I walked inside. The house was astonishing. It had a great room that only an artist could have designed, with a rock fireplace and bookcases and wall space for the display of a series of remarkable paintings that seemed somehow familiar, though I knew I had never seen them. Off the great room, I saw a studio streamed in light. I turned. A wide stairway circled up, and I knew it led to a master bedroom that would be as unique as the great room. I turned again. I saw a kitchen and a corridor leading to back bedrooms.

“You look pleased,” Carter said cheerfully.

“My God, Carter, who owns this place?”

“Someone you may have heard of,” Carter answered: “Jean Archer.”

“The artist?”

“One and the same.”

“Of course I know her,” I said. “Who doesn’t? That would be like somebody in the car business not knowing about Henry Ford.” I moved about the room, looking at her paintings. I could feel the tension of awe that always strikes me when I see great art.

“She’s good,” Carter said.

“She’s brilliant,” I corrected. “But I’ve never seen these in anything—a show or a magazine, anything.”

“My understanding is all this stuff is private,” Carter said. “You’re one of the few people who’s ever seen them. She’s pretty close to being a recluse.”

“You know her?” I asked in amazement.

“Well, she needed a lawyer,” Carter said simply. “She wants to sell and move to New Mexico.”

“I’ll be damned. How long has she been here?”

“Three or four years. She moves about, I understand,” Carter answered.

I wandered to a painting hanging near one of the bookcases. It was of a young man in a field, on his knees, pulling weeds from around a tomato plant. Jean Archer’s work had always reminded me of the Old Masters in its clarity of expression. Carter said nothing. He watched as I studied the paintings.

“I can’t believe this,” I said at last.

“No, you can,” Carter said quietly. “But what I’m about to show you, you won’t believe. Come on.”

He led me up the stairs and into the master bedroom. The room was huge and commanding. It had a separate fireplace and a sitting alcove on the left side as one entered. On the right was a dressing area that led into a bathroom. The only thing that seemed odd about the room was the absence of color, and the sudden, drab sensation of loneliness. Single skylights on opposing sides of the beamed ceiling directed shafts of light across a king-size bed that was against the far wall.

Carter stood away from me, watching as I scanned the room.

“Do you see it?” he asked.

“What?” I said.

“The painting.”