by Jessica Beck
“What’s that?”
“Show your work somewhere else, that is if you can find someone willing to do it. I hear the bowling alley in Union Square is looking to add a classier element to their lanes, and there’s always the Hideaway Motel on Route 57. Maybe they need new artwork for their rooms.”
Galen took a step toward the gallery owner and raised her hand as if to strike him. He stood his ground, and his voice grew hard as he said, “Be very careful, young lady. Your future could depend on your next action.”
Galen’s fury stalled, and then she seemed to think better of attacking him. “This isn’t over,” she spat out.
“As far as I’m concerned it is,” Martin Lancaster said.
He turned on his heels and went back inside, leaving Galen standing there in front of the gallery still fuming.
“Should we let her cool off before we approach her?” I asked Grace.
My best friend’s hand was on the door handle before I could stop her. “Are you kidding? We might be able to get something good out of her if her guard isn’t up. Let’s go.”
I had no choice but to follow Grace and head toward the artist. Maybe she was right. In times of great emotion, most people were less guarded than normal, though I had a hard time seeing this woman as anything but volatile.
As we joined her, Grace asked, “You’re Galen, aren’t you? I’ve heard all about your fantastic artwork.”
It was a solid approach. After all, it’s hard to go wrong telling a new mother that her baby is beautiful. “I have a certain following,” she said stiffly as she took us in. “Try telling that to him, though,” she said angrily.
“Doesn’t he appreciate you?” I asked her.
“He cares only about money,” Galen said. She made the last word sound as though she were cursing.
“I’m surprised your agent didn’t handle him better,” Grace said. “Then again, we’ve met Bonnie Small, so maybe I’m not all that surprised after all.”
Galen’s glance sharpened. “You’re not clients of hers, too, are you?”
“No, I make donuts for a living,” I admitted, “and she works for a cosmetics company.”
“Then how do you know Bonnie?” Galen asked, clearly still suspicious of us.
“We were friends of Annabeth Kline,” I admitted.
Galen shook her head briefly. “I’m sorry she’s dead, but the woman was a hack, plain and simple. Do you know she also designed corporate logos? Who was she trying to fool claiming to be a real artist?”
I had to literally bite my tongue to keep from firing back at this woman. She was attacking my late friend, and if I hadn’t been trying to solve Annabeth’s murder, I would have let her have it with both barrels. Fortunately, Grace had a bit more composure than I did. “Does that mean you two didn’t get along?”
“We tolerated each other,” she admitted. “We had to, since we were both clients of Bonnie’s, and the art world around here is a very closed circle.” After a few seconds, she amended her earlier statement. “Truth be told, I suppose she wasn’t that bad. It’s ridiculous what her pieces are going to be worth now that she’s dead, though.”
“I wouldn’t be too jealous,” I said as sweetly as I could muster. “After all, the same thing will happen as soon as you’re gone, too.”
She seemed to take solace in that fact. “There’s always that,” Galen said, not taking offense at the inference that she wouldn’t be around all that long. “Not that I’ll be here to enjoy it.” She took us in again. “What are you both doing here?”
“We heard about the gallery and wanted to come by and check it out for ourselves,” I said.
“If you’re looking to buy some genuinely good art, drop by my studio. I can offer you a much better deal than you’ll ever get here.” She handed us both business cards just as her cell phone rang. After glancing at the number, she said, “Sorry, but I’ve got to get this.” With that, she walked away, screaming at whoever was on the other end of the line almost immediately.
The woman had a temper worse than any I’d ever seen, and I had a hunch that it could be fatal to cross her. Was that what had happened with Annabeth? “She sure acted as though she hated having to stoop so low as to charge money for her artwork,” I said.
“True, but she wasn’t too good to try to go around her agent and the gallery, though,” Grace said as she tapped the card in her hand. “Maybe we can use that to our advantage.”
“We don’t actually have to buy anything of hers, do we?” I asked.
“No. Have you seen her work?”
“Hardly. I just don’t want to support that particular artist, if you know what I mean,” I said. “I doubt she’s to my taste, anyway.”
“I saw some of her work online. It’s all pretty dark stuff,” Grace agreed. “Are you ready to tackle Martin Lancaster?”
“We might as well,” I said as I tucked Galen’s business card into the pocket of my jeans. “He can’t be any worse to deal with than she was.”
“I’ve got a hunch that he’s going to be unpleasant to deal with in his own way,” Grace said. “The man was so condescending to her, I was kind of surprised Galen restrained herself despite his threat.”
“He must have a lot of power over her,” I said.
“If she can’t exhibit her work, she can’t sell anything,” Grace said. “Suzanne, how would you like to pose as a freelance artist looking for a show?”
“Grace, I haven’t painted anything in years. What do I do when he asks to see my work?”
She just laughed. “You heard him before. Do you honestly think he’s going to even ask?”
“I don’t know,” I said reluctantly.
“Okay, then I’ll be the artist,” Grace crowed. “That sounds more like fun anyway.”
“No offense, but you have even less talent than I do,” I said.
