The Girl In The Glass (5 page)

Chapter 8

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in the afternoon a cab deposited McCabe at his front door. He handed the cabbie twenty bucks and told him to keep the change.

Wobbling toward the front door, he started digging around in his pockets for his keys.

The driver, a round-­bellied black man in his fifties, leaned out the window of the cab. “What floor’s your apartment on?”

McCabe turned and appeared to be giving the question serious consideration. “Three,” he finally said.

“Long way up,” said the driver.

“Yup,” said McCabe, looking up at his windows on the top floor.

The driver exited the car, put one arm around McCabe’s shoulder and told McCabe to do the same. He took McCabe’s key, opened the door and returned the key, then side by side the two of them struggled up three flights of stairs.

“Anybody else live here?”

“Yup.”

“Your wife?”

“Nope. My little girl.”

“Your little girl? How old?”

“Eighteen.”

“Okay,” said the driver and rang the bell.

Casey answered after two rings, looked first at McCabe and then at the man who was holding him up.

“There’s my little girl,” slurred McCabe.

“This your father?” asked the driver, not wanting to leave a strange drunk with the wrong daughter by mistake.

Casey sighed. “Yup. That’s him. Where’d you find him?”

“Picked him up at Tallulah’s. Drove him here in my cab. Where’s he sleep?”

Casey directed the cabbie to McCabe’s bedroom. After her father had been deposited on the bed, she thanked him. “Have you been paid?”

“Yeah. Gave me twice what he should have.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. “Here. Take this,” he said, handing her a five. “What’s left will be more than enough.”

When the cabbie was gone, Casey stood in her father’s bedroom door. “All right, what the hell is this all about? It’s the middle of the damned afternoon.”

“Please don’t. You sound exactly like Kyra. It’s all right. I just spent the afternoon with Maggie at Lou’s pouring my heart out.”

“You told her about Kyra?”

“About that and everything else. I did a lot of talking.”

“And a lot of drinking?”

What McCabe detected in her voice was more like concern than disapproval. “Yup. Seeking solace in the demon rum.”

“You know, I’m the kid in this family. You’re the one who’s supposed to be giving me lectures about stuff like that.”

McCabe held up a hand. “Please. No lectures.”

“Well, I’m glad you were able to open up to somebody even if you had to get drunk to do it. You’ve been wound up so tight lately I thought you were going to explode.”

She walked over to the bed, turned his face toward hers and gave him a kiss. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. And you’re right. I did need to let it out. And now I need to sleep. So buzz off, bambina.”

“I probably won’t be here when you wake up. I’m going out tonight. To a party. Remember?”

McCabe closed his eyes. “I remember everything. You know that. Try and be home by one.”

“I will.”

“You need the car?”

“No. Somebody’s picking me up.”

“Who?”

“Just this kid.”

“Boy kid or girl kid?”

“Just a kid.”

“Okay. No drinking.”

Casey decided not to dignify that with an answer. She just leaned down and gave him a kiss. And then, thinking it wasn’t such a great idea to fall asleep with a loaded Glock 17 riding on his hip, she reached over and undid the buckle to his holster. After she locked the gun in the small safe McCabe kept for the purpose, she came back and kissed him again. “I’ll be back by one,” she said.

“Make sure that you are,” he said and turned over. In less than a minute he was sound asleep.

Chapter 9

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arriving before six. A flotilla of private boats, some motor, more sail, moored in the broad cove on the leeward side. The largest was a ten-­million-­dollar, eighty-­nine-­foot, Bill Tripp–designed, world-­class sailing yacht called the
Sea Witch,
owned by the movie star. There were half a dozen other good-­sized yachts and scores of smaller boats. From the moorings, a dozen twenty-­something “parking valets,” identically dressed in white sneakers, khaki shorts and blue polo shirts bearing the Whitby E&D logo, ferried guests from their boats to the smaller of the two docks and directed them up the pathway that led to the “cottage,” which stood two hundred feet back and fifty feet above the cove.

Most of the arrivals were dressed informally, as the invitations had instructed. Of course,
informally
had been interpreted in a variety of ways, from blazers and ties for the men and elegant slacks and silk blouses for the women down to jeans or shorts and T-­shirts for the graduates.

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shower with a towel wrapped around her, Aimée gazed through the window as clusters of guests arrived on the stone terrace below. One group after another shook hands and air-­kissed Daddy and Deirdre. She was a little pissed her mother hadn’t been invited, even as a gesture. But both she and Daddy knew Tracy wouldn’t have come anyway. Still, the invitation should have been offered.

