Dark Exhibit

by Rick Homan

  Dark Exhibit

  Nicole Tang Noonan Mystery #2

  By Rick Homan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First published 2018

  Copyright 2018 by Rick Homan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, establishments, events, or locales is purely incidental.

  Acknowledgements

  I am grateful to my Sisters in Crime (and brothers); my fellow writers and the librarians at the Mechanics’ Institute Library in San Francisco; and most of all to my wife, Ann.

  Chapter 1

  For forty-eight hours before the opening of the first exhibit in the college’s new gallery, I was like a perpetual-motion machine. Along with teaching my classes, I checked and double-checked my to-do lists and dropped by the gallery repeatedly to make sure the room was cleaned, and the chairs and serving table for the reception were set up.

  I had to get this right. The president of the college, Roland Taylor, had placed a lot of faith in me last year when he created the gallery and made me, Nicole Tang Noonan, its director. He told me he wanted to bring cosmopolitan influences to the campus of Fuchs College in the Appalachian foothills of southern Ohio.

  Edgar Yount seemed like the perfect artist to do that. He was from northern Ohio and had studied at the Cleveland Institute of Art. He had developed impressive skills in painting and photography and had built a solid resume in the first twenty years of his career. His subjects were mostly urban scenes and he brought to them a complex vision that grew from his own experience as a person of mixed race. His mother was white; his father, black. I especially appreciated this since my mother is Chinese-American and my father Irish-American.

  At one o’clock Saturday afternoon, I arrived at the gallery dressed in a knit sheath dress with a bold, asymmetric pattern in jade and cream. Faux-ivory necklace and bracelets set it off nicely. Black pumps with stacked heels added some much-needed height, and a silk shawl kept me comfortable.

  I heard voices from the hallway and saw Edgar accompanied by a man and a woman. He kept his curly gray hair short, and it complemented his coffee-with-cream complexion. His grin was wide and sincere, but in his eyes I saw detachment, as if he weren’t entirely pleased with the way of the world. For this festive day, he wore a sky-blue silk shirt with a silver brocade vest and black slacks. “Nicole,” he said, “this is Mel and Rita.”

  His male companion was a big man, probably near sixty years of age, with his gray hair pulled into a ponytail. He wore a sweatshirt, jeans and boots. His hand was more like a bear’s paw, yet he held my hand in a delicate clasp. “Hi. Mel Schrier,” he said.

  “Welcome.” I smiled.

  “This is a big day,” he continued. “We’ve waited a long time for this. Everyone who loves Edgar’s work has. Thank you so much for making this happen.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “It’s my privilege.”

  I turned to their companion who wore a shawl, t-shirt and skirt, all in earth tones. “Nicole!” she cried, as she wrapped me in a powerful hug.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” I said, separating myself and stepping back. “Have you known Edgar long?”

  “Yeah, since his days at Cleveland Institute. Edgar and Mel and I were all part of a gang that hung out together. Some of us lived together for a while. Good times.”

  “Are you also an artist?”

  “No, I’m a model. And Mel . . .” She turned and smiled at the big man. “Mel just likes artists. He knows a lot about computers.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I replied.

  Edgar said to his companions, “Why don’t you guys go in and have a look around?”

  When we were alone in the corridor, he turned to me and asked, “Are you expecting a good turnout?”

  “We put the word out every way we could,” I replied. “Since this is our first exhibit, it’s hard to predict, but I think there’s a lot of interest on campus.”

  “How is your security here?” he asked.

  “During gallery hours we have a student here to welcome the guests and keep an eye on the artwork. Otherwise the room is locked, and, of course, the building is locked up at night.”

  “I was thinking about today.”

  That caught me by surprise. “Do you mean while we’re here?”

  “Right.”

  “The campus security office knows we’re having the event. They’ll patrol the campus as usual. I could ask for an officer to come by, but I don’t think they can have someone here the whole time.”

  “That should be alright then.”

  “Has there ever been a problem when you’ve exhibited your work?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything about this exhibit that might cause a confrontation?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about. I’m probably just nervous about this being my first career retrospective. It’ll be fine.”

  Of all the events that take place on a college campus, from controversial speakers to beer-fueled athletic events, the opening of an art exhibit was in my experience the least likely to create any kind of disturbance. Nonetheless, I made a mental note to call campus security and ask them to make their presence known around the Arts and Humanities Building and the gallery in particular.

  Paul Weinert came down the hall, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and gold tie.

  “Would you excuse me?” I asked. “I need to speak with my student intern.”

  Edgar nodded and went to join his friends in the gallery.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Paul. “I got held up.”

  Looking at Paul’s elaborately styled blonde hair, it was easy to guess what had delayed him. “You were supposed to be here at 1:45.”

  He shrugged. Apparently, it was too much effort to reply.

  I led him into the gallery and walked over to the lectern with the guest book. “When our guests arrive . . .”

