. Warm weather, sunny skies, strolling Mariachi bands … You’ll absolutely love a break from this chilly island.”

“I suppose.” She walked to the fireplace and warmed her hands.

“As a co-owner of Near & Farr Realty, I’m telling you to take the time and go.”

Tina turned with a smirk. “Okay, okay.” She pointed at the lacquered red box on the table. “What’s that?”

“I found it in the attic. It has some of my mother’s things in it.”

“The attic? What the heck was it doing up there? Jane sold this house ages ago. No personal property should have remained.”

Darby nodded. “It was shoved in the back, under the eaves. I think it’s gone undetected for all these years.” She pulled out the piece of straw rope, the small Buddha, and the kimono sash. “I have no idea what the straw is for, nor do I know if this little guy is anything special. But look at this beautiful piece of silk.”

“Gorgeous.” Tina fingered the fabric, her eyes wide. “I can just see you in that color. You’d look like a goddess.”

Darby laughed. “I don’t know about that, but check out how cute my mom was as a little girl.”

“Aww … she’s adorable! I can see how you resemble her.” She peered into the box. “What’s in the notebook?”

“Nothing I can read,” Darby said, pulling it out. “Maybe when I’m back in California I’ll find someone who can translate it for me.”

Tina snapped her fingers. “There’s a guy up in Westerly who specializes in this kind of stuff,” she said. “You know, Japanese art and history. The paper ran a story on him a few weeks ago.” She fingered the kimono sash as she continued. “He’s the assistant curator at the Westerly Art Museum. Eric Thompson. You ought to bring the box up there and see what he has to say.”

“Good idea.” Westerly was north of Manatuck, about a forty-five minute journey including the ferry to the mainland.

“Think you might go today?” Tina twirled her hair, waiting.

“Why, you need something?”

“Well, actually, yeah. My sister Terri lives in Westerly and she’s got some shoes for me to try on.” Tina gave a shy grin. “I know, I know, it’s all about me and my wedding.”

Darby laughed. “You’re finally starting to sound like a bride! Sure, I’ll head up the coast and see if Eric Thompson is in. Even if he’s not, I’ll get you those shoes.”

Tina grinned more widely. “I’ll tell Terri to meet you at the museum.” She pulled on her pink coat and carefully did the enormous buttons. “Guess I better go find my groom. I’ve got to make sure he’s still gonna marry me.”

_____

On the ferry ride from Hurricane Harbor to Manatuck, Darby telephoned her office in California. ET, her capable assistant, answered and assured her that everything was going fine. “Please, enjoy your weekend without worrying about us,” he urged. “Claudia is showing some property, I’m entering listings—it’s just another typical day at Pacific Coast Realty.”

Darby laughed. “Fair enough. I’ll check in with you on Monday.” She then told ET about the red lacquered box and its treasures.

“What an amazing find,” ET’s resonant voice held wonder. “Almost as if your mother placed it there for you to discover, all these years later.”

Darby agreed. “I can’t wait for you to see it, ET.” She pictured him, standing ramrod straight, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, and realized that she missed him. “I’ll speak to you soon. Be sure to thank Claudia for her good work.”

“I will. And you—concentrate on your driving.” His voice held a touch of concern.

“I’m still on the ferry!”

“Good. Remember your vow to take life a little slower.”

Darby thought about ET’s words as she cruised to Westerly. With the roads free of ice and very little traffic, she let the little Jeep’s wheels hug the pavement, enjoying the sensation of zooming around the coastal road’s corners. She remembered her promise, made in the fall after she was cited for speeding, to stop racing from thing to thing.
But I like driving fast,
she realized.
It’s part of who I am.
She chuckled, picturing ET tsk-tsking and calling her “Speedy Gonzalez.”

Her thoughts drifted to Miles’s arrival from California, and whether he would find the old farmhouse comfortable. She imagined his lanky frame in the living room, a fire roaring away in the fireplace. It was going to be a fun, romantic visit, and she was counting the hours until his arrival that evening.

