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The space he’d revealed was small, painted flat white, and softly lit by northern exposure. Minimally set up with an easel, a chair, an oak flat file, and a couple of taborets on wheels.
No bite of linseed oil. Acrylics.
A scatter of unframed canvases hung on the walls. Colorful, workman-like renderings of still lifes, seascapes, forests, cozy villages filled with tumbledown cottages.
Well done but lacking surprise.
Something different on the easel.
Doug March said, “Guess she was talented. That was a surprise.”
Milo said, “Why’s that?”
“Because in this city, everyone thinks they’re creative and they’re not.” He laughed harshly. “When Meagin told me she painted and wanted to set up a studio, I thought, ‘Here we go. Sure, indulge her.’ No skin off, it’s not like we lacked space. I offered her any space she wanted.”
He pointed across the landing. “The bedrooms are huge but she wanted this, said it was intimate. It’s dinky because it was originally an auxiliary closet. Mrs. Harrington used it to store her extra clothing. Standing racks crammed with ridiculous stuff that they left behind after she died. I was ready to dump it all. Meagin insisted on donating it to some animal thing.”
Milo said, “I noticed a photo of the two of you—”
“Exactly,” said March. “Raising money for wounded pets or whatever.”
“Haven’t seen any pets.”
“I’m allergic. Okay, seen enough of the museum?”
I approached the easel and took a close look at the outlier.
Sixteen-by-twelve rectangle painted the deep dense gray of freshly watered concrete. Lighter gray blended with white for the subject. The lack of contrast made it struggle to materialize. An image struggling through a fog.
Unlike the other subjects Meagin March had chosen, this one was ambiguous. A small, stalky thing topped by a starburst and bottomed by what looked like pincers. Blurry and indistinct. Probably a work in progress—tentative rendering of an insect or a sea creature. The contrast with the other paintings was strange but when I looked over at Milo and March, neither showed any curiosity.
As they left, I hung back and phone-photo’d some of the paintings, including the exception.
March stopped and glared. “Why’d you do that?”
“What people produce can tell us about them.”
“My God, more psychobabble bullshit? But sure, have it your way. Just don’t put it on the internet.”
Milo said, “Your wife’s privacy will be guarded.”
Steel in his voice.
March flinched. “Sorry, I’m on edge. Got to get some sleep. You really need to paw through her clothes?”
“We’ll do it quickly.”
“Do I have to wait around?”
“No, go rest.”
“Good, the girls can see you out.” Crossing the landing, he entered one of the overstuffed bedrooms and shut the door.
—
Twin walk-in closets larger than most bedrooms, his dark wood, hers ivory enamel lit by a crystal chandelier. Lots of negative space in both. Doug March favored white shirts, jeans, owned a couple of nondescript suits and the tux in the photo.
Like her husband, Meagin March had filled only a quarter of her allotted space. Dresses, a couple of gowns, jeans, leggings, a dozen pairs of shoes.
