Harmony In Flesh and Black by Nicholas Kilmer

copies, and Clay bought one of them, Jan van der Meer van Delft —Vermeer didn’t draw on his canvases. His forms are seen in color, not in line. Then the painting itself, done in stages, glazes, over a long period of time. Months. Then a layer of varnish. Then dirt. Then two hundred years of new layers of dirt and varnish, and possibly somebody now and again painted on improvements. Films of smoke. And then the Heade, the icing, covered with a lot of Apthorp dust. Thank God they’re selling it in estate condition and haven’t cleaned it. That could have given away the whole show right there. And thank God Higginson’s boss is in Japan. He’d look at the painting, into it, and not just see himself in it, as Higginson likely did—everything in the world being his mirror.
    â€œWhatever happens, if what we suspect turns out to be likely, after we do the tests, there’ll be a committee of conservators sitting around this picture for a year just thinking about it, like diamond cutters around the Hope diamond before a single blow is struck.”
    *   *   *
    They tiptoed into the house late. The kids were watching Saturday Night Live.
    â€œCome on, herm,” Molly whispered in Fred’s ear, and leered. “Help peel me out of my basic black.”

9
    The blossoms of Molly’s pear tree tapped at the window. That side of the house got the sun early, so you woke to the sound of bees.
    Molly was shaking Fred, alarmed.
    â€œThat man’s dead,” she said.
    â€œWhat man?”
    â€œThe one you told me about, where the nude came from—the one who still owes Clayton Reed a letter—Smykal. Henry Smykal.”
    Fred woke up.
    â€œIt sounds awful,” Molly said. “God, Fred. We saw it. That was the fuss on Turbridge Street.”
    Her yellow robe flapped. She was holding the front page of the newspaper. Fred smelled bacon.
    He smelled Smykal’s apartment, the old bacon-fat smell, the dust and cigar smoke; saw the hot lights behind Smykal’s head; felt the pressure of Smykal’s door against his toes. Saw the caked blood around Smykal and the depressed slack in the side of his head.
    â€œI know,” Fred said. “Sorry about this, Molly.”
    â€œYou know? ” Molly stared at him, stunned, going white, trembling.
    â€œLet me get Clay on the phone,” Fred said, reaching across Molly’s bed toward the table on her side where the phone was. He looked up into her staring face.
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘I know’?” Molly yelled, flushing and then going gray. Fred could see some of the awful thoughts that were pressing against her.
    â€œWhen I went back to get that letter,” Fred said, “he was dead. It’s more complex than that, though, since I went twice, talked to him the first time and found him dead the second. I elected to leave the body, saying nothing. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you either to take my part or not to. Still, I’m sorry to bring this with me to your bed.”
    Molly dropped the newspaper and left the room.
    Fred rushed through the article. One of the tenants in the building had Smykal’s key, had been asked to come in sometimes and feed the cat (what cat?), had entered Saturday night and seen the body lying in its large, pooled scabs, and had called 911. The police weren’t giving out information, but the reporter had found a willing bystander who’d seen the bloody mess. Smykal would have been happy about one thing: he was described as a “Cambridge artist.”
    Fred smelled the bacon cooking downstairs. With great reluctance, he dialed Clay and got no answer.
    â€œMy God,” Molly said when Fred came into the kitchen. “What did you think I was going to do, tattle-tale on you?”
    She was angry, and crying, as well as burning the bacon, standing in the middle of her kitchen and wringing her hands. “What am I,