Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8)

by Diane Kelly

  “Nah. That’s just brown paint,” Eddie replied. “Or is it?” He took another step closer to verify.

  “This isn’t art,” I whispered. “This is a freak show.”

  Wasn’t art supposed to make you think? I mean, at least to think something other than what the hell? The only thought I had about Aly Pelham’s art was that she seemed to be trying awfully hard to shock her audience, to grab attention with odd, disturbing images. Her art didn’t seem to me as much a personal expression as a cry for attention. But perhaps I was being too harsh. After all, who didn’t like a little attention now and then?

  We turned and approached the three pedestals. Sitting on the first was a rusty oscillating fan, its cord plugged into the wall behind it. The fan chugged along on low speed, creaking as its jerking movements turned it first left, then right, then left again. The air blew across our chests as we stood watching.

  Creeeeak … creeeeeak … creeeeeak.

  “This fan could use some WD-40,” I said. “It’s creakier than the Tin Man from Oz.”

  I read the entry in the brochure. According to the pamphlet, the artist was someone named Jackson T. Reavis. “This one is called Winds of Change,” I told Eddie. “Apparently the artist uses air as his medium.”

  Interesting, perhaps, but shouldn’t it take more than finding a junky old fan at a garage sale and plugging it into a wall to prove your worth as an artist? If not, then I was making art every time I used the ancient harvest-gold hand mixer my grandmother had passed down to me.

  As we walked to the next pedestal, Josette scurried up. “Let me turn on this piece for you. It is very loud so we do not leave it running.”

  Josette plugged the cord into the wall and turned the dial on the stand to activate the 1950’s-era dome-style hair dryer. As the device forced warm air down toward our shoes, Josette shouted over the noise, telling us about the piece. “This exhibit is The Portal to Hell. Such creativity, no?”

  “Such a load of crap,” Eddie muttered next to me.

  Josette spun the dial to turn off the machine, putting an end to the warm air and racket. “What do you say, sir? I could not hear over the noise of the art.”

  “I … um…” Eddie cleared his throat. “I said ‘such good craft.’”

  “Oui.” Josette offered another smile and led us to the next pedestal, where a vintage salmon-pink canister vacuum sat in repose. She retrieved the frayed cord, holding it aloft between her fingers as if it were a fancy cigarette. “The title of this piece is Sometimes Life Sucks. Such a true sentiment, would you not agree?”

  Hmm. I never knew how to answer a question posed in that manner. If I said “yes,” would that mean I agreed or disagreed? Instead, I chose to answer with an unambiguous, unequivocal declaration. “Life does indeed suck on occasion.” Like when your boyfriend has to go on a dangerous undercover mission involving a man known as the Knife.

  Josette crouched down to plug in the cord, activating the device. The vacuum emitted a sound like a mechanical burp—BRUPP—and belched a plume of grayish-brown dust into Josette’s face. She shrieked, inadvertently sucking in the dust the vacuum had expelled. As she launched into a coughing fit, I bent down and yanked the plug out of the wall before the thing could burp again and suffocate her completely.

  “Excusez-moi!” Josette cried, blinking dust out of her eyes and waving her hands as if performing a jazz dance routine. “I must go clean myself!” With that, she scurried off to a frosted-glass door on the far wall, opened it, and disappeared into the administrative wing of the building.

  Having viewed and contemplated the meager offerings on the first floor, Eddie and I ascended the staircase to the second story. This floor, which contained no administrative wing, was wider than the downstairs room had been. The works here were of no less questionable quality, however. We took in Vacation in Venice, a colorfully painted and somewhat abstract macaroni mosaic depicting what appeared to be a boat on a Venetian canal. The gondolier sported the typical black pants and striped shirt formed from linguini, while the girl riding in the boat wore a piece of bowtie pasta on her head. The pasta appeared to be mounted on cheap poster board, though the gilded gold frame around it provided an illusion of grandeur.

  “Is this art?” Eddie asked, his tone and expression incredulous. “Or dinner?”

