I reached for my phone and began scrolling for updates. There were a few missed calls and texts from Caty. I quickly called her, hoping to process this traumatic night with my only friend.
“Emma! I was beginning to get worried about you! Where were you tonight?” Caty’s voice shouted over laughter and music in the background. She was out for the evening, likely at a bar.
“Hey, let’s catch up tomorrow. It’s too loud to talk,” I told her, raising my voice to an uncomfortable level in my silent apartment.
“What?”
“Tomorrow,” I yelled.
“Okay!” She shouted back in reply. “Let’s do pizza again tomorrow. Same time.”
I agreed before hanging up. So much for processing.
Questions had plagued me all night at the station. What had been taken from the gallery? Where was Nina? Wouldn’t she have been at the station too? Who were those men? I struggled to make sense of the chaos. If I’d arrived sooner, could I have done anything to save that man’s life? I shivered at the same image of blood pooling on the ground; that same image kept recycling in my head. What a nightmare. That the police were tight-lipped about everything fueled my curiosity. Despite the late hour, I was worried about Nina and sent her text.
Why the interest in the art gallery? I chewed my lip as I thought that point over. Nina tended to represent local up-and-coming talent like me whose works were more affordable than those of big ticket established artists.
In recent weeks, Nina put me in touch with a woman at the Junior League of Charleston to set up a fundraiser in the city with proceeds going to art programs at local schools. It was a fun project, and I was flattered that Nina had me headlining the show as the local artist. While many of the works would be provided by relative unknowns, others were created by well-established artists and as a result, I had to sign a confidentiality agreement. Were the paintings the reason for the robbery?
When Nina didn’t reply to my text, I decided I’d go to the gallery the next day and check on her. She was probably distraught and frazzled over what happened tonight. The Junior League would be calling as soon as they got wind of this and I wanted to be better equipped to field their questions.
I tossed and turned for hours before drifting into a restless sleep.
Three
“Oh my God, Emma!” Nina’s voice echoed through the long room of the gallery, bouncing off the hardwood floors and bare walls. She ran to open the front door and hugged me tightly. “What a tragedy!” While petite, she gripped my shoulders with viselike strength, as her signature scent – Chanel No.5 infused with faint cigarette smoke - wafted around me. Her embrace was uncharacteristically and uncomfortably long, as I was unaccustomed to hugs.
“I know, I know.” I repeated as I looked down at Nina. Barely five-feet tall, she was tiny, shorter than me. Her age remained a mystery - she could pass for forty, or sixty, and the bedlam of last night’s events were no match for this gallery owner’s trademark look: black bobbed hair, thick rimmed glasses and scarlet red lipstick highlighting her bright, pale face. A permanent fixture on Charleston art scene, she knew everyone and every sordid detail of their family history.
“This has been so scary. The police called me last night. I had just locked up for the day and was home.” She shook her head, and I followed her to the office in the back of the gallery. Anne, Nina’s assistant, was sitting at her desk on the phone, looking as somber as Nina.
I sank into a chair in front of Nina’s desk while she took the seat behind. Her office was immaculate. The modern Parsons desk and work area were clear, save for a laptop. Abstract canvases hung on the walls, bright pops of color contrasted against the office’s black and white theme.
Draining her coffee cup she muttered, “I don’t know how this could happen to us. Geoff is dead. It was Geoff that was killed, you know.”
“No…I didn’t know,” I said softly. That was Geoff I saw last night? Geoff the gallery maintenance guy? A wave of nausea churned in my stomach as the image of him crumpling to the ground replayed through my mind. When I made my first sale to a customer, it was Geoff who crated the canvas and prepared it for shipment. Geoff who patiently hung and rehung canvases around the gallery. He was an old guy, widowed and chatty. He was a man who loved nothing more than talking about his late wife – the love of his life.
Nina’s tear-filled eyes met my own. "He worked for me thirty years, you know. Never missed a day.”