Daddy, a warm smile plastered to his face, was listening to a pair of chatty Penfield parents. Periodically he glanced over their shoulders to see if there was anyone more important or more interesting in the area he ought to be talking to. Spotting the approaching figures of Margaux Amory and her husband, John Roach, he excused himself from the Penfield pair. Still exquisite in her mid-­sixties, Amory was once considered one of Hollywood’s best and most versatile stars. In fact, only a ­couple of weeks ago, Aimée and Tracy had enjoyed a “girls’ night in” watching Amory’s Oscar-­winning performance in a twenty-­five-­year-­old movie called
Wet Work,
in which she played a high-­class call girl who doubled as a paid assassin. Amory’s character had been hired to murder her hot-­looking client, who also happened to be a leading candidate for president. The storyline was bullshit, but Amory’s performance as a whore was amazing. It was a role for which, Aimée thought with a smile, Margaux was a natural.

Aimée turned from the window and walked back to her dressing table. Using the image in
Hidden Masterpieces
for reference, she started preparing for her entrance. It took over an hour to get everything exactly right. The hair. The makeup. Finally, the dress and a single strand of antique pearls around her neck.

Aimée examined herself in the mirror one last time. Practiced the smile in the painting until she was sure she had it right. Turned her head this way and that. Adjusted a blonde curl that seemed out of place and looked again. The final touch was the earrings. An exquisite pair of deep blue teardrop sapphires, each surrounded by two rows of diamonds set in gold dangles. They were the only things Aimée would wear tonight that weren’t in the painting. Her great-­great-­grandfather had purchased them in New York at the old Tiffany’s on Union Square West because, according to family legend, the stones almost matched the deep, nearly violet blue of the first Aimée’s eyes. He had planned to take the earrings to the island and surprise her with the gift. But it never happened. She was murdered first.

Finally, when everything was truly perfect, Aimée took a cut-­crystal highball glass from the tray she’d instructed Anna Jolley to leave for her. She dropped in a handful of ice cubes, retrieved the bottle of Ketel One she kept in her bottom drawer and poured herself a good four ounces. Raising the glass, she toasted the image in the book. “To my inspiration, the first Aimée,” she said. Then, turning her attention to her own image in the mirror, she added, “And to me, Aimée again.”

Taking the drink with her, she rose and went to the door. Opened it silently. Looked both ways. Seeing no one on the landing, she moved into the shadows at the top of the stairs, where she could watch her father speaking in front of the big stone fireplace without being seen herself. She waited, certain the wait wouldn’t be long. Edward Whitby enjoyed being the center of attention as much as either of his daughters did. He also enjoyed being prompt. He invariably stuck to schedule.

A scant two minutes later, she watched Daddy nab a delicate flute of Perrier-­Jouët from a passing waiter and position himself at the center of the fireplace. He took a few sips, waiting until he felt the timing was right.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he finally called out. “I’d like as many of you as possible to please join me here in the living room. Please, everyone, this way. I have a special treat for you all.”

Prodded by the waitstaff, guests began to move. More than a hundred managed to squeeze into the large living room. Another hundred and some clustered outside on the stone patio, where they could watch Whitby’s image and listen to his words on two large CCTV screens set up for the occasion.

Aimée looked past her father to the painting that hung, covered with black baize cloth, above the mantel. She’d only seen reproductions before and hadn’t realized how big the original was. At least five feet high. Three or a little more across. She was sure the size of the painting would heighten the effect. For ­people looking up at it from the floor, her great-­great grandmother would appear to be very nearly the same size as her living namesake.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, graduates and parents, friends,” Edward Whitby began. “Let me start by welcoming you all here to our humble . . . well, perhaps not so humble . . . summer cottage on Whitby Island. For those of you who’ve been here before, welcome back. For those who haven’t, please know that, for tonight at least,
mi casa es su casa
.”

The guests applauded. Aimée sipped her vodka on the landing and waited. With his back to the large stone fireplace, Daddy raised his champagne flute. “We’re here tonight to honor not just my two beautiful daughters.” He turned a palm toward Julia, who had positioned herself up front. “Julia.” Jules nodded her thanks. Daddy looked around the room for a few seconds more and not seeing Aimée, he continued, “One of whom seems not to be here at the moment. Rare for Aimée to miss a moment like this. Ah, well. We’re also here to honor all the other wonderful kids who graduated from Penfield today. May you all succeed, prosper and find fulfillment in whatever career and on whatever road you choose to travel in life.”

Shouts of “Hear! Hear!” boomed from the crowd. Other guests applauded. Still others stood quietly and sipped expensive champagne or martinis.

“However,” said Whitby, “I also have another purpose. As I said, a special treat. I’d like you all to be present for the first public showing of an important work by one of America’s greatest and most respected artists, Mark Garrison. The piece under the cloth is Garrison’s last great work, one which was never quite finished before his death. A large portrait of my great-­grandmother, and Julia and Aimée’s great-­great grandmother, Aimée Marie Garnier Whitby.”

