The watercolor. He wanted the watercolor.
“Did you send me that letter?”
He blinked several times, confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, bitch. Just hand it over.”
He reached for the portfolio at the same time she yanked the can of mace out of her purse and squeezed the trigger, hoping she had it pointed the right way.
She did. Her assailant screamed and covered his eyes, falling to his knees. Virginia ran as fast as she could. The steps up to the front door of the Lorettes’ brownstone were cracked and chipped at the edges. She took them two at a time and hit the buzzer hard.
An older man with a mahogany cane answered the door.
“You must be Virginia Clay,” he said.
“Someone just tried to mug me; let me inside, please.” She looked to her left. Her assailant was staggering in the opposite direction, his hands clutching his face.
Mr. Lorette peered out, resting a protective hand on Virginia’s arm. “My God, please, come in.”
He led her into a parlor. “Shall we call the police? Are you hurt?”
Virginia shook her head. “I’m fine. Just shaken up.”
The mugger had wanted the painting. Not her purse. She took a seat near the fireplace, hugging the portfolio to her, trying to make sense of what had just occurred. Had the letter writer sent someone after her when she didn’t return it to the Lost and Found by the deadline? Was she being followed?
She shivered and studied the room while Mr. Lorette called for his wife. The simplicity of the furnishings stood in contrast to the remarkable paintings, drawings, and sketches that covered the walls. Some seemed familiar, but she didn’t dare ask in case she made a silly error and came off like a dolt. Most of the titles and painters she’d crammed into her head as an art major had dribbled away over the past twenty years. Funny how art acted as a separation between those who deemed themselves cultured and those who did not. Virginia at the very least knew to keep her mouth shut and not give away her ignorance.
Her thoughts were racing from shock. She took a deep breath to calm herself.
An elegant older woman, her thick hair piled on top of her head like an Edwardian maiden, entered carrying a tea tray. Mr. Lorette introduced her as his wife, and she offered Virginia a plate of jam cookies. “I’m sorry to hear you were accosted outside. The neighborhood has changed over the years—I don’t think I can remember when it’s been so dangerous. You are sure you’re all right?”
Virginia nodded. “I’m fine.” She thanked them again for seeing her.
“Our pleasure,” said Mr. Lorette. “You mentioned on the telephone that you’re interested in learning more about the Grand Central School of Art. We love talking about the subject, don’t we, darling? The school was our child, in many ways.”
“That it was,” agreed Mrs. Lorette. “Irving took over the school soon after it opened and brought in teachers who were remarkable, forward thinking. The faculty, in turn, drew in some remarkable students.”
Mr. Lorette beamed. “We have several well-known artists who found their footing while studying with us.”
“I’ve read a little about the history of the school.” Virginia placed her tea on a coaster on the coffee table and scooted forward on her chair. Her heartbeat had returned to its normal cadence, and the warm tea settled her down. “I understand one of the painting teachers was Levon Zakarian.”
“Levon.” Mr. Lorette sighed. “Mercurial, difficult, brilliant. What a sad tale. From beginning to end, I don’t think he had very many moments of happiness.”
“Yet he created great art,” interjected Mrs. Lorette. “One hopes he found satisfaction in that. Even if he died young.”
Her husband chuckled. “Whenever I did something that annoyed Levon, which was quite often, it seemed, he’d tell me that I had goats on my roof.”
“What did that mean?” asked Virginia.
“I didn’t find out until a year or so after he’d died, from one of his students, who used the same expression. Levon told him that the Armenian villages where he grew up had flat roofs, where the women set fruit out to dry. A perimeter of prickly branches kept the goats off. If you had goats on your roof, you hadn’t bothered to fortify your fencing. The expression meant you were oblivious, foolish.”
“He sounds like a very colorful man.”
Mr. Lorette began to laugh. “I had goats on my roof then, and probably still do today!”
“Now, now, Irving.” Mrs. Lorette turned to Virginia and whispered, “Maybe a little.”
The Lorettes were sweet together and knew all the players. Janice at the Art Students League had steered Virginia in the right direction. “I was also wondering what you knew about Clara Darden, the illustration teacher at the school.”
“She taught there early on,” said Mr. Lorette. “Around the same time as Levon. Before the Depression. Clara Darden was not very ladylike. She could be shrewish at times. Unyielding. Something was always wrong, and I was often at the receiving end of her wrath.”
Mrs. Lorette shook her finger at her husband. “You see what you’re doing; you’re making her out to be a harridan while Levon Zakarian gets away with the same behavior and is considered brilliant. Not acceptable.”
She was right. The descriptions of both artists were two sides of the same coin. Levon was mercurial and difficult. While Clara was shrewish and unyielding.
“Please forgive me, darling. I live in the past.”
Virginia addressed them both. “Do you know what happened to Clara Darden?”
“There were rumors she left town,” answered Mr. Lorette. “Rumors that she was on the train with Levon, but her body was never recovered. In any event, she simply vanished.”
“Isn’t it strange no one knows what happened to her?”
“By that point, we’d had to close the school. Everyone was struggling, and I guess we lost touch.”
Mrs. Lorette cut in. “When we shut the doors temporarily, to ride out the worst of the Depression, we struggled as well.”
“But that’s all over now.” Mr. Lorette reached over and took her hand. “We’re still in our home, still going strong.”
“How did you manage, during the years it was closed?”
“We rented out our place in New York City, moved to Maine until it got too cold. Then wintered in Europe, staying with friends, hopping from city to city.” Mrs. Lorette’s eyes lit up. “We were well-dressed vagabonds, depending on the kindness of strangers.”
The image brought Finn and Xavier to Virginia’s mind.
“Even after the school reopened, it wasn’t the same,” said Mr. Lorette. “We lost our lease in 1944, right before the war ended. They told us to get out, gave us very little notice.”
“Have you been back since?”
He shook his head. “We only go to Grand Central if we’re taking a train somewhere. It’s a dreadful place now.”
“But you should have seen it back in the day.” Mrs. Lorette clapped her hands together. “Students running about, so much energy and laughter coming from the hallways. Up to the school, down to the gallery. They held balls once a year, and they were grand affairs. There was nothing like seeing pairs of students dashing across the concourse, dressed in black tie and silk dresses.”
How sad to think that chapter of the terminal was lost to history.
“It’s a dinosaur, like us.” Mr. Lorette rubbed his cane with his thumb.
“Would you say that Clara Darden and Levon Zakarian knew each other well?”
Mr. Lorette considered the question. “They were teaching around the same time. Yes, I remember quite clearly Levon advocating for Clara at some point. I was about to let her go, and he insisted she stay on. Glad I listened to him, in the end. It was right before she took off with all the fashion magazine covers. Before that, students were dropping out of her class right and left.”
“Why would they do that?”
“They didn’t like being taught by a woman, probably. But once she made a name for herself, everything settled down.”