Vanished into Plein Air

by Paula Darnell

  I'd been surprised to learn that besides Susan, Pamela, and me, only three other Roadrunner members had agreed to participate in the event—Chip, Ralph, and Valerie, an art teacher at Lonesome Valley High School who was also a member of our gallery's board of directors. I quickly set up my easel, placed my canvas on it, and unpacked my paints and other supplies. Absorbed in my task, I didn't pay much attention as other artists set up, but when I looked around, I was startled to see that Chip had positioned himself close to the cliff's edge. He saw me staring at him and made a thumbs-up gesture, which Susan saw, too.

  “I don't know what that boy's thinking,” Susan said. “I'm going to try to convince him to move back.”

  Before she could take a step in Chip's direction, the problem resolved itself when Brooks approached Chip and insisted he move back several feet from the edge. Chip looked ruefully at Susan and me and shrugged.

  “Do you know whether Ralph's still planning on coming?” I asked Susan.

  “I suspect he might not make it today,” she told me. “Even though he wasn't using a cane the last time I saw him, he was limping. I think the walk up the trail would be difficult at best for him.”

  I nodded. “Did you know Ralph held a plein air paint-out for his students in this very spot about thirty years ago?”

  “No, I hadn't heard that.”

  “From what Pamela told me, Ulysses's first wife Jill actually left him during the paint-out. At first, everybody thought she'd wandered off and lost her way, but when they searched and couldn't find her, Ulysses reported her missing to the police. Then, he went home and found a Dear John letter from her.”

  “That's awful!”

  “Definitely. I imagine Ulysses felt devastated at the time, but it doesn't seem to bother him anymore. He chose this spot himself for the paint-out. Pamela asked him if Miners' Lookout brought back unpleasant memories, and Ulysses told her it all happened so long ago it didn't really bother him anymore.”

  “Well, I guess I can understand. He's married again; he's famous; he's rich. What's not to like? I doubt that he has a care in the world,” Susan said as she looked past me and waved. “This is a first. It's Pamela, and her husband's actually with her.”

  “Really? I've never met him.” I turned to see the tiny woman with a tall bearded man, who was carrying Pamela's easel and canvas.

  “It must be nice to have a helper,” Susan said when Pamela came over.

  “It is,” Pamela beamed. “Amanda, I don't think you've met my husband Rich. Rich, this is Amanda Trent.”

  Rich greeted me and Susan politely and asked Pamela where she'd like to set up her easel. Before she could answer, he looked around, saw Chip, and suggested a spot as far away from him as possible. Pamela instantly agreed, and they began unpacking her supplies.

  “That's odd,” Susan said. “It's the last place I would have chosen.”

  “Mmm,” I murmured. I figured Pamela's husband disliked Chip, and I knew why, but that particular secret wasn't mine to share. I distracted Susan by calling her attention to Ulysses, who had just arrived with Olivia and a handful of admirers who stationed themselves behind him as he set up his easel and placed his canvas on it.

  The last to arrive, Ulysses spoke cordially to the knot of people gathered to watch him paint while his wife set up another easel next to him.

  “Surely he isn't planning on painting two pictures,” Susan said, staring at the couple, but it soon became obvious that his wife was planning on doing a painting of her own.

  “I knew Olivia was Ulysses's business manager, but I didn't realize she's a painter, too,” I told Susan.

  “Counting Ulysses and Olivia, now we have ten artists here. Valerie's over there, near the three artists from the other galleries in town. It must be close to starting time. I guess Ralph decided not to come.”

  Just then, Brooks began making the rounds to verify that none of the artists had already started painting. After he'd checked, Brooks greeted everyone, reminding the visitors that they were welcome to observe but cautioning them to give the artists plenty of room to work.

  “When I ring the bell, you may commence working,” he said formally. “Promptly at noon, I'll ring it again, and you must stop work immediately. Now: ready, set, go!” With a flourish Brooks rang his bell, and we were off. Like a thoroughbred at the beginning of a race, I felt an urge to rush, but I'd need to pace myself in order to do a good job and finish on time.

