I finished jotting down the imperfections and thought about calling Mrs. Cabot. According to my cell phone, it was 9:30, a reasonable time to call. I stood up, stretched, and walked across the room to stand at the window and look out at an unobstructed view of the ocean.
I found her number where I’d written it in my calendar, and thought about what I wanted to say. After a moment of indecision, I realized I was in deep avoidance mode. I didn’t want to make the call. I didn’t want to deliver more pain to that nice, stoic woman. When I’d faced the fact that my father was dead, I’d been in shock, ragged with emotion, unable to focus on anything except my incalculable loss. If she was like me, she wouldn’t even register that the paintings had been located, and if she did, she wouldn’t care.
I wondered if she knew about Andi. With her father just dead, murdered, she was, no doubt, overwhelmed with grief. How could she bear knowing that her daughter was the killer? I shook my head, weighed down at the thought of the anguish she must be enduring.
Still, she had to be told that I’d found the paintings. The stolen art had to be returned. Do it, I told myself. Talk to her, and, as Max suggested, follow her lead. If she didn’t want to know the details, I wouldn’t force them on her.
I dialed, and after six rings, I got an answering machine. I made a fist and soft-punched the window frame. Having girded myself to speak to her, it was a real disappointment to get a machine. I closed my eyes again, and focused on the message.
“Mrs. Cabot,” I told the machine, “this is Josie Prescott. I found both the Cezanne and the Matisse, and I have important news about them. I look forward to filling you in. You can reach me on my cell phone anytime.” And I gave my number.
I felt satisfied with my message, and it was only when I noticed that my hands were trembling that I realized how hard that call had been to make. I hated disappointing people that I cared about. And, it seemed, I’d come to care about Mrs. Cabot.
I turned my attention to a small sampler hanging on the back wall, but before I reached it, Mrs. Cabot called me back.
“I’m sorry I missed your call,” she said. “I stepped outside for a moment.” She sounded the same as always, polite and pleasant.
“No problem. Thanks for calling back so quickly.”
“Chief Alverez called as well, but he wasn’t available when I tried to reach him back. By any chance… do you know if he has news?” she asked.
My throat constricted and my heart began to race. I swallowed twice, panicked, uncertain what to say. Max’s standing instructions came to me. Tell the truth and give short answers. And the truth was that I didn’t know anything. Speculation wasn’t fact.
“No, I don’t know anything.” I gripped the phone, hoping she wouldn’t ask additional questions. Poor Mrs. Cabot.
“He’s very good about staying in touch,” she remarked. “I’ll try him again when we’re done talking.”
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
There was a long pause. “All right. This is a difficult time.”
“Yes,” I agreed. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted her to know how much I’d liked her father, and that he’d been laughing and seeming to enjoy life in the days before his death. I determined to write her a note. The sympathy cards people had sent me had provided great comfort, more so than spoken words. When they’d talked to me, I’d had to respond, to hold up my end of the conversation, and during those first weeks, that had proven impossible. Reading meaningful recollections, though, had consoled me.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cabot,” I said, finally.
After a pause, she said, “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, well… you said in your message that you found the two paintings?” she asked.
“Yes. They were hidden here in the house, quite cleverly.”
“Where are they now?”
I swallowed. “The police have them.”
“For safekeeping?”
“Well, not exactly,” I said, hating that I had to be the one to tell her.
“What do you mean?”
“It seems that there’s no clear proof of ownership, I’m afraid. In fact, I have to tell you that I have reason to believe they’re stolen.”
“I see,” she said in a tone so low I could barely hear her. She cleared her throat and I could picture her troubled eyes. “I thought as much.”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
“No, no, don’t be. I’ve been troubled by the thought for more than forty years. Certainty is always better than speculation. From whom were they stolen?”
I wondered if her suspicions about the paintings had led to the argument with her parents forty years ago, but I didn’t want to ask. Instead of trying to find out what might have happened when she was a girl, I answered her question directly. “My research suggests that they were taken from three different Jewish families before or during World War Two. Probably by the Nazis.”
I heard her inhale. “How awful.”
“Yes. They were all sold, apparently, by a man named Arnie Zeck.”
“Arnie Zeck. He was a friend of my parents. They knew him in Europe. I’ve seen photos.”
“Yes, there’s one mixed in with a bunch of others in a drawer of the tallboy in the sewing room.”
“I never knew…” she started, her voice trailing off.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I should have investigated those paintings’ histories myself. Instead I kept quiet. More shame on me. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, ‘The cruelest lies are often told in silence.’ I’ve kept many secrets in my life out of misplaced loyalty.” She laughed derisively.
I didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Cabot continued speaking before I had to decide how to respond. “No more,” she said. “I decided not to enable my daughter in her drug abuse either.”
“What do you mean?”
“I arranged an intervention last night.” Her voice cracked with emotion, but I also heard pride of accomplishment. It was a long moment before she continued. “I convinced Andi to drive down with me yesterday. When we got home, I surprised her with the intervention.”
My mouth fell open. I was astonished. More than astonished, I was shocked.
I’d persuaded myself that Andi was guilty of murder-of killing her own grandfather. To learn otherwise was staggering, and I had trouble focusing on the conversation with Mrs. Cabot. Alverez’s message was clear-he’d referred to the suspect as “her.” If it wasn’t Andi he had in custody, who was it? I was speechless, yet I needed to react. What had Mrs. Cabot said? An intervention? She’d arranged an intervention? I shut my eyes, leaned against the window frame, and forced myself to concentrate. With my mind still reeling, I asked, “What was it like?”
“It was extremely emotional. The professionals from the rehabilitation facility coordinated everything. We invited several of her friends from New York, and we all told her the truth.”
“What was her reaction?” I asked, unable to imagine anything less than a calamitous explosion.
“She was upset,” Mrs. Cabot said, in what I assumed was yet another example of understatement.
“What happened?”
“She decided to try and get over her addiction.” Her voice cracked again. “You know, perhaps, that the goal of an intervention is that the addict immediately admits herself to the program. Thank God, she agreed.” I could sense the fear behind her words, and my heart went out to her.
“You must be so relieved,” I said.
“I am.” She stopped, her wrenching emotion palpable. She cleared her throat and when she spoke again, it was in the calm, pleasant voice I’d come to expect. “It’s only the first step, of course, in what will be, no doubt, a very difficult process. But at least it’s a step in the right direction.”