“None taken,” she said with a grin. “I’m betting we won’t have to worry about that, though.”
I stopped her before she could go in. “I have another idea that might be better. You’re dressed too nicely to be a starving artist. Why don’t you be a collector instead? I’m willing to bet that he’ll be a lot nicer to you if he thinks you’re buying instead of selling.”
Grace thought it over for a few moments. “You’ve got a point. Okay, we’ll play it your way, though it would have been a great deal more fun my way.” She took in my outfit before she asked me, “Who are you supposed to be?”
“How about your best friend, just tagging along?” I asked her.
“That could work,” Grace said. “Let’s go inside.”
Chapter 11
Martin Lancaster was standing at a desk in the back of the gallery making notes in a large ledger when we walked in. “May I help you?” he asked, gravitating toward Grace, much as I’d expected he would. A stylish young woman, clearly his assistant, was standing nearby. “Cara, three coffees, please.”
The assistant looked at him with scorn when she thought he wasn’t looking in her direction, but she hadn’t taken into account that we were watching her. She blushed a bit as she turned to do as he said, but then the gallery phone rang. “What should I do?” she asked him.
“Always get the phone first!” he snapped. This was clearly not a good man to work for, no matter what else he might be. He looked back at Grace, and his stern look melted into a plastered-on smile. “Now, is there anything in particular I can do for you ladies today?”
“I’m looking to acquire a few pieces for my growing collection,” she said.
You could almost see the greed in his gaze. “You’ve come to the right place. Here at Marcast, we specialize in local artists on their way up. Not only will you find great value, but I can assure you that it will appreciate astronomically over time.”
It was a bold statement, impossible to guarantee, but he
somehow managed to make it with a straight face. “May I ask what your collection looks like now?”
“You may. I’ve been focusing on Annabeth Kline lately. I just got back from a very successful business trip to Paris, and I find myself wishing to expand my collection. Do you happen to have any of her works on hand?”
“You haven’t heard the news, have you?” Lancaster asked. “I’m afraid she’s passed away.”
“What?” Grace asked, pretending to be shocked by the knowledge. “What happened to her?”
“As I understand it, she had an unfortunate accident in her studio,” he said. “We don’t currently have any of her works in our inventory, though we are due to get some soon, but we do have pieces by Galen and Christopho Langer on hand. They are both very hot properties at the moment.”
He hadn’t acted that way earlier when we’d heard him fighting with Galen, but that was to be expected. Grace managed to sound disappointed with his offerings, though I had a hunch he could have offered her two Monets and a Degas and she would have sounded exactly the same. “I had my heart set on a new Annabeth Kline.”
She turned to go, and I knew better than to try to stop her. When Grace was running the questioning, I’d learned to just sit back and follow her lead.
“As I said, I will be getting her last works very soon,” Lancaster said quickly, nearly trying to get around us and cut our escape off.
“Really? How so?”
“I’m finalizing negotiations with her representation, and I’ve been assured that everything she has completed will be here within a matter of days. If I could get your number, I’d be happy to call and let you know when they arrive, though they will probably be quite a bit more expensive than your earlier pieces.”
“I understand that,” Grace said gruffly.
“Your number?” he asked again. His assistant approached with the three promised coffees, but he waved her away. I wasn’t sure we were going to get out of there without giving him something; the man was really persistent.
“How was your relationship with the artist?” I asked him, ignoring his request.
He glanced at me as though I was merely an obstacle in the way of him making a big fat sale, but Grace nodded as she added, “Did you know her very well?”
“Quite well, as a matter of fact,” Lancaster said. After lowering his voice, though his assistant was well out of earshot, he added, “I was her confidante for the last several months. We were very close.”
“Are you implying a physical relationship?” Grace asked him with a grimace.
“I don’t feel right discussing that with you.” The full-on implication was that they had been together in a more intimate setting than the art gallery, but since I couldn’t refute it, I decided to let it slide. “I’m truly sorry about that. She came to me for some advice, and I was able, in my own small way, to help her. In fact, it wouldn’t be overstating things to say that we were about to embark on a show in the very near future that would have put her over the top.”
“Don’t those things normally go through agents?” Grace asked.
“Bonnie Small was on her way out,” Lancaster said. So, that confirmed what Alyssa had told us earlier. What was Lancaster’s angle? If he were going to be taking over for Bonnie, he would have made more money with Annabeth alive, not dead. That depended on if he was telling the truth though, which was a very big if. “Now, about that number. I’m afraid I really must insist.”
He could insist all he wanted to, but that didn’t mean that he was going to get what he wanted. I had a hunch we’d gotten all we were going to get out of him at the moment, and Grace must have come to the same conclusion. “I’ll check with you tomorrow. Let’s hope you have better news for me then.”
“I’m sure I will,” he said reluctantly as we left.
“That guy is as oily as they come, isn’t he?” Grace asked me as we got into the Jeep and drove away. “After talking to him, I feel as though I need a shower.”
