by Amanda Quick
The trick was to spot the one person in the crowd who did not fit into the pattern, an actor in disguise who was wearing the wrong shoes, for example.
“It’s not like Lyra to take off without telling anyone where she was going,” Vivian said. “I don’t think this is a case of bridal jitters. Hamilton must have said or done something to break her heart. Damn it. I knew this would happen. To be honest, I hoped it would. But I wanted to be there for her when she finally realized that