On December 9, 1948, my cousin was attacked and abducted from the small guest cottage at the back of our property. As I write these words nearly a full year later, Annie is presumed dead by the local police, and I fear her body is buried somewhere in the three hundred acres behind my home.
In the aftermath of this tragedy, many of my Spring Brook neighbors have reached out to offer their prayers and fellowship. I have compiled this book as a token of appreciation for their support. Despite my differences with my cousin, I always believed she had a creative spark, and this volume is a memorial to her slight achievements. Collected here are all the finished paintings left by Anne Catherine Barrett at the time of her demise. When possible, I have included titles and dates of composition. May these paintings stand as a tribute to a sad and tragic life cut short.
George Barrett
November 1949
Spring Brook, New Jersey
I start turning the pages. The book is filled with blurry black-and-white photographs of Annie’s canvases. Paintings called Daffodils and Tulips have wiggly rectangles that don’t look anything like flowers. And a painting called Fox features diagonal lines slashed across the canvas. There’s nothing remotely realistic in the book—just abstract shapes and splatters and blobs of paint, like something off the spin-art machines at a church carnival.
It’s a massive disappointment. “These look nothing like the drawings in my cottage.”
“But painting is one thing and drawing is another,” Sofia says. “Some artists use different styles for different mediums. Or they just like to mix it up. One of my favorites, Gerhard Richter, he spent his whole career moving between very abstract and very realistic paintings. Maybe Annie liked both.”
“But if that’s true, the book doesn’t answer anything.”
“Ah, but wait,” Sofia says. “There’s still one more thing I need to show you. Yesterday I called over to the courthouse, because that’s where they keep the old wills. They’re a matter of public record, anyone can view them. And you’d be amazed by the things people are willing to share after they’re dead.” She opens the folder and removes a pair of blurry photocopies. “I didn’t expect Annie Barrett to have a will—she died much too young—but I did find the last will and testament of George Barrett. He passed in 1974 and left everything to his wife, Jean. And here’s where things get really interesting. Jean retired to Florida and lived until 1991. And when she passed, she left most of her estate to her daughters. But she also left fifty thousand dollars to a niece, Dolores Jean Campbell of Akron, Ohio. Now, do you know why I find that surprising?”
And at once I understand why the book is such a revelation. “Because Jean and George didn’t have siblings. George said so in his introduction.”
“Exactly! So who is this mystery niece and where did she come from? I wondered to myself: What if Jean thinks of this girl as a niece, but she’s really the child of a cousin? What if she’s a consequence of Annie’s ‘irresponsible’ and ‘immoral’ behavior? I started wondering: Maybe there’s more to the story than George is letting on. Maybe Jean felt some obligation to look after the girl.”
I do the arithmetic in my head. “If Dolores was born in 1948, she wouldn’t be that old. She could still be alive.”
“She could indeed.” Sofia pushes a small square of paper across the table. It has the name “Dolores Jean Campbell” and a ten-digit phone number. “That’s the area code for Akron, Ohio. She’s living in a retirement community called Rest Haven.”
“You talked to her?”
“And deny you the thrill of calling this number? Not a chance, Mallory. But I’m very curious to know who answers the phone. I’d love to hear what you find out.”
“Thank you. This is incredible.”
From inside the house, there’s a sound of breaking glass, followed by uproarious laughter. Sofia glances at her son. “I think your father’s telling dirty jokes again. I should get inside before he embarrasses me.” She stands up. “But tell me again why you’re interested in all of this?”
“Mallory found some pictures in her cottage,” Adrian says. “Stashed under her floor. We already went over this.”
Sofia laughs. “Mijo, you were a horrible liar at age four and you’re even worse now. This morning you said Mallory found the pictures in a closet.”
“Under the floor of a closet,” Adrian insists.
Sofia gives me a look that says: Do you believe this kid? “If you guys don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. But I’m going to suggest you both be careful. If you start poking your noses into family secrets, someone may bite them off.”
* * *
I’m tempted to call Dolores immediately, but it’s late, nearly ten o’clock, and Adrian suggests I’ll get better results in the morning. “She’s probably asleep.”
I know he’s right, I’m just impatient. I need information and I need it quickly. I tell him about my latest confrontation with the Maxwells. “I showed them Anya’s drawings. I explained how the pictures keep turning up in my cottage. But they don’t believe me, Adrian. And I mean of course they don’t believe me! It sounds crazy. I know it sounds crazy. Caroline acted like maybe I’m drawing the pictures, like I’m making up the whole story to get attention.”
“We’re going to prove you’re telling the truth,” Adrian says. “But first we should go to the house and get some churros.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re awesome, and they will make you forget about all your problems. Trust me.”
We return to the house and find the dinner party has kicked into a higher gear. There’s Top 40 on the stereo, everyone has moved into the living room, and Ignacio seems more achispado than ever. He’s demonstrating the paso doble, a dance he claims to have mastered in his youth, and Sofia is his surprisingly game partner, shaking her skirts and following his lead. Their guests are clapping and cheering and Adrian just shakes his head, embarrassed and exasperated. “This happens every time they have people over,” he says. “My dad’s such a ham.”
We grab two cans of seltzer from the refrigerator. Then Adrian fills a plate with churros, drizzles them with chocolate sauce, and brings me outside for a walking tour of the garden. He says his father’s been working on it for thirty years, that it’s his own personal Versailles.
“What’s a Versailles?”
“Like the palace? In France?”
He seems surprised that I’ve never heard of it, but what can I tell you? People in South Philly don’t spend a lot of time talking about French royalty. Still, I don’t want to look like an idiot, so I shovel on more lies.
“Oh, Versailles,” I say, laughing. “I misheard you.”
We wander the trails and Adrian introduces me to all the garden’s secrets: the family of cardinals nesting in the sour cherry tree. A small alcove for private prayer with a shrine to the Virgin Mary. And a wooden bench on the banks of the koi pond, next to the waterfall. We stop and share our churros with some of the fish. There must be seven or eight of them, bobbing openmouthed on the surface of the water.
“This is a really special place.”
Adrian shrugs. “I’d be happier with a swimming pool. Like the Maxwells have.”