“That would be great. Thanks.” I picked up my new acquisition.
“What do you have there?” Ron asked, coming up from behind me. He pointed to the crate. “That’s a nice piece.”
“It’s a crate Josh refinished. I think it’ll make a good end table or maybe an occasional table. Nice isn’t it? He has more.”
Josh pointed to the crates he had stacked behind the counter. “Interested? I’ll give you a good price on ’em.”
Ron ended up purchasing two of them, and Josh was a happy businessman.
“By the way, Laura,” Josh said, “your old friend Monica Heller came in here the other day—along with that artist who’s teaching at Fischer College.”
My old friend? I would definitely not describe Monica as such. Just the thought of her raised my hackles. “Oh, yes?” I feigned interest.
“Yeah. She introduced Damian Reynolds—one of those artistic types—wearing a black silk shirt. Not many guys in Louiston wearing silk shirts. I could’ve bought a tank of gas with what he probably paid for his haircut. The interesting thing was he came back a couple of days later on his own and asked if he could consign some artwork.” So much for keeping his customers’ business confidential.
“Was that unusual?” The curiosity bug bit me again.
“Sort of. Him being so big in the art world, you’d think he’d take his stuff to an auction house. He’d get better prices than I could get for him here.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Josh. He obviously felt comfortable bringing you the pieces.”
I studied a collection of colorful vases on a shelf nearby. Why would someone well-known in the art world consign pieces to a small-town business like Josh’s? It was great for Josh, and a good idea if Damian didn’t want word getting out that he was selling his stuff. Had he fallen on hard times?
Geoff had been standing nearby. “Did you say Damian Reynolds came in here? He and his agent stayed at our B&B recently while he looked for a house in town. It was exciting having someone so famous as one of our first guests.”
“Yeah, but his stay wasn’t without drama,” Ron said, putting a bust of Jefferson on the counter.
Josh, who loved a good gossip, was all ears.
“One night, he and his agent got into a big row,” Ron said. “We thought we were going to have to break it up. Fortunately, it didn’t come to more than words. We didn’t want our B&B to become known as the place a famous artist was murdered.”
Chapter 9
A good design guideline is to hang artwork sixty-two inches from the floor to the center of the piece.
That afternoon, Nita pulled up in her lime green VW bug for our ride to the Fischer College Arts Center. She was involved with the Louiston Arts Festival and had convinced me to help with the art intake. Aunt Kit had volunteered to come along.
When we approached the car, Aunt Kit insisted on squeezing her tall frame into the small backseat—too stubborn to let me sit back there. I’d hoped to get in first because I knew I’d later hear how the backseat caused her sciatica to flare up. There was no winning with Aunt Kit.
Nita looked perkier today. “How’d your meeting go with Josh? Is he going to rent us storage space?”
“He’s going to look around his buildings for a spot large enough to meet our needs. Also space we can lock to keep his customers from picking through our things looking for a bargain.”
Aunt Kit squirmed in her seat, trying to get comfortable. “Why do you need all that furniture?”
“We use it to stage houses that are unoccupied,” I said. “For an occupied home, we work with things the homeowner has—many times removing some furniture to make a place look bigger. But if the home is unoccupied, we furnish it to make it look lived in. Furnished homes sell faster than empty ones.”
As Nita and Aunt Kit chatted, my thoughts strayed back to Warren and his worries about being a suspect in the murder. I wondered how he was doing. Warren and I had been friends for years, and I couldn’t imagine him striking out at anybody in anger much less stab a man in cold blood. It just wasn’t consistent with his gentle nature, which was perfect for comforting the bereaved at his funeral home.
“You sound quite knowledgeable, Nita.” Aunt Kit’s words brought me back to the present. I could tell she was impressed and relieved I’d finally begun to build a team of helpers.
“Nita’s been taking online courses to obtain her staging certification. Having two certified home stagers will give us more creditability,” I said.
Aunt Kit grunted. She was still convinced I’d made a mistake leaving my well-paying job in IT to start a home staging business. She was also upset about our discovering a body at the funeral home. So was I, but it was hardly my fault. Nothing I’d said so far relieved her worries. As her only living relative, she worried about me far too much.
Nita pulled into the Arts Center parking lot, and after much back and forth maneuvering, she managed to park. Nita’s driving and parking abilities, or lack of, were her biggest challenges. I helped Aunt Kit pull herself from the backseat where she had been curled up like a pretzel. Once we alighted, we helped Nita unload her bags of gear and the framed photographs she was submitting to the festival and carried them into the center.
Nita had joined the arts group after she’d become serious about her photography. I was happy to see her more active and involved in things for herself and suffering less from empty nest syndrome. Being a part of the arts group inspired her to do more with her photography than just take photos of the houses we staged.
When we walked into the Arts Center, the place was bustling with activity. Aunt Kit wandered away and hopefully would stay out of trouble. She tended to direct people how to do their jobs. Once she’d told the bishop which priests he should assign to the various parishes in the diocese. The funny thing was the assignments nearly matched her recommendations. Pure coincidence?