“Yeah, he was good people,” I said softly. “I can’t believe this. This whole situation is unreal.”
“I can believe Geoff was the one chasing down the burglars. His loyalty got him killed. Loyal to a fault, that one.”
“Does he have any family or friends? Should we contact anyone?”
Nina rubbed her temples. “He has children out of state. One of the phone calls I need to make today, dear,” she said.
“Do you know anything? Do the police have any leads?”
Nina shook her head. “No, I spoke with them last night and again this morning when I got in. They aren’t telling me anything, just asking the same questions over and over.”
“Me too. They brought me into the station last night. I saw the whole thing.”
“You did?” Nina’s delicate brows pinched together. “How—what were you doing?”
“I left work early and was walking to meet Caty.”
She frowned at the mention of Caty’s name. Nina wasn’t a fan and had made her opinions clear to me. She saw my friend as a bad influence and a distraction, and because Caty came from a rich family, Nina questioned her motivation at gallery shows. (“She’s meeting men, Emma. Art is a state of mind and she isn’t in it.”) But I was new to Charleston with no friends and desperate for company. A casual friendship with one woman I worked with each day, especially one who was wealthy and connected, not to mention fun, couldn’t hurt.
I continued my story. “I was there. I saw the whole thing. I was at the police station for several hours last night giving my statement.”
Nina’s face twisted in horror. “Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t know. You must be a wreck.”
“I’ll be fine,” I told her, not wanting to relive the gory details of Geoff’s death.
I bit my lip and asked the other question to which I’d been dreading the answer. “What was stolen? Is it bad?”
“A few pieces, but nothing we can’t recover from, thank goodness. But Emma, one of your paintings was taken!”
Dumbfounded, I stared at her. “Are you kidding?”
“I’m afraid not. It was Number 19. Insurance will reimburse us of course, of all damages.” She trailed off in thought, drumming her fingers on the desk.
“I can’t believe my painting was taken. Why Number 19, that one?” I was still so new, so unknown in the art community. I’d never held a gallery show, never published anything. I had zero notoriety.
Nina shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe Geoff knew something or saw something when he was…murdered.” Nina let the word hang in the air and neither of us said anything. How a kind, old man who kept to himself ended up murdered over one of my paintings was mind-boggling. The image of the dead man in the pool of blood became even more real when I knew that person. Goosebumps broke out on my arms.
“None of this makes any sense. I’m unknown, new to Charleston. My work is unknown. And one of my paintings is stolen?”
“People do know you! I’ve been telling you for a while now, you being in Charleston now will be a game changer for you. I began marketing your work, even before you moved to Charleston. I think you’re underestimating your talent. And the buzz circulating around town about you. We’ll have to see what the police come up with,” she responded. She reached for a leather portfolio on her desk and opened it.
“I know, I know,” I waved my hand at her. Nina had been giving me the same speech for quite some time. For more than two years, we’d been in touch via customer requests for commissioned works or to contribute to o
ne of the gallery’s exhibitions. During that time, Nina’s client base grew and interest in my work steadily increased. Often the lines between her role as business owner and mentor blurred as she shared recommendations for communicating with other gallery owners and marketing my pieces. “I’m new and trying to remain realistic.”
“I’m working with the insurance adjustors and police all day today.” Nina sighed. “However, I did want to speak to you briefly before I begin making phone calls to Geoff’s family. I have a new contact in New York interested in showing your work in his gallery. He’d like to set up a meeting and review your portfolio.”
“That’s amazing. Who is it?”
Nina handed me a sticky note with her tiny all-cap handwriting. “Alexander Campo. You can look him up online. I’d like you to spend a couple days there, take in the art scene and meet with him. I’ve known Alexander for ages. He likes to showcase new talent in his galleries and seems to do well in New York. Anne will make the travel arrangements.”
We said our goodbyes, and I made my way to Anne’s desk. “Mornin’, Emma,” she greeted me in her drawl. “You holdin’ up okay?”
