Chapter 73
Elizabeth naturally forgot her reason for walking to the market and had to dash back inside for spices while I stood waiting outside with my purchases.
"Eliza," I admonished with a shake of my head when she returned, having only remembered garlic cloves.
"Yes, Uncle?"
I raised a brow.
"One more minute," she said, turning on her heel.
"Do not shake your head at me, Uncle," she complained when at last she had both items necessary.
"It is out of adoration and you know it," I replied, offering my arm. "Adoration and a dash of frustration, I suppose."
"You don't have to walk me home," Elizabeth said. "Especially with your arms full."
"I'll let you carry the bags and still walk you home."
Elizabeth gave me a significant look.
"I beg your pardon? Don't you want to be helpful? You used to beg to carry bags for me, usually the ones that weighed more than you."
"You truly are not amusing, Uncle. Try as you may, your sense of humor is severely lacking."
"My students think I'm very amusing," I pointed out.
"You must compensate them financially or with good grades for laughing at your jokes," she said under her breath.
"My, aren't you in a mood," I teased, echoing the same words she had said to me in the courtyard.
"That was slightly amusing, Uncle," Elizabeth admitted, wrinkling her nose as she grinned at me. "You haven't heard anything from Uncle Erik yet, have you?"
If anyone else had asked me that question I would have assumed they had read the newspaper or seen the composite sketch, thus attempting to coax me into admitting I was aware my brother was alive. Elizabeth, however, would have done no such thing. In fact, she would have enthusiastically told me that she'd seen the sketch and asked if I had as well.
"I have not heard from him, no," I answered.
Elizabeth's shoulders sagged. "How utterly disappointing," she said to me.
"Agreed."
"You don't think he's among the missing from the opera Friday night?" she fretted.
"No, I do not."
"Good. I would hate for that terrible Phantom to have hurt my uncle."
I made no reply, preferring to grunt in response.
"You will find your brother," she said resolutely. "So that you may finally introduce me to my other uncle."
I never understood her unwavering confidence in matters that she could not guarantee, but I admired her ability to remain stalwart in her convictions.
"Eliza, I may not be able to stay for game night," I told her as we approached my cousin's home. "I will be there for you to speak to your mother, but I may have to leave early as I have not yet started finalizing plans for my classes."
While Elizabeth may not have been thrilled by my words, she at least nodded in agreement.
"May I help you with finalizing plans?" she asked.
I gave her a sideways look. "How many years have you been teaching university-level art?" I asked.
"Zero," she replied.
"As much as I appreciate the offer, there isn't much you could do."
She shrugged. "How long does it take to make plans?"
"Three hours?" I guessed. If I procrastinated enough, it could take me four hours. If I sat, cracked my knuckles, and went straight to work planning two classes for a four-day week, it would take me only two, but I never managed to be disciplined enough.
"Why don't you do it when you return home?"
"Because I despise every second and put it off as long as possible."
"Well, that isn't very adult of you, Uncle Phelan."
"No, it is not, and pointing it out will not change anything."
"Have you planned the spring art show?" she asked.
I winced at her question, regretting that I had mentioned the biggest project of the last semester. "Yet another task that I have ignored."
"You really ought to sit and complete your assignments, Uncle."
"Yes, I absolutely should, you incredibly wise young lady."
"When are we going to a play since we missed yesterday?"
"If I am able to spare a few hours, I will take you next weekend."
"Really?"
"If I have the time," I stressed.
"You mean to say if you quit procrastinating."
Her words made me smile as she was absolutely correct in the most obnoxious way possible. "If you quit badgering me, darling niece, I will spare four hours for a play and lunch. if you continue to harass me in the most displeasing fashion, I will go without you."
"You would not," she said, elbowing me.
"Wouldn't I?"
She rolled her eyes as we reached the front gate, which I opened for Elizabeth despite my hands being full.
"I will see you tonight for certain, yes?" she asked as I leaned my bags of grocery items against the iron fence and pecked her on the cheek.
"Yes, I will stop by most likely before the games start as promised."
I started to pick up my bags again when the front door opened and Val appeared on the porch.
"Are we going to the gallery?" he asked. In a single sentence he sounded accusatory.
I stared at him for a long moment, unsure of why he already seemed annoyed by my presence. "Are we going?"
Val scoffed. "Yes."
