House of Strangers (Harlequin Super Romance) by Carolyn McSparren

Arranged by color. Even his palettes are orderly.”
    “But well used. So he must have actually painted at some point. There should be finished paintings here, or at least color sketches.”
    “Either he had a premonition of his death, or someone—most likely Maribelle—could have painted over those two canvases at the same time she sheeted the furniture.”
    “Why?”
    “Maybe they were still wet. She may have thought that painting over them would destroy them. A lot of people think that.”
    “And it’s not true?”
    “Not usually. Not unless the paint was really runny. If we had an X-ray machine, we could see whether there was anything under that white layer.”
    “But we don’t.”
    She grinned at him. “There’s an easier way, if you’re willing to trust me.”
    “You want a shot at cleaning them? Can you do that? Without ruining what’s underneath, I mean?”
    “Easy. It’s not like this is Michelangelo’s stuff with four hundred years of grime embedded in the varnish. This is almost like whitewash. I can go at it with a towel and some alcohol. Should come right off. Do you want to see what’s under there?”
    “If anything.”
    “Sure, if anything. I’m dying to see, but they’re technically your property.”
    “Have at it. Should I stay?”
    She shook her head. “I’ll go after the little one first. Why don’t you run next door and get us a couple of burgers and some tea at the Wolf River? This is pretty boring stuff.”
    “Right.” One part of him wanted to run from the little house and never return. The other part wanted to watch every flake of white paint come off that canvas. He didn’t dare let Ann see how passionately interested he was. He went to get lunch.
    With the crowd already standing in line for tables at the café, it took him more than twenty minutes to get his take-out order. He’d found the gap in the overgrown hedge that allowed him access to his own backyard without going along the street, and he used it now to slip back into his own yard. He nodded to several workmen as he passed, but didn’t stop to speak.
    He could see the light through the open door of the studio and heard Ann whistling what sounded like an Irish jig. Since his hands were full, he kicked the open door to let her know he was back.
    “Hey!” she said happily. “No wonder Maribelle covered this up.”
    He set the food on the nearest counter. Dante sat down at his feet and stared up at him balefully.
    “Not for you, boy,” Ann said. “Wait a second before you look. I’m not through with the background, but I’ve got the center cleaned off. Maribelle would have definitely hated this.” She dropped her hand. “Okay, come look.”
    His father had been a superb portraitist. The picture had the same insight he’d seen in Buddy’s caricature. This, however, was serious. Ann had managed to clean the figure completely. Some of the background had been brought to light, as well. He caught snatches of what must be cotton fields.
    “Who is she?” he whispered.
    “Maribelle.”
    He’d seen a picture of her only in that grainy old newspaper print, but in another minute he’d have recognized her, although this showed a much different woman.
    He’d seen the last series of portraits Rubens had done of Catherine de Medici. She must have hated them. In each one she grew older, fatter and meaner-looking. This woman was leaner than Catherine, almost masculine, with muscular arms ropey with age. She stood leaning on a saddle that sat on a rack beside her. Much of the saddle was still covered by the white paint, but enough was visible to discern what it was. She wore a short-sleeved red polo shirt open at the neck. The artist hadn’t backed away from the liver spots on her hands or the sun-damaged ostrichlike skin revealed at the neck of her shirt. Herbrown hair was pulled back tight and tied with a scarf. A theatrically placed streak of white arched from her left temple to disappear behind her