“I don’t know. I thought he was pretty well groomed, for a snake,” I said. “Wow, I can’t imagine Annabeth having to put up with people like him and Galen and Bonnie Small.”
“The art world can be quite a morass,” Grace said. “Galen was clearly jealous of Annabeth’s success. Bonnie could have been furious that she was leaving her, but what motive could Lancaster have for wanting her dead?”
“What if it wasn’t business related? He implied that they were close on a personal basis,” I said. “In fact, I’m going to call Alyssa right now and see what she knows about both of them.”
“Put it on speaker,” Grace said. “I want to hear, too.”
“You bet,” I said. After Alyssa came on the line, I told her, “We just spoke with an artist named Galen and a gallery owner named Martin Lancaster. Do you know anything about either one of them?”
Alyssa’s voice immediately took on an icy edge. “My daughter told me that Galen confronted her about being a hack the day before she died, and Lancaster made a very blunt pass at Annabeth a little later, one which she angrily refused.”
“What was Galen’s problem with her?” I asked her.
“Her success, most likely. She claimed that Annabeth was a phony, and she was going to expose her to the world as a fraud.”
“If anyone was a true artist, it was your daughter,” I assured her.
Alyssa laughed bitterly. “Thank you, but I know that myself. Galen’s work is dreadful, and Annabeth said when she pointed that out to her, clearly tired of the woman’s constant attacks, Galen told her that she’d pay for the insult.” Alyssa paused for a few moments before adding, “I probably should have mentioned that before. It’s just so hard for me to accept the fact that someone did this to my daughter, that it was no accident.”
“We haven’t been able to prove anything yet, but we’re working on it,” I reminded her. “What about Martin Lancaster?”
“He made it sound as though she wouldn’t be able to show any of her works in his gallery unless she was a little more receptive to his advances,” Alyssa said. “It wasn’t the first time he’d made a pass at her, but evidently they had become much more aggressive lately. It was the last thing Annabeth told me, in fact. I should have done something about it then.”
“What could you have possibly done, Alyssa?” Grace asked gently. “Who knew this was going to happen?”
“Do you think one of them hurt my little girl?” Alyssa asked, the anger thick in her voice.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Is there anything else you know that you haven’t told us about her group of acquaintances? We’re going to go speak with Christopho Langer and Kerry Minter in Union Square next.”
“As far as I know, Chris and Annabeth were friends. They had some kind of a misunderstanding a few nights before she died, but I don’t know what it was about. The truth is that it wasn’t all that unusual for them to have spats, but I know they were close,” Alyssa said. “Kerry owns Artie’s, so they’ve known each other for years.”
“How did the two of them get along?” I asked.
“Fine, I suppose. I feel like such a fool for not telling you about Galen and Lancaster earlier.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’ve got enough on your mind right now,” I said. “We’ll talk more later. Bye for now.” Grace reached over and ended the call on our end.
“I don’t blame Alyssa for not telling us about Galen and Lancaster,” Grace said as I drove toward Union Square. “Why should she want to think about anyone who might have killed her daughter?”
“Right now that’s our job,” I said. “At least we might find a few allies of Annabeth’s when we talk to our next two witnesses.”
“Christopho’s name was in a square too though, remember? Maybe their last quarrel was more serious than most of their disagreements in the past. And just because Kerry Min
ter’s name was in a bubble doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s innocent,” Grace answered.
“I know. We have to keep our eyes wide open. Things aren’t always as they seem, are they?” I asked.
“No, but we’ll figure it out. I have faith in us,” she said.
“One way or another, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“I wonder if there might be anything else Alyssa has forgotten to tell us?” Grace asked me a little later on our drive.
“It’s possible,” I admitted. “We’ll just have to dig out the facts ourselves. If we need to confirm anything with her, we’ve got her as a source, but really, how is this situation different from most of the cases we investigate? It’s not all that unusual for us to be out on a limb alone.”
“Together though, right?” Grace asked me with a weary grin.
“Always together,” I agreed.
“Have you ever been here before?” Grace asked me as we pulled into the parking lot of the art supply store. ARTIE’S was emblazoned across a sign that used to announce the big box store that had inhabited the space before it. It was a sign of the times, these cavernous buildings deserted along our landscapes. April Springs hadn’t been large enough to attract any of the large chains during their heyday, and while a few folks had been unhappy about having to drive so far to shop in one, I for one was happy that small businesses still had a foothold, no matter how precarious, in our towns and hamlets. Sure, the chains might be able to sell their donuts at a cut-rate price, but there was a sameness to them even across the flavors that were okay, not great, but good enough for a great many people. Emma and I strove to present the best product we could to our customers, offering the very highest quality of ingredients we could. I could certainly tell the difference between my fare and those that had been mass produced, but maybe I was just prejudiced. There might come a day when the conveyor-belt donut shops matched my quality, but I doubted it. If and when that did happen, I’d still have something to offer my customers that the chains couldn’t touch: personal service. Maybe I was seeing the world through myopic donut glasses, but I felt that way all the way down to my very core, and I wasn’t about to give that up.