  I used burnt sienna to underpaint my canvas, establishing the composition and values of the piece.

  Next to me, Susan had begun lightly sketching the scarlet morning glories that would be the focus of her watercolor painting.

  Telling myself to concentrate, my quick glance at Susan was the last time I looked at anything other than my canvas or the stand of trees I was painting for the next couple of hours. I worked much more rapidly than usual, and after a while, I relaxed a bit, confident I'd finish on time.

  “I'm going down to the restroom,” I told Susan.

  “Me, too, but you go first, and I'll keep an eye on your stuff until you get back.”

  I hurried down the path to the parking lot below, trying to avoid the loose pebbles that dotted the trail.

  Except for Gabrielle and Olivia, the area was deserted. The two stood near the refreshments table and appeared to be engaged in an intense conversation, but as soon as they saw me, they stepped apart and stopped speaking.

  I didn't linger and returned to my easel in a few minutes. As soon as I came back, Susan left. A couple of observers stepped closer to her painting to look at it, but not close enough to cause concern. Still, I kept my eye on them until they drifted off to watch Pamela. I noticed Rich continued to hover near her, occasionally casting a wary eye Chip's way. Oblivious, Chip concentrated on his painting and never looked in Pamela's direction.

  “Olivia and Gabrielle seem to have hit it off. They had their heads together about something,” Susan said when she returned.

  We went back to our paintings, and the time flew. About eleven-thirty, Brooks made the rounds of the artists to let us know we had half an hour left. When he came our way, Susan stepped back from her easel and proclaimed, “I'm done!”

  I wished I could have said the same. As it turned out, I'd just finished signing my painting when Brooks rang the bell, signaling us to stop work and step back from our easels.

  He thanked the artists and spectators and invited everyone to come to the auction in the evening, which would take place in one of the meeting rooms at the resort.

  I was surprised and somewhat relieved to learn that Brooks had arranged to transport all the paintings directly to the resort, and we wouldn't even have to carry our paintings down to the parking lot. A crew dressed in tan chinos and blue polo shirts sporting the Lonesome Valley Resort logo appeared, and Brooks accompanied them, giving a receipt to each artist, as the crew members carefully removed artwork to carry it away.

  Ulysses talked with a small group of spectators until Brooks handed him a receipt. Then he turned around and looked at his wife's canvas.

  “Let me give you Olivia's receipt,” Brooks said, handing Ulysses a piece of paper.

  Ulysses, who was clearly upset, frowned. “Olivia was just here a few minutes ago. Did anyone see her leave?”

  Brooks sought to calm the agitated artist without much success.

  “She probably went down to the parking lot,” Brooks said calmly. “I wouldn't worry. She'll turn up.”

  “That's what they told me last time I was here, and I never saw Jill again.”

  Chapter 6

  Brooks looked confused. Evidently, he'd never heard the story of how Ulysses's first wife had left him.

  “Come on, Ulysses. I'll go down to the parking lot with you, and we'll find her,” Brooks said, gathering Ulysses's supplies into his carrying case. The artist picked up his easel and accompanied Brooks. As they departed, Brooks called one of the crew members over and directed him to give the rest of the artis
ts a receipt when they picked up their paintings.

  While we waited, Pamela came over to us and whispered, “Talk about a déjà vu moment. Way too close to the last paint-out Ulysses did up here, but I'm sure this one will turn out fine. I bet Olivia probably just needed a restroom break. I doubt that there's anything to worry about. Still, it's a bit odd.”

  “Pamela, they're ready to take your painting,” Rich called.

  “Coming.” She scurried off to accept her receipt from a crew member. “See you at the auction tonight,” she said as she waved good-bye to us.

  Susan and I were the last to leave. When we reached the bottom of the trail, we saw that the tables had been removed and most of the cars had already left the parking lot.

  Brooks stood next to a white van, talking to his crew members. Then, they shut the back doors, and two of them climbed into the front.

  “Did Ulysses find Olivia?” I asked Brooks. “He seemed awfully upset.”

