what hurt Veronica the most was the way Carsten looked at Flavia in the photos. It was the way he used to look at her—when they were in love. What defines cheating has always been a big fat gray area.
“What your husband and I were doing is none of your business. What is relevant is that I respect people’s marriages, even a complete unmitigated disaster like yours was.”
Flavia stood and clanked around the office in her expensive heels. The rest of the ensemble didn’t appear to be cheap, either. I t looked like she leaped off the cover of some fall fashion magazine —a shiny silk blouse and a beige, knee-length pencil-skirt.
“So what inspired you to come face me, Veronica … after all this time?”
It was obvious that Flavia had no idea as to why they were here. So Veronica played along, “I was curious about the change in my husband’s demeanor at the end of his life. And since he didn’t talk to me, I figured I’d go see the one person he did discuss things with. And I’m glad I did, because I learned that I was the one who changed, not him.”
“Have you met your therapist’s benchmarks yet, so that we can end this meeting?”
“Not until you tell me how you met my husband. And if you weren’t screwing, I think I have the right to know why he was sneaking around with you in those motel rooms.”
“Like I said, it’s none of your business. Not that it would change anything, anyway.”
“It might not be my business, but your business is art, correct?”
She looked confused. “I own this gallery, so I think that goes without saying.”
“Have you ever heard of a painting called Portrait of a Young Man by Raphael?”
“I’ve heard of Raphael, of course, but not that specific painting. I’ve never claimed to be an aficionado. My gallery is made up mostly of contemporary work by local artists. Monet and Raphael don’t usually grace our walls.”
“ Portrait of a Young Man was stolen by the Nazis. It’s been missing since 1939. But today it came into my possession, along with this.”
Veronica handed over the note that instructed them to come here. Flavia studied it, as if trying to detect a hidden meaning.
“My coming here has nothing to do with Carsten and whatever you did or didn’t do. I didn’t even know your name before I arrived. I’m here because of Ellen Peterson —she’s responsible for that note .”
“The woman who raised him? He talked about her a lot. How did she know about me?”
“I was hoping you could answer that. She was found dead this morning at the retirement community where she lived. But not before she alleged to be a Nazi who was part of a group that had infiltrated America after the war. So how about you stop playing games with us, Flavia?”
She returned to her chair, appearing to be troubled by the words. “I never met Ellen.”
“But you know about her from Carsten.”
“And she obviously knew about me.”
“Why did Ellen send us to you? There must be a reason.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I don’t know, but there are people willing to go to great lengths to make sure this group Ellen speaks of remains a mystery.”
“Who are these people?” Veronica pushed.
“The same people who killed Carsten.”
Chapter 19
A dazed Veronica watched her children assist Zach and Youkelstein, carrying the painting into Flavia’s office like pallbearers.
Veronica was trying to wrap her mind around what Flavia just told her. The first part—that Carsten might not have had an affair, not physically anyway. Even if true, Veronica didn’t take this as good news. The affair was the event that allowed her to distance herself from his death. Just because their marriage was, to use Flavia’s words, an unmitigated disaster, didn’t mean she wasn’t hit with an overwhelming feeling of loss when Carsten died. But the photos of him and Flavia entering that motel were like a force field that allowed her to exchange her pain for anger, which
“What your husband and I were doing is none of your business. What is relevant is that I respect people’s marriages, even a complete unmitigated disaster like yours was.”
Flavia stood and clanked around the office in her expensive heels. The rest of the ensemble didn’t appear to be cheap, either. I t looked like she leaped off the cover of some fall fashion magazine —a shiny silk blouse and a beige, knee-length pencil-skirt.
“So what inspired you to come face me, Veronica … after all this time?”
It was obvious that Flavia had no idea as to why they were here. So Veronica played along, “I was curious about the change in my husband’s demeanor at the end of his life. And since he didn’t talk to me, I figured I’d go see the one person he did discuss things with. And I’m glad I did, because I learned that I was the one who changed, not him.”
“Have you met your therapist’s benchmarks yet, so that we can end this meeting?”
“Not until you tell me how you met my husband. And if you weren’t screwing, I think I have the right to know why he was sneaking around with you in those motel rooms.”
“Like I said, it’s none of your business. Not that it would change anything, anyway.”
“It might not be my business, but your business is art, correct?”
She looked confused. “I own this gallery, so I think that goes without saying.”
“Have you ever heard of a painting called Portrait of a Young Man by Raphael?”
“I’ve heard of Raphael, of course, but not that specific painting. I’ve never claimed to be an aficionado. My gallery is made up mostly of contemporary work by local artists. Monet and Raphael don’t usually grace our walls.”
“ Portrait of a Young Man was stolen by the Nazis. It’s been missing since 1939. But today it came into my possession, along with this.”
Veronica handed over the note that instructed them to come here. Flavia studied it, as if trying to detect a hidden meaning.
“My coming here has nothing to do with Carsten and whatever you did or didn’t do. I didn’t even know your name before I arrived. I’m here because of Ellen Peterson —she’s responsible for that note .”
“The woman who raised him? He talked about her a lot. How did she know about me?”
“I was hoping you could answer that. She was found dead this morning at the retirement community where she lived. But not before she alleged to be a Nazi who was part of a group that had infiltrated America after the war. So how about you stop playing games with us, Flavia?”
She returned to her chair, appearing to be troubled by the words. “I never met Ellen.”
“But you know about her from Carsten.”
“And she obviously knew about me.”
“Why did Ellen send us to you? There must be a reason.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I don’t know, but there are people willing to go to great lengths to make sure this group Ellen speaks of remains a mystery.”
“Who are these people?” Veronica pushed.
“The same people who killed Carsten.”
Chapter 19
A dazed Veronica watched her children assist Zach and Youkelstein, carrying the painting into Flavia’s office like pallbearers.
Veronica was trying to wrap her mind around what Flavia just told her. The first part—that Carsten might not have had an affair, not physically anyway. Even if true, Veronica didn’t take this as good news. The affair was the event that allowed her to distance herself from his death. Just because their marriage was, to use Flavia’s words, an unmitigated disaster, didn’t mean she wasn’t hit with an overwhelming feeling of loss when Carsten died. But the photos of him and Flavia entering that motel were like a force field that allowed her to exchange her pain for anger, which
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