Read Online Lost Legacy by Dana Mentink - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dana Mentink
Tags: Suspense
Ads: Link
the genius of the work came through. The look on the lady’s face as she gazed wistfully out the window, the chessboard forgotten to the lure of the sunlight playing over the garden. Was she pining for her love? Chafing against the constraints of being a woman of the 1800s? Wishing for a life somewhere outside those walls?
Victor broke her reverie, taking out his iPhone to snap a picture. “Well, at least we’ve got a nice visual on what we’re looking for. Why would he hang a reproduction?”
Brooke took a picture with her phone, as well.
Stephanie scanned the walls. “It’s the only artwork he’s got in the place.”
“I wondered that, too,” Tuney said. “I’ll admit, I was taken in at first. I’m no art guy, so it took me a minute to realize it was a fake.”
“He must have painted it himself.” Brooke broke into a smile. “At least it proves my father really did contact Colda about the painting, otherwise he wouldn’t have known what it looked like.”
Tuney shook his head. “Doesn’t prove the painting was ever really here. We still don’t have a Tarkenton or any clue about what happened to Colda.”
Brooke sighed. He was right, but in her mind it was another step in the right direction.
Victor turned his attention back to the overflowing file cabinet. “Looks like Colda kept every scrap of paper he ever ran across.”
“Mostly bills, some past due, a few articles about obscure art-related stuff.” Tuney cleared some newspapers off the small sofa and settled in, his feet up on the coffee table. “I’m just going to take a little nap, don’t mind me. Wake me if you find something.”
Stephanie shot him a look.
Brooke tore herself away from the painting and headed for the bedroom, where she and Victor lifted up the mattress and throw rugs, searched the closet and drawers with no success. Brooke found her eyes wandering back to the Tarkenton reproduction just visible through the doorway. Something about it poked at her.
“Got an idea?” Victor asked.
She started, realizing she’d been standing motionless, staring. “No, nothing. Just something about it that I can’t figure out.”
He came closer, face intent. “Might be your instincts trying to tell you something. In my experience, it’s a good idea to listen.”
Her nerves began to tingle but she could not decide if it was something about the painting, or the proximity to this enigmatic man. Stephanie called to them from the kitchen and they joined her there.
She waved a hand at the sink piled with crusted dishes. “Colda could have used a housekeeper.”
“Or a sanitation company,” Victor said with disgust.
“Look at the whiteboard,” Stephanie said.
They squinted at a series of letters and numbers. “5, 7, 2.”
“Telephone number?” Brooke suggested.
“Room numbers,” Tuney called from the living room. “Colda couldn’t remember where he was supposed to be for each class. He wrote it down to help himself but that didn’t work. The admin finally moved all his classes to the same room so he wouldn’t keep missing them.”
Brooke sighed and patted Stephanie’s arm. “It was a good idea anyway.”
Stephanie shook her head. “Not good enough.”
The three exchanged glances and Brooke understood.
Be careful what you say.
Tuney is monitoring every word.
Brooke returned to the living room, feeling more discouraged with each passing minute. Her gaze returned again to the lady in the painting.
If only you could talk, she thought.
If only.
SEVEN
V ictor’s back was aching and his stomach growling by late afternoon. They’d stopped just long enough to eat the sandwiches Stephanie had gone to get. Going through files, boxes and bags looking for some indication of where Colda had stashed the painting or where he had disappeared to had yielded nothing but clouds of dust. Victor did not mind the searching—he’d spent hundreds of hours as a med student and surgeon winnowing out the tiniest references
Victor broke her reverie, taking out his iPhone to snap a picture. “Well, at least we’ve got a nice visual on what we’re looking for. Why would he hang a reproduction?”
Brooke took a picture with her phone, as well.
Stephanie scanned the walls. “It’s the only artwork he’s got in the place.”
“I wondered that, too,” Tuney said. “I’ll admit, I was taken in at first. I’m no art guy, so it took me a minute to realize it was a fake.”
“He must have painted it himself.” Brooke broke into a smile. “At least it proves my father really did contact Colda about the painting, otherwise he wouldn’t have known what it looked like.”
Tuney shook his head. “Doesn’t prove the painting was ever really here. We still don’t have a Tarkenton or any clue about what happened to Colda.”
Brooke sighed. He was right, but in her mind it was another step in the right direction.
Victor turned his attention back to the overflowing file cabinet. “Looks like Colda kept every scrap of paper he ever ran across.”
“Mostly bills, some past due, a few articles about obscure art-related stuff.” Tuney cleared some newspapers off the small sofa and settled in, his feet up on the coffee table. “I’m just going to take a little nap, don’t mind me. Wake me if you find something.”
Stephanie shot him a look.
Brooke tore herself away from the painting and headed for the bedroom, where she and Victor lifted up the mattress and throw rugs, searched the closet and drawers with no success. Brooke found her eyes wandering back to the Tarkenton reproduction just visible through the doorway. Something about it poked at her.
“Got an idea?” Victor asked.
She started, realizing she’d been standing motionless, staring. “No, nothing. Just something about it that I can’t figure out.”
He came closer, face intent. “Might be your instincts trying to tell you something. In my experience, it’s a good idea to listen.”
Her nerves began to tingle but she could not decide if it was something about the painting, or the proximity to this enigmatic man. Stephanie called to them from the kitchen and they joined her there.
She waved a hand at the sink piled with crusted dishes. “Colda could have used a housekeeper.”
“Or a sanitation company,” Victor said with disgust.
“Look at the whiteboard,” Stephanie said.
They squinted at a series of letters and numbers. “5, 7, 2.”
“Telephone number?” Brooke suggested.
“Room numbers,” Tuney called from the living room. “Colda couldn’t remember where he was supposed to be for each class. He wrote it down to help himself but that didn’t work. The admin finally moved all his classes to the same room so he wouldn’t keep missing them.”
Brooke sighed and patted Stephanie’s arm. “It was a good idea anyway.”
Stephanie shook her head. “Not good enough.”
The three exchanged glances and Brooke understood.
Be careful what you say.
Tuney is monitoring every word.
Brooke returned to the living room, feeling more discouraged with each passing minute. Her gaze returned again to the lady in the painting.
If only you could talk, she thought.
If only.
SEVEN
V ictor’s back was aching and his stomach growling by late afternoon. They’d stopped just long enough to eat the sandwiches Stephanie had gone to get. Going through files, boxes and bags looking for some indication of where Colda had stashed the painting or where he had disappeared to had yielded nothing but clouds of dust. Victor did not mind the searching—he’d spent hundreds of hours as a med student and surgeon winnowing out the tiniest references
Similar Books