She turned off the highway. The road curved east and Darby followed it, catching glimpses of the bay as she wound around and down into Westerly village. Galleries, cafés, and small restaurants dotted the quaint streets, although many were closed for the season. Anchoring the small shopping district was an imposing brick building that Darby knew housed the art museum. A banner stretched across the front announced a portrait exhibition just getting underway.

She pulled into a parking lot, scooped up the red box, and headed for the entrance.

A slight redheaded woman with a warm smile was waiting just inside.

“Darby? Tina told me you’d be wearing a long red coat. I’m Terri Ames Dodge.”

She stuck out her hand and Darby shook it, smiling. Terri was a slightly shorter version of her sister, with the same inquisitive expression and long fingers ending in bright red nails. She wore cream-colored wool pants and a soft blue cashmere sweater, and tan loafers with little tassels.

“I see the family resemblance, Terri. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yes, we Ames girls are all made from the same mold. You’ll see when you meet Trixie.” She handed Darby a plastic shopping bag. “Here are the shoes. Thanks for being our delivery service.”

“My pleasure. I’m hoping to see one of the curators.”

“Yes, Tina told me. Eric’s office is around the corner.”

Darby followed Terri through a small maze of offices until they came to an empty one. “I’m sure he’ll be right back,” Terri said. “I saw him when I first arrived and told him you were planning to meet me.” She cocked her head to the side. “Want to see the portrait exhibition while you wait?”

“Sure.” Terri led the way to the gallery and the two viewed the portraits in silence. All were by Maine artists, including several names Darby recognized.

“Alcott Bridges,” she read, stopping before a framed painting of an elderly man that seemed to loom over the room.

“Yes, probably his most famous work.” The two gazed up at the painting. Terri pointed to the man’s gnarled hands, clutching a wooden gavel. “Bridges is able to create such intricate details. The veins, the way the fingers curl … and look at the depth of emotion in the eyes. Just amazing.”

Darby read the printed description of the portrait. “This man was a judge in Manatuck—Edwin Collins. It says there was some controversy when the work was first exhibited.”

Terri nodded. “A few collectors claimed it was a forgery. The story went that Bridges had this big commission, but that his wife was gravely ill. Supposedly he paid another artist to complete the judge’s portrait.”

“Is that truly forgery?” Darby asked. She scrutinized the work once more, as if the answer lay in the judge’s stony countenance.

“You raise an excellent point.” A trim man with a silver goatee and blue-rimmed glasses had come up behind them. He extended his hand. “Eric Thompson, assistant curator.”

Darby juggled the bag of shoes and red box. “Darby Farr. And this is Terri—”

Eric Thompson laughed and gave Terri a hug. “We go back a long way. How are you, my dear?”

“Very well, Eric. Now back to Darby’s question. Assuming Alcott Bridges did have help in creating this work, does that make it a forgery?”

He shook his head. “Forgery is a type of fraud in which the artist claims his work was created by another person. That’s not the case here. If indeed Bridges had a helper—someone to fill in the minor details, for instance—he would be part of a long history, the tradition of the workshop. For example, Peter Paul Rubens used workshop assistants to complete his paintings. In modern times, look no further than Andy Warhol or Jeff Koons, both of whom had a studio approach to the creation of their art.” He leaned back on the heels of his shiny black loafers. “In my professional opinion, even if Bridges painted only a portion of this work, it would not be a forgery. Perhaps one could claim it isn’t as authentic as his other portraits, but for all we know, the story could merely be malicious gossip.” He turned and smiled at Darby. “My personal belief is that Alcott Bridges painted this portrait—the whole thing. It’s what he himself has always maintained. If you ask me, the man is unstoppable as an artist. Recently he’s relinquished portraiture and taken up landscapes. He’s in his early eighties but just keeps on creating.”