Rachel slept in the next morning. No classes, no deadlines. I sent some emails and made some phone calls on a second case, a corporate fraud affair, but my phone buzzed at 11:17 with a return call from Tony Gersen.
“Yeah, I remember Carrie.” His voice was steady and cheerful. “She was—weird.”
That was turning out to be the general opinion. “In what way?”
“She was a good artist. She had talent, and she had a—unique point of view. Even when she was doing conventional work, she could really make a painting come alive—shadows and texture, light and dark, all that. But she was—unique in her own way too. She was into conspiracy theories about the government and corporations spying on you, she was into all sorts of spirituality, alternative medicine, that sort of thing.”
Alternative medicine—“I’m told she had cancer and went to Mexico. Looking for a cure, perhaps?”
“Maybe. When was that? I saw her here in New York, must have been nine or 10 years ago.”
“It was in 2011 or thereabouts, I was told.” So maybe it worked. “What happened when you saw her?”
“Nothing. I just noticed her inside an art gallery I was walking by. I stopped and made sure it was her, and I started to go in, but I was late for an appointment, so I changed my mind. It wasn’t like I was ever good friends with her. Or my mother.”
“So you have no idea where she is right now?”
“Honestly? I assume she’s dead.” He paused. “Wait a minute here . . .”
“What is it?”
“Probably nothing. I was just thinking—my mom died five years ago, and—”
“I’m sorry.” It was the kind of thing you have to say. “I was aware of that, but—”
“Yeah, thanks. No, right before she died, she was in hospice care, and one night I heard her talking to herself, and she was looking at this small box on her table. It was made out of porcelain, and it had feathers and a pearl and part of a leaf stuck inside. She talked to it for a while, and then she went to sleep. Anyway, she died a few days later, and when I was cleaning up after the funeral, I looked at the box. The initials on it were C.R.”
“Okay—”
“Wait, I know how that sounds, It’s probably just a coincidence. Just, now that we’re talking about—I think she did say the name Carrie once when she was talking that night.”
Interesting, even though I didn’t know what it meant. If it meant anything. “Were they especially close?”
He laughed. “Not lovers, if that’s what you mean. I mean, I think for a short time they were good friends, but then something happened, and suddenly my mom wouldn’t admit she’d ever existed. I don’t know what it was. She stopped doing business with her, got rid of all her art. I don’t know what happened.”
I thought for a moment. “You said it was five years ago?”
“Yeah. Mom’s kidneys failed. It was pretty—awful.”
I hated having to remind him. “I’m sorry again. Thanks for your time.”
“Sure thing. Good luck.”
Rachel came in a little later, carrying her Wonder Woman coffee mug. “Feels weirds not having to study psychoses, or design any web pages, or think about mice running around in mazes.” She sat at her desk. “Got any cases for your hot psychic co-detective?”
I thought about Nicole Gersen’s box. “Maybe. Don’t you have any work?”
“You’re no fun.” She turned on her computer.
My phone buzzed. Myles Vollmer. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Mr. Jurgen?” He sounded hoarse. “It’s Myles Vollmer. I need—I wonder if you could come here. I need—I have to talk to you about something.”
I looked over at Rachel. “Is it okay if I bring an associate?”
“Whatever. Can you come?”
“Give me an hour.” I hung up. “Rach, do you want to—”
“Yes, yes, God yes!” She jumped up. “Where are we going?”
“Arlington Heights. I’m not sure what it’s about. It might be nothing.”
“I don’t care.” She gulped her coffee. “What’s taking you so long? Let’s roll!”
Vollmer sat in his wheelchair, a thousand-yard stare in his eyes and a glass of scotch in his hand. The maid who’d ledus to his study left as fast as she could manage while still retaining some decorum.
An Asian woman in a nurse’s uniform ushered us in, then left silently after closing the doors. The gas fire crackled silently behind the glass screen. The painting still sat next to it, but turned to face away from the room.
Vollmer looked up and blinked. “Oh. You came.”
“This is Rachel. She’s my associate.”
