Picture Imperfect

by Rickie Blair

  Emy and I followed, nodding appreciatively, trying not to look bored. We’d been at the open house for half an hour and learned nothing that would help Ryker. Not only that, but his half-sister Shelby was nowhere to be seen.

  Earlier, when we’d emerged from Emy’s neon-yellow Fiat 500 to join the crowd surging toward the house, we had been funneled toward The Silo by a signboard in the foyer. It directed the guests to walk through the great room of the main house then into the circular addition.

  Once over its threshold, Emy and I halted to exchange awed glances. “The Silo” was a strange name for such an elegant space. The ceiling soared four stories to a skylight, with a white spiral staircase clinging to the rounded white walls, allowing a closer look at the art on the upper levels.

  On the ground level, Spirit of the North hung on a partial wall set in the middle of the room, sheltered from the skylight’s rays by an overhanging canvas shade. As Emy had predicted, it occupied the place of honor.

  It was lit by angled overhead spots and flanked by orchids on wooden plinths. A velvet rope strung between metal stanchions prevented the riffraff from getting too close—or, heaven forbid, actually breathing on this masterpiece.

  I stood outside the rope, studying the painting. It was smaller than I expected. No more than a foot and a half across. It depicted a brown, gray, and blue streetscape of semi-detached three-story houses. It didn’t move me like the Lawren Harris paintings I’d seen in museums, with their crystal lakes and soaring mountains. I found it a bit disappointing.

  Nigel waved at someone across the room. Before he could abandon us budget shoppers in favor of more well-heeled candidates, I drew his attention with a flap of my hand. “This is the Group of Seven painting I’ve heard so much about, isn’t it?” I asked, inclining my head toward Spirit.

  He nodded, smiling. “It is indeed. One of Harris’s early works. A Toronto street scene, painted around 1910.”

  “Is it for sale, like the house?”

  His expression momentarily darkened. “Oh, no. Mr. Otis had specific plans for that piece. Although, to be honest—” He smiled. “To be honest—” Then, without warning, Nigel brushed me out of the way, raising his voice to a near-bellow. “Mayor Mullins—I’m so pleased you could join us.”

  Nigel strode across the room, holding out a hand to Leafy Hollow Councilor Wilfred Mullins. Since Wilf was not quite four feet tall, Nigel had to stoop.

  Wilf uttered his usual guffaw as he clasped Nigel’s hand. “I’m not the mayor yet, you rascal.”

  “Surely, the vote is only a formality,” Nigel purred.

  Chuckling, Wilf slapped Nigel’s arm—since he couldn’t reach his back—then shot him a wink.

  Emy and I exchanged bemused smiles. Wilf was my lawyer, as well as my aunt’s. Most of the villagers were under the spell of his exuberant personality. He’d been promising for years to run for mayor, and he was finally taking his shot.

  Wilf’s long-suffering executive assistant, the dignified, gray-haired Harriet, hovered behind him, clutching his royal-blue booster cushion. Should Wilf decide to stop electioneering and sit for a moment, which was unlikely, she would be ready. Harriet barely cracked a smile at Nigel’s fawning. As always, I admired her professional restraint.

  Wilf turned his head to speak to Harriet. She deftly tucked the cushion under one arm, then pulled an appointment diary and pen from her bag. With the pen poised, she tilted her head at Nigel, who spoke in a low tone. Harriet made an entry, then returned the diary to her bag in time to hurry after Wilf, who’d resumed working the room. By the time she caught up, he was deep in conversation with a middle-aged couple wearing a blue suit and little black dress.

  I swiveled my attention back to Nigel. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, beaming at Wilf.

  Elbowing Emy, I whispered, “What do you think Nigel was going to say about the painting before Wilf came in?”

  “I bet he wants to buy it,” she whispered back. “I wouldn’t put it past him to swoop in with a low-ball offer before anyone else has a chance. Ryker doesn’t know anything about art, and now, with the murder case, Nigel probably sees him as an easy mark.”

  “That seems cold-blooded.”