"Now?" I questioned.
He shifted his weight in exaggerated fashion. "We made plans to go before the show closes," Val reminded me. "I suppose I am the only one who remembers that we had made arrangements. Naturally. Why would you recall anything I say to you?"
I sniffed, vaguely recalling that we had spoken of attending. "I can return home and meet you in an hour," I offered.
Val crossed his arms. "I believe the gallery closes at two, doesn't it? By the time you stopped at home and made your way to the gallery we would have twenty minutes. That cannot be nearly enough time, can it?"
He made no attempt to hide his annoyance with the situation, and as much as I desired to verbally push back, Elizabeth stood just inside the gate, head turning back and forth with our exchange.
"Leave your bags here," Elizabeth suggested. "I will put everything into the ice box that needs to be kept cold and hold everything else at the door until you return."
Personally, I preferred skipping the gallery, but felt Val and Elizabeth staring at me.
"You are a genius, Elizabeth," I praised.
An evil genius thwarting my plans to avoid Val, but a genius nonetheless. I carried my bags up the steps and into the foyer, leaving them for Elizabeth to sort out.
When I turned to face Val, I was certain he had no desire to visit the gallery with me, but had merely wanted to cause a fuss and make me look unreliable.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"After you," I said, nodding toward the street.
We made it a full block in silence, and the longer we traveled without a word spoken, the less I knew what to say to Val.
"The newspaper was quite unclear as to what happened Friday night," Val said suddenly. "I suppose it is feasible that a gas line could have been hit and started the fires as you claimed."
"Or the chandelier could have been loaded with explosives, as you speculated," I said under my breath, fighting the urge to roll my eyes at such a ludicrous speculation.
For a long moment I thought that was going to be all we said to one another, a tense exchange meant to instigate an argument and leave us both accusing the other of being a pain in the ass.
"Why are you so angry?" Val asked. It wasn't so much a question, but a demand for an answer.
"I'm not angry," I answered, keeping my voice low.
"You certainly appear and sound angry," he snapped. "I hope this isn't how you treated Elizabeth."
"I have never once mistreated Elizabeth and you know it," I said, my annoyance getting the best of me. I came very close to adding I've probably treated her better than you, but wisely refrained.
If you didn't want to go today, you should have just said so," Val replied.
I had half the mind to turn on my heel, storm back to his house, and collect my bags, but continued walking toward the gallery, hoping we could resume awkward and uncomfortable silence rather than the current unpleasant exchange.
"You have nothing to say?" Val snapped.
My mood was certainly conducive to replying in the most vapid way. I wanted nothing more than to lash out and shove a gigantic slice of my most bitter thoughts down his throat and allow him to choke on it.
This was how the majority of our conversations had gone for years, bickering like insolent children until we chose not to interact for days, sometimes weeks.
"Do you want me to speak?" I challenged.
"Get on with it," he impatiently said.
"Fine, I will tell you exactly what is on my mind. First, you walked outside and immediately seemed irritated," I said at last. "Then you addressed me as if my presence ruined your day and then you accused me of never listening to you. Every time we are together, everything becomes my fault and I feel as though you want me on my knees, groveling for your forgiveness for the slightest misstep."
Val chose to walk slightly ahead of me, staring straight ahead with his tongue rolling against the inside of his cheek. I wanted to tell him that he looked equally incensed and my tone was a reaction to his.
"But you did forget about attending the gallery today," he pointed out.
I pursed my lips. "Yes," I said, "that was my world-ending, catastrophic mistake. Shall I confess my misdeeds in writing or is a verbal apology acceptable?"
"You forget because you don't care," Val grumbled.
"I forgot because I have been…"
I couldn't tell him that I had been under a great deal of stress since Friday and felt myself on the verge of a mental breakdown. Nor could I tell him Abigail had disappeared and her shop was up for sale. Anything I confessed would be used against me in the future.
"I have been focused on the end of the school year. The next few weeks are daunting and require quite a bit of attention to detail. There is no need for you to take my absent-mindedness personally."
"You are under more pressure now than you were at the bank," he pointed out.
"It's a different type of pressure," I answered, "with a lot more satisfaction when the year comes to an end."
We passed a building with dozens of posters for various theater performances, including Don Juan Triumphant. Val flicked the poster with his finger and spit on the ground.
