Page 13 of One Last Secret

Two paintings capture my attention above all others. One is of the inlet as seen from the second-floor balcony through the window in the schoolroom. The vanishing point is highlighted with an ethereal glow. The tall cliffs that border the inlet seem to pinch the inlet, towering over as though imprisoning the water while simultaneously pulling the viewer toward that mythical point where Celeste says everyone vanishes. Even without delving into the abstract, Victor’s talent is clear in this painting.

His talent is just as clear in the second and most powerful painting, but I don’t have room to feel admiration for the skill it takes to perfectly capture the curve of a delicate cheekbone, the sparkle in a crystal blue eye or the weightless rays of blonde hair cascading around smooth, creamy skin. I have room for nothing but shock as the image of my sister meets my eyes.

This Annie is not the ghostly apparition I first see in a similar art closet at the Ashford House. The eyes are not empty black holes, and the skin is not gray and translucent.

No, this is no specter. This is my sister, as she was alive and vibrant. This is she as she looked when she vanished from my life never to return.

I take a picture and send it to Sean. His work has proven valid. My sister was here in Monterey. And somehow or another, she knew Victor Holloway.

CHAPTER SIX

I return to my room, intent on asking Victor about the painting the moment I see him in the morning. I don't sleep a wink the rest of the night. It's all I can do not to dash to his room that instant and demand to know how he knew my sister.

But I don’t. Victor is mercurial, and I’m not sure yet how far that pendulum swings. He certainly won’t take kindly to being woken by his new governess hysterically asking about the subject of a painting he completed over thirty years ago. Besides, if thatwasAnnie, then it’s certain that she didn’t use her real name. There is precious little family resemblance between us, and what little there is must certainly have vanished after thirty years, so it’s not like he could look at me and know that I’m the sister of a woman whose portrait he painted when he was in his twenties.

As soon as the sun is up, though, I shower and dress hurriedly and rush downstairs. I am the first up, of course, but if I greet Victor with coffee and breakfast, then he might be more amenable to talking.

I nearly run headlong into Evelyn. She starts slightly, then sighs. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” she scolds. “Would you like some coffee?”

Apparently, I’mnotthe first person up. I’d completely forgotten about poor Evelyn. “Oh. Yes, thank you. I’m so sorry. I’m used to being the first person awake.”

She smiles. “Well, you’ll have to work pretty hard to get up before me. I get up before dawn.”

“I don’t think I’ll try to beat you at that.”

She laughs a remarkably pretty sound. "Cream or sugar?"

“Just cream, thank you.” I often take my coffee black, but the cream will help it go down faster, and I must speak to Victoras soon as I can. To that end, I ask, “When does Victor usually wake?”

“He’s probably awake now,” she said. “He’s usually in his studio by five in the morning.”

I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. The time is six-fifteen. My heart sinks. If he’s in his studio, he’ll be in no mood to talk to me about an old painting. Perhaps Evelyn knows something.

I take the coffee and risk asking. "I found a painting last night in the basement. There's a woman in the painting: tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Do you perhaps know who she is?"

Evelyn shrugs. “Probably an old crush. I don’t know, though. I’ve never seen a woman like that here. Victor doesn’t date much anymore, but when he does, he goes for dark hair.”

I think of Celeste’s raven-black locks and decide that makes sense. She certainly couldn’t have gotten that from Annie.

That, and she’s twelve years too young to be Annie’s daughter. I need to get myself under control.

“Well, I suppose I’ll ask him later.”

“Just don’t interrupt him in his studio,” Evelyn warns. “He doesn’t like that.”

“Yes, I’ve learned that the hard way.”

“Ah. I’m sorry. He’s normally a very sweet man, but he gets weird about his art. I guess that’s normal with painters.”

“I imagine so.” I sip my coffee and ask, “How long have you worked for him?”

“Four years. He hired me after his last housekeeper retired.”

“She vanished?” I probe.

Evelyn frowns. “Huh?”

“Never mind. How have you enjoyed working for him?”

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