I nodded at her and looked pointedly at the papers in her hands. I didn’t want to re-hash the sequence of events with Anne, as I barely knew her, but that I was still making sense of Geoff’s death.
“Nina asked me pull all this together for you,” the petite blond woman handed over the folder containing the papers.
“She’s impossible. How’d she know I’d agree to this?” I peeked inside the folder. Flight reservations. Hotel reservation. Summary of Alexander Campo’s gallery in New York.
“The way Nina works,” Anne said, with a shrug. “She talked to me about it earlier this week and asked me to organize the trip. Good luck.”
✽✽✽
Agent Connor Jackson watched Emma Elliott over the top of the the full beer he was nursing at the bar. She was sitting at a table in the back of the restaurant. She was facing the door, and with his position at the L shaped bar, he could discreetly watch her and the entrance at the same time. She was young, he guessed mid-twenties, and petite, despite the heeled boots she wore. She was evidently waiting on someone, based on the impatient glances she gave the door and her phone.
The casual pizza dive buzzed with Saturday afternoon patrons, most dressed for weekend strolling and shopping, grabbing lunch and drinks. The late January cool air blew in as the door opened and closed, but Connor didn’t notice. He was watching the woman, and deciding his next move. Who was she? He couldn’t believe his luck. After following the Sgambati brothers for two years and waiting for a mistake, a break in the case, he was itching to wrap up the assignment. There had been a series of gallery robberies along the East Coast and he had tracked the Sgambatis’ business dealings to Charleston, South Carolina. Connor wasn’t used to having such a long assignments. The organized crimes division usually brought him in for the latter part of the investigations.
The Sgambati brothers were bad news. They ran a loan shark business as a front, but things weren’t adding up with Uncle Sam. The IRS had its own questions about the Sgambatis’ business dealings and the true source of their income. The FBI suspected money laundering, and had painstakingly been building a case to arrest them. That’s where Connor came in. He and Stefano Sgambati had been playing an intricate game of cat and mouse for the better part of two years. Just when he had something, anything to go on, they were gone. A witness turned up dead. Money would disappear. A source would go silent.
He remembered Emma at the police station last night, the deer in headlights expression on her face when he walked in. She was young. He could tell she was nervous, but she had that poised look of preparing to fight, preparing to run. Her knees were bandaged and she looked like she’d been through hell. What the hell had happened? When she met his gaze, wide-eyed and plain scared, he’d shocked himself by wanting to comfort her. He didn’t know her from the next interview room over, and yet he wanted to know more and soothe that skittish expression off her face.
Today he saw a more polished version of her. Wavy dark brown hair in loose waves down her back that she kept tucking behind her ears and patting down. Girl next door kind of pretty, he decided. He noticed more than a few men checking her out and she was oblivious to them. Well, oblivious or didn’t give them the time of day. What asshole would stand her up? He watched as she shook her head at the waitress who had stopped by her table again.
After a beer and forty minutes later, Connor watched the impatience begin to show on the woman. He watched her continue to fidget, shaking her head at the waitress who approached to refill her water. Whoever she was waiting on was either very late or not showing. Whatever loser was standing her up was an idiot, he decided. He wanted to know what she had been doing at Nina Alexis Gallery. He wanted to talk to her again. Just to make sure she was okay. At least that’s what he kept telling himself as he got up from the bar stool and drained his beer.
✽✽✽
I checked the time again, my irritability spiking as I realized I had spent the last thirty minutes tapping my fingers and nursing a glass of wine. Maybe meeting Caty today was a bad idea. I knew she liked to go out on the weekends, and maybe this lunch was throwing her a curveball. Maybe we misunderstood each other when we made plans. Maybe she was hungover from her wild night out last night. I really needed to tell her about what happened yesterday, about the shooting and having a police officer bring me home. I stroked my hair in an effort to tame my locks, frustrated. Most of the time I didn’t mind being alone on the weekends, as it meant more time to paint. But today I was itching to talk to my friend and make some sense of this situation.