Volunteers had already started to erect the wooden display boards the artwork would hang on. The boards created a maze throughout the large room. When the volunteers saw us, they bombarded Nita with questions about the body she’d found.
She assured everyone she didn’t have anything more to say other than she’d found the body, and that was it. Again it made me wonder who could have wanted to kill someone who hadn’t been in town in over twenty years.
“I remember Ian Becker,” a voice called from the back. “He was a nice kid. Occasionally got into trouble, but nothing serious—just enough to keep his aunt chasing after him.”
I glared at him and he must have gotten the message we didn’t want to hear anymore because he faded into the crowd.
When everyone returned to work, Nita assigned Mrs. Webster, another volunteer Nita had recruited, and me to direct the artists where to take their artwork and check off their names. It was an assignment we could handle that didn’t require any experience in dealing with the artwork. My only involvement with artwork was recognizing pieces I liked and selecting ones to use in homes we staged. As the pieces came in, I kept my eye out for any that would be a good addition to our inventory. Some of them were brilliant.
The pieces would be displayed in various categories and labeled with the name of the artist, the name of the piece, and a price for each.
Mrs. Webster’s eyebrows shot up. “Heaven sakes. Do you think anyone is going to pay these prices?”
“The artists set their own prices. From what Nita said, they have to be willing to sell the piece to enter. If they don’t want to sell it, they set the price high to discourage buyers. But that doesn’t always work. I understand one artist priced her piece for what she thought was an outrageous amount so it wouldn’t sell and was shocked when it sold.”
Later, Nita stopped at our table to see how we were doing. “Have they all checked in?”
Mrs. Webster nodded and handed her the check-off sheet. “Who is the
juror for the show?” The juror would select first, second, and third places in each category as well as honorable mentions.
“Damian Reynolds,” Nita said. “He’s famous for his wild abstracts, and you see his artwork everywhere. He recently joined the faculty of Fischer College, either as an instructor or guest lecturer—I don’t know which. Great for the college, but people wondered why someone so famous would come to a small town like Louiston.”
“That is a bit surprising,” Mrs. Webster said.
“Anne Williamson still can’t believe she was able to convince him to serve as the juror.” Nita pointed to a short, stout woman with a head of tight gray curls, hanging paintings. “That’s Anne over there.”
Nita grimaced. “I tried to convince her to hang the art so the center of each piece is sixty-two inches from the floor, a decorating standard. But she insists the top of each piece is to be seventy inches from the floor, regardless of size. It makes the smaller pieces look funny. But she heads the organization and holds it together—almost singlehandedly—so I don’t make an issue of it.”
“Anne always likes doing things her way.” Mrs. Webster knew most of the people in town and their idiosyncrasies.
“She usually refuses help. And everyone is happy to let her do it so they don’t have to. Except for this festival.” Nita pointed to the gallery. “She couldn’t do all this on her own.”
Mrs. Webster sniffed. “You know what they say. People often don’t want anyone involved to cover up their mishandling of the funds.”
Nita laughed. “Believe me, Mrs. Webster, there isn’t much money to mishandle. And from what I understand, there never has been. Besides, Anne is a very talented artist and her work sells for lots of money. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
As we approached, Anne Williamson hoisted a large framed piece and started to hang it on a display board. Aunt Kit came over to join us.
I rushed over to the older woman. “Here, let me help you with that.”
“Don’t you worry, dear, I’ve got it.” With that, she dropped the frame into place and slapped her hands together to remove any dust that dared cling to the frame. “I’m stronger than I look.”
When the others approached, Nita made the introductions. Anne beamed at our compliments about the artwork that was beginning to surround us. Her pride in the work of her members was obvious.
“We’re very fortunate to have talented artists here in Louiston. We’re especially happy that Nita joined us. Nita, you’ll have to take your friends over and show them your photographs. They’ve all been hung. Now if you’ll please excuse me, we have an artist who is unhappy with where his work was hung, and I have to go deal with it.”
We said our farewells to Anne and followed Nita to the photography area. The variety of images was amazing, but it was Nita’s two photos of Inky that immediately drew my attention.
“Nita, they’re wonderful.” My friend didn’t realize how talented she was. The photos she had taken of my cat were truly imaginative. How she was able to get him to pose with such interesting expressions, I’d never know. He wouldn’t have done that for me.
Not comfortable with the attention she was receiving, Nita blushed and pointed to another area. “Come on, let me show you around. Most of the works are up now, so you’ll get to see the exhibit before anyone else does.”
“Maybe I’ll find some pieces we can add to our staging inventory.” I thought the original works were fabulous, but seeing the prices made me realize that for now, I would have to stick to shopping at resale shops or garage sales for artwork.
When we walked into the room containing the two-dimensional pieces, a large painting of a woman dressed in shades of black, purple, and lavender immediately caught our attention. It was dramatic and breathtaking.
“That’s Anne’s submission,” Nita said. “Stunning isn’t it?” That was an understatement.
