“There are art classes, yeah,” Jasmine said, although she hadn’t taken them. She watched the woman leave the convenience store and return to her daughter and husband, leaving Jasmine’s drawing behind.
Jasmine wadded up the paper in her fist and prepared to throw it away. At the last second, she thought better of it, smoothed it out, and put it in her bag. She liked it. Returning to the creative pieces of her heart felt like a Christmas gift to herself.
Hours later, Jasmine made herself a quiche and sat in front of the television to eat. Cynthia had texted her numerous times, asking her to come over to the house for extended Christmas celebrations. But Jasmine was too exhausted after a day on her feet. She wrote back.
JASMINE: Tomorrow. We’ll see each other tomorrow.
For a little while, she flicked through the channels, telling herself not to watch the news. But of course, just as she had every night since Thanksgiving, she wound up there, searchingfor news about Larry. There had been only one other segment about him—an announcement of a painting he’d sold for half a billion dollars. The number astounded her.
Cynthia had told her not to go digging around for news about Larry. But Jasmine couldn’t help it if the news came to her, rather than the other way around.
And tonight, miracle of miracles, they had more news about Larry.
But this time, the news was far more dramatic than last time.
The lady news anchor was a redhead wearing an emerald-green blouse and bright lipstick. But she frowned as she announced, “Tonight we have news of a developing story out of Nederland, Colorado.” Here, they showed a photograph of Larry, standing in front of the cabin. “For weeks, we’ve been praising a rather new artist on the scene by the name of Larry Calvin Johannes. His spectacular paintings have racked up millions upon millions of dollars and made him something of a household name. But journalist Isabella thought she smelled a rat and brought us a different story—one of secrets, lies, and disappearances.”
Jasmine leaned so far forward in her chair that she nearly dropped her plate of quiche. She hadn’t touched it. It was dry and cold on her plate.
“Evening, Fran,” the journalist Isabella said, wherever she was videoing in from. The dark blue background behind her made it hard to tell whether she was indoors or outdoors, in Colorado or not.
Had she met Larry? Had she been to Nederland? What did she think she would find?
“It’s been a few months since I traveled to Nederland to research for the puff piece about Larry Calvin Johannes,” Isabella said. “Like everyone, I fell in love with Larry’s paintings and his iconic eye. But there were whispers in the town ofNederland that gave me pause.” Isabella went on to explain that Larry had once been married to a woman named Henrietta Johannes and that most everyone in Nederland assumed Henrietta was dead.
“The gossip channels are healthy in Nederland,” Isabella said, “as they are in every small town across the United States. But when I did some digging, I found no record of Henrietta Johannes after 1975. To get a full picture of our new ‘savior of the art world,’ I think we need to know more about Larry and about Henrietta. We need to hear the whole story.”
The video cut from Isabella and back to Fran, the redhead at the news desk. “We’re asking you, our fellow Americans, to come forward with any information you might have about Henrietta Johannes.” Again, they showed the young woman’s photograph, a young woman with a soft and nervous smile and an adorable early seventies dress on. “If you know anything about the whereabouts of Henrietta Johannes, please contact our station or send a message to our contact box on our website.” She read the website’s name and included the link on the screen above her head. “Thank you. We’ll be back with more news after this commercial break.”
When a commercial for a very sweet cereal came on, Jasmine burst into tears so violently that they sent the quiche and its plate to the ground. Tears were in hot shoots down her cheeks.
She couldn’t believe what she’d just seen.
Chapter Twelve
It was the third week of January, and three weeks after Reese’s last radiation treatment. At least, “last” was what they privately prayed for. Oriana and Reese were in the living room of their house, watching snow flutter down outside as their grandson Benny played with Legos on the floor. Oriana sipped a glass of wine while Reese drank tea and gave Benny advice on where to put which Lego next. There was a little more color in Reese’s cheeks, Oriana knew, and his appetite had come back a little bit, enough that he’d requested lasagna last night and eaten one and a half pieces. But Oriana also knew that she couldn’t get her hopes up, not yet. The doctors said they wouldn’t know if the cancer was fully gone for a while. More tests had to be done.
When their daughter Alexa came to pick up their grandson Benny later that evening, Oriana checked her phone for the first time in hours. It was one of her more prominent buyers, a Manhattanite named Malcolm who’d been sniffing around for a Larry Calvin Johannes original. She hadn’t heard from him since before Christmas and had assumed all this talk about Larry’s missing wife had called him off.
She realized she’d been wrong about that.
“Everyone’s talking about him,” Malcolm said, excitement in his voice. “My friends who already have his paintings tease me endlessly. They can’t believe I haven’t joined their ranks.”
Oriana pressed her forehead against the chill of the kitchen window. She wanted to ask Malcolm about his wife.Doesn’t the fact that he might have murdered someone turn you off? Doesn’t the fact that she’s “missing” indicate something’s off?
But Malcolm answered her questions without first hearing them. “It’s strange that this Larry fellow almost died in anonymity. He’s a killer painter, for one. And he might be a killer! I mean, it’s just a fascinating story when you look at it closely. It really captivates us art buyers. It’s the kind of story you want to tell your friends when they come by to look at your art. And—as I said—it’s the kind of story my friends are using to make me endlessly envious of their collections! Oriana, I need a Larry Calvin Johannes original!”
Oriana wanted to sigh, but bit her tongue to keep it in. “Malcolm, I have a very limited supply at this point.”
“Tell him to paint more,” Malcolm barked. “His wife is already gone. He must have hours and hours of time to commit.”
Malcolm hung up, leaving Oriana rolling her eyes. Resentment boiled in her stomach. Reese entered the kitchen to refill his tea and caught her expression before she could change it. “What’s up?”
“Turns out they love that he’s a killer,” Oriana said. “It ups his mystique.”
“He might not be a killer,” Reese pointed out.
“Sure. But I think it would be worse for my career if I proved she was alive,” Oriana said, rubbing her forehead and reaching for the bottle of wine on the counter.