Where the hell was she?
Inwardly rolling my eyes, I surveyed the restaurant for my friend. It was Saturday night and with the dinner crowd rolling in, Alessia’s was getting busy. The pizzeria was full and I was seated at table for four by myself. Judging from the raised eyebrows, the waitress was becoming impatient as well. I ignored her and checked my phone again for a text or missed call.
Nothing.
The restaurant buzzed with evening patrons, most dressed casually for nearby weekend browsing. I was glad the outfit I had chosen that morning was crowd appropriate: skinny jeans, knee-high boots, a relaxed-fitting blouse and cardigan. I always made an effort to look stylish particularly when I visited Nina at the gallery. Although I wanted to put my best foot forward for my mentor and occasional benefactor, after witnessing last night’s murder and listening to my survival instincts, I also needed to maintain a low profile and blend into the crowd.
My attention went to my phone again, when a familiar voice ripped me out of my thoughts.
“Mind if I sit?”
My eyes widened when I glanced up at the man standing at my table. Agent Jackson from the police station. I would have known him anywhere, but mother of God, this can’t be good. What now. He was just as intimidating as he’d been at the station, but today he was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, with a black leather jacket. The look on his face told me he wasn’t waiting for an invitation to join me.
“Actually, I do, I’m meeting someone and they should be here any minute and—”
Cutting me off, he sat himself in the chair opposite me. He didn’t say anything for a moment but instead studied me intently, a slight smile lifting up the corners of his mouth. “So you’re meeting someone?” He leaned back, casually stretching his arm across the back of the next chair.
I squirmed under his scrutiny. I signaled the waitress, but she didn’t notice. “I was, but…I was just leaving,” I replied curtly even as I felt knots tightening in my stomach. No one knew where I was and what was Agent Jackson doing approaching me in a restaurant? It dawned on me just how very fucked and alone I really was. Of course, he’s an FBI agent, but as an orphan, I’d learned long ago not to trust anyone, ever. I didn’t need him questioning me or flirting with me to extract information. Tossing my phone into my purse and pu
lling out my wallet, I waved again at the waitress.
“Were you stood up?” He wiggled his eyebrows playfully.
“No…yes, my friend can’t come,” I stammered before my brain could tell him it was none of his business. “I need to get home. Sorry.” My eyes inadvertently flashed to his, and he grabbed my hand across the table.
“You know,” said Agent Jackson looking around the room and then back at me, “personally, I wouldn’t take a date here. A little cheap, don’t you think? A little hipster, no?”
My jaw dropped. “You—“
He cut me off again and in his finest southern drawl said, “My idea of a nice date is doin’ somethin’ special. Flowers. Cookin’ at home is the way to go. Personal, you know what I mean?”
He wanted something and this was clearly an act and although I’d never admit his dimples were adorable and the fake country twang was sweet, I did feel myself succumbing to his charm.
“I’m sorry for the fool that stood you up, Ms. Elliott.”
This conversation had derailed further than I’d expected and speechless, I shook my head, opening my mouth to tell him it wasn’t a date that had stood me up but a friend.
Abandoning the affected twang, he whispered, “I need to talk to you.” He was all business as he leaned forward on the table and clasping my hands in between his own. All I could focus on was his touch and the electricity suddenly bolting through my veins. His hands were huge, with one of his covering both of mine. “About earlier.”
The word “earlier” triggered red flags and armed my instincts. He knew where I’d been and what I was doing. I pulled away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My hands were beginning to shake as I grabbed my wallet from the table and shoved it in my bag. I avoided those amber-gold eyes. I wanted to get out of here.
“What were you doing at Nina Alexis Gallery this morning?” Agent Jackson’s gaze was cold and his brows lifted questioningly. The handsome, charming facade was gone and in its place was a cold mask, directing its questions at me.
The Art of Murder Page 2