He scanned the room, looking for Aimée. He still couldn’t find her.

“This portrait of the first Aimée,” Edward Whitby continued, “was commissioned by her husband, my great-­grandfather, Edward Whitby Jr. He had wanted John Singer Sargent to paint his wife, but Aimée, a fine artist in her own right, insisted that she preferred the work of Garrison. Since Garrison was considered by many at the time to be very nearly Sargent’s equal and, as Sargent was in England, Edward agreed.

“The story that follows the awarding of that commission is well known. It is surrounded by tales of infidelity, scandal, murder and suicide that no member of my family has ever been willing to publically discuss. I don’t plan on breaking with that tradition tonight to regale you with any of the lurid details. Those who are interested can find accounts in the newspaper reports of the time.

“Rather, I’d like you to focus your attention on a great painting whose creation ended in tragedy and turned out to be Garrison’s last masterpiece.
Portrait of Aimée
was painted here in this room, with this stone fireplace as background. It was originally meant to hang over the fireplace, where it hangs now, but it never has. Some may wonder why I want to own or hang a canvas created by a man who murdered a member of my own family. The simple answer is that I have always regarded this work as belonging more to Aimée than to Garrison, and I believe she would have wanted it here, gazing down on her descendants. I know I’ve wanted to return it to this house all my adult life. And now I have.

“Garrison painted the portrait in the spring of 1904. In late May of that year, he took the almost completed canvas back to his studio in Boston for a few finishing touches. After Garrison’s and Aimée’s deaths, it remained in the studio for a time. Almost but not quite finished. My great-­grandfather, who commissioned the work, couldn’t bear the thought of having it in the house. He also refused to pay what was still owed on the commission. So, after a year, Garrison’s widow, in desperate need of money, sold it, along with a number of his other paintings, to a wealthy family from New York. It remained quietly in their hands for over a century. For me the subject of the painting and the quality of the work, which is superb, have always been more important than the tale of murder surrounding it. Over the years, I’ve tried to purchase it many times, but always without success. Then, last winter, I learned the descendants of the original owners were putting Garrison’s
Portrait of Aimée
up for auction at Christie’s in New York. Naturally, I attended. I think everybody in the room knew I wouldn’t let the painting go to anyone else at any price. Perhaps that’s why the bidding was so stiff. I suppose the owners of the auction house will get mad at me for saying this, but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they placed a few ringers in the crowd to push the price even higher. No matter. I felt strongly that it was well past time this great work of art, this treasure, be restored to the place where it was meant to hang regardless of price and regardless of the circumstances of Aimée’s death. I believed then as I believe now it is one of Garrison’s finest works and that Aimée’s place is here in the house she loved. Ladies and Gentlemen, after one hundred and eight years, my great-­grandmother, Aimée Marie Garnier Whitby, has come home.”

Whitby pulled a cord, releasing the baize covering to reveal a nearly perfect likeness of the first Aimée. Upstairs, her great-­great-­granddaughter waited a few beats to allow the crowd time to study and admire the portrait. Then she put her empty vodka glass on the floor and moved from the shadows. She smiled the practiced smile and started down the curved staircase. On the sixth step down, she called out, “
Bonsoir, mes amis, et bienvenue
.”

There was a collective hush. Every face in the room turned, almost in unison, to watch Aimée slowly descend the stairs. The gown she wore, low cut and black, and the pearls around her neck were both identical to the ones in the painting. She had also styled an identical arrangement of her blonde hair. Even the smile, some might say a Mona Lisa smile, matched Aimée’s in the portrait. It was nearly impossible to distinguish the face or figure of the young woman descending the stairs from the face and figure in the painting. Except for the brilliant blue sapphire-­and-­diamond earrings young Aimée wore, the resemblance was exact, the effect stunning.

On the next-­to-­bottom step she paused to introduce herself. “
Je suis Aimée.
”

Edward Whitby came over, put his arm around her and walked her back to the fireplace and positioned her beneath the portrait.

“It has never ceased to amaze me,” he said to the crowd, “how my beautiful eldest daughter has such an uncanny ability to upstage her father at the most dramatic moments of his life.” He raised the glass of champagne. “To my dearest, favorite girl, who is, as you can see, a true incarnation of the first Aimée.”

Aimée kissed her father, then turned to the guests. “Once I saw the painting,” she said, “and saw how much I looked like her, well, as you can imagine, it was just too tempting not to give it a whirl.”

Most of the guests spontaneously applauded.

Aimée bowed her head, thanked everyone and then plunged into the crowd.