She gave us a friendly greeting, and I remembered how Jack had admitted that they had once dated. It was only when I spotted the large emerald-cut engagement ring on her left hand that I relaxed. Which was foolish, really. I’d learned in my short marriage that there was nothing and nobody that could separate us. Except me.
We followed Mandy into the lobby of the museum, then up the stairs beneath the giant whale skeleton dangling from the two-story ceiling. I heard the murmur of voices that had started almost as a faint whisper grow louder as we followed Mandy through several exhibits of old silver, Native American artifacts, and ancient weaponry. I began humming “Mamma Mia” as we neared the textiles-and-fashion exhibit, where a flurry of otherworldly activity surrounding a midnight blue beaded evening gown in a glass case vied for my attention. Instead I grasped Jack’s arm and hummed even louder until Mandy unlocked a door and led us through it.
“Are you all right, Melanie?” Her green eyes looked at me with concern.
Jack patted my hand. “She gets this way sometimes when she’s trying to remember an ABBA lyric. She has to hum her way through it.”
Mandy laughed. “That’s adorable! My mother loves ABBA, too. I’m not much of a fan. Definitely for older tastes.”
She kept walking as if she was unaware that she’d just implied that I was old enough to be her mother. I tried to think of a way to let her know that I was probably only a decade older than she, but couldn’t find the words. Jack pressed his hand against mine on his arm, trapping it as if he was afraid I might strike out.
“Here we go,” Mandy said, opening up another door and stepping into an empty office. A group of paintings—all with cardboard protective corners on the frames—had been leaned against a wall. Four smaller portraits sat on top of the desk, facedown on Bubble Wrap.
“This should be all of the art from the Vanderhorst family found in the museum’s collections. I chose an empty office so you’d have room to look through everything. Just please don’t touch anything without putting on a pair of these.” She indicated a box with rubber gloves. “And do not remove anything from this room or we will all be in trouble.” She looked surreptitiously outside the door, then closed it softly behind her. “I’m not supposed to be doing this, so if anyone asks, tell them that you’re considering a huge donation.”
“Got it,” Jack said with a wink.
Mandy’s pale cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “I’ve got a meeting in five minutes, so I’m going to leave you two alone. If you’re done before my meeting is over, please lock this door behind you and tell the receptionist in the lobby to let me know so I can put everything back. Feel free to take photographs, but no flash, please.”
We said good-bye, and she left. I waited until the door had closed and said, “She’s a bit bossy, isn’t she?”
Jack gave his trademark grin. “I find it admirable when a woman isn’t afraid to show she’s in charge.”
A flood of heat swept through me as I recalled just how admirable he found it. I put my tote bag on the ground and pulled out a pen and a notebook, along with my phone for pictures.
“Let’s do this systematically,” I said. “We’ll move from left to right, back to front. While you hold up the portrait, I’ll write down whatever is on the nameplate on the frame and then take a photo. I’ve already prepared a spreadsheet where we can cross-reference—”
“Mellie?” Jack interrupted.
I lifted my head from the notebook on which I’d been numbering lines. “Hmm?”
“Can we just look at the portraits and see if there’s anything that might help our investigation? There’re only twelve, so it shouldn’t take that long. If we find something, then we can do all that other stuff. Okay?”
I looked at the portraits just begging to be organized and categorized by my methods, which were bound to be superior to any museum’s. “I guess.” I placed my notebook next to my bag, then grabbed two pairs of gloves from the box before squatting down next to Jack and handing him a pair.
It was a pleasant surprise to see that the paintings had been organized in chronological order with the oldest in front. It was comforting to know that if I ever got tired of selling houses, I could consider a career in museum curating. Or as a librarian.
The first four portraits showed the earliest Vanderhorsts, who predated the house on Tradd Street. Because I lived in their descendants’ house and had become intimately acquainted with more than one of their family members, putting faces to the names on the family tree was a bit like discovering long-gone relatives. Except they weren’t my relatives, and they weren’t exactly gone.
Jack quickly passed over the next paintings, of a prized horse and of a camellia bush in full bloom; then he paused at one of a peacock, its glorious tail spread out in splendor.
“It’s signed by Elizabeth Grosvenor,” he said.
My throat tightened as I remembered the Revolutionary War spy who’d helped me find the rubies buried in the Gallen Hall cemetery. I lifted my phone and snapped a picture.
“At some point, we need to find a way to get this back to Gallen Hall to hang next to Eliza’s portrait in the stairwell. But I’m not going to ask Anthony. It just doesn’t make sense to have it here, hidden in storage.”