Dark Exhibit

by Rick Homan

  I was so glad to be sitting in the back of the room. Only a few people glanced over their shoulders at me, but still I felt self-conscious. I nodded to Edgar so he would go on with his speech.

  “Every day I look at the world around me until I notice something that makes me want to say to my fellow human beings, ‘Look at this!’ Then I ask myself how I can make people notice it. My teachers taught me to answer that question by understanding how artists in the past made people take a new look at their world.

  “What about the Impressionists? Everybody loves them now, but, back when Monet and Renoir and Pissaro were painting, everybody hated them. Nobody could understand why their paintings didn’t look like paintings that had been done in the previous thirty years.

  “There were very good reasons why their paintings looked different. People like Darwin and Heisenberg and Einstein changed our scientific understanding of reality. Suddenly physical objects didn’t seem so solid. They were made up of atoms, and everything was relative. So, the Impressionists painted their changing impressions of things, rather than the things themselves.

  “As Nicole said, I’m a photorealist. Photographs are part of the reality in which I have lived my life. Everybody has photo albums, shoe-boxes full of snapshots, and now photos on the internet. Most people will spend more time taking a selfie in front of a building than they spend looking at the building.

  “So, my paintings look like photographs because we pay more attention to photographs than to the things pictured in them. That’s our reality. If I make the people around me more aware of that, I’ve done my job.

  “Thanks for coming to look at my paintings today.”

  Edgar brought his speech to an end so quickly he caught me by surprise. Fortunately, the applause was generous, so I had time to walk to the front of the room.

  “Thank you, Edgar, and again our thanks to all of you for turning out today. Please have some refreshments and enjoy the paintings.”

  Edgar and I had a firm, two-handed handshake. “That was wonderful,” I said. “They were fascinated with what you were saying.”

  Edgard shrugged. “That’s my usual gallery talk.”

  “And what a friendly crowd! I asked campus security to keep an eye on the things, but it probably wasn’t necessary. I don’t think we’re going to have any trouble.”

  My words did not have the desired effect. Edgar glanced around the room and said, “Thanks for doing that,” but he didn’t seem reassured.

  Not wanting to keep him from the others, I suggested he thank Greta and Millard before they left.

  As people got up from their chairs, about half of them filed toward the door. I stood nearby to make myself available, but off to one side so no one would feel obliged to speak to me on the way out. Again, my energy was flagging, but I was pretty sure that if I stayed strong for another half hour, I could call this opening a success.

  President Taylor was the first to approach me directly. “Just wonderful, Nicole. It means so much to have an event of this quality on the campus. We must have more like this.”

  I noticed I’d been holding my breath. “Thank you,” I said and wished I could think of something else to say.

  Taylor nodded and left the gallery, no doubt on his way to his next promotional event.

  Over in the corner, the other member of the Gallery Advisory Committee, Matt Dunkle, mathematics, was listening to Edgar with wide-eyed intensity. I hadn’t seen him come in, but then it was always easy to overlook Matt despite his tall, thin frame. I couldn’t tell if he and Edgar were talking about “Dinosaur,” the painting next to them, or about art in general. I would have to catch up to Matt, get his reaction to the exhibit, and thank him for his work on the committee. When we started planning for the spring exhibit, it would be good to have him on my side.

  I saw, walking toward me, a tall, pale, blonde, dressed in ankle-high boots, black wool pants, a white V-neck tee, and a denim jacket embroidered with Mexican folk art. Something inside me relaxed at the sight of her. Since the day I arrived on campus, Abbie had been my best friend: helping me cope with the rigors of living on campus, explaining who was who in campus politics, giving me a sounding board in my darkest hours, and sustaining me through the horror of my first semester.

  I stepped toward her, ready for a hug, which was how most of our conversations began and ended, and was surprised when she turned slightly to her left and said, “Nicole, I’d like you to meet Sharon.”

  Next to Abbie was a petite, dark-haired woman who looked like she was about to step into a limo and be whisked away by her chauffeur to a high-society fundraising event. She was dressed in heels, a tight miniskirt, and a blazer that was cut so well it probably cost about half my monthly salary. I had never met Abbie’s partner because she lived in Pittsburgh, which was why Abbie spent most of her weekends away from campus.

  “So good to meet you,” I said, extending my hand.

  Sharon took it and said, “You, too.” Her eyes sparkled and in her expression I read affection and a hint of amusement.

  “I feel like this is overdue,” I said.

  “It sure is,” she replied. “You should come up to Pittsburgh sometime.”

  “Thanks, I will.” With my other hand I reached out to Abbie. “I’m so glad you both could come today.”

  “I know this is a big one for you,” said Abbie.

  I took a deep breath. “You have no idea.”

  “Can we take you to dinner when you’re done here?” asked Sharon.

  “Thank you, but I have a feeling that when the last guest leaves I’m going to collapse. I wouldn’t be very good company. Can I take a rain check?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Way to go, Noonan,” said Abbie. “I think you nailed it with this one.”