"Did you hear that the Chief of Police is running a sketch of the phantom in tonight's paper?" Val asked.
"No, I did not. Where did you hear this?" I asked.
"Someone at Sterois," he answered. "One of the gendarmes mentioned it last night when he was there with his wife."
"I suppose I will see the sketch when I return home tonight," I said.
"I have a copy," Val answered. "The officer was handing them out while I was taking a break."
My breath hitched. "You have a copy?"
Val reached for his breast pocket, and I realized he not only had obtained a copy, but he had it on him. "Do you want to see it?"
I hesitated, attempting to appear the appropriate amount of interest and surprise so that he would not be aware that I'd already seen the sketch at the precinct.
Before I could answer, Val unfolded the paper and handed it to me. My pace slowed and I glanced at the creased image, bracing myself for the performance of a lifetime.
"Who does that look like?" Val asked.
My heart was in my throat, my palms sweaty and a peculiar feeling in the pit of my stomach. I felt strangely light-headed, same as I had when I exited the theater Friday night and found myself alone in the alley.
"I don't know," I said, barely able to hear my own trembling voice.
"Because you're not looking at the paper."
Val was correct; I held the paper in both hands, but kept my gaze trained straight ahead.
Val pulled me to a stop and nodded, a twinkle in his eyes of unexpected amusement that I found offensive, as if he relished Erik being permanently taken from my life in the most horrific fashion.
He had the audacity to smile at me as he spoke. "GO on, tell me who that looks like."
Jaw clenched, I finally looked down at the paper and stared for a long moment, brow furrowing in confusion as the paper distributed at Sterois was not the same depiction of Erik I had seen at the station. In fact, it wasn't him at all.
"Hamish," Val said. "Right?"
"Hamish?" I questioned. "Who is that?"
"From the bank," Vali replied. "The two of you started at the same time."
I continued to stare at the image, wondering what in the hell had happened and who this fellow was or what crime he was accused of committing.
"You know," Val insisted. "Hamish. The one with the aunt who came to bring him lunch every day like he was in primary school. His hair always smelled like he'd lit it on fire."
Vaguely I remembered the person Val spoke of from my days at the bank. "He was released from employment, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was fired for stealing. Perhaps now he has turned to murder and arson."
Clearly there was some type of mix-up between the images, which would be clarified in the evening newspaper. I folded the paper and handed it back to Val, who seemed annoyed by my reaction.
"I thought you'd be more interested," Val said. "Seeing as there is a possibility the Phantom of the Opera is someone we both knew."
"Is that what you want?" I asked.
"Of course not," Val retorted. "I want absolutely no part of this madman on the loose. In fact, I told Elizabeth she is not allowed to be in the theater district for an evening performance until the ghost has been brought to justice. God knows what he would do to a girl her age."
I stared sharply at Val, who didn't acknowledge me as the gallery came into view.
"Elizabeth would not be left unattended in the theater district," I pointed out.
"Well, according to the newspaper, Christine Daae was in the same room as two thousand other people and the wretched bastard disappeared down a trapdoor with that poor girl bound and gagged."
"Mademoiselle Daae was not bound and gagged," I said.
"Did she follow willingly?"
I looked away from Val and took a breath, attempting to justify my brother's actions. "No, I would not say Christine followed willingly, but quite honestly, if Er…if the man in question, who was in error had left her, she probably would not have survived. The entire stage was in flames moments later."
"In error," Val mumbled. "Did you read what he did to that girl?"
"I skimmed through the speculative accounts," I said.
Val shook his head. "Speculative? You sound as though you defend this monster, Phelan," he said.
"Not defending," I answered. "And you should not be surprised that I am not one to crucify a man without the full details."
I stepped ahead of Val and opened the gallery door, peering inside to find a large number of people admiring the artwork hung on the walls and displayed on stands throughout the building.
Several people were standing in front of my painting that had been sold to Florine originally before Bernard had apparently twisted her arm and convinced her to return the check so that he could purchase it instead.
"Monsieur Kimmer!" Theo said, appearing from the center of the crowd. "What a delightful surprise to have the artist himself with us this afternoon."
Stefan, with his deer-like gait, rushed to my side. "How wonderful to see you, Phelan. I was hoping at least one artist would attend the closing."
"Would you care to join us?" Theo asked.