Vollmer’s eyes flickered over her. “Fine. Listen—sit down. Drink? Okay.”
We sat together on the leather sofa. Vollmer slid his chair to face us.
“My brother—died last night.” He took a gulp of his scotch.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. Rachel murmured the same sentiment.
“Lewis. Lewis Brannick. My stepbrother, but I’ve known him since I was 10 and he was eight, so . . .” His voice faded away and for a moment his stare came back. “A bust fell off a bookcase and hit him in the head. It’s incredible. His wife was out with friends, there were no intruders. A freak accident. But I know.” He set his glass down on a table next to today’s folded up newspaper.
“My nephew died a week ago,” he said, looking straight at us. “My sister’s son, Stewart. He was 39, good health, no smoking, drinking . . .” He gazed at his glass. “A bus lost its brakes. He was just standing there, and—gone. No reason.”
Rachel and I looked at each other. “Sir, what are you trying to tell us?” I asked.
I wasn’t sure he heard. Then his head popped up. “That painting. I had it for years, in the basement. Two weeks ago, I—I heard a noise coming from the basement. A voice. It was her. I had them bring it up, unwrap it after 30 years. And when I looked at it . . .”
He wheeled himself over to the drinks cart in the corner of the room and refilled his glass. After another sip, he came back, set his glass down again, and looked at us, his eyes now clear and alert.
“I know I sound crazy,” he said carefully. “I may sound drunk. Maybe I am crazy, I don’t know. I just want you to listen to me. You saw the picture, remember? It’s me on a shadowy black background. But when I looked at it for the first time in 30 years, I saw . . . her. Standing right behind me. Her, Carrie. For the first time in 30 years.”
He crossed his arms and waited for us to tell him he was insane.
I looked at Rachel. She nodded. I stood up. “May I?”
Vollmer nodded.
I walked to the fireplace and lifted the painting. It was about a foot wide and a foot and a half tall, but heavy with its brass frame. I turned it so Rachel could see.
She walked over.
The dark clouds behind Vollmer were active now—swirling slowly like dust in gentle breeze. I leaned in and caught a flash of something. Lightning? White, with a hint of blue at the center. It blinked and then it was gone.
I looked at Rachel. Her eyes were narrow, and she was breathing slowly, so I just waited. After a moment she looked away, running her fingers through her hair with a shudder. “Oh yeah,” she whispered.
Vollmer looked puzzled as we sat down. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She smiled. “I’m psychic. And you’re not crazy. There’s something in there. Someone. And it—well, it hates you.”
Vollmer seemed frozen for a second. Then he sighed, nodding slowly. He picked up his glass, looked at it, and set it down again without drinking.
“I have cancer.” He shifted in his chair. “Pancreas. It’s too advanced for treatment.” He glanced at his glass. “I found out just two weeks ago—right before I heard Carrie’s voice from the painting. Like she knew . . .” He shrugged.
I thought for a moment. “Is this connected to your brother? Your nephew?”
He didn’t answer right away. Finally he said, “First she was just calling my name. Then—the night my nephew died—I heard her whispering. I couldn’t make it out at first, but after a while it got clear. I’m coming for them . . . I’m coming for all of them. I didn’t know what she meant, not then, but when I heard about Stewart—my nephew—I thought, that’s who. That’s who.”
“And now your brother,” Rachel said.
Vollmer nodded.
“So you’re trying to find Carrie to stop her?” I asked.
“Of course. If she’s still alive.” He glanced at the painting. “If not—I don’t know what I can do.”
Vollmer closed his eyes. “The thing is—my nephew, and Lewis, that’s bad enough. My wife died 10 years ago. But I have a daughter. One child. My daughter. If Carrie is really trying to wipe us all out, to get back at me—” His voice cracked. “I’m afraid. She can’t do anything to me now, but—Sabrina . . .”
He looked down at the floor and went silent.
I waited. Vollmer was in pain, but I had question that needed to be asked. “Why does she hate you?”