  I thanked her and they left, looking like two friends strolling out of a social event. It would have seemed more natural for Abbie, who was half-a-head taller, to put an arm around Sharon’s shoulders or for the two of them to hold hands, but apparently, they thought Fuchs College was not ready for that yet. Too bad.

  Meanwhile the crowd had thinned to the point where I assumed anyone who wanted to talk to me had done so. It looked like a good opportunity to escape to the restroom.

  The mirror over the sink did nothing to cheer me up. Clearly, I was at the end of my rope. I took my time giving my hands a thorough wash and dry, combed my hair, put on a happy face, and headed back to the gallery.

  In the corridor, I noticed the campus security officer had left. I was glad we hadn’t needed him. I made a mental note to thank the Chief of Security for sending him.

  Chapter 4

  As I approached the door of the gallery, I saw Matt Dunkle coming out. “Matt, I wanted to thank you for your work on the committee.”

  He glanced at me without slowing down, nodded and waved, and headed for the stairway. I guessed he had somewhere to be.

  In the front of the gallery, Edgar was gathered with his friends, Mel and Rita, and another woman about my age with curly brown hair. I hadn’t seen her earlier. She stood close enough to Edgar that I sensed theirs was more than a casual friendship. Paul was hanging out with them too, but for the moment at least was listening rather than trying to impress.

  Edgar called out to me. “Nicole, this is Jess.”

  I walked over to her, shook hands, and said, “Hi. I’m Nicole Tang Noonan.”

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t get here earlier,” she replied. “There was a truck overturned on the highway. I tried to backtrack and find another route, and I ended up getting lost.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Take your time and look around.” I waved to the refreshment table. “Would you care for anything to eat or drink?”

  She shook her head.

  “Actually, we were just going to get some dinner,” said Edgar.

  “There’s no place in Blanton,” said Paul, referring to the small town near the campus. “I know of a place in Chillicot
he that’s decent.”

  From the looks that passed between Edgar, Mel and Rita, I guessed they hadn’t intended to include Paul in their dinner plans. “Paul,” I said, “would you tell the caterers they can start packing up and see if they need us to do anything.”

  Paul shot me a look full of venom and marched to the back of the room.

  “You’ll have to count me out,” I said to Edgar. “I have to make it an early evening. Mel, Rita, Jess, it’s was very nice to meet you.”

  They all said their goodbyes and left.

  Paul came strolling back to me. “Maybe you can explain to me why you need a gallery intern.”

  “I’d like you to write five hundred words on what you learned today about gallery openings.”

  “Is that my punishment?”

  “No. It’s a chance for you to learn something by collecting your impressions and summarizing them. Drop it off at my office by noon on Wednesday. You can go. I’ll lock up.”

  With an eye roll and a head shake, he was off.

  When the caterers were gone, I switched off the lights, locked the door, and went to upstairs to my office. There I changed from my gallery-director outfit back into the sweater, wool pants, and boots that, along with my full-length, down-filled parka, would keep me warm on my slog across campus to my Rabbit Hutch. That’s what we called the factory-built cabins, each about the size of a studio apartment, provided by the college for single faculty members.

  It was exhilarating to know I was at the high point of my professional life so far. With this exhibit and each one that followed, I could form professional relationships with artists that would allow me to write about them and their work. If I chose each artist well, I could write a series of articles that would establish my reputation and might ultimately be published as a book. By doing so I would build a resume that might be my ticket to a job at a more prestigious school.

  If no such job came along, my publications would help me earn tenure at Fuchs. I had four years until I would be evaluated.

  If I didn’t receive tenure, I would have to move back to San Francisco, live in my parents’ house and become something other than an art historian.

  The idea of doing that in my early thirties made my blood run cold.

  On Sunday morning, the electric heaters in my Rabbit Hutch kept me from freezing to death, and long underwear, sweatpants, sweatshirt, a down vest, wool cap, and sheepskin slippers kept me comfortable, as I sat by the front window with a cup of tea. After working about half of the New York Times crossword puzzle with liberal use of a dictionary, I gave up and faced the question of how to spend the rest of the day.

  It was too early to call Mom and Dad since the time zone in San Francisco is three hours earlier.

  Perhaps I would review the editor’s suggestions for revising my article on the mural in the college’s chapel. This article had been rejected by two of the top journals in art history, probably because the panorama of community life painted on the chapel’s north wall sometime between 1851 and 1883 was not a masterpiece. Rather, it was the creation of an untrained artist, the kind of work sometimes called folk art. On my third submission I had found a journal that had a more open editorial policy.

  My phone rang. The name that appeared on the screen, Mason Adams, gave me a chill. I had a lot of respect for him, but I had met him last year, during an ordeal that was one of the darkest of my life. I answered. “How are you this morning, Sheriff?”

  He spoke in a baritone voice with a slight Appalachian drawl. “Just fine, Doctor. How are you?”

  “I’m tired. I’ve had a busy week.” My stomach started to ache. I couldn’t imagine a reason for him to call me that did not involve bad news.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but I would like to get some information on this art exhibit on campus. I understand you’re involved with it.”

  That got me up out of my sling chair. An inquiry about the exhibit was the last thing I expected from Sheriff Mason Adams.

