She went back to the living area, searching for a source of heat and feeling relief at the sight of a thermostat on the wall near the front door. She slid a knob and was gladdened at the resulting whoosh of power.
Her mind was made up. Somehow, she would have to boss, and yes, bully, Heinz into moving back into this apartment.
chapter 48
The old man was too weak to put up much of a defense. He leaned heavily on Patrick’s arm as he was walked into the seventh-floor apartment. He gazed around the living room and his eyes rested briefly on the portrait that had caught Kerry’s eye, then quickly looked away.
“The bedroom’s this way,” Kerry told Patrick, pointing to the open door. Together, they managed to trundle Heinz into the bed, which Kerry had made up with clean sheets.
Heinz sank back against the pillows, sniffed, and made a face. “What is that awful odor?”
“That’s the smell of Pine-Sol, plus the blood, sweat, and tears I expended scrubbing and disinfecting this place,” Kerry said, holding out her work-reddened hands. “You could at least pretend to be grateful.”
“For what?” Heinz rasped. “For being force-marched back into a past I want to forget?”
His face crumpled as he looked around the room, his eyes focusing on the small framed black-and-white photograph Kerry had discovered while cleaning. He closed his eyes as an act of dismissal. “I’m tired. Will you please, for God’s sake, leave me alone in peace?”
“Afraid not,” Patrick said. “We can’t leave you alone until you’re over this pneumonia.”
“I’m going to sleep on the sofa out there,” Kerry told him. “And make sure you eat properly and take your meds.”
Heinz’s eyes flew open again. “Who invited you to move in here? Go away and sell your Christmas trees and sleep in your trailer.”
“It’s me or the hospital,” Kerry said, unimpressed with his acting. “Besides, Murphy had Spammy towed away to the scrapyard today, so now I’m officially homeless. You wouldn’t turn away a homeless friend at Christmas, would you?”
“Is it really Christmas already?” His voice faltered as he rubbed a hand across his chin, bristly with a five days’ growth of snow-white beard. “I must have lost track of time.”
“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” Kerry said.
“Time for you to go back home to the mountains,” Heinz said. “To your family.”
“Not until you’re better,” Kerry said firmly. She patted his shoulder. “Now rest.”
* * *
Kerry and Patrick tiptoed out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.
“This place is … something else,” Patrick said, looking around the living area. “I know this city is full of eccentrics, but how do you suppose someone like Heinz, whom I always just assumed was borderline homeless, came to own an apartment like this, in this neighborhood?”
“Don’t forget he apparently owns the whole building,” Kerry said.
“Maybe he inherited it?” He gestured at the art that surrounded them. “Along with all these paintings?”
“Don’t think so,” Kerry said slowly. “Most of these paintings are the work of the same person, a fairly famous artist who suddenly, inexplicably, stopped painting back in the early nineties, and dropped out of sight.”
“Heinz? What makes you think that?”
She led him by the hand to a large landscape painting of a verdant forest, and pointed to the bottom left corner, to the tiny imprint of a tree. “That’s his signature.”
“Huh?”
“The artist who painted most of these works never signed them with his name, just this little dingbat. As soon as I saw this painting, in particular, I knew. The brushwork, the intricate detailing, I recognized it from the illustrations Heinz has been doing for Austin’s story.”
“What’s the deal with the tree then?”
“Heinz’s last name. Schoenbaum. I looked it up. It means ‘beautiful tree’ in German. I did a Google search and found an old article from New York magazine about an artist who was the darling of the New York art scene in the eighties and nineties. His work was being exhibited nationally, even internationally, and regularly selling for high six figures. And then, in 1992, he just dropped out of sight.”
“You’re talking about Heinz?” Patrick asked.
“Let me show you something,” Kerry said. She led him to the small bedroom off the kitchen that she’d discovered earlier.
“So, this is where he painted,” Patrick said. “What else did that article say about Heinz?”
“He grew up here in the city, studied art at the Pratt Institute on the GI Bill, bounced around at different jobs, always painting on the side, until he was part of a small group exhibit held in a warehouse in the Meatpacking District, where one of his paintings caught the eye of a wealthy collector. That painting sold, and the collector’s friends started buying his work too. Pretty soon, he was able to support himself with his art.”
“If he bought this building, I’d say he did pretty well for himself,” Patrick commented.
“He was at the top of his game, and then, bam. He apparently just vanished,” Kerry said. “I couldn’t find any other mentions of him on my Google search, other than auctions listing resale prices of his work, after that ’92 article.”
Patrick followed her back to the living room, where she dropped down onto the sofa by the fireplace.
“So, his paintings still sell?” he asked, sitting beside her.
“Definitely. The collector I told you about? She passed away last year, and her estate sold one of Heinz’s paintings, a nude done in oil on board, for one point two million.”
“Wow.” Patrick gestured at the art-filled walls surrounding them. “There’s probably a small fortune just hanging in this living room, huh?”
“Not so small a fortune,” Kerry corrected him.
“Hey.” Patrick put his hand over hers. “Kerry, did you mean what you told Heinz? That you’d stay here until he’s better?”
She nodded. “Unless he calls the cops and has me evicted.”
“Will Murphy be able to make it home for Christmas?”
“Doubtful,” Kerry said. “He’s been watching the weather apps, and the interstate is still like an ice rink. He’ll stay at Claudia’s place until the roads are in better shape. In fact, he’s supposed to bring me my clothes as soon as he finishes breaking down the tree stand.”
“Won’t your mom be disappointed about both of you missing Christmas?”
“We talked. Murphy had already called to tell her and Dad about Spammy. And about Heinz. She understands. Like she said, we can have Christmas anytime.”
“Your mom sounds like a good sport,” Patrick said.
Kerry leaned her head back against the sofa cushions. “I feel bad now, because I basically accused her of being a doormat for taking care of my dad after his heart attack.”
“She has a good heart. Like her daughter.”
“It was Austin who wouldn’t let us rest until we found Heinz,” she reminded him. “So give yourself some credit here too, pal, for raising a child with such a strong sense of compassion.”