With a deep breath he forced himself to face us again. “We had—a relationship. She made that painting after we broke up. Left it for me in her apartment, with a note. ‘You can,’ uh, ‘F— me, but you can’t forget me,’ it said.”
“Do you still have the note?” Rachel asked before I could follow up.
“What? No. I threw it away, I think. Why?”
She shrugged. “I can pick things up from all kinds of stuff.”
“Why did you break up?” I asked.
Vollmer looked at Rachel, not me, as if in shame only a woman would understand. “I only pretended to like her art, so I could get her into bed. I did that with—several women who were artists. I never liked Carrie’s paintings, or her sculptures, or those little boxes she made, I never understood the. She painted that—” He gestured toward the portrait—“to mock me, as a sort of revenge for me lying to her. It was something so banal, so prosaic, I could finally appreciate her work, that’s what she said when she gave it to me.”
That hardly seemed enough for Carrie to launch a vendetta, especially 30 years later. But I had to be careful. “Can I ask—were there any children involved?”
I felt Rachel lift her elbow to jab me in the ribs, but she restrained herself. Vollmer blinked, seemed to search his memory, then shook his head. “No. There were—never any children.”
I stood up to take a picture of the painting with my phone. Vollmer picked up his drink. I tried to think of any more questions, but came yup dry for the moment. I could always call him.
“I’ll do my best,” I told Vollmer. “And I’ll be in touch.”
He didn’t look up from his scotch. “Thank you.”
Out in the car I turned to Rachel. “Did you pick up anything from our client?”
“’Our’ client? I’m a partner now? Or are you just trying to shanghai me into your business now that I’ve got a shot at a real career?” She punched my arm.
“I might be hiring. If you play your cards right.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m keeping my options open.”
Back home I looked up Lewis Brannick and found a few brief stories about his unexpected demise. There was no question of murder—his wife had alibis from the friends she’d seen Hamilton with, there was no sign of forced entry or burglary, no other injuries—just a 20-pound block of bronze on top of Brannick’s shattered skull.
Stewart Alton, Vollmer’s nephew, had lived in San Francisco. He had indeed been killed by a bus whose brakes had inexplicably failed for no reason. His widow was suing the city.
It certainly was an odd series of freak accidents, but was it supernatural? I learned a long time ago to keep an open mind about things like that. An open mind and one eye on the shadows behind me.
Rachel was half-working on a series of online brochures for a corporate communications conference, between watching YouTube videos and checking out Instagram. I showed her the articles. She cocked an eyebrow. “Weird.”
“Yeah.” I was tapping at my keyboard.
She leaned back and stretched her arms. “Speaking of weird, you want to see a video of Lady Gaga singing ‘Old McDonald Had a Farm’ in a wetsuit? It’s hilarious.”
“Maybe later.”
I spent a few hours getting nowhere, so I ate lunch and took a walk to the market for the forbidden ground beef. Rachel was changing clothes for her party when I got back, but I had a message from Simon Almeida, the art critic. I called back.
“Yes, I just remembered this morning,” Almeida told me. “Something about Carrie. Are you still interested in her?”
“Very. What have you got?”
“Carrie sometimes produced art under another name. Catherine Randel. Catherine with an E. It was for other projects, not paintings. Sculpture, found art, that type of stuff. She started doing that right before she headed off to Mexico. Maybe she kept using that name, and that’s how I lost track of her.”
Catherine Randel. C.R. Tony Gersen’s mother and her little box. I thanked Almeida and called Gersen again.
“Do you still have that box?” I asked after reminding him who I was.
“I think so. I’d have to look.”
“Could you send me a picture of it? A couple? The inside, and the initials on the bottom?”
“Uh, sure.” He sounded puzzled. I didn’t blame him, but I didn’t explain.
Rachel came into the office. She wore her slimmest jeans and loose blue turtleneck sweater. “Sure you don’t want to come?”
I looked her up and down. “Now I’m not so sure.” I looked at the time. It was only five. “It starts this early?”
“The pre-party. Or maybe the pre-pre-party, I’m not sure. You can make whatever disgusting animal meat you want for dinner.” Rachel’s a vegetarian.
