“Mind if I sit?”
She gestured toward a chair near her desk, a piece that looked like it had been made in the days of Louis XIV.
“It appears that no one knows her true whereabouts,” he said, after he was seated. “When did you last see her?”
Ophelia sat back, folded her arms across her chest in a move that Cork, as a trained observer, might have taken as unconsciously defensive. He chose to ignore it.
“A cocktail gathering,” she said. “Sunday, a week ago yesterday. The center was empty, and we met late into the evening with some of our volunteers in her private dining room to go over the roster of new artists and instructors coming Monday morning for the next residency.”
“How does that work?”
“Most of our artists come for a week. With each group we try to focus on the medium they’re most interested in. Watercolor, for example, or multimedia or photography. We bring in well-known working artists as instructors. It’s an intense program. We have room enough here for only seven artists and two instructors. Admission is very competitive. We do have one residency that’s different. It’s longer for one thing, anywhere from one month to three months, and it’s designed to highlight an artist Lauren feels is on the verge of a big career breakout and to help with that process. Currently, our long-term resident artist is Derek Huff. Very talented.”
“How did Lauren seem that last night?”
“Excited. She’s always excited at the prospect of a new group. She was positively ecstatic.”
“Ecstatic?”
“Effervescent. Ebullient,” she added.
Which made Cork smile. Being around artists, he decided, was bound to rub off on you.
Above the fireplace mantel hung a painting of Lauren Cavanaugh. It showed a beautiful woman in her early forties, with ash blond hair, green eyes, and flawless skin carefully drawn over the fine bones of a narrow face. Her lips seemed to hint at a smile, very Mona Lisaesque. She was stunning, but it was hard to tell what lay behind that beauty.
When Cork was young, the Cavanaugh name had been synonymous with iron mining and with wealth. Both Max and his sister, Lauren, had been born in Aurora, but neither had been raised there. Their father had taken them away when they were quite young. When her brother returned to Aurora two years earlier, Lauren had followed. Because Max attended St. Agnes regularly, Cork knew him pretty well. But Lauren Cavanaugh didn’t go to church, and to Cork she was an enigma. She’d bought the Parrant estate, which had been empty for some time, and had established the Northern Lights Center for the Arts. She came with a cultural vision, a whirlwind of ideas that swept up a lot of people in Tamarack County. She proved to be a true patron of the arts. She’d organized and funded a lecture series that had brought in artists and thinkers with a broad range of interests. From what Cork understood, the size of the audiences that turned out for the events had been remarkable. According to things he’d read in the local paper, plans were being drawn for a complex that would include lofts, a gallery, and a theater for performing arts. Lauren Cavanaugh’s passion and conviction regarding the importance of art, even in a wilderness outpost like Aurora, was inspiring to a lot of Cork’s fellow citizens, and clearly to Ophelia.
But what Cork saw in the painting above the mantel was a woman who looked down on him, and her hinted smile could easily have been one of contempt.
“Did she ever talk to you about why she came back to Aurora?” he asked.
“Simplicity,” Ophelia replied.
“Where was she before?”
“Where wasn’t she? Europe, Australia, India, South America.”
“And now Aurora. For the sake of simplicity. It seems to me that what she’s set out to accomplish here is far from simple.”
Ophelia gave a brief laugh. “Lauren isn’t a woman who can sit still. She’s a fountain of ideas and inspiration. She keeps a tape recorder with her all the time so that, whenever a new idea strikes her, she can record it and not risk forgetting. I’d love to listen to one of her tapes.”
“So would I. Is that possible?”
Ophelia looked taken aback. Offended even. “Absolutely not.”
A delicate bell rang in the dining room.
“Lunch,” Ophelia said. She stood up and reached for the cane that hung from the back of her chair.
“Just a few more questions,” Cork said.
“Why are you asking?”
“I’ve been hired.”
“Who?” Then it became clear to her. “Max.”
“I’m not confirming that,” Cork said.
She sat back down.
“When you last spoke with Lauren, did she mention a trip at all?”
“No,” Ophelia replied.
“Did she talk about visiting someone, a friend?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Does she have friends? A special friend maybe?”
“She has lots of friends.” She’d answered the last few questions with a look of impatience, but now she frowned and thought carefully. “No, she has lots of acquaintances. Her life is filled with people, but she doesn’t seem to have anyone especially close. At least not that she’s ever talked about.”
“What about men?”
“You mean like dating?”
“Or whatever it’s called these days.”
Ophelia laughed. “She’s beautiful, she’s smart, she’s funny, she’s rich. Men make fools of themselves over her all the time.”
“But does she date?”
“Mr. O.C., I’m her colleague. Actually, I’m her employee. She doesn’t share every intimate detail of her life with me.”
“Just asking.” Cork heard footsteps, lots of them, outside Ophelia’s office. Artists who’d worked up an appetite. “It’s my understanding that she hasn’t contacted anyone since she left. No e-mails from her personal account. Does she have an e-mail account she uses for business?”
“Yes, but if you’re hoping to look at it, you’re out of luck. It’s password protected, and I don’t have the password. Are you always this pushy?”
Cork smiled. “This is just inquisitive, kiddo. When I’m pushy, believe me, you’ll know it. Could I see her living quarters?”
“Living quarters? This isn’t a barracks, Mr. O.C. But I suppose it wouldn’t be a problem for you to see her residence.”
Ophelia’s cane was of beautiful design, polished hickory with an eagle’s head carved into the handle. She leaned on it heavily as they left her office and turned down the hallway, which was blocked by a door that hadn’t been there the last time Cork was in the house. Ophelia used the crook handle of her cane to knock. She tried the knob, which turned, and she pushed the door open. Beyond lay the first floor of the north wing, several rooms that had become the private residence of Lauren Cavanaugh: a study, a parlor, a small dining room, a bedroom, a bathroom. She hadn’t carved out a lot of the house for her own use, but what she occupied she’d done in style. Every room was beautifully furnished and impeccably cleaned. The parlor was decorated with stunning artwork— paintings and photographs—of the area, taken by a variety of the North Country’s finest artists.
“Your grandmother’s work,” Cork said, pointing toward a series of framed photographs.
“And mine, too,” Ophelia said proudly, pointing to some images that hung near her grandmother’s.
Fate having taken away from her the chance to dance, Ophelia had turned to her grandmother’s art. Cork didn’t know a lot about photography as an art form, but he thought—and did not say—that Ophelia had a distance to go before her work approached the quality of her grandmother’s.
The bedroom looked in perfect order, the bed neatly made.
“Does someone clean for her, make up her bed?” he asked.