  “Yes, Sheriff. I’m the director of the college’s gallery. It opened last fall and this is our first exhibit: a career retrospective on Edgar Yount, a local artist. What would you like to know?”

  “I’d like to get a look at the gallery and the exhibit if that’s possible.”

  “The gallery is open from noon to four on Sundays. A student will be on hand to answer questions, but I would be happy to meet you there and tell you about the paintings.”

  “I’m more interested in who was there yesterday. This is an official visit.”

  My stomach ache deepened. I hated to ask my next question because I was afraid of what his answer would be. “Is there a problem?”

  “I have several questions for you. It would be easier if I could ask them in person. At what time would it be possible for you to meet me at the gallery?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “I’m in the area. Let’s say twelve forty-five.”

  “All right. I’ll see you then.”

  Chapter 5

  After the call from Sheriff Adams, I paced around my Rabbit Hutch. Even using both rooms, that didn’t give me much to work with. The larger room, fifteen by fifteen feet, had an all-in-one set of kitchen appliances in one corner, my café table by the back window, two bookcases, and two canvas-sling beach chairs and a lamp by the front window. The bedroom was smaller, ten by fifteen feet, part of which is taken up by a closet and bathroom.

  The sheriff had authority to investigate all crimes against state and local laws, but I doubted he would personally attend to a traffic violation or a missing pet. I hoped I wasn’t about to find out that someone close to me was the victim of a serious crime.

  I stopped pacing and got dressed in a white blouse and dark green sweater with black wool pants and high-topped boots. After sending Mom a text saying today looked busy and I would catch up with them mid-week, I put on my parka, hat, and gloves and walked across campus, to the Arts and Humanities Building.

  I had met Sheriff Adams during my first weeks of teaching at Fuchs College when he investigated the murder of a student who was in my art history class. For a number of reasons, I got involved in the investigation. The sheriff thought I was interfering and resented it when really I was just trying to understand some things that made no sense to me. Eventually we learned to cooperate partly because I learned to show him more respect, and partly because, as Abbie explained to me, in rural areas such as Edwards County people with professional degrees—doctors, lawyers, professors—are given a lot of latitude. By the time the murderer was caught, we were on good terms.

  When I looked in the door of the gallery I was pleased to see the facilities crew had removed all the folding chairs from yesterday’s reception and given the place a cleaning. Two backless benches with padded vinyl seats were back in place, lined up in the middle of the room.

  Beverley, one of my work-study students, was on duty, minding the gallery. She had dressed, as I asked my gallery workers to, in business-casual clothes: slacks, a blouse with a collar, and a sweater. She sat at a table near the door with her laptop open, no doubt working on an assignment for one of her classes. When she heard my footsteps in the corridor, she looked up and smiled.

  “Have you been busy?” I asked.

  “A few students came in just after I opened.” She looked at the guest book to refresh her memory. “Dr. Metzger came in a little later. Other than that, it’s been quiet.”

  “I’m meeting someone here in a few minutes, so you can take off. I’ll lock up later.”

  “I don’t mind staying.”

  I shook my head. “That’s all right. I doubt we’ll have many visitors this afternoon.”

  I didn’t want her around to see the sheriff arrive, and I certainly didn’t want her overhearing our conversation. Perhaps there was still a chance to avoid an outbreak of gossip about law enforcement showing up at the gallery.

  True to his word, Sheriff Mason Adams appeared in the doorway at twelve forty-five
. He impressed me as he had when we met for the first time last year. He was tall, but that alone did not create the sense of authority he projected. He was also physically fit and the gray hair at his temples suggested decades of experience. His sheriff’s uniform was pressed with sharp creases and his shoes somehow looked polished even in mid-winter, when salt from the roads and sidewalks seems to coat everything. The insulated jacket made him look even bigger around the shoulders. He carried his campaign hat under one arm.

  We greeted each other, and Adams paused for a moment to take in the paintings with a sweep of his eyes, after which he opened a file folder he had with him, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to me. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  The photograph filled half the sheet. It had been digitally enhanced, but it was still blurry. It showed a woman in her thirties, with long, brown, curly hair. “I can’t be sure, but it does look like someone who was here yesterday.”

  “Did you meet her?”

  “Yes. Edgar—Edgar Yount, the artist—introduced us, but he only told me her first name, Jess.”

  Adams nodded. “Her full name is Jessica Fabrizio. She was found murdered in her motel room this morning.”

  I took a moment to control the sinking feeling in my stomach. “How did you know she came here to the gallery yesterday?”

  “I didn’t. When we notified her parents, we asked if she knew anyone out this way. They said they didn’t think so. Since she was a professor at the University of Louisville, I decided to check colleges in the area. Neither of the schools in Chillicothe had anything special going on this weekend, and, if they had, she could have stayed closer to them. When I checked the Fuchs College website, I saw you had this gallery event scheduled, and decided to check with you. What else can you tell me about her?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “So far as you know she had no connection to Fuchs College?”

  “No.”

  Adams studied the photo in his hand for a moment. I could see his jaw muscles flexing. “You said the artist introduced her to you. Were they acquainted?”