  “Look!” She prodded my arm. “There’s Shelby.”

  I swiveled my head to the entrance, where Shelby Wynne was stepping hesitantly across the threshold. Her torn jeans had been replaced by a yellow print sundress and flats. When a white-shirted waiter approached her with a tray of filled wine glasses, she took one of white.

  After a quick glance around the room, Shelby turned on her heels to walk back out into the great room.

  That’s weird, I thought. She only just got here.

  “Wait here,” I told Emy, then followed Shelby through the house, taking care to stay behind her by several yards. She wandered through the ground-floor rooms of the main building, sipping her wine. Several times, she paused to pull a cell phone from her purse and snap a picture. But not of the paintings. Shelby was interested in the windows. A devotee of natural light, I assumed. Always important in a real estate purchase.

  Or—was she assessing her share of Ryker’s inheritance?

  After she disappeared into the kitchen on the other side of the house, I headed back to the Silo. At the entrance, Nigel brushed past me, his lips set. Turning, I saw him enter the kitchen. Intrigued, I retraced my steps to move closer. Close enough to hear raised voices.

  Then Shelby came back through the door, closely followed by Nigel, who had a hand on her shoulder. With a shrug and a pout, she slipped free. He watched her, eyes narrowed, as she walked through the great room in the direction of the foyer. Nigel continued on into the Silo.

  I eyed the kitchen door, wondering what Shelby had been doing in there that aroused Nigel’s wrath enough to ask her to leave.

  Emy walked up behind me, sipping her wine. “Whatcha looking at?”

  “The kitchen. Care to take a closer look?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

  We crossed the great room and entered the sweeping space. Once over the threshold, Emy ran an appraising hand along a polished wooden countertop, exclaiming over the kitchen’s professional appliances, multiple knife racks, and trio of stainless-steel dishwashers.

  “Why would anybody need all this?” I asked, gesturing at a huge marble island with hardwood insets. I swear my voice echoed off the gleaming white walls, despite the presence of two aproned chefs who were refilling canapé platters then handing them off to the servers. A third chef was flipping tiny skewers of meat over an indoor grill. No one looked at us.

  “It’s not for the homeowners,” Emy said. “It’s for the caterers. Dinner parties, special events, stuff like that. Look—the appliances are all connected to the Internet.”

  “Of course they are,” I said, musing on what kind of dinner parties required a hotel-sized prep area and appliances with their own Facebook pages. The kind I’d never been invited to, obviously. My gaze traveled around the room, landing on a row of casement windows between the far counter and the upper cabinets. One of the windows was open. The air conditioning was so chilly I regretted not adding a black cardigan to my outfit, yet the hired staff was allowing that cold air to billow out an open window.

  I nudged Emy with my elbow. “This kitchen looks great, but there must be something wrong with the ventilation if they have to open a window just to make miniature shish kebabs.” Rubbing my bare arms to warm them up, I added, “The electricity bill will be huge.”

  “Nigel won’t pay it. It’ll come out of the estate,” Emy said, eying the caterers with professional curiosity. I half expected her to whip out a pad to take notes.

  “Will the estate pay for the catering, too?”

  “Of course.” Emy held out an arm to halt a white-shirted waiter who was hustling by with a filled tray. Smiling, she lifted a morsel from the platter. While the waiter continued on his way, Emy gave the tidbit a thorough examination before popping it into her mouth. “Lobster cr
ostini with dill sauce,” she said after a moment’s chewing. “Not bad. Not exactly innovative, though. I wonder why Nigel didn’t ask me to do the catering?”

  “Come on. This isn’t getting us anywhere.” I took her arm to lead her back to the Silo. On our way past the signboard in the foyer, I caught sight of a stack of business cards on a hall table and stopped to take a look. The heavy white stock and gold engraving looked familiar. I picked one up to read it.

  Grace Anderson

  Below that, a phone number, also in gold.

  I rummaged through my black handbag to find the card Molly Maxwell had given me when we discussed her ruined flowers, then held it next to the new one. They were identical.