"Shall I bring you a drink?" Stefan inquired. "And please allow me to take your coat."
"Ladies and gentleman, what an absolute honor to have the artist with us today. I am certain he would be pleased to answer your questions," Theo told the crowd of people staring back at me.
Stefan patted me on the shoulder and said, "By all means, tell them about yourself," before he scurried off again.
My throat went dry, my heart thumping against my rib cage as I eyed the people who had come to the gallery, all looking expectantly at me for some thoughtful or wise commentary on my paintings or my life.
It felt like I had been placed in front of a firing squad and asked if I had any parting words.
"I, uh…" I said hoarsely, clearing my throat. "I, um, I wasn't aware that…" I swallowed, attempting to focus on something besides the two dozen people awaiting my reply. "I didn't know I was going to be asked to speak."
Standing in front of my students was comfortable as I was teaching an assignment and not talking about myself. When the conversation was directed at me, it was in front of familiar faces, not complete strangers. In front of an unfamiliar group of people, however, I felt terribly out of place.
"Phelan is quite modest," Val said as he snatched a program from the box by the door and tapped it against his open palm. "And as such, he struggles with promoting himself. Quite honestly, it's probably his worst quality."
The crowd directed their attention to my cousin, who looked far more at ease than I felt.
"Forgive me," Val said. "How rude of me not to state my name. I am Phelan Kimmer's cousin, Valgarde Joshua Kimmer. I have not yet had the pleasure of being able to admire Phelan's work on display, so if you wouldn't mind, I would like to conduct an interview of sorts with the artist."
My heart threatened to leap out of my throat, and I felt skeptical that his questions would be ones I felt able to answer in front of a crowd.
Val turned his head toward me and whispered, "I'll keep the questions simple and pertaining to the art. Is that suitable?"
"Yes," I answered, having no idea what else to say.
Val clapped his hands together. "Now, how many of you consider yourself experts in art?"
The crowd of people murmured, but no one raised their hand.
"No one?" Val said with a nod. "Thank goodness, because I am not either and I was certainly concerned I'd have to pretend I was knowledgeable. Now I can go on floundering and no one will be the wiser."
The crowd responded with chuckles and Val placed his hand in the center of my back, guiding me forward.
"Shall we start in the rear of the gallery and make our way back here?" Val asked. "Is that acceptable?"
The crowd collectively nodded and Val offered a warm smile in return. "Wonderful," he said. "You are one of the nicest groups of people I've ever encountered. Except you there. Yes, you. Monsieur is that your wife? Yes? Madame, is he always a curmudgeon? No? Only on Sundays? Goodness me, this is like Sunday confessional."
The group of people chuckled to themselves, their focus completely on Val, who was clearly in his element and in control of the conversation. I marveled at the ease of which he transformed into a showman and the pleasant confidence he displayed that I knew I was incapable of ever achieving.
Val and I made our way toward the back of the gallery with the gallery patrons behind us.
"Relax your shoulders," Val said to me.
"Do not tell me what to do."
"I am attempting to help you," Val said. "Help that you did not ask for, I realize, but-"
"But it's quite obvious I am a stammering fool in front of a crowd."
"It' obvious you are not accustomed to being the center of attention," Val said. "But honestly, Phelan, try to relax. The afternoon will go splendidly."
I took a breath, which did nothing to settle my nerves.
"That one is yours, correct?" he asked, pointing to our right.
"Yes," I answered, still feeling completely out of my element and borderline queasy.
We stood before Mother and Daughter, the only drawing I had on display. The crowd gathered around, two rows deep, while Val and I stood to the left to allow everyone a view of the large drawing.
Val smiled to himself, admiring the depiction of Elizabeth and Carmen that I had done many years earlier, when Elizabeth had been around the age of six.
"Mother and Daughter," Val said, his voice filled with pride. "Pencil drawing?"
"It's actually ink," I answered, immediately aware that my voice was far too low for everyone to hear me. "This was done in ink," I said in a much more powerful voice.
"Do you prefer ink to pencil?" Val asked.
"Pencil is more forgiving," I answered. "Ink, however, requires more concentration, in my experience."
Val nodded. "What was the inspiration for this magnificent drawing?"
