She turned off the road and onto the private lane. No gates here. No circling walls. The Vanes were certainly wealthy enough to rate them. She wondered why they hadn’t chosen to buy Warrior’s Peak instead of building by the river, closer to town.

Then the house came into view and answered her question. It was beautiful, and it was wood. A lumber baron would hardly build or buy in stone or brick. He would, as he had, build to illustrate the art of his product.

The wood was honey gold, set off by copper trim that had gone dreamy green with age and weather. There was a complex arrangement of decks and terraces, skirting or jutting from both stories. Half a dozen rooflines peaked or sloped, all with a kind of artful symmetry that brought harmony to the whole.

The grounds were informal, as suited the site and the style, but she imagined that the placement of every shrub, every tree, every flower bed had been meticulously selected and designed.

Malory approved of meticulous design and execution.

She pulled up beside a moving van and was about to step out when she heard the wild, delighted barking.

“Oh, no, not this time. I’ve got your number, buddy.” She reached into the box on the floor beside her and pulled out a large dog biscuit.

Even as Moe’s homely face smooshed against the car window, she rolled it down. “Moe! Get the cookie!” And threw the dog biscuit as far as she could manage.

As he raced in pursuit, she nipped out of the car and made a dash for the house.

“Nice job.” Flynn met her at the door.

“I’m a quick study.”

“Counting on that. Malory Price, Brad Vane. Already called it,” Flynn added in subtle warning as he saw the interest light in Brad’s eye.

“Oh? Well, can’t blame you.” Brad smiled at Malory. “It’s still nice to meet you, Malory.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s guy-speak,” Flynn told her, and dipped his head to kiss her. “Just bringing Brad up-to-date. Dana and Zoe on the way?”

“No. Dana’s working, and I couldn’t reach Zoe. I left messages for both of them. What’s this all about?”

“You’re going to want to see it for yourself.”

“See what? You drag me out here—no offense,” she added to Brad, “you have a beautiful house—without any explanation. And I was busy. The time factor—”

“I’m starting to think time’s a real factor.” Flynn tugged her along toward the great room.

“Excuse the disorder. I’ve got a lot going out, a lot coming in today.” Brad kicked aside a chunk of broken lamp. “Flynn tells me you managed the art gallery in town.”

“Yes, until recently. Oh, what a fabulous room.” She stopped, absorbed the space. It needed paintings, sculpture, more color, more texture. Such a wonderful space deserved art.

If she’d had a free hand and an unlimited budget she could’ve made this room a showcase.

“You must be eager to unpack your things, settle in, and . . . oh, my God.”

The shock struck the instant she saw the painting. The stunning blast of discovery pumped straight into her blood, had her fumbling her glasses out of her purse and going down to her knees in front of it for a closer study.

The colors, the brushstrokes, the technique, even the medium. The same. The same, she thought, as the other. The three main subjects, the same.

“After the theft of the souls,” she stated. “They’re here, in this box on the pedestal in the foreground. My God, look at how the light and color seem to pulse inside the glass. It’s genius. There, in the background, the two figures from the first painting, with their backs turned here. They’re leaving. Banished. About to walk through that mist. The Curtain of Dreams. The keys.”

She scooped her hair back, held the mass of it in one hand as she peered more closely. “Where are the keys? There! You can just see them, on a chain the female figure holds in her hand. Three keys. She’s the keeper.”

Wanting to see more detail, she fished a small silver-handled magnifying glass out of a felt bag in her purse.

“She carries a magnifying glass in her purse,” Brad uttered in amazement.

“Yeah.” Flynn grinned like a fool. “Isn’t she great?”

Focused on the painting, she shut out the comments behind her and peered through the glass. “Yes, yes, it’s the same design of key. They’re not worked into the background the way they are in the other painting. Not symbolism this time, but fact. She has the keys.”

She lowered the glass, eased back slightly for an overview. “The shadow’s still in the trees, but farther back now. You can barely see his shape. His work’s done, but still he watches. Gloats?”

“Who is he?” Brad wanted to know.

“Quiet. She’s working.”

Malory slipped the glass back into its pouch, then returned it to her purse. “Such a sad painting, such grief in the light, in the body language of the two as they step toward that curtain of mist. The main subjects in their crystal coffins look serene, but they’re not. It’s not serenity, it’s emptiness. And there’s such desperation in that light inside the box. It’s painful, and it’s brilliant.”

“Is it the same artist?” Flynn asked her.

“Of course. This is no student, no mimic, no homage. But that’s opinion.” She sat back on her heels. “I’m not an authority.”

Could’ve fooled me, he thought. “Between you and Brad, I figure we’ve got all the authority we need.”

She’d forgotten Brad, and flushed a bit with embarrassment. She’d all but lapped the painting up, kneeling before it like a supplicant. “Sorry.” Still kneeling, she looked up at him. “I got carried away. Could you tell me where you acquired this?”

“At auction, in New York. A small house. Banderby’s.”

“I’ve heard of them. The artist?”

“Unknown. You can just make out a partial signature—an initial, really. Might be an R, or a P, followed by the key symbol.”

Malory bent lower to study the lower left corner. “You had it dated, authenticated?”

“Of course. Seventeenth century. Though the style has a more contemporary feel, the painting was tested extensively. If you know Banderby’s you know it’s both meticulous and reputable.”