  “Hang on to this,” I said, handing the second card to Emy. “Grace Anderson must be here somewhere. We need to find her.”

  Puzzled, Emy read the name. “I’ve never heard of her. Is she involved with Ryker somehow?”

  “No, but I suspect she knows something about the vandalism at Molly’s.”

  “Is that the surveillance target Lorne roped us into?”

  “That’s the one.” I uttered a sigh. “Thanks for doing it, by the way. I know it’s a nuisance.”

  Emy brightened, tucking the card into her bag. “I’m looking forward to it. Lorne and I have been researching camouflage options.”

  I shook my head, but couldn’t help smiling. “You two were made for each other.”

  “I know,” she enthused. “Isn’t it great?”

  We returned to the Silo. Wondering what to do next, I swept my gaze around the room, taking in the suited men and fancy-dressed women who were exchanging earnest comments on the artwork while sipping wine and munching hors d’oeuvres.

  Which one was Grace Anderson?

  Chapter Seven

  The open house was in full swing when a woman with long platinum hair entered the Silo and strolled over to the velvet rope guarding Spirit of the North. One arm was raised to her shoulder, fingers coiled around the handles of a massive white handbag tossed over the back of her silk floral shift. She had a glass of red wine in her other hand, and her red-soled shoes sported four-inch spike heels.

  I prodded Emy with my elbow. “Who’s that?”

  Emy followed my eyes. “Don’t know. I don’t think she’s from the village.” She drew in a quick breath. “Look at those shoes—Louboutin. Cost at least a grand, I bet.”

  “Each? Or for the pair?”

  Emy ignored my jibe. “She’s really interested in that painting, isn’t she?”

  We watched the blonde lean over the red velvet rope with her wine glass. From across the room, I saw Nigel also watching her—no doubt imagining how much Spirit’s value would be diminished by a vivid splash of burgundy. Fixing a smile on his face, he headed in her direction.

  “Nigel’s on the move,” I whispered. “This should be good.”

  He reached her just as she swung the purse off her shoulder to unhook the rope.

  “Excuse me,” Nigel said with thinned lips, reaching for the hook. He tugged it out of her grip, then reattached it firmly to the stanchion—which had the effect of herding the platinum blonde back to the riffraff side.

  Emy and I side-stepped closer while pretending to admire the abstract swirls of a nearby canvas. Soon we were in prime position to overhear their conversation.

  “I only wanted a closer look. It’s so intriguing.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is it for sale?”

  Nigel chuckled. “I doubt you could afford it, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am?” She stepped nearer—so near that her substantial chest nearly brushed against the front of his tailored suit. “I don’t look like a ma’am, do I?”

  His eyes widened. He stepped back. “No, of course not. I only meant—”

  “As for being able to pay for it”—she smiled—“I assure you I can cover the cost of anything in this room. Hold this,” she commanded, handing him her wine glass.

  Nigel complied, looking confused.

  She opened her handbag to extract a business card, then swapped it for her glass. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

  Despite straightening to my full five-ten, and even adding tiptoes, I couldn’t read the card. Nigel had turned his back to us, and the card was safely hidden by his bulk.

  I ducked my head to one side in time to see him try to give it back. “I’m sorry, but this particular work is not for sale,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Something else, then?” She slid nearer, until her faultlessly manicured fingers were caressing Nigel’s lapel. “I’ve heard about your shop, and I’m simply not willing to leave empty-handed.”

  “How did you—”

  “Oh, I have a lot of contacts in the business. They let me know when something interesting comes up. Although…” She stepped back to study his face. “Perhaps you think I’m not trustworthy. I’m willing to conduct a preliminary transaction to prove how serious I am.”

  Nigel puffed out a breath, still holding her card. “Well…there might be something.” He glanced rather helplessly around the room. “I might be willing to part with a few pieces of my own, but they aren’t here.”

  “When can I see them?”

