Artistic License to Kill

by Paula Darnell

  “I guess I fit that category.”

  “I wasn't thinking of you, Amanda. He dated my sixty-five-year-old neighbor for a while, then dropped her like a rock when he found someone else. She was really hurt. To this day, she avoids speaking to me. I guess I'm a reminder of him. He comes over here quite a bit, and whenever she sees him coming, she closes her blinds. Poor woman.”

  Chapter 20

  Poor woman, indeed, I thought, as I drove home from Susan's. Maybe Chip wasn't so harmless, after all. If he didn't change his ways, he was bound to end up in hot water. I thought about warning Pamela, but my interference could easily backfire. She might assume I had a stake in the game and that I felt jealous.

  I decided it was better to talk to Chip. I doubted very much that there was anything I could say that would convince him to mend his ways. Susan had already tried and failed. Persuading Chip that I wasn't interested in a romantic relationship with him was probably the most I could hope for.

  Ironically, when I reported to the gallery for my morning shift the next day, Pamela and Chip were the first people I saw. I'd been expecting to see Pamela, but not Chip, so I wasn't unhappy when he left. As usual, he winked at me on his way out.

  “Hi, Amanda. It looks as though it's just you and me this morning,” Pamela said. “Judith is holed up in the office getting ready for her talk.”

  The blank expression on my face must have told Pamela I didn't know what she meant.

  “About once a month or so, we invite an art class from the high school to visit the gallery. Valerie, who's one of our board members, teaches art at LVHS. After the students look at the artwork in the gallery, they gather in our meeting room.

  “Janice always used to talk to them about art as a career or a hobby. Judith said she'd do the same. It usually goes over pretty well. Of course, most of the students won't become professional artists, but I think it enhances their appreciation of art.”

  “Sounds like a good program.”

  Pamela nodded. “The class is due to arrive soon. We don't need to do anything special, just answer students' questions while they're looking around and keep an eye out for customers. When people see a crowd in the gallery, they often stop in.”

  “I guess I'll do some dusting before they arrive.”

  “So will I. Why don't you take the front, and I'll take the back,” Pamela suggested.

  It took only a few minutes for us to complete the chore.

  “I noticed the police returned Janice's bear,” Pamela said. “That's odd.”

  “No, they didn't return it. The one on display is a different bear. Judith put it out Friday.”

  “Ah, of course. It's one of Janice's limited editions.”

  “How did you know the police took it?” I asked. I remembered that Susan and I had been cautioned not to mention any details of what we'd observed at the crime scene even before Lieutenant Belmont had arrived to take charge.

  “Someone must have told me, I guess. I can't remember who it was,” she said, turning red. “Here comes the school bus now.”

  Pamela opened the gallery door and greeted Valerie and her students as they came in. Soon, the students were milling about the gallery.

  Several of them snapped pictures of various artwork. Many galleries didn't allow people to take photos of art on display; others, including the Roadrunner, did.

  Maintaining a watchful eye on her students, Valerie told me that the students were required to write reports about a particular artwork of their choice or a review of an individual artist's body of work on display in the gallery. Valerie encouraged them to include images, as well as detailed descriptions, of the artwork in their reports.

  As Pamela had predicted, the influx of students attracted the attention of passersby on Main Street, several of whom came into the gallery to browse. I noticed one woman lingering by Pamela's display. I thought Pamela could probably do a better job of pitching her painting than I could, but she hadn't noticed her potential customer because she was talking with a couple of students and had her back turned to the wall where her paintings hung.

  I joined the three and let Pamela know she might have a buyer. She excused herself while I apologized to the students for the interruption.

  “No problem. I get it,” said one of the girls, who wore a distinctive strand of incised, blue ceramic beads. “My mom and I sell some of the jewelry we make at craft fairs. If someone looks interested, we always give them a sales pitch,” she said knowingly. “I can usually tell by their body language if they're going to buy something.”

  “Hmm. I wish I had that talent. What do you think? Is that woman going to buy Pamela's painting?” I asked the student.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Less than a minute later, Pamela removed her colorful painting of a tiger in the jungle and carried it to the counter next to the cash register.

  “Told you,” the girl said, as Pamela rang up the sale.

  The unmistakable staccato click of high heels on the wooden floor interrupted us. Since most of the students wore thong sandals or sneakers, and I hadn't noticed anyone else wearing stilettos, I looked around to see where the noise was coming from.

  It was Judith, back in the same designer shoes she'd discarded for her sister's more comfortable ones the last time I'd worked in the gallery. I supposed Judith thought the heels would look more professional for her speech to the art class, but as she tottered off with Valerie, leading the students to the gallery's meeting room, I wondered whether it wasn't more likely that she'd turn her ankle. After Belle's accident, I knew how serious that type of injury could be.

  With the gallery now empty of students, it had suddenly become very quiet again. Pamela's customer left with her new painting, leaving Pamela and me alone in the gallery.

  “Umm, Amanda. I, uh,” Pamela began.

  “What's up, Pamela?” I asked.

  “This is awkward, but I hope I can count on your discretion.”

  I had a feeling I knew what was coming next.