  “Oh, yes. Everything's fine. Ulysses told me she came down to their car to lie down because she had a migraine headache. I'd better get moving now, so I can meet the crew at the resort. See you later.”

  “You know, I think it's strange Olivia didn't tell Ulysses she was going to the car,” I told Susan after Brooks left.

  “So do I. No wonder the poor guy seemed so upset after what happened with Jill. Do you suppose he thought Olivia had left him, too?”

  “Could be. She must know all about Jill's disappearing act, so it seems kind of mean of her not to tell him she was going to the car to lie down. Olivia must have known he'd be worried.”

  “Maybe she's trying to get back at him,” Susan speculated. “Remember their little tiff in the Roadrunner? Olivia was plenty steamed.”

  “Maybe so.” I stepped back, stretched, and yawned. “I'm glad the paint-out's over, anyway. I think I'll stick to studio work from now on. No four-hour deadlines.”

  “True enough,” Susan agreed, opening her trunk and depositing her easel and supplies inside. “See you tonight. Let's hope our paintings bring some megabucks' bidding.”

  “Let's hope!”

  Susan swung her car out of the parking lot ahead of me, and I followed her down the winding mountain road into town.

  Laddie was delighted to see me when I stopped at Belle's to pick him up, but when we came into the kitchen at home, Mona Lisa didn't bother to greet us. Instead, she surveyed us from atop her kitty tree and then turned her back on us.

  I seldom felt tired in the afternoon, but after I had a cheeseburger quesadilla for lunch, I found myself yawning again and decided to take a power nap. Maybe it was all that fresh air, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep with Laddie stretched out beside me and Mona Lisa, who finally decided she wanted to join us, too, curled up next to me on her favorite pillow.

  When I woke, I couldn't believe that I'd actually slept for two hours. Not exactly the power nap I had planned. In a groggy state, I went to the kitchen and brewed some coffee in the hope of reviving. Luckily, it did the trick, and my thoughts turned to the upcoming auction.

  I'd invited Belle and Dennis to go with me. Dennis couldn't attend because he was umpiring a softball game that evening, but Belle was keen.

  “I couldn't decide what to wear tonight,” Belle said when we were about to depart for the auction.

  “I think what you're wearing is perfect. It's not really a formal event.”

  Belle looked lovely in a gauzy blue maxi dress with some gold sequin accents along the neckline and long, dangling, gold earrings that complemented her wavy salt-and-pepper hair.

  I'd dressed in light layers topped by a long silk chiffon vest I'd tie-dyed in shades of green. Unfortunately, I'd discovered another gray hair among the brown as I'd put on my make-up. I'd promptly yanked it out, trying not to think about how many times I'd discovered gray hairs lately.

  We had no problem finding the meeting room where the auction was to be held. Large signs directed us through the Lonesome Valley Resort to the second floor.

  Outside the door, bidders were filling out their billing information before being provided with a numbered paddle that they'd hold up to bid.

  I'd gone to a few antiques auctions in Kansas City, searching for a sideboard for my dining room. Those had been crowded, noisy affairs with hundreds of lots on offer and the auctioneer talking so fast I couldn't understand him. I'd tried to bid on one piece of furniture by raising my number card high in the air. When I saw the auctioneer nodding in my direction, I thought I'd won the auction, but it turned out the auctioneer had been acknowledging a bid from the man sitting behind me, instead. After that, I'd given up on auctions and purchased a sideboard from a local shop.

  Belle stepped up to the table and registered as a bidder. We were both hoping she wouldn't have to do any actual bidding, but my fear that my painting might not garner any bids gave me the idea to ask her to bid if there was no interest. That way, I'd essentially be buying my own painting from myself when I paid her back.

  Since I wasn't planning on bidding myself, I waited for Belle while she completed her paperwork, and we went inside to be greeted by a server offering us champagne. Definitely, not a run-of-the-mill auction. There were tables laden with hors d'oeuvres and mini desserts in the back of the room, prepared by chefs from the resort's restaurants, no doubt.