  “I know what to do,” he said. He walked over to where Edgar, Mel and Rita stood by one of the early paintings. Gesturing toward the other end of the room, he said, “If you’ll follow me, I can point out a few of the themes we’re emphasizing in this exhibit.”

  The three of them stared at him as if he were from another planet. Apparently, his career-oriented title, “gallery management intern,” gave him the idea he was in charge of the gallery.

  I got over there as quickly as I could. “Paul, I need you by the door.”

  His sideways glance indicated he meant to ignore me.

  “Come with me now, Paul.”

  We walked back to the lectern, and I told him, “Your job today is to greet our guests as they arrive, invite them to sign the guest book, and offer them a brochure.”

  He glared at me. “In other words, busy work,” he said.

  “Paul, if you pay attention, you might learn something about how galleries work. Who comes to them? What do people expect? How do they react? What kinds of questions do they have?”

  “I know the drill,” he replied. “I’ve spent a lot of time in galleries.”

  “Just give our guests the best experience possible.”

  When I interviewed Paul for the internship, he convinced me that he loved art and had indeed “spent a lot of time in galleries,” but he hadn’t shown this attitude. Next week I would have to sit down with him and get a few things straight.

  Fortunately, people started to arrive, so Paul was kept busy. I smiled at a few students from my art apprecia
tion class carrying notebooks so they could get started writing their papers. Several couples arrived. I thought I had seen them on campus and assumed they must be faculty.

  At the far end of the room, Rita was browsing the paintings, while Mel and Edgar stood in the corner engaged in conversation. Edgar’s face wore a dark expression. I couldn’t hear what Mel was saying to him, but Edgar looked worried. Recalling his concern, I stepped into the corridor and called campus security to ask for an officer to drop by the gallery as guests were arriving.

  Chapter 2

  When I returned to the gallery, I counted fifteen people on hand and hoped we would have a better showing.

  Millard Haflin, a retired psychology professor, walked in, looking dapper as ever in a tweed jacket and corduroys. With him was Greta Oswald, biology, who wore a typically horrifying ensemble: a red cardigan over a purple blouse with a green-and-black plaid skirt.

  Greta grinned and reached a hand out to me. “Nicole! The big day is here!”

  “Yes, it is, Greta.” I grinned. “Hello, Millard.”

  He smiled and nodded.

  “Let me introduce you to the artist.” I walked them over to the earliest work, and waved Edgar over.

  “Edgar, I’d like you to meet two members of the Gallery Advisory Committee: Greta Oswald and Millard Haflin.”

  Edgar extended his hand to Greta.

  She took it and said, “Oh. Are you African-American?”

  “Yes, on my father’s side of the family.”

  “Nicole didn’t tell us. I think that’s wonderful.”

  Edgar’s smile erased the discomfort I felt over her remark. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m pleased with it myself.”

  I admired Edgar’s easy way of handling an insensitive remark about his physical appearance and his race. I had dealt with such remarks all my life, especially since moving from my home in San Francisco to Ohio, and I hadn’t always been so graceful about it.

  Next Edgar extended his hand to Millard, who asked, “Have we met?”

  Seeing Edgar was taken aback by this, I jumped in. “Millard, this is Edgar Yount, the artist whose work we have here.”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said Edgar as they shook hands.

  President Taylor came through the door, wearing the obligatory corporate blue suit. I grabbed Edgar by the arm and said to Greta and Millard, “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

  College presidents put in fourteen-hour days, so Taylor’s appearance was a strong endorsement of the gallery. With Edgar in tow, I walked over to him and said. “President Taylor, thank you so much for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t miss this,” he said.

  I introduced them, and Edgar said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” said Taylor. “We’re so glad to have your work displayed on campus. I’m looking forward to spending some time with it.”

  “Let me show you around,” said Edgar, and they walked off to the other end of the room.

  I took a moment to appreciate Edgar’s instinct. That’s how you make a living as an artist.

  When I got back to Greta and Millard, she was staring at one of the paintings, and he was looking at all the people in the room.

  “These represent his early work,” I told them. “Edgar learned his photorealist technique at the Cleveland Institute of Art and developed it during the years he lived in Cleveland.”

  We strolled past scenes set in neighborhoods and parks. One painting gave a view of a corner store. Signs filled the store windows. The sidewalks were full of shoppers, strollers, and joggers. Everyone was African-American except for one little girl with pale skin and blond hair who stood at the curb on the corner with an expression on her face suggesting she expected something wonderful to arrive in the next few seconds. No one in the picture seemed to notice she was there. The little plaque next to this painting gave the title: “Corner Store.”

  “Is there a picture of the lakefront?” asked Greta.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Too bad. It’s so pretty there.”

  Greta’s whining was especially grating on my nerves that day.

  “I’ve never seen such large photographs,” said Millard.

  “Actually, they’re paintings,” I said. “Edgar uses airbrush, underpainting, and other techniques to make them look like photographs.”

