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Chapter 7

Pendergast, dressed in a long-sleeved white lace blouse and a long, tiered denim skirt festooned with white lace, followed Jo Bright up the stairs of the hundred-year-old Victorian house, glancing around at the many framed paintings and prints that seemed to hang everywhere. She had good taste. Some of the originals hung in his own residences in New York. The largest print, a van Gogh entitled “Starry Night,” hung over the bed in the large, airy bedroom she escorted him to. He had lusted after the original for years and had even, at times, stood before the painting in the New York museum and entertained thoughts of how it might be acquired without permission. Jo’s spread, pillow shams, and curtains echoed the print with renditions of the swirls and loops in van Gogh’s night sky, painted onto dark blue material.

“Oh, did you make these yourself?” he Aliced.

Jo laughed. “Yes, I did. I am so in love with van Gogh’s skies that I couldn’t bear to get some bourgeois pattern to go in here with that beautiful print, so I tried to copy his sky as best I could. He’s probably spinning in his grave, but I meant well. It’s a tribute.”

“It’s really very good.” Pendergast meant it.

He was impressed anew with this Jo Bright, who had first surprised him with her pragmatic outlook and her nursing skills and knowledge. He had actually enjoyed working with her in the ER. And now, to learn that she was a very gifted amateur painter! And (his eyes strayed from the van Gogh to where she was bending over the bed, straightening the spread) Jo Bright’s derriere was almost as delectably rounded as Alice’s. Must be all that walking when on duty. He really liked the way she was straightening that spread. He could watch her straighten that spread all day long, and then— He stopped the thought cold, remembering Helen II cooking back at the lab, and sat Alice’s suitcase down beside the bed. But he couldn’t resist an inquiry. “Are any of the paintings downstairs yours?”

“A few.” She didn’t offer any more information.

He made a mental note to find out later. Just professional curiosity, of course.

“I have several more van Gogh prints, if you’d like to see them. They’re scattered all over the house.”

“I would.” He wanted to see the rest of the house, including the other tenants’ bedrooms, and this might be the best way. He followed her to the next room, where a big beautiful print of “Night Stars Over the Rhone” hung over the bed.

Jo gazed at the print and sighed. “This is my favorite one, next to “Starry Night.”

Pendergast looked around the room, which was much smaller than the first room. There were no other adornments. No van Gogh spread or curtains. Just a plain white spread and white lacy sheers. Personal items like makeup and a comb and brush and a few pieces of clothing were strewn haphazardly around the room, as though someone had moved in quickly. He turned to her. “Why, ah, did you give me your room?”

She blushed prettily. “The first room is mine! How did you know?”

“It is quite obvious.”

The blush deepened. “I...I guess I just wanted to give you the nicest available room. You are a guest, after all...and a friend.” The blush hinted that she really meant more than a friend.

Pendergast’s heart gladdened surprisingly, but he kept his face composed. “Nonsense. I am a tenant. I will be paying rent like the rest. I do not wish to evict you from a room you have endeavored so strenuously to adorn, and with such splendid results.”

Jo Bright looked at him silently. Suddenly it hit him that he was Alice, not Aloysius, and Alice probably wouldn’t speak so formally. “I mean, it’s really cool, and I wouldn’t want to, ah, bum you out.”

Jo smiled, albeit somewhat warily. “I’m not bummed out, Alice. You seem to really like Vincent. I want you to enjoy the room.”

“Very w—okay.” This Jo Bright had a way of making him forget who he was supposed to be. That wouldn’t do. “Let’s look at the other prints.”

They wondered from room to room, and he tried to keep his mind on ingress and egress and angle of view, and to stow away tidbits of information about the women who lived there. But it was hard, even for him, even when he came upon lingerie and hosiery and a lone purple vibrator standing sentinel in its charger on a bedside table, because he found himself in the very strange and unaccustomed position of wanting to impress Jo Bright with his knowledge of art, and of van Gogh in particular. Luckily, she apparently felt the same way, and kept up a running commentary on when and where each painting was done and even what was going on in the artist’s life at the time.

They ended up back in her room, looking at the “Starry Night” print. Jo sighed again. “He painted this in the asylum at Saint-Remy, from memory. He couldn’t go outside.” She stepped a little closer to Pendergast, as though fleeing a chill. He glanced at her and she shrugged. “I always feel so...so much empathy when I think about him. Such a brilliant, tortured soul. He endured so much pain. I am drawn to him, wishing I could’ve been there and helped him somehow.” Her eyes moved from Pendergast’s eyes to roam his face. “His face was thin, his blue eyes penetrating...like yours. I can tell from his portraits that he had an air of sadness about him...like you...” Her gaze returned at last to his. Her voice trailed off. Her eyes misted and she raised a hand as though to touch him, then turned quickly back to the print. “It is said that his last words were...”

Pendergast, without realizing he was doing so, murmured along with her soft voice: “La tristesse durera toujours...” Then, as she turned her moist eyes back to his, he translated, in a whisper, “The sadness will last forever.”

Jo Bright studied his face again, then stepped forward and put her arms around his waist, holding him lightly. He did not feel the need to pull away, as he usually did when embraced by someone he did not know well, and was surprised and pleased, then surprised again that he was pleased. He frowned.

Then Jo Bright spoke. Her head leaned against his breasts, and her soft voice was slightly muffled by his blouse, but he could hear her well enough. She said, “I like you, Alice. I’m glad you’re here.” She sighed a third time and relaxed against him like a tired child.

Pendergast felt a strange little flutter somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.

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