Molly shook her head. “It is him, isn’t it? But how could it be?”
The hooded man’s forehead was slightly too prominent, and his chin was too small, but Sissy had recognized him at once. The face reflected in the dish cover in les Amis de la table, a card that had been devised and drawn nearly two hundred and fifty years ago, was her late husband, Frank.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Drawn from Memory
They tried it again, this time using a shiny silver bowl that Trevor had won last August at the Blue Ash Golf Tournament, so that the image of the hooded man’s face was much larger.
“It’s Frank, isn’t it?” said Sissy. Her heart was beating so fast that it actually hurt. “It doesn’t just look like him. It is him. He even has that diamond-shaped scar on his cheek. He got that when some punk threw a screwdriver at him.”
“I totally can’t understand how it could be him,” said Molly.
“How do people’s faces appear on windows, or slices of bread? How did the image of Christ appear on a ten-dollar bill, instead of Alexander Hamilton?”
Molly put her arm around her and gave her a comforting squeeze. “You’re not upset, are you?”
“Yes. I am a little. I am a lot. I feel like crying, but I don’t think I can.”
“How about another drink?”
“No, I’m fine. I think I need to sit down, is all.”
“At least the cards are starting to give you some answers.”
“Yes, I think they are. But I’m not so sure I like what they’re telling me.”
“What do you think they are telling you?”
Sissy sat on the end of the couch and took out her Marlboros, although she didn’t light one. “The real police can find the real Red Mask, can’t they? He has to have an address that they can trace, and DNA that they can check up on. But when you think about it — what kind of cop is going to be able to hunt down a couple of painted Red Masks?”
“You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting? You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, no? What else do you think this card is showing us? There are four people sitting at this table. The young man represents Trevor. The girl represents you. The older woman, that’s me. But look at the older woman’s face. I thought she was worried at first, or frightened, but she’s not. She’s asking him the hooded man for help. Please, she’s saying. Look at the way her left hand is pressed flat against her chest. Please, I’m begging you. Help me.”
“Sissy, I can’t!”
“Why not? You can do it with roses, and police composites. I have plenty of photographs you can use for reference.”
“Sissy, how old was Frank when he got killed?”
“Forty-seven. Why?”
“Forty-seven. So what’s going to happen if I draw him and he comes to life and he’s only forty-seven and you’re seventy-one? I mean, how are you going to deal with that? How are you going to deal with seeing him at all, talking to him, even though he’s dead? How is Trevor going to deal with it? And Victoria?”
Sissy took a deep breath. She knew that what she was thinking was deeply unnatural, and probably wrong. These days, she wasn’t religious. After Frank had been killed, she had stopped attending church. But she did believe in greater powers, and a moral order, and to bring Frank back to life did seem like flying in the face of God. She thought of all of those stories — like “The Monkey’s Paw,” in which a grieving father resurrects his horribly injured son. Deals with the devil always carried a price that was far too much to pay. In fiction they did, anyway. She didn’t know whether the same was true of real life.
“I don’t honestly know how I’m going to deal with it,” she admitted. “How do you think he’s going to deal with seeing me? But we’re not even sure that you can do it yet, are we?”
“Sissy — ”
“We have to try, Molly. If there’s one thing the cards are quite certain about, there’s going to be a massacre. How are we going to live with ourselves if we don’t try everything we can to stop it?”
“It’s too scary.”
Sissy reached out and took hold of her hand. “Come on, Molly, Frank was never scary. He was tough, yes, and a very good cop. But he was always fair, and he was always kind, and he always had a terrific sense of humor.”
“Yes, but he’s dead, Sissy. He died over twenty years ago, and we’re talking about bringing him back to life. That’s what frightens me.”
Sissy said nothing for a while, but looked down at Molly’s hand as if it held the answer to everything. Then she said, “Would you at least try?”
“I have to ask Trevor. Frank was Trevor’s father, after all. He may want him left in peace.”
“You can’t let any more innocent people get killed, Molly. I know you didn’t bring those drawings to life on purpose. Those murders weren’t your fault. But you have to face the fact that you’re the only person who has the ability to turn them back into drawings again and destroy them.”
Molly stood up and went to the window. “I think I need to find out more about this necklace first. I don’t want to start bringing any more drawings to life until I’m sure of what the consequences are going to be. I’m sorry, Sissy, but this really creeps me out.”
“Can you remember who sold you the necklace?”
“She gave me her card. She said she had a small antiques store, out near the country club.”
Molly went through to her studio to find her purse. She was gone for only a moment before she called out, “Sissy! Come here, quick!”
Sissy followed her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. But look.”
She pointed toward her desk. The roses had gone. The “real” roses, anyway. But on the sheets of paper on which she had rested them, they had reappeared as paintings.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Sissy picked up the painting of the red Mr. Lincoln rose and sniffed it. It had no fragrance at all, only the smell of cartridge paper.
“We can do it,” she said. “I’m sure we can do it.”
Molly said, “I’m still frightened, Sissy.”
“All right. I know you are. So let’s find out more about your necklace.”
Molly reached into her embroidered bag and took out her purse. “Here it is. Dorothy Carven, Persimmon Antiques, Madison Road. Why don’t I give her a call?”
At that moment, they heard the front door open and Trevor call out, “Hi, Molly! Hi, Mom! We’re home!”
Persimmon Antiques turned out to be a fussy, high-class antiques store with a single Sheraton chair in the window and thick brown carpeting inside. A little bell jingled as Sissy and Molly walked in through the front door.
“Classy,” said Sissy. There were fewer than a dozen pieces of furniture in the store — two chaise longues, a pair of armchairs, two bureaus, and a gilded desk. On one of the tables stood some eighteenth-century figurines of shepherds and shepherdesses, as well as a Meissen dinner service. The walls were hung with oil paintings, mostly landscapes and views of the Ohio River.
A woman appeared from the back of the store with her mouth full. She was tall, fiftyish, with rimless half-glasses and a wing of white hair. She was wearing a purple silk pantsuit and at least twenty gold bracelets.
“May I help you, ladies?” she asked, and immediately pressed her fingers to her lips. “Do forgive me! I just picked up some strawberry cheesecake from the Bonbonnerie, and I couldn’t wait until I got home. Have you tried their cherry trifle? To die for, I promise.”