  “You may have seen something yesterday—something you weren't meant to see. You do know what I'm talking about, don't you?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “You didn't say a word when you came to my studio yesterday.”

  “It's your business, not mine. I was there to check the proof for the Friday night studio tour, not to spy on you. I just happened to come along at the wrong time, and I didn't want to embarrass us all by interrupting you.”

  “I understand. Of course, we didn't know you were there, but right after the students arrived, Chip called me to tell me he saw your car in the driveway yesterday. He didn't put two and two together until this morning when he spotted the same car outside the gallery after he left. I hope you haven't mentioned the incident to anybody.”

  “No.”

  “Well, thank you for that. I'd appreciate it if you would keep it to yourself.”

  “I plan to, Pamela, but I hope you know what you're doing. People could get hurt.”

  “You mean my husband?”

  “I mean you and your husband.”

  “That's our problem,” she snapped.

  “I totally agree.”

  Pamela didn't respond. Perhaps she regretted bringing up the subject. I wished I'd never seen that kiss. The whole Pamela-Chip situation hit too close to home for me to look at it objectively. I didn't know Pamela's husband, but I realized I was identifying with his plight. I kept reminding myself that I knew Pamela only slightly and her husband not at all. I had no idea what their marriage was like. Best to mind my own business, I kept telling myself.

  “Uh, oh, here comes trouble,” Pamela said, nodding toward the gallery's entrance where a tall, distinguished-looking man, dressed in a bespoke suit, appeared. I did a double take, surprised to see Brooks Miller enter the Roadrunner.

  I took a step forward to greet him, as we always did when people came into the gallery, but Pamela put her hand on my arm and shook her head, so I stopped.
<
br />   Brooks ignored us as he methodically viewed each piece of artwork in the gallery, taking notes with a showy Waterman pen. Pamela and I retreated behind the counter while he made his rounds. When he finished, he approached us, ripped several pages from the small notebook he carried, and handed them to Pamela.

  “See that the artists get these.” It wasn't a request. It was a command.

  “Don't I know you?” he asked me.

  “We met last week when my son and I were having lunch at Cabo.”

  “Right, and you said you were local. You should think twice about being a member of this gallery. Associating with inferior artists never helps a painter's career.”

  I was literally speechless, but he didn't wait for my reply, anyway.

  “What was that all about?” I asked Pamela.

  “Brooks doing his quarterly critique.”

  “You mean those notes he gave you?”

  “Yes. There's one for each painter. He doesn't bother with any of the other artists.”

  “He has a nerve.”

  “You must have seen his paintings.”

  “I have. When my son Dustin was visiting me last week, we went into his gallery. I don't know how he keeps the lights on. Does he actually sell that awful stuff?”

  “He claims he does. Who knows? If you have enough money to subsidize your own business, I suppose it doesn't matter.”

  “I didn't realize he's wealthy. Isn't he the manager of the Lonesome Valley Resort, not the owner?”

  “He's the manager, and his family trust owns the resort. I wouldn't doubt that the Miller clan is the richest in Arizona.”

  “What do you do with his notes?”

  “This,” said Pamela, ripping the pages he'd scribbled in half and depositing them in the trash can. “From experience, I can tell you that he has absolutely nothing good to say. Constructive criticism is one thing; abuse is another. I don't know why we continue to put up with his asinine behavior. I've suggested to the board more than once that we should ban him from the gallery, but the other board members think taking action might lead to even more problems, so we do our best to ignore him.”

  “Ignore who?” Judith asked, as she joined us. I was surprised to see her because the high school art class hadn't yet left. I guessed they were still in the meeting room with Valerie.

  “Brooks Miller. He owns the Brooks Miller Gallery on First Street,” Pamela answered.

  “Well, Mr. Miller gets around. His real estate agent visited me yesterday with an offer to buy this building, actually to trade it for the building that houses Miller's gallery plus a large sum of cash. It's an exceptionally good offer.”

  “I hope you're not considering it seriously,” Pamela said, aghast. “We have the best location on Main Street.”

  “Yes. This is quite a good location, but may I remind you that the Roadrunner is here only because of my late sister's generosity. Yet, except for Travis, I haven't heard any of the members expressing regret at her loss.”

  “I assure you we all feel it deeply,” Pamela said. “Perhaps the members don't want to upset you by talking about Janice.”

  “What about you, Amanda? Is that what you think?”

  I felt like a deer in the headlights, being put on the spot like that.

  Judith looked at me and said, “Oh, never mind. You haven't been here long enough to know which way is up.” She stalked off, calling over her shoulder, “Let me know when the class is ready to leave.”

  Pamela and I didn't have a chance to speculate about Judith's comments because two couples came into the gallery just then. They wanted a recommendation for a good place to have lunch more than they wanted to look at art, but one of the women bought several note cards before they departed for the cafe Pamela had recommended.

  I heard voices as Valerie came out of the meeting room and asked me to let Judith know that the class was ready to leave. I tapped on the office door and gave her the message. Judith gathered some cards from the credenza behind Janice's desk and handed one to each of the students as they filed out of the meeting room.

