When I didn’t show up to take care of Gary Harper’s autopsy in the morning, Marino wasted no time calling the Williamsburg police. Midmorning two sheepish officers showed up at the mansion, chains clanking and chewing tracks into the smooth, heavy snow. After the depressing rounds of questions about Sterling Harper’s death, her body was loaded into an ambulance headed for Richmond, and the officers deposited me at headquarters in downtown Williamsburg, where I was plied with coffee and doughnuts until Marino picked me up.
“No way I would’ve stayed in that house all night,” Marino went on. “I don’t care if it was twenty below. I’d freeze my ass off before I’d spend the night with a stiff–”
“Do you know where Princess Street is?” I interrupted.
“What about it?” His mirrored shades turned toward me.
The snow was white fire in the sun, the streets fast turning to slush.
“I’m interested in a five-oh-seven Princess Street address,” I replied in a tone indicating I expected him to take me there.
The address was at the edge of the historic district, tucked between other businesses in Merchants’
Square. In the recently plowed parking lot were no more than a dozen cars, their roofs thatched with snow. I was relieved to see that The Village Frame Shoppe & Gallery was open.
Marino didn’t ask questions as I got out. He probably sensed I wasn’t in the mood to answer any at the moment. There was only one other customer inside the gallery, a young man in a black overcoat casually riffling through a rack of prints while a woman with long blond hair worked an adding machine behind the counter.
“May I help you?” the blond woman inquired, blandly looking up at me.
“That depends on how long you’ve worked here,” I answered.
The cool, dubious way she looked me over made me realize I probably did look like hell. I’d slept in my coat. My hair was a god-awful mess. Self-consciously reaching up to smooth down a cowlick, I realized I had somehow managed to lose an earring. I told the woman who I was and drove home the point by producing the thin black wallet containing my brass medical examiner’s shield. “I’ve worked here two years,” she said. “I’m interested in a painting your shop framed probably before your time,” I told her. “A portrait Gary Harper may have brought in.”
“Oh, God. I heard about it on the radio this morning. About what happened to him. Oh, God, how awful.”
She was sputtering. “You’ll need to speak to Mr. Hilgeman.” She disappeared in back to fetch him.
Mr. Hilgeman was a tweedy, distinguished-looking gentleman who stated in no uncertain terms,
“Gary Harper hasn’t been in this shop in years, and no one here knew him well, at least not to my knowledge.”
“Mr. Hilgeman,” I said, “over the fireplace mantel in Gary Harper’s library is a portrait of a blond girl. It was framed in your shop, possibly many years ago. Do you remember it?”
There wasn’t the faintest spark of recognition in the gray eyes peering at me over reading glasses.
“It appears very old,” I explained. “A good imitation but a rather unusual treatment of the subject.
The girl is nine, ten, at the most twelve, but she’s dressed more like a young woman, in white, and sitting on a small bench holding a silver hairbrush.”
I could have kicked myself for not taking a Polaroid photograph of the painting. My camera was inside my medical bag and the thought had never occurred to me. I had been too distracted.
“You know,” Mr. Hilgeman said, his eyes lighting up, “I think I might remember what you’re talking about. A very pretty girl, but unusual. Yes. Rather suggestive, as I recall.”
I didn’t prod him.
“Must have been at least fifteen years ago…. Let me see.” He touched an index finger to his lips.
“No.”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t me.”
“It wasn’t you? What wasn’t you?” I asked.
“I didn’t do the framing. That would have been Clara. An assistant who worked here then. I do believe — in fact I’m certain — Clara did the framing on that one. A rather expensive job and not really worth it, if you must know. The painting wasn’t terribly good. Actually,” he added with a frown, “it was one of her least successful efforts–“