It felt a bit ridiculous to answer as Val was already aware of the subjects, but I kept my gaze trained on the painting rather than the crowd. "My dearest niece, Elizabeth Elaine, and her mother, Carmen," I said. "Eliza has long since been one of my favorite subjects."
"What makes Elizabeth one of your favorite subjects?" Val asked.
I smiled to myself, able to speak of my niece with ease. "She has always been quite fascinated with seeing herself on paper. Once she realized that I was somewhat proficient at drawing her, she asked to pose."
"'Somewhat proficient'," Val said, raising a brow. "Your niece was skeptical, it seems."
"Elizabeth would draw a single line on a piece of paper and think of herself as Rembrandt. My art didn't truly impress her until she was twelve or thirteen, I believe."
To my surprise, the crowd seemed amused by my words and Val smiled back at me.
"Do you remember what was happening in this moment that you so skillfully captured?" Val asked, stepping back to give more focus to my drawing.
"Elizabeth wanted a kitten," I said, recalling the afternoon in late November, "but she is terribly allergic. Still, while Carmen was knitting her daughter a sweater, Elizabeth attempted to drag yarn around the house as if a kitten would magically appear. She finally sat on the stool at her mother's feet, deciding ten minutes was far too long to wait for her pet to show up."
"So she was sulking?"
"She was broken-hearted, I would say."
Val crossed his arms and turned his head to the side. "Surely the story does not end there."
I inhaled, remembering how disappointed Eliza had been when her parents explained that her eyes were nearly sealed shut and her throat scratchy because she was horribly allergic to the cat that lived behind the bank. It was a very friendly long-haired gray cat with stripes that kept the bank free of mice and was rewarded handsomely with food from the bank employees.
Every time Elizabeth came to visit, she wanted to see Gray Cat, and every time Gray Cat rubbed up against Eliza, the poor girl was instantly affected. Her love for the cat was unfortunately one that caused her quite a bit of discomfort for hours after she had washed her hands and changed clothes.
"I have no allergies to cats, but I am horribly allergic to spring," I said. "Sympathizing with Elizabeth, I brought her a little stuffed animal of a kitten from Papa Milo's gift shop the following day."
Val smiled to himself. "Did you draw Elizabeth with her toy cat?"
"Several times, yes," I said. "And I know for certain despite no longer playing with dolls and stuffed animals, she still has the toy cat on her bed."
Val turned to the crowd. "And now you know the story about Mother and Daughter," he said.
The crowd shuffled toward the next painting, aside from one woman who waved to me.
"I'll be there in a moment," I said to Val as I remained behind.
The woman looked to be about my age, short and thin with wheat-colored hair and a bright red sweater over a burnt orange dress. She was quite plain, but appeared very eager to speak with me.
"Good afternoon, Madame," I greeted her.
"Monsieur Kimmer, would you happen to have any of the drawings with the little girl and toy cat for sale?"
"Not on display, but I do have a collection at home that I could look through and see if anything would be suitable for purchase."
"I would very much like to acquire one with the toy cat if possible."
"The toy cat?"
"Yes," she replied with a nod. "As a gift for my father's birthday in May." The woman shifted her weight. "He is the toy maker."
My eyes widened. "Your father is Papa Milo?" I questioned. "The one who made the cat?"
The woman smiled warmly at me. "The very one. He will so tickled to receive a drawing by a famous artist that includes one of those silly little cats."
"The cat was hardly silly," I said. "Given that it saved Eliza from all the tears she would have shed over Gray Cat, I would say it's quite the remarkable work of art. Magical, even."
She eagerly nodded. "I suppose you are correct. I am mistaken in calling his craft 'silly'. What are you asking for the drawing?"
Quite frankly, I was tempted to say it was at no charge, but Theo would not have appreciated my generosity in the matter.
"When you have been able to view the sketches, make an offer," I said.
"I've never purchased art before," she said. "I don't want my offer to be insulting."
"I assure you, I will not be insulted," I said. "I'm honored you are interested."
"How may I contact you for the sale?" she asked.
"May I bring the drawing to you at the toy shop?"
The woman thought for a moment. "My father is always there, six days a week."
"I will meet you there on the seventh day then."
At last she nodded. "The shop is closed tomorrow. Does that suit you?"
I nodded. "Noon?"
She smiled back at me. "I will see you tomorrow at noon," she said before catching up with the rest of the gallery patrons.