I snapped a photo of the next painting, too, one of Carrollton Vanderhorst in a Colonial-era waistcoat and breeches—the same Carrollton who’d built the mausoleum at Gallen Hall and who’d used the old mausoleum bricks to create the cistern at our house on Tradd Street, thus causing me all sorts of problems. He’d also murdered his son, whose forgiveness and reunion with him I’d witnessed. Right before Marc had been dragged inside the mausoleum and Jack had almost died. Jack made no comment but flipped the painting forward as soon as I’d snapped the photo.
He slowly fanned through the next few paintings, reading out familiar names from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, then stopped. “Ah, now, here’s one we should look at more closely.” He moved aside the paintings we’d already examined and stood so he could hold up the painting of a Confederate officer on horseback, saber at his side, steely gray eyes staring at the viewer. “?‘Captain John Vanderhorst, First Regiment, South Carolina Cavalry,’?” Jack read from the nameplate.
“That’s the painting Yvonne said we should try to acquire since she says it belongs in the house. He’s also the man behind the diamonds,” I said, “and the source of lots of angst.”
“Also the man responsible for saving us from financial ruin.”
“True,” I agreed. “But as much as I’ve enjoyed getting to know his granddaughter-in-law, Louisa, we could have avoided a lot of problems if he’d just appeared and talked to me, you know?”
“Maybe we need a Ouija board.”
I quickly made the sign of the cross even though I wasn’t Catholic. “Don’t say that. Ever. Nothing good has ever come from using a Ouija board. I’m sure if Captain Vanderhorst wanted to speak to me, he would have said something by now.” I narrowed my eyes at the face in the portrait, trying to read his secrets. “If there was any truth to that Hope Diamond rumor, he’d know, wouldn’t he?”
Jack was already lowering the portrait to return it to the stack. “He would. But there’s no truth to that story. Believe me, if I thought there was, I’d consider a Ouija board. But there isn’t. I’m positive.”
I opened my mouth to remind him about the dangers of Ouija boards, but he interrupted me.
“Hey, did you see this?”
He hoisted the painting back on top of the desk and pointed to the background that I’d overlooked because I’d been too drawn by the captain’s face. Jack pointed to a small whitewashed structure in the distance. “I think this is where the back garden is now—see the iron fence? There was just open property behind the house back when this portrait was painted.” He leaned forward, squinting. “See the smoke coming from the chimney? I bet this is the kitchen house.”
Jack leaned closer to the painting. “I’m assuming Captain Vanderhorst would have commissioned the portrait. But in most commissioned paintings, the subject is eager to show off his or her accomplishments or wealth or whatever they’re most fond of. Correct me if I’m wrong, but from what I remember of the Vanderhorst family tree, John died later in the war, but his widow and son, William, were still alive.”
I slid on my glasses and stepped closer to the painting. “So why would he have himself painted on his horse in uniform, and then show the kitchen house instead of his actual house and family?” I leaned forward to get a closer look, focusing on what at first looked like a large brown rock on the steps of the kitchen house. My eyes widened. “It’s a dog.”
“Where?” Jack leaned close to me, our cheeks almost touching, his nearness almost making me forget what I was saying.
I pointed. “Here—see? You can just make out the tail and the ears.” I straightened. “It’s Otis.”
“Otis?”
“The dog I saw in the parlor playing with the other dogs. And in the back garden. I believe he belonged to the ghost girl who’s been haunting Nola. That’s how we know his name is Otis. Nola said the girl told her.”
“The girl with the melted face. Evangeline.”
I nodded, studying the painting again. “At least we know we’re talking about the right historical period since this shows Otis in 1861, apparently before the fire. I just wish I knew where to get the answers to the rest of our questions. Because every time we ask a question, we just get another one in response.” I picked up my phone and snapped a close-up of the kitchen house and the dog.
Jack’s voice came very close to my ear. “As I’ve said before, we always figure it out. That’s why we make such a great team.”
Our gazes met. “I’m not the one who needs convincing.”
His eyes drifted down to my mouth. “I want—”
There was a brief tap on the door and a young man wearing a vest and a bow tie and with a Mohawk hairstyle opened the door. “Mandy just sent me up to see if you two needed anything. Maybe a glass of water?”
Jack stepped back. “Not for me, but thanks.”
“Me, neither,” I said. “We’re almost done here.”
“Okay. My name’s Tim—so just call down to the front desk if you change your minds.”
Jack had already shifted his attention to the remaining portraits by the time Tim closed the door behind him.
“Wow.” Jack sat back on his heels. “This would have made a great cover for my book if it had ever gotten published.” He held up a small painting, maybe three feet by two feet, in an elaborate gold filigree frame. “?‘Louisa Gibbes Vanderhorst, 1921.’?”
I’d seen black-and-white photographs of Louisa, but this oil painting showed her beauty and grace more eloquently than any photograph. It was as if the artist had captured her spirit in the paint, evolving it into a three-dimensional depiction not available from the quick snap of a camera. I’d seen her as only a wispy filament, but this rendition of Louisa in full color brought her to life.
“I wish we had the money to buy this painting from the museum,” I said. “She should be back at the house, where she belongs, not in some storage room where nobody can see her.” I held up my phone and took a picture.