The Painted Room Page 2

Chapter 2

  The Very Noisy Painting

  Saturday morning came clear and crisp—too crisp, in fact. May hadn't been able to locate her sunglasses, and the late September sun as she biked over to Sheila's house at a brisker pace than usual was searing into her brain like the heated end of a fireplace poker.

  She was used to Sheila's dramatic episodes but the desperate sounding instant messages she had sent May the night before weren't the usual rundown of Sheila's latest new crush. They were about some old painting Sheila's mother had just hung in their living room.

  Sheila was so creeped out by the painting that she couldn't sleep. Unfortunately, she didn't want May to sleep either. May called it quits around two in the morning—not by choice. She woke up with a kink in her neck and a patch of square indentations on her cheek from falling asleep on her computer keyboard.

  Sheila's mother, Bonnie, bought prints and paintings at estate sales and sold them on one of those online auction sites. She was extremely good at it, which baffled May to no end. Bonnie Hazelton, by her own admission, knew absolutely nothing about real estate, and even less about art, yet managed to make a tidy living from both. When most real estate agents had crashed along with the housing market, Bonnie had gone into foreclosure auctions, cleaning up on antiques and artwork along with the houses. It was amazing what people left behind when they had to downsize from a four bedroom dream home to a studio apartment a few states away.

  May arrived at Sheila's house out of breath and parked her bike on the path. Sheila must have been watching out the window for her because the door flew open before she could even knock.

  Sheila dragged her in off the porch, pulled her through the foyer and into the living room without even giving May the chance to take off her sneakers—a criminal offence in Bonnie Hazelton's house. Luckily, Bonnie was off at a house auction that morning.

  After pulling her arm away from Sheila's clutch, May looked over the large painting in front of her. A winding gravel path wove its way through a partially open wrought iron gate up to the front door of a castle in the distance. With strong, textured brushstrokes, the artist had transformed the castle into something menacing; it looked ready to break free of its foundation and devour everything else on the canvas.

  "So this is it?" she said. "This is the painting that's got you so spooked? It just looks like a castle to me." She felt suddenly hot and faint. Plucking at her heavy sweatshirt, she said, "Jeeze, your mother must keep it on fricken ninety. Let's get out of here. I promised Charley I would at least see his last game."

  "But it's not just any castle, it's—"

  "Carlisle Castle? Give me some credit, Sheila. It's not like I haven't lived in this lame town my whole stinking life."

  Everybody in town knew Carlisle Castle. It was the local landmark, singlehandedly responsible for keeping the sleepy town of Masobesic Bay, Maine on the state tourist map.

  "If your mother wanted a picture of it, why didn't she just go and buy a t-shirt down at the Gas 'n' Go?"

  "The company that bought the old place had an estate sale yesterday." Sheila pointed to another painting on the wall just to their right. "She bought that one, too. It's Cora Carlisle."

  May glanced at the picture. A young, elegant dark haired woman sat on a bench in a rose garden. She wore a long white gown with a green sash.

  "Isn't she beautiful?"

  "I guess so," said May, shrugging. "Your mom should have an easier time unloading it anyway."

  "You never know. She says people are funny; the castle here is the last one he ever painted."

  May snorted. "Did he kill himself?"

  "They don't know for sure. They never found him."

  "Too bad. It'd probably be worth more." May squinted at the illegible crimson scrawl at the bottom of the painting. She could only make out an enormous 'C' or maybe it was a 'G'. Apparently whoever-it-was painted better than he wrote.

  "It's hard to read," said Sheila.

  "You think?"

  "It's Carlisle, the guy who built the place."

  "He painted? I thought he was just some crazy old railroad tycoon. What do you mean they never found him? He killed himself after his wife kicked the bucket." There wasn't anyone in town who hadn't heard the tragic story at least a hundred times.

  "That's what I always heard, but I guess he just went missing."

  "Missing? Are you sure?"

  "Well, yeah. The newspaper ran a story about him a while back. That's how my mom knew about the art sale."

  May looked skeptical.

  "She saved the article. It's just on the kitchen island."

  "Show it to me later," said May, taking her cellphone out of her pocket and looking at the time. "We should go. We'll be late for the game."

  "I'll go get it," said Sheila, leaving the room and returning almost instantly with the top half of a page of newsprint in her hand.

  May had known her friend since second grade and had learned over the years that if Sheila really wanted you to do something, she would usually get you to do it one way or another. It was a trait she had no doubt inherited from her mother. May set her cellphone down on a little table next to the wall and took the newspaper clipping.

  The article had been neatly cut from the business section of the Masobesic Sunday Times. At the top was a photograph of the stone front of Carlisle Castle with broken and boarded up windows. Next to it, there was a black and white photograph of a man with dark wavy hair. The caption below it read, "A picture of Francis Carlisle taken in 1885".

  May had seen this same photograph before at the town library. Francis Carlisle had a long face; closely set black eyes overshadowed by thick, straight eyebrows; and a crooked nose. It wasn't the most intelligent looking face she had ever seen. Even the man's attempt to look solemn in the photo, after the fashion of the times, had failed. By furrowing his brow in an attempt to look serious, he had only succeeded in making himself look confused. May began reading the article that followed:

  THE HIGH PRICE OF RESTORING A LEGEND

  It's been tough going for Eurocorp Development, the German company trying to transform Carlisle Castle into a luxurious hotel and spa. Purchased for $3.4 million three years ago, Eurocorp has faced unforeseen difficulties and exorbitant expenses in its dream turned nightmare, much in the same way that Carlisle himself was bankrupted by the stone behemoth. In a desperate effort to raise funds, Eurocorp will be auctioning off much of the estate. The railroad magnate was also a little known painter and many of his art pieces will also be included in the sale.

  Francis Everett Carlisle erected his ill-fated edifice on a twenty acre plot of land overlooking Masobesic Bay. Work abruptly—