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Authors: Sarah Andrews
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were?”
“Em Hansen. Hello, Hector.”
There was a pause. “Well, Em Hansen, I have absolutely no idea who you are, so if you’ll forgive me—”
“Wait, don’t hang up. I’m Faye Carter’s roommate.”
There was another pause, then, “Ohhhhhh …”
“You phoned Faye a couple of days ago, and I answered.”
“Did I? I don’t recall. I must have been bombed.”
“Yes, you were quite magnificently blotto.”
“I am so sorry. Will you forgive me?”
“Certainly.”
“Well then, if I was my usual excruciating self, to what do I owe the kindness of this call?”
“I’m trying to help Faye with a few things. Er, you are Tert Krehbeil’s brother?”
“The one and only.”
“Then, um, can you tell me something about him?”
“Miss Hansen, you are asking me to air the family laundry.”
“I don’t know. Am I?”
“Listen, dear lady, I may be the black sheep, but I know which side of the bread gets buttered. And other metaphors as appropriate. I have a devil of a headache, and I should get off the phone before I make a worse ass of myself.”
“Is he … Would he be a good friend to Faye? Does he treat women nicely?”
“Oh no … so that’s happening, is it? Well, Miss Hansen, my brother is an unusual person. I cannot say that I approve of him in every way. We are siblings, and siblings are known to have their differences. Tert is an accomplished businessman, respected by his peers. He has never married, perhaps because he has trouble showing a woman half as much attention as he shows to his own image in the mirror. But they said that about Narcissus, too, and his name is still on the lips of the well-to-do and erudite. He doesn’t beat women or stand them up on dates, to my knowledge, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Thanks. That helps, I suppose.” I fished around for something short of his favorite shot of whiskey that would get him to open up a bit more. “The other night you said something about concern for your mother’s health. Is everything okay?”
This prompted a lengthy silence, then, broodingly, “I was probably just raving.”
“Can I ask about the painting?”
“What painting.” It was not a question, it was an answer.
Now I paused. I had already skated too close to breaking Tert’s confidence, and while I had no interest in working with him myself, I did not want it on my conscience that I had ruined a deal for Faye. “I’m interested in … your family’s artworks.”
“Are you an art historian?”
“No.”
“Conservator?”
“No.”
Irritably he said, “Well, what, then? Private investigator?” He meant it to be an insulting joke.
“No,” I said stiffly. “But you’re not far off. I am a forensic geologist.”
“What’s that ?” he said, mocking me.
I was so annoyed at his tone that I said, “I work with trace evidence. In the case of a painting, I can perhaps discover whether the minerals used in the paint pigments are what the artist would have used. I can—”
Hector’s response was swift. “I do not recommend you do that, Miss Hansen!”
“I—I didn’t mean … Hey, listen, I’m just Faye’s friend. I’m trying to understand what she’s gotten herself mixed up in, you get me?”
“Look, if you ever get to Pennsylvania, look me up. We’ll have some
drinks and some laughs. I’ll tell you the story of a family that used to be more than it is today, and we can all look out over Lancaster County and sigh. But I really can’t say anything else that would help you.”
I let him go and broke the connection. But I copied down the phone number, just in case, putting it with my own papers.
Then I sat staring at the phone. I did not like what was happening. Faye had been through a lot in the last year and a half. She’d dealt with an accidental pregnancy, a sudden marriage, the loss of her trust fund, widowhood, and the adjustment to motherhood. She had gone from being a highly attractive, single, wealthy,
“Em Hansen. Hello, Hector.”
There was a pause. “Well, Em Hansen, I have absolutely no idea who you are, so if you’ll forgive me—”
“Wait, don’t hang up. I’m Faye Carter’s roommate.”
There was another pause, then, “Ohhhhhh …”
“You phoned Faye a couple of days ago, and I answered.”
“Did I? I don’t recall. I must have been bombed.”
“Yes, you were quite magnificently blotto.”
“I am so sorry. Will you forgive me?”
“Certainly.”
“Well then, if I was my usual excruciating self, to what do I owe the kindness of this call?”
“I’m trying to help Faye with a few things. Er, you are Tert Krehbeil’s brother?”
“The one and only.”
“Then, um, can you tell me something about him?”
“Miss Hansen, you are asking me to air the family laundry.”
“I don’t know. Am I?”
“Listen, dear lady, I may be the black sheep, but I know which side of the bread gets buttered. And other metaphors as appropriate. I have a devil of a headache, and I should get off the phone before I make a worse ass of myself.”
“Is he … Would he be a good friend to Faye? Does he treat women nicely?”
“Oh no … so that’s happening, is it? Well, Miss Hansen, my brother is an unusual person. I cannot say that I approve of him in every way. We are siblings, and siblings are known to have their differences. Tert is an accomplished businessman, respected by his peers. He has never married, perhaps because he has trouble showing a woman half as much attention as he shows to his own image in the mirror. But they said that about Narcissus, too, and his name is still on the lips of the well-to-do and erudite. He doesn’t beat women or stand them up on dates, to my knowledge, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Thanks. That helps, I suppose.” I fished around for something short of his favorite shot of whiskey that would get him to open up a bit more. “The other night you said something about concern for your mother’s health. Is everything okay?”
This prompted a lengthy silence, then, broodingly, “I was probably just raving.”
“Can I ask about the painting?”
“What painting.” It was not a question, it was an answer.
Now I paused. I had already skated too close to breaking Tert’s confidence, and while I had no interest in working with him myself, I did not want it on my conscience that I had ruined a deal for Faye. “I’m interested in … your family’s artworks.”
“Are you an art historian?”
“No.”
“Conservator?”
“No.”
Irritably he said, “Well, what, then? Private investigator?” He meant it to be an insulting joke.
“No,” I said stiffly. “But you’re not far off. I am a forensic geologist.”
“What’s that ?” he said, mocking me.
I was so annoyed at his tone that I said, “I work with trace evidence. In the case of a painting, I can perhaps discover whether the minerals used in the paint pigments are what the artist would have used. I can—”
Hector’s response was swift. “I do not recommend you do that, Miss Hansen!”
“I—I didn’t mean … Hey, listen, I’m just Faye’s friend. I’m trying to understand what she’s gotten herself mixed up in, you get me?”
“Look, if you ever get to Pennsylvania, look me up. We’ll have some
drinks and some laughs. I’ll tell you the story of a family that used to be more than it is today, and we can all look out over Lancaster County and sigh. But I really can’t say anything else that would help you.”
I let him go and broke the connection. But I copied down the phone number, just in case, putting it with my own papers.
Then I sat staring at the phone. I did not like what was happening. Faye had been through a lot in the last year and a half. She’d dealt with an accidental pregnancy, a sudden marriage, the loss of her trust fund, widowhood, and the adjustment to motherhood. She had gone from being a highly attractive, single, wealthy,
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