Mrs. Webster whistled at the price. “Did she set it that high to discourage buyers?”
“No. That’s what her artwork sells for. You see why we don’t have to worry about her mishandling our little treasury.”
“You could buy a small car with that kind of money,” Mrs. Webster said.
Aunt Kit, who was really into art, stood looking at the piece. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t sell for even more than that if two or more people start bidding on it. I need to get to know Anne Williamson better.” With that, she left us in search of her.
I looked up to see Tyrone weaving his way around the art boards. Mrs. Webster had said he’d be arriving soon to give her a ride home.
“Laura. Glad you’re still here. I just came from Vocaro’s. Word is out the police are questioning Warren again.” Uh, oh. Would Nita be next?
Chapter 10
Attractive artwork can breathe new life into a room. Framed photos will make a room look more contemporary.
Two days later, the art show opened, and a reception was being held that evening to honor the award winners. Damian Reynolds, the juror, had judged the artwork the day before and Anne Williamson had notified the winners. We were thrilled to learn that Nita had won an honorable mention for her photographs.
“I can’t believe my simple photos of Inky got an honorable mention.” Nita accepted the flute of champagne her husband Guido handed her. He leaned over and kissed her gently. “Your photos are great.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Nita. It took skill in getting such terrific photos. Of course, using my gorgeous Inky as your subject might have helped.”
Nita laughed. “Possibly. It’s hard to find a cat more beautiful than Inky.”
The room was jammed, but the crowd parted when Monica Heller entered. She radiated superiority. A tall swarthy man with long dark hair tied at the back of his neck accompanied her. As they walked by, Monica paused in front of us, like Queen Elizabeth stopping to talk to well-wishers in the crowd.
“Congratulations, Nita, on your little award,” Monica said.
Little award. I forced myself not to shake my head in disgust. Or curtsy. Would Monica ever change? “We didn’t see you at the Small Business Fair over the weekend, Monica,” I said.
She wrinkled her nose as though she smelled something bad. “Oh, my dear, no. I have more business than I can handle as it is. No need to drum up more.” She whisked a flute of champagne from a tray held by a passing waiter and walked away, never bothering to introduce the man with her.
I turned to Nita. “Did Monica enter anything in the festival? She knew about your award.”
Tyrone stopped chewing on the ice from his glass and pointed to the retreating figures. “She probably knows because of him.”
At my puzzled look, Nita added, “That’s Damian Reynolds, the artist—and Monica’s latest client. He bought a mid-century modern house near the campus, and Monica is helping him decorate it.”
“Is that what they call it now?” Mrs. Webster bit on an olive that was probably as sour as her feelings about Monica. “They looked a lot chummier than homeowner and decorator.”
“According to word at Vocaro’s, they’re together.” Tyrone took another mouthful of ice.
Between Tyrone and Nita’s hairdresser, we had the best sources of information in town.
A short while later, Anne Williamson thanked everyone for coming and introduced Damian Reynolds. After the applause died down, she thanked him for serving as the juror and handed him a gift-wrapped box. “A small token of our appreciation.” He placed it on the table behind them and took his place next to Anne for the awards ceremony.
Anne announced the winners in each category, and Damian presented envelopes containing cash awards to the recipients. With lots of Nita’s family present for the ceremony, the applause when she accepted her envelope was thunderous. I was thrilled for my friend, who deserved all the recognition she could get.
Nita’s joy
of winning the award was obvious from her broad smile. “Can you believe it? I get money as part of the award.”
Later as everyone mingled, I bumped into Anne Williamson who was standing near her piece.
“Congratulations on your best-in-show award. Your piece is fabulous.” I sounded like a gushing fan, but I admired anyone who could paint such a beautiful and dramatic piece.
“Thank you. It’s one of my favorite pieces. It will be hard to part with it.”
“Does that mean you’ve sold it?”
“Let’s just say I’m entertaining offers.”
Damian Reynolds, holding a champagne flute in his hand, walked up to the piece. He studied it for a long time and then moved closer as though memorizing every brushstroke. When he walked away, I turned to Anne. “I wonder what they look for in a piece when they judge the different categories? He certainly admired your piece, giving it best in show. High praise coming from a famous artist.”
“Yes, it was quite an honor,” Anne said with a huge smile. “I think this deserves another glass of champagne.” With that, she went in search of a waiter.
Mrs. Webster, who had been standing nearby, stared at the painting. “All that money for a painting.” She continued studying it.
“You are so entranced by it, perhaps you should put in an offer for it.” I leaned over to take a close look.
“If I had that much money, I could pay for Tyrone’s next year of college.” She shook her head. “There’s something about that painting.”
“It’s definitely mesmerizing.”
Nita came up from behind us and pointed toward Damian who was talking to Guido. “Quite a handsome guy. I predict every young woman at the college will become infatuated with him before the end of the summer semester.”
“Too handsome for my taste.” I finished the remainder of my drink and looked around for a place to put my empty glass.
“I know—you and your belief that handsome men are trouble. In this case, you may be right.”
Laura Bishop Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 27