Night of Shadows by Marilyn Haddrill, Doris Holmes Page A
Authors: Marilyn Haddrill, Doris Holmes
Ads: Link
against the scene. Such exquisite detail had been captured
that the painting lost none of its quality, even with Melinda's unfairly close
scrutiny.
Then she spotted the tiny, delicate
signature scrawled modestly in the lower right corner — Colleen Davis McClure. By
the date noted next to the signature, Melinda was certain that the woman had
been Mac's mother. If so, she must have died shortly after this painting was
completed.
Melinda stepped back. Her attention
then was caught by a color photograph of a vibrant, handsome young couple
displayed on the bureau. She picked it up. It was an older picture, slightly yellowed
by the years.
The woman wore her dark hair long
and loose. Her high cheek bones and prominent nose indicated Indian ancestry. The
man wore a military uniform and a stern expression to match. They had to be
Mac's parents.
"What do you think you're
doing in here, Missy?"
Feeling properly guilty, Melinda
quickly replaced the photograph and whirled to face Harriet. The housekeeper
stood, her expression accusing. She carried an armload of fresh linens for the
bed.
"I — uh — the painting caught
my eye," Melinda stammered, as she backed up and moved closer to the doorway
and escape.
"That's no reason to go poking
through other people's things, now is it? Get out. Hear me?"
Harriet shoved her way past Melinda
and dumped the linens on a nearby chair.
"I swear to you," Melinda
said. "I came in here because of the painting. I'm an artist myself, you
see. I — I thought this woman in the photograph probably did the painting. It's
Mac's mother, isn't it? I saw the signature — "
Harriet didn't appear to be
listening to Melinda's babbling as she began tearing covers off the bed.
"I was looking for you,"
Melinda continued, a little more calmly. "I wanted to ask if you might
know where I could find some drawing material — pencils, papers. That sort of
thing. I wanted to do some sketching."
Harriet straightened up and made an
extra movement to the side, as if to eliminate a kink from her back.
"Will it keep you busy and out
of everyone's hair?
Melinda assured her that it would.
Grunting, Harriet gestured at
Melinda to follow. A few moments later, Melinda found herself trailing the
housekeeper up some narrow stairs to the attic.
Harriet instructed Melinda to wait
at the doorway. Then, she walked on into the room, knelt, and began grudgingly
to rummage around in an old chest. From where she stood, Melinda couldn't see
what Harriet was doing. But, finally, the old woman stood up. A sketch pad and
charcoal drawing pencils were in her hands.
She took a deep breath and blew to
clear away the dust. Then she walked over to Melinda and handed over the items.
"Hers," Harriet said, as if
it explained everything. "They ain't doing nobody much good up here."
A few minutes later, armed with the
drawing materials, Melinda stepped outside. It was still early enough for the
morning breezes to be cool, and she took a deep, appreciative breath of fresh
air. Directly ahead, she spotted rows of freshly painted white stables framed
by green alfalfa pastures.
Melinda was attracted by the
stables, with their not unpleasant odor that brought back agreeable memories. As
a teen-ager, she had owned and stabled her own horse for a short time — until
boys and other distractions replaced her interest in riding.
At the nearest pen, a large, black
stallion threw up his head and measured her cautious approach. His ears flicked
up and down with nervous energy. He tossed his head and snorted. Then, he
lowered his nose into the feed bin for another mouthful of grain, and lifted
his head once more to methodically chew. All the while, he kept a wary eye on
her.
Charmed, Melinda sat down on a
nearby bale of hay. Something in the arrogant way the stallion carried himself,
and the extraordinarily long lines of his neck reminded her of the colt in the
painting in Mac's room.
The horse was the same animal, now
matured. She was sure of
that the painting lost none of its quality, even with Melinda's unfairly close
scrutiny.
Then she spotted the tiny, delicate
signature scrawled modestly in the lower right corner — Colleen Davis McClure. By
the date noted next to the signature, Melinda was certain that the woman had
been Mac's mother. If so, she must have died shortly after this painting was
completed.
Melinda stepped back. Her attention
then was caught by a color photograph of a vibrant, handsome young couple
displayed on the bureau. She picked it up. It was an older picture, slightly yellowed
by the years.
The woman wore her dark hair long
and loose. Her high cheek bones and prominent nose indicated Indian ancestry. The
man wore a military uniform and a stern expression to match. They had to be
Mac's parents.
"What do you think you're
doing in here, Missy?"
Feeling properly guilty, Melinda
quickly replaced the photograph and whirled to face Harriet. The housekeeper
stood, her expression accusing. She carried an armload of fresh linens for the
bed.
"I — uh — the painting caught
my eye," Melinda stammered, as she backed up and moved closer to the doorway
and escape.
"That's no reason to go poking
through other people's things, now is it? Get out. Hear me?"
Harriet shoved her way past Melinda
and dumped the linens on a nearby chair.
"I swear to you," Melinda
said. "I came in here because of the painting. I'm an artist myself, you
see. I — I thought this woman in the photograph probably did the painting. It's
Mac's mother, isn't it? I saw the signature — "
Harriet didn't appear to be
listening to Melinda's babbling as she began tearing covers off the bed.
"I was looking for you,"
Melinda continued, a little more calmly. "I wanted to ask if you might
know where I could find some drawing material — pencils, papers. That sort of
thing. I wanted to do some sketching."
Harriet straightened up and made an
extra movement to the side, as if to eliminate a kink from her back.
"Will it keep you busy and out
of everyone's hair?
Melinda assured her that it would.
Grunting, Harriet gestured at
Melinda to follow. A few moments later, Melinda found herself trailing the
housekeeper up some narrow stairs to the attic.
Harriet instructed Melinda to wait
at the doorway. Then, she walked on into the room, knelt, and began grudgingly
to rummage around in an old chest. From where she stood, Melinda couldn't see
what Harriet was doing. But, finally, the old woman stood up. A sketch pad and
charcoal drawing pencils were in her hands.
She took a deep breath and blew to
clear away the dust. Then she walked over to Melinda and handed over the items.
"Hers," Harriet said, as if
it explained everything. "They ain't doing nobody much good up here."
A few minutes later, armed with the
drawing materials, Melinda stepped outside. It was still early enough for the
morning breezes to be cool, and she took a deep, appreciative breath of fresh
air. Directly ahead, she spotted rows of freshly painted white stables framed
by green alfalfa pastures.
Melinda was attracted by the
stables, with their not unpleasant odor that brought back agreeable memories. As
a teen-ager, she had owned and stabled her own horse for a short time — until
boys and other distractions replaced her interest in riding.
At the nearest pen, a large, black
stallion threw up his head and measured her cautious approach. His ears flicked
up and down with nervous energy. He tossed his head and snorted. Then, he
lowered his nose into the feed bin for another mouthful of grain, and lifted
his head once more to methodically chew. All the while, he kept a wary eye on
her.
Charmed, Melinda sat down on a
nearby bale of hay. Something in the arrogant way the stallion carried himself,
and the extraordinarily long lines of his neck reminded her of the colt in the
painting in Mac's room.
The horse was the same animal, now
matured. She was sure of