  “Well…”

  The blonde plucked her business card from his fingers, then tucked it into the breast pocket of Nigel’s jacket. Giving the pocket a pat, she said, “Call me with the details. We’ll work something out.”

  As she walked away, he seemed unable to take his eyes off her rear.

  I had to admit it was impressive.

  “I’m going to follow her,” I said. You run interference with Nigel. I have to talk to that woman. She could be Grace Anderson.”

  Squaring her shoulders, Emy walked briskly up to Nigel then bestowed her most brilliant smile—the one that always melted male resistance.

  He was no exception.

  “Nigel, I hope you didn’t overpay for those canapés. I would have offered you a very competitive price.” Emy grasped his elbow, steering him toward the buffet table. “Let’s take a look.”

  At five-foot-one, Emy was tiny, but determined.

  I turned my attention to the blonde, who was making a leisurely circuit of the room. Then she placed her wine glass on a table and continued into the main house. By the time I caught up with her, she was frowning at a small landscape. Cows again.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” I asked, sidling up beside her.

  “It’s crap.” She turned to face me. “Who are you?”

  “Verity Hawkes. A local landscaper. And you are?”

  “A landscaper? Meaning you know nothing about art.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I bristled, recalling the hardbound edition of Modern Art for the Time-Challenged in my bookcase at home. Not to mention Masterpieces of Decoupage and Ten Ways to Fold a Dinner Napkin.

  She waved a hand while renewing her scrutiny of the oil. “Leave me alone.”

  “Are you Grace Anderson?”

  “No,” she replied without looking at me.

  “Then how do you know Nigel Hemsworth?”

  Her eyebrows rose as she swiveled her head toward me. “Excuse me?”

  “Well, I couldn’t help overhearing you negotiating a purchase. And since this is basically a real estate open house that has nothing to do with art, I naturally wondered how—”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Verity Hawkes.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind for the civil suit.”

  “What civil suit?”

  “The one I’m going to bring asking for an injunction if you don’t stay at least fifty feet away from me from now on.”

  I gaped at her. “You’re joking, right?”

  Pulling a rose-gold phone from her purse, she held it up. “Should I call my lawyer?”

  “I was just leaving.”

  She nodded, then resumed her examination of the artwork.

  Back in the Silo, I found
Emy alone at the buffet table, dropping canapés into a folded napkin.

  “Is the 5X out of food?” I whispered in her ear.

  She clapped a hand to her chest. “Cheesit. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “Sorry. But what are you doing?”

  “Checking out the competition. Did you get anywhere with dragon lady?”

  “No. That’s an apt metaphor, by the way. She threatened to have me arrested. Sort of.”

  Emy tucked another morsel into her napkin while scanning the rest of the platters. “Good thing you’re used to that.”

  I made a face. “Thanks for the support. Did Nigel tell you anything interesting?”

  “Nothing. But he’s nervous about something.”

  “Maybe the way the open house is going?”

  “It’s not that. He’s held open houses and art show openings before. He’s usually pretty cool. But today…” She twisted the top of the napkin shut, then opened her purse to drop it in. “He seems distracted.”

  “Did you ask him about Ryker?”

  “I didn’t get the chance.”

  “Speaking of open houses, isn’t this a little upscale for a check-out-the-closets function? Why are all these people here?”

  “To see the art,” Emy said. “Perry always kept it under wraps. The villagers are curious.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nigel scanning the crowd. “But Nigel told dragon lady that none of this was available.”

  “Hmm. I bet he’s negotiating a bulk purchase from Ryker. Then he can resell the paintings at a profit.”

  Meanwhile, Nigel had found his target—a tall, tanned man in his early sixties, wearing a blue linen jacket with a wrapped cigar tucked into the breast pocket. His movie-star physique contrasted painfully with Nigel’s puffy middle.

  They spoke only briefly before Nigel became agitated. He gripped the man’s sleeve, his voice rising. “That’s not the deal we agreed on.”

  “That deal died with Perry,” the other said in an equally loud voice, shaking his arm free. Pivoting on the heel of his Italian loafers, he walked off.