“I just bought a whole cow. Have fun.”
She kissed me. “Maybe you’ll get lucky when I get home.”
“Just don’t get lucky at the party.” My phone buzzed. “Wait—hang on.”
Gersen had sent several pictures. I saw the interior of the box, with a black feather, a translucent pearl, and part of a green leaf. Another picture had the initials: C.R. “Can you get anything from these? I know, it doesn’t work with pictures, but could you just take a look?”
She scowled, but took my phone. “Huh. No. Interesting, but—No.”
“Thanks anyway.” I sent a quick thank-you to Gersen. “Have fun.”
“You too.” She kissed me again and left.
With a fresh name to work with, I went back to work. It took only 20 minutes to find more on Catherine Randel than I’d gathered on Carrie or Carla Ransom. Carrie’s paintings and other works were abstract and esoteric—shapes and colors revolving around each other, battling each other, joining together in passion and flying apart in fury. Randel’s paintings were more traditional—forests and rivers, street scenes, landscapes and moonscapes, but other pieces were three-dimensional, constructed from wires and computer cables, shells and rocks, origami and baseballs, and whatever else she could find.
I even found an old website for Catherine Randel. She’d apparently used it to market her art and publicize her shows, and there was a clear distinction between the traditional paintings and her other, nontraditional work. It hadn’t been updated in years.
I sent an email to the link. It bounced back within two minutes. Some sleuthing uncovered an address associated with it in New Mexico. That turned out to be a mail-drop business, and when I called the central office, I found out that it had stopped receiving anything for Catherine Randel since 2017.
I wished Rachel was here to peer behind the cyber-scenes—in addition to being psychic, she’s a good hacker—but I knew enough to determine that the website had gone live in 2014 and then dormant in 2021. So, after Carrie’s trip to Mexico in search of a cancer cure. Had the cure worked? I’m skeptical of miracle cures, but maybe I shouldn’t be after all the strangeness I’ve run into. If she was still alive, why was her website dead? Maybe she’d moved on from a career in the art world to something more fulfilling and lucrative, like telemarketing.
I was getting hungry and thinking about dinner, but then I thought of Vollmer and his daughter and forced myself to stick with it. Some of the links on the Randel website still worked—other artists, media, history of some of the places where she’d picked up her “found objects.” There was no bio page—but there was a forum for people to talk about art. The most recent post was a month old, but it still looked active.
I posted a message: “Looking for any information on Catherine Randel. Where she is, if still alive, family members, etc. Very important.” I had to leave my email to post the message, but Included my number too.
Then I made dinner. After a big cheeseburger and fries, I settled in with a beer to watch Ozark. In the middle of the second episode of my binge, my phone buzzed with a text. Rachel needing a ride home early? No such luck. A number I didn’t recognize, but a message that got my attention:
I am Catherine Randel’s son. Why are you bothering her?
What the hell? I turned off the TV and spent a moment thinking. Then I texted: I work for a collector who’s very interested in acquiring some of Catherine Randel’s art. Also Carrie or Carla Ransom, another name she used. Can you help me?
The response didn’t come for 10 minutes. Then: I will be in contact with you tomorrow morning. My name is Jonathan Hopcroft. Nothing more.
Vollmer didn’t answer when I called him back, so I left a message. Then I got another beer and went back to Ozark.
Rachel got back at midnight. “Hi! Had a great time! You should have come!” She threw her sweater on the couch, leaned down, and kissed me. “You’re not watching The Curse without me, are you?”
“I wouldn’t dare. So the party was good?”
“I can’t drink like those guys anymore.” She slumped down on the sofa and picked up the remote. “What’s this? Can we watch The Curse? Just one or two episodes?”
“Knock your socks off. Glad you’re home.” I went into the kitchen for her water and one more beer for me. When I came back out she was setting up the show.
“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” She took a long gulp of water and settled in next to me. “Spoiler alert—I might have a lead on a job.”
“I might have a lead on Carrie Ransom.” I put an arm around her. “Let’s hope we both get lucky.”
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