The Artist's Inheritance

Chapter Two (part one)

                                                                    Chapter Two

The living room curtains remained closed. His car sat in its usual spot. He was home.

Caitlin put her key in the lock and opened the door. "Honey?"

Something smelled wonderful, but why was the room so dark? "Honey?"

She hoped he wasn't in the attic, forgetting all about the food in the oven. She didn't need the house burning down around them.

She didn't smell smoke though. Where is he?

She found him in the den, leaning across the desk, peering at something. "There you are." She clicked on the light.

Trevor blinked up at her, a stunned look pinching his handsome features. "Oh, hi. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm running late. I just tossed a frozen lasagna in the oven."

He'd called earlier and promised a surprise for dinner, but all she could see that looked food-like was the half-eaten apple by his elbow.

"You've nothing to apologize for." She slipped off her ink-stained smock and took in the state of the desk. What she saw there worried her.

Newspapers covered its surface, and Trevor leaned across them, digging his fingers into a small block of gray clay. She'd never expected this.

"Yes I do." He waved a clay-covered hand toward the kitchen. "I promised you dinner when you got home and now dinner's late."

She leaned into him, kissing the top of his head. "It's okay." She frowned down at him worriedly as he hadn't yet looked up. "No worries. Whatever you're making, it smells scrumptious."

"Lasagna. Frozen lasagna. I tossed it in about ten minutes ago." He blinked up at her, reached out and taking her hand, kissed it. "I lost track of time. I'm a terrible househusband. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she assured him watching him turn his attention back to his clay. "Trevor?"

"Hm?"

She drew his clay-caked fingers away from the figure on which he worked. "You all right, honey?" He nodded, and she nudged a lose lock of dark hair away from his eyes. "Are you sure? I've never known you to be so engrossed in your work." Studying it and selling it was another matter; sometimes he seemed more marketer than artist.

He smiled. "I know. It's odd, isn't it? I've never worked on something so small before." He picked up the block he'd molded, shaped, and reshaped. "Isn't it cool?"

Caitlin took the small figure out of his hands, studying it in the overhead light. The work was spectacular—and familiar. A square-shaped, spindly structure of some sort. "Very postmodern of you, honey." She handed the figurine back. "I like it."

Trevor set the figure lovingly on the papers. "You'd have liked a better dinner more than coming home to a bunch of tiny sculptures." He crossed to the bathroom to wash his hands, and she turned her steps to the kitchen.

He didn't point out one small fact about the clay figurine—and Caitlin refused to panic, but hadn't overlooked it: the figure resembled the chair he stored in their attic.

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Caitlin grew more concerned by the day, though she tried to hide it. She busied herself cleaning out the shed of all Gordon's photography supplies. The thought of an afternoon cleaning Gordon's work shed did nothing for her spirits. But the project needed doing, and just as Trevor couldn't look at Gordon's photographs for long, he still couldn't bring himself to enter the small structure. He said there was something spooky about the room.

Caitlin ducked her head in, stepped inside. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to her. So, she braided her hair out of her face and set to work.

She cataloged all the bent and crumpled pictures—and there were many. Flipping through them, she noted several shots of Fort Pickens, of the garden, the house, and a few sites around town and lastly, several pictures of Amelia. All these proofs seemed just smaller versions of the photographs up in their attic. She made a pile of them for sending to her sister-in-law.

Next, she turned to the leftover silver nitrate and carried the canisters of it and other chemicals to safe chemical dumps. Then she threw away every empty film roll she could find. She called Amelia and offered to send her the camera equipment, but Amelia refused.

"Do what you want with it, Cait. He didn't trust me with it, so I don't see any point in keeping it."

He didn't trust her? How peculiar.

She understood her sister-in-law's bitterness. The whole subject of Gordon's last days must be too painful for her, even still. Caitlin hoped she healed soon; her sister-in-law didn't deserve such grief.

She thought it best not to tell her of Trevor's recent fits, though curiosity urged her to do so. Had Gordon suffered the same troubles? What caused it?

She reminded herself of what the doctor said: he likely suffered no more than pure exhaustion, not uncommon in someone who had so recently experienced such a tragic loss.

She wished Amelia well and returned to the shed. There was still much to go through.

As she worked, she found she liked the little place. Yes, her brother-in-law became odd and violent in the last few months of his life, but his art began here, and she could feel the inspiration oozing from the walls. A pleasant vibe filled the room and she smiled as she opened each little box and cabinet, wondering what she'd find next.

She found several rolls of unexposed film, and some overexposed attempts, and empty film spools. She wondered if she might be able to sell the spools online to collectors.

Maybe Trevor could incorporate some of this stuff into his chair.

She frowned. Nah.

Caitlin stacked up another set of empty film boxes, and carried them to the trash. Sweat soaked her brow and she wiped it away. Hoisting the bag into the trash can, she noticed the plastic had torn. The trail of little boxes behind, only confirmed the discovery. "Oh, for Pete's sake."

She stomped across the yard, plucking the boxes from the grass.

One rattled in a way it shouldn't have. She picked at the box top, puzzled. Better not be a roach carcass inside—or a spider. The thought of critters made her think twice about shaking the rattling thing into her hand. She shook it over the sidewalk.

Something metal bounced on the pavement, pinging as it went. As it settled, Caitlin squatted beside it. What looked like a bronze pin the size of a penny glinted up at her. "Well, I'll be."

Caitlin scooped the thing up. Sunlight flashed off the dull metal surface and she narrowed her eyes, studying. The back held no clasp. She decided the thing was probably a button off someone's coat.

She turned it over and her breath caught in her throat. A stately eagle covered the item's surface, a capital A over its chest. She tucked her find into her pocket, and swept up the other boxes, shaking them to make sure no other treasures lay hidden inside. She set the trash by the curb and rushed inside.

Cleaned up, she settled down at her computer. She had to know what this button represented.

Many pages came up in her search but finally she stumbled across an antique site that gave her the information she sought. "Button from Union uniforms; eagle denotes membership in Union Artillery. Infantry squad. New York," she read. Union? Here?

She searched her memory trying to recall specifics of the Civil War. Should she visit Fort Pickens? Could she? No, they'd see her link to Gordon, she was sure. Even if she never produced identification of any kind, surely they'd seen the newspaper stories. Unhappily, there was one photo in existence of her and Trevor at the funeral. No way could the fort keepers have missed it.

She groaned and shut down her browser window, tucking the button into her jewelry box along with the day's questions. She didn't need another project now at any rate.

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See next part for continuation...