Last night she’d hardly been able to sleep, not only because of what she was about to do but also because Ruby had wanted to talk about Ryan into the wee hours, after the bar had closed for the night. Virginia supported her daughter’s decision to date him but entreated her to stay independent for a while longer. Not to rush into anything. Sure, Ryan seemed like a lovely man, but she had her whole life ahead of her. That morning, Virginia left before Ruby woke up, eager to get to work.
Terrence arrived first, arching one eyebrow at her promptness—usually no one was in before Terrence. Soon after, Doris and Winston sidled through the door, arguing whether The Stepford Wives was boring or brilliant.
Finally, Totto showed up, balancing two coffees, handing one to Terrence.
Virginia tried to stay cool, as Ruby would say, and not stare, but she couldn’t help it. His hair was messy, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. She’d assumed early on that he and Terrence were brothers, as they shared the same slim builds, gray hair, and height. They bickered all the time. She’d been corrected by Terrence but hadn’t considered the matter further.
Totto’s back was to Virginia as he settled in, adjusting his timetables, lining up his pencils just so. Imperceptibly, his shoulders stiffened. He straightened up and looked about, one hand covering the O’Keeffe exhibit brochure that Virginia had left there.
They locked eyes.
“What’s this?” Totto’s voice trembled, but he covered it with a cough.
“I went to a fascinating exhibit this weekend.” Virginia spoke louder than necessary, so her voice traveled across the booth. “I learned a lot.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. For example, I learned what Georgia O’Keeffe’s middle name is.”
Doris tore off a bite of her egg sandwich. “Georgia O’Keeffe? Love her.”
Winston’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “She’s the one that draws enormous lady parts, right?”
“That’s enough, everyone,” said Terrence.
Virginia made her way past Doris until she was right behind Totto. “Totto is her middle name,” she whispered. Totto tried to ignore her, but she pressed in closer. “Right?”
“What about it?”
“We should talk.”
Totto stood. “Terrence, I’m going to help Virginia with some boxes.”
Totto led the way to the elevator at track 23. Virginia’s heart pounded as loudly as her footsteps, as they walked toward the art school without speaking. Her hunch had been right. Totto pulled out a key ring, fiddled with it, and then opened the door.
She’d found her ghost.
Inside, Totto headed to the back storage room, the one with all the crates. He stood in the middle of it, his hands on his hips, surveying the mess of crates, some opened, some shoved to one side, the assortment of artwork pinned haphazardly on the walls. He plonked down on one of the crates and let out a harsh laugh, before putting his head in his hands, overcome.
Virginia perched on an old wooden chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe we can help each other.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“I think you do. Who are you really, Totto?”
“You don’t know?”
“You’re related to Clara Darden.”
Totto threw back his head and laughed.
Something about the movement caused all the pieces to finally shift into place. The smooth white neck. No Adam’s apple.
Totto wasn’t Clara Darden’s brother.
Virginia studied Totto with new eyes. A woman, not a man. The suit did a lot to conceal her shape, but the hands and neck should have given it away weeks ago. Her wrinkled, mottled skin masked the delicate bone structure of her face.
“You’re Clara Darden.”
“I am.” She raised her head, glaring. “Where’s my watercolor?”
Virginia sidestepped the question. “How did you know I had it?”
“I heard you in the booth, on the telephone, setting up an appointment. You mentioned me and Levon Zakarian. I realized that you’d found it, somehow. After months of me digging through these crates, you’d breezed right in and plucked it out from under me.”
“How did you get a key?”
“From when I taught here, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Surprisingly, it still worked.”
“You sent me threatening letters.”
“Which you ignored.”
“I had to find out more about the painting.”
“You thought it would make you rich.” Venom dripped from Clara’s voice.
This wasn’t going the way Virginia had imagined. She’d lost the upper hand. “How do I know it’s really yours? Levon Zakarian is the painter, according to the rest of the world. Do you have proof?”
Clara turned to Virginia, hate in her eyes. “One of my illustrations is on the back of the watercolor, signed and dated at the bottom. The illustration is the basis for the watercolor, which was a study for the oil painting. Follow the clues, Sherlock.”
“Why didn’t you just sign the oil painting with your own name?”
She leaned back on the crate, her arms braced behind her, head cocked. “We decided to keep it anonymous at first. Me, Felix—my art dealer—and Levon. The Depression was in full force, no one was buying, especially from a woman illustrator, and we figured a big revelation would attract attention.”
“Everyone assumed Levon was the artist, because he was on the train to the Chicago exhibit with Felix when . . .” Virginia drifted off, unable to finish the sentence.
“When it crashed.” Clara spat out the words. “A flash flood took out a bridge, and the train fell into the river below.”
Virginia didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”
Clara nodded and pulled a tissue out from her sleeve, gently dabbing at the skin under her eyes. A habit Virginia had seen every day but only now recognized as something a woman would do, so as not to smear her makeup.
“I have to ask, why weren’t you on the train as well, if you were Clyde?”
“I should have been on the train with them, but I missed it, because someone delayed me. Some would say it was a lucky break. I consider it a terrible tragedy.”
“Don’t say that. You’re alive.” Virginia pressed on. “Why didn’t you claim the paintings back then, when it all happened?”
“There was nothing left to claim. They were all destroyed.”
“Except the untitled one.”
“I didn’t know about that. Not until I saw it in the auction catalog.” She eyed Virginia, sizing her up. “I’d been told it was still around, but I didn’t believe the person who told me. Oliver originally said he had destroyed it.”
“Who’s Oliver?”
“An old lover. A jealous one. Once I’d recovered from the shock of the crash, I reached out to him to find out the truth. By then he’d killed himself.” She stood, her arms crossed. “There, I’m obviously the painter. Do you need more proof? Where is it? I want it back. Now.”
“What happened, after the accident? Where did you go?”
“Why do you deserve to know? Do you have the watercolor or not? It’s mine.”
“I thought I was rescuing it.”
“You stole it.”
“I swear I didn’t mean to. When I discovered it, the watercolor had been collecting dust for decades.”
“I must have it in order to claim The Siren as my own before it goes to auction.”
“The Siren?” Of course. The title fit perfectly. Virginia pictured the painting’s vague figure, which swam in and out of the viewer’s gaze, the wash of blues. “Where did you go after the crash? Where did you disappear to?”
“I have to tell you a story and then you’ll tell me where it is? Is that the game you’re playing?”
After a moment, during which Virginia remained silent—not without great difficulty—Clara dropped her hands to her sides.
Her words came out slowly at first. “After Oliver made me miss the train, I exchanged my ticket and had a telegram sent to Chicago saying I’d be there a day late. I went back to the studio Levon and I shared, livid with myself. And with Oliver.