  Even the seating was elegant. Instead of beaten-up folding chairs, well-padded, high-backed armchairs had been set out in neat rows for the occasion. They looked like chairs that might have been in guest rooms at the resort, although I didn't know that from personal experience. Lonesome Valley Resort boasted a five-star rating and was way out of my price range.

  Our paintings were prominently displayed in the front of the room. Artists had been asked to provide a title for their works, and we'd been handed a list of the paintings for sale on our way in. They were arranged in alphabetical order by the artist's name, except for Ulysses's painting, the one that would be auctioned off last as the grand finale. Next to each listing, the name of the artist's chosen charity appeared.

  “Shall we take a closer look?” I asked Belle, who readily agreed.

  We joined a small group at the front. It was amazing to me that all the artists had completed their works in only four hours. A burgundy velvet rope prevented the attendees from coming too close to the paintings, a few of which, like mine, were oils and not entirely dry.

  The front rows had filled up quickly, so we found seats about halfway back and waited for the auction to start. I looked around for Susan, but I didn't see her yet. Pamela and Rich sat a few rows behind Belle and me. We waved as we spotted each other. Like the opening for Ulysses's show at Brooks's new gallery that I'd attended with Emma, several celebrities showed up. I didn't recognize all of them, but Belle, who kept up on the latest in Hollywood, clued me in.

  It was about ten minutes after seven, with no sign that the auction would begin soon, and people were starting to get a bit restless.

  “”I think I'll go get one of those little chocolate mousses from the dessert table,” I said. “Would you like me to bring you one?”

  “Yes, thanks. I don't know how we resisted earlier.”

  Belle and I loved chocolate. The only reason I'd passed up the mousse in the first place was that it would have been a little difficult to eat while we looked at the artwork.

  Dainty silver spoons were laid out beside the little glasses of chocolate mousse. I took a couple napkins and dessert plates and set a serving of mousse on each, along with a little spoon. As I helped myself, I heard Brooks, who was standing by the door nearby, talking in a low voice to Gabrielle.

  “Have you seen Ulysses?” Brooks asked. “He was supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

  “No, and he hasn't called me, either.”

  “I don't want to delay the auction much longer. If he doesn't show up soon, we'll have to start without him.”

  “I'll give him a call,” Gabrielle said, pulling her cell phone out of her gli
tzy gold mesh evening bag. She shook her head. “No answer; I'll keep trying.”

  She nudged her phone and held it up to her right ear, covering her left ear with her hand. The buzz in the room had grown considerably louder as the bidders awaited the start of the auction.

  Brooks frowned. “Unbelievable! I could wring his neck,” he whispered, but his voice carried, and a few people in the back row turned around. Brooks smiled and put on his master-of-ceremonies happy face.

  “We'll get started in just a few minutes,” he assured them.

  Gabrielle stepped out into the hallway and looked around.

  “Here he comes now,” she told Brooks.

  Ulysses, looking pale and drawn, took Brooks by the arm. “I have to talk to you. It's important.”

  “Sure, but it'll have to wait until the end of the auction. We need to get this show on the road right now!”

  Chapter 7

  Brooks strode purposefully to the front, and I returned to my seat and handed Belle her dessert plate with the lovely little chocolate mousse. I finished mine in only a few bites, but it was delicious while it lasted.

  Brooks announced that the auction was about to get underway. He thanked all the artists who'd participated and added that free framing would be available with each high bidder's purchase. I hadn't heard that before, but after Brooks explained he had just opened a frame shop next door to his gallery downstairs in the resort's mall, I figured he was using the perk for publicity for his latest enterprise. A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.

  “Sounds like that'll cost him a small fortune. Did you know about the free framing?” Belle asked.

  “No, he never said a word. It's a great incentive, though.”

  Brooks started the bidding with Susan's watercolor, but first he introduced her and asked her to stand to say a few words about her designated charity, a society dedicated to providing scholarships for promising art students.

  I gulped. I'd always had a fear of public speaking, but I knew I'd have to force myself to get a grip before Brooks called on me.