  Millard nodded, looked at the one in front of us, and then back at me. “Are the paintings in another room?”

  Greta groaned. “She just said these are the paintings.”

  “Everything is in this room,” I told him.

  I couldn’t blame him for being confused. Most people, when told a photorealist picture is a painting, still find it hard to believe it isn’t a photograph.

  I took Millard’s arm and walked him over to the paintings in the corner. Greta followed.

  “He did this series of paintings a little later in his career,” I said. “As you can see, he’s playing with some new ideas here.”

  We stopped in front of a canvas which showed the rear-end of a large, old American car with a rusty license plate. The insignia on the trunk lid said, “Eighty-Eight.” The title on the plaque next to the painting said, “Dinosaur.”

  “When Edgar painted this,” I said, “the Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight hadn’t been manufactured in years. It was extinct, like the dinosaurs. He’s capturing a moment in American car culture.”

  “I had an Olds Eighty-Eight,” said Millard.

  Greta rolled her eyes, but I thought it was sweet the way Millard related personally to the work.

  “This one is more mysterious,” I said, stopping in front of a painting of white bed sheets on a clothesline with a house in the background. “Nov. 11, 2011” was superimposed on the lower right corner in the style of numerals on a digital clock. “The subject is something very ordinary, and the title, ‘Hung Out to Dry,’ reminds us of that. By adding the date, Edgar makes us wonder if there was something important about this particular day when laundry was done. It makes me think that every day is important, even if we do only ordinary things.”

  “My wife used to hang the laundry out,” said Millard, “before I bought her a dryer.”

  I wanted to hug him.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Greta, peering at the plaque on the wall. “It was painted in 2005, but he put 2011 in the picture.”

  “That’s a good point, Greta. I wonder what he was up to.”

  “Was he predicting the future?” she asked. “It doesn’t take much imagination to predict people will keep on hanging their laundry out to dry.”

  I pointed to the largest canvas in the series, entitled “Cheering for Losers,” and said, “This one is really challenging.” It showed nearly empty bleachers with a scoreboard looming above, which read, “Home: 0, Losers: 14.” Scattered on the bleachers were six sad-looking cheerleaders, who all had different initials on their varsity sweaters. The R, H, and W were red. The A, O, and A were yellow, blue and green, respectively.

  I explained, “The scoreboard makes no sense: It says ‘Losers’ instead of ‘Visitors’ but they actually beat the home team. The cheerleaders are all sad, as if their team lost, but, judging by their varsity letters, they all cheer for different teams, so they can’t all be cheering for the home team.”

  “Maybe the artist is confused,” said Greta. “Or maybe he wasn’t being careful.”

  “Let’s look at his most recent work on the other wall,” I said. “He’s been working in Youngstown for the last several years.”

  “I hope he found something a little nicer to paint,” said Greta. “These are depressing.”

  I did my best to point out how his career concerns had come together in the Youngstown series: the social realism, the satire, and the instinct for magical moments. I also pointed out that the ironic titles and fascination with letters and numerals prominent in the middle period had disappeared and that his technique had continued to improve
. None of that made an impression, so I walked them over to the refreshment table.

  The room felt warm, partly because of the lighting, but also because we now had a respectable crowd of perhaps forty. As I strolled into the corridor to cool off, I was glad to see a campus security officer on hand, watching people arrive. “Thanks for coming by,” I said.

  “No problem,” he replied. “I’ll stay here until all your guests have arrived. That should reassure everyone. After that, if you have any concerns, just give us a call.”

  I thanked him and checked my watch. It was two o’clock, time for Edgar’s gallery talk.

  Chapter 3

  I went back into the gallery and asked everyone I passed to take a seat. When Paul saw what I was doing, he walked to the door and switched the lights on and off three times. In the silence that followed, he announced, “Please take a seat for the gallery talk by Edgar Yount.” A few guests went to the table to pick up a glass of wine and a snack, but most headed for the chairs. I had to admit: Paul was not wrong about everything.

  “Thank you, Paul,” I said as the room fell quiet and the last few chairs filled. “I am delighted that you all have joined us to celebrate this career retrospective of works by Edgar Yount. Edgar is an Ohio artist, but his visions of Cleveland, Youngstown, and other places achieve universal significance. His photorealist technique is impressive. Getting to know him over the past few months has been an inspiration for me. I am sure you will enjoy meeting him too. I give you Edgar Yount.”

  I felt the adrenaline hit me as I walked to the back of the room. I limited myself to a cracker with some cheese and a glass of seltzer from the table, hoping that would steady me for the next hour or so. Settling on a chair in the corner, I exhaled, knowing I had done all I could do.

  Edgar walked to the front of the room, squared himself before his audience, and spoke to them as peers.

  “Thank you, Nicole, for that introduction. I don’t know what I could have said to inspire you, but working with you has shown me what a disciplined intellect can accomplish.”