  “Good for free art classes,” one of them read from the card Judith had handed him. “Don't think so,” he mumbled to himself as he stuffed the card into his jeans' pocket.

  Other students reacted differently, though. I overheard several who sounded excited by the prospect of taking art classes at the Roadrunner.

  “Did you ask Judith to donate the classes?” Pamela whispered to Valerie, as she was leaving.

  “No. It was her own idea,” Valerie replied. “I'm sure several of them will want to take advantage of the free offer. I don't have enough time to give them all a lot of one-on-one instruction, and some of them are very talented.”

  We watched as the class swarmed aboard the school bus.

  “I think that went well,” Judith said, waving to Valerie. “I'm going next door for coffee. Give me your orders, and I'll bring some back for you.” I was glad that Judith's mood had lightened considerably. She seemed to have forgotten our earlier awkward conversation.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked Pamela, after Judith left on her coffee run.

  “Grief, I guess. That would account for her mood swings. I'm worried that she may actually be considering Miller's offer, though. There's really no reason for her to subsidize the gallery, like Janice did. Judith is used to running a for-profit, commercial gallery, and the co-op's a non-profit. It's an entirely different animal. If she sells, it could mean the end of the Roadrunner.”

  Chapter 21

  My heart sank. Just as I was beginning to get established at the gallery, it might go under. I knew that the possibility was very real. Judith had called the offer “exceptionally good.” She was a businesswoman who'd sold her Texas gallery for a pretty penny, so she should know. I wondered whether she was truly tempted by the prospect of a quick, lucrative sale. Maybe she was considering the offer because she thought the Roadrunner's members were ungrateful for all her sister had done for the gallery. After all the years of Janice's donating the gallery space to the co-op, perhaps they took it for granted, maybe even felt entitled to occupy the first floor of Janice's building.

  Although those were both possibilities, I suspected that it had more to do with Judith's realization that the members wouldn't miss Janice much, despite Pamela's assertion that they felt her loss keenly. Even though the sisters had had a long estrangement, that knowledge must rankle. I doubted that Judith would have mentioned it if it hadn't.

  “I don't know what we're going to do if she sells this building,” Pamela said. “It wouldn't make any sense to move to the First Street location when many of the tourists never leave Main Street. As far as I know, there's no Main Street space available for lease or sale right at the moment. One solution would be for the co-op to buy this building, but, of course, we can't afford it. Each member would have to contribute thousands of dollars to make that happen. It's just not practical.”

  “I don't think it is, either. I know I couldn't afford to pay any more than I'm paying for the wall rental.”

  “I suppose my husband and I could buy the building, but I know I wouldn't be able to donate the gallery space. I'm sure my husband would agree only if it's a genuine investment. We'd have no problem finding a tenant for the apartment upstairs, but the co-op would also have to lease the gallery space. Even though that model could possibly work, we'd lose quite a few members because we'd have to raise the wall rental fee and take a commission on every sale. Perhaps we could attract some new members, though.”

  I could picture my future profits from sales in the gallery decreasing substantially if Pamela bought the place, but the alternative of moving the Roadrunner into the Brooks Miller Gallery would be even worse. Without the Main Street traffic, sales would undoubtedly dip considerably.

  “How serious are you?” I asked Pamela.

  “Dead serious. Can you imagine Brooks Miller's art in here? That's the only reason he wants to buy the building. He wants
to take over the Roadrunner's space for his own gallery. I shudder at the prospect. When Judith comes back, I'm going to try to find out if she really intends to sell. If so, I'm going to ask her to allow me to top Miller's offer.”

  “What if she asks him to top your offer? From what you've told me, he has very deep pockets.”

  “If we end up in a bidding war, Miller will win; that's for sure. It's just that I don't know what else to do. The Roadrunner's such a big part of my life, and now we might lose it.”

  Pamela looked as though she could burst into tears at any moment. Her bravado had dissolved in an instant.

  “You know it's entirely possible that Judith is planning on keeping the building. She didn't come right out and say that she planned to sell it.”

  “You're right,” Pamela said. “Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, but why would she mention it if she isn't serious about selling?”

  “I think maybe she wanted to tweak us a little. She's obviously unhappy that the members don't seem too upset about losing Janice.”

  “But everybody was shocked when they heard she was murdered right here in the gallery.”

  “Yes. That's true, but I wonder if she had any friends here because none of the members are talking about how much they'll miss her or what a great person she was, and I think Judith's picked up on their attitudes.”

  Pamela groaned. “You could be right. Janice knew a lot of people in the gallery and in the art world, but she probably didn't have any real friends. I can't say that I thought of her as a friend myself, and I've known her for years. She was such a strong-willed, controlling woman that it could be exhausting just interacting with her at the board meetings.”

  “So you never went out to lunch with her or invited her to join you for a social occasion?”

  “I'm afraid not,” she admitted, “and I can't think of anybody else who did. It's a sad commentary on her life, isn't it?”

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed.

  “You're seeing the situation more clearly than I was. I never really thought about it before. Janice was, well, Janice, someone we had to accommodate so that she'd continue to donate the space for the Roadrunner. I guess we were using her in a way.”