  According to my brochure, the masterpiece—or should I say the pastapiece?—had been the brainchild of artist Hunter Gabbert. “The artist really used his noodle to come up with this idea.”

  Eddie groaned. “Do you have to be so silly?”

  “Don’t you mean fusilli?”

  Eddie groaned again. “If I thought I could get away with it, I’d shoot you right now.”

  “No you wouldn’t,” I said. “That’s a bunch of bolognese.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “Guess I’ll have to shoot myself then.”

  Having run out of pasta puns, I moved on. Next was a large sculpture by an artist named Emily Raggio. The sculpture, called Rx: Death, comprised a full-sized coffin completely covered in assorted colorful prescription pills. The same artist had created Shooting Up, a rocket-shaped sculpture made from plastic syringes, a needle on top pointing skyward.

  I gestured to the coffin and rocket. “What do you think about those?” Seemed to me it took some creativity and sculpting ability to put the rocket together, and the coffin, no matter how weird, sent a clear message about the pill culture in America and the dangers of overmedicating. “Is that real art?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Heck if I know.”

  My favorite by far was artist Mallory Sisko’s piece entitled Life’s Compost, in which a wooden composting bin was filled with the detritus of a young woman’s life. A junior high yearbook. A pair of pink ballet slippers with a hole in the toe. An empty tube of acne cream. A letter the artist had received from her boyfriend while she was at summer band camp and in which he broke up with her offering the usual platitudes of it’s not you, it’s me and I can’t love someone else until I learn to love myself. The guy had the nerve to ask Do you know if Nicole Green is still seeing Colt Reynolds? If not, can you tell her hi for me?

  Sheesh. What a dumbass.

  chapter three

  One Tough Mother

  Eddie and I made our way back downstairs and over to Josette, who had cleaned herself up the best she could and was back at her desk, taking a last dab at her eyes and nose with a tissue.

  She glanced up as we approached. “I trust you enjoyed the exhibits, no?”

  I exchanged a glance with Eddie. “They were very … intriguing.”

  “Oui,” she agreed. “The Unic features only the most creative contemporary artists. None of those tired haystacks or landscapes.” She waved a hand dismissively.

  “I do have a question, though,” I continued. “How can you tell if the art is good? Whether the artist has any talent?”

  Josette sat up straighter and pulled her head back as if offended. “Well, whether art is good is up to the observer to decide, is it not?”

  “Is it … not?” I asked, again confused on how to respond to her question. “I mean, the art here is certainly interesting, I’ll give you that. But the museum paid good money for these pieces, right? So there must be some consensus whether they are real art or just some gimmick that a person threw together when they decided to clean out their pantry or attic.”

  Josette’s lips formed a tight line. “I assure you that each of our featured artists is a professional.”

  “Do you know anything about them?” I asked. “What art schools they attended? Or whether they even attended an art school?”

  She no longer appeared merely taken aback, she appeared thoroughly appalled by my questions. She managed to maintain her composure, however. “I see that on the subject of art you are quite ignorant.”

  “Totally.” She’d obviously meant to insult me, but I rolled with it. What did this snit’s opinion matter to me? “I’m curious what specific artistic techniques were
used in these pieces. You know, learned skills. Can you tell me?”

  She waved her hand again, though this time it seemed as if she were trying to shoo me away. “One does not learn art. One feels it, gives birth to it.”

  Next to me, Eddie snorted, then covered it with a fake sneeze. I was tempted to snort, too. Sure, creative instincts originated from within, but if a person could not learn artistic techniques, then what were the art schools and college art departments teaching? This woman’s explanations were as transparent as the air blowing its way across the gallery from the oscillating fan.

  Besides, I’d done some research before coming here today. Even the most original and imaginative modern artists generally had some formal art training and employed both personal creativity and learned techniques in their works.

  Herb Williams, dubbed the “King of Crayola,” fashioned interesting sculptures using crayons as his medium. He’d created a life-sized Johnny Cash and a three-dimensional sculpture of Marilyn Monroe. Prior to launching his colorful career in Crayolas, Williams had earned a BFA and worked casting sculptures at a bronze foundry. Heck, the White House had commissioned Americana works from the artist and made them part of its permanent collection.

  Billy Tripp, a metalworking artist, created an evolving, abstract outdoor piece of monolithic proportions as a tribute to his parents. In response to the FAQs on Tripp’s Web site, the artist noted that he’d taken college-level art courses at two institutions.

  Although Banksy, the secretive and subversive British graffiti artist, denied having any formal art education beyond that provided in public schools, I noticed he’d made a reference in an interview to Rodin. Obviously he knew something about the masters. Self-taught, perhaps? If nothing else, the fact that Banksy refined his graffiti technique over time to include the use of stencils and that he was so prolific showed a true dedication to his art form.

  I doubted that some of the artists featured here were so devoted to their work. Then again, that macaroni piece must have taken a long time. Of course that could simply evidence an addiction to carbs.

  “Are you a trained artist, Josette?” I asked.

  “But of course.” She offered a smile, but no details.

  “Where did you study?”

  “What is it you Americans say?” She looked up as if the answer might be written on the ceiling. “Here and there?”

  An evasive answer if ever I’d heard one and, trust me, I’d heard a lot of evasive answers. Though I was curious, there was no point in pushing her further. Her artistic education wasn’t the issue here. The issue was whether this museum was a sham or whether the place was “for reals.” Frankly, I still couldn’t say for sure.

  At this point, I retrieved one of my business cards from my purse and held it out to Josette. Eddie did the same. Josette’s brows angled in as she tried to decipher why two agents from IRS Criminal Investigations would be at the Unic.

  “We have an appointment with Mrs. Fowler,” I said. “We’re a little early.” We’d expected our tour of the museum to take more than fifteen minutes, after all. “If she’s available we’d be glad to get started.”

  Josette stood. “I will see if she is ready for you. Wait here.” She carried our business cards with her as she made her way again through the glass door that led to the museum offices.

  Eddie and I stood in front of the oscillating fan while we waited. When Josette hadn’t returned in twenty seconds I grew bored. I put my face directly in line with the airstream and called “oooooh” into the fan. The spinning blades gave my voice a warbling, eerie sound. I turned my face up to Eddie. “Do I sound like a ghost?”

  “A little,” he said.

  “What about now?” I said, stepping back, throwing out a hip, and tossing my head to let the breeze blow my hair back. “Do I look like a fashion model on a photo shoot?”

  “No,” he said. “You look like a dimwit who needs to grow up.”

  Yeah, Eddie and I had that kind of brutally honest relationship.

  As the glass door opened again, I stood up straight. No sense in me also giving the museum’s director the impression I was an idiot.

  As Josette continued out and took a seat again at her desk, Sharla Fowler stepped into the doorway.

  “Holy mother of God,” Eddie whispered on a breath. “I wish I had shoulders like that.”

  Sharla stood six feet tall in her flat business loafers and, like the defensive tackle she’d borne, had a big-boned frame and the strong, broad shoulders of a water buffalo. Though she had to be in her late seventies, you’d never know it from looking at her. Her skin was a latte brown, her hair a shiny honey gold. She wore a tasteful ivory blazer over beige slacks, along with chunky gold jewelry and an expression so intimidating I was tempted to cross my legs lest I wet myself. If she’d passed that look on to her son along with those shoulders, it was no wonder he’d had such a successful career on the football field.

  “Come on back,” she called without introduction, though I suppose it was clear who each of us was. Her voice, like her expression, was also intimidating, deep and throaty and commanding.

  Eddie and I followed her to her office, one of two doors positioned off the small inner hall. The other was a unisex restroom.

  Sharla motioned to two contemporary barrel chairs upholstered in a trendy lemon yellow. “Take a seat.”

  As Eddie and I sat down, she continued around her modern desk, which, with its outwardly angled legs and flat top, resembled an oversized breakfast tray. As she settled in her high-backed desk chair, I took a chance to glance around. Notably, the room was devoid of art, though a number of books on the subject filled a narrow bookcase. The like-new condition of the books told me they’d probably never been opened and had probably been recently purchased and put there for show.

  I noted several printouts on her desk. The first detailed several Hawaiian vacation options. The second provided information on resorts in Bermuda. A third featured tours of the California wine country.

  Sharla noticed me noticing them and gathered the papers up. “It’s been a busy day for me.”

  Yeah, right. Busy planning her next vacation. Given that she pulled down a cool quarter-million-dollar annual salary, you’d think she could manage to keep her focus on her work.

  Sharla slid the printouts into a desk drawer. “Josette says you toured the museum. Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “It’s quite a collection,” I said, not quite agreeing with her but not directly refuting her, either. “In fact, I’d love to hear more about the pieces and the artists. I know zilch about art. Can you tell me what types of techniques the artists used? What about their other pieces? Do they have art on exhibit elsewhere?”

  Sharla only chuckled. “Now, now, Ms. Holloway. If you want an art lesson, take a class. I know you’re not here to learn about art. You’re here to snoop.”

  So she was direct. That meant I could be, too.

  “Snooping is our job,” I said unapologetically. “We have to make sure that organizations claiming an exemption from tax are truly qualified for the exemption.”

  “Oh, I know that’s true.” She clucked her tongue and smirked. “I heard all about the IRS taking its sweet time making sure those Tea Party organizations were qualified for their tax exemption. Those shenanigans made you folks look like a bunch of fools, wouldn’t you say?”

  Although Criminal Investigations had had nothing to do with the recent scandal that rocked the IRS, I’d only appear defensive if I said so to Sharla Fowler. Instead, I went on the offensive. “Lots of things take time. Like completing a valid art appraisal, for instance.”

  The appraiser hired by the Unic’s board had completed his analysis of the museum’s entire collection in a single day. The Unic didn’t have many pieces but, still, it seemed it should have taken him longer to come up with accurate figures, especially since, according to the appraiser’s own documentation, only one of the artists had a previous sale to use as a reference point. T
hat piece, a three-by-four-foot sculpture entitled Aaah in the shape of a human head with mouth gaping open, had been constructed entirely of tongue depressors. The sculptor was the same person who’d made Rx: Death and Shooting Up, the pieces Eddie and I had seen in the museum only a few minutes earlier. Aaah had sold for $125 to a pediatrician, who probably had the thing on display in his waiting room next to an aquarium full of goldfish and a rack full of Highlights magazines.

  Despite the modest sales price for Aaah, the appraiser had valued Rx: Death at $18,000. Per the records the audit department had forwarded on to Criminal Investigations, the Unic had paid the artist the full appraised value for the piece. Shooting Up had fetched another $9,500. Mallory Sisko had been paid three grand for Life’s Compost.

  But the real question regarding valuation surrounded the other artists. Aly Pelham’s pieces had garnered her a grand total of $60,000. Jackson Reavis, the “air artist,” had been paid $75,000 for his pieces, even though one sucked and the others blew. Hunter Gabbert, the crown prince of pasta, earned forty big ones for his noodle doodle. Heck, maybe I should dig my old grade-school art projects out of the attic and see if the Unic would buy them. I could become an overnight millionaire.

  “Let’s not beat around the bush here,” Sharla said. “We’re all busy people. What do I need to tell you people to make you stop wasting my time?”

  “Fair enough,” I said. Hey, my time is valuable, too. Worth as much, if not more, than Vacation in Venice. “Tell me how you found your appraiser.”

  “He was personally recommended to me,” Sharla said.

  “By whom?” Eddie asked.

  “If I could remember”—she glanced his way—“I’d tell you. I interact with so many people in the art community I lose track. I just know his name came up on several occasions.”

  I pulled the appraisal from my briefcase. “Weren’t you curious how he came up with such high valuations for all the pieces given that only one of the artists had a previous sale?”

  Sharla lifted a noncommittal shoulder. “I trusted him to do his job. Besides, people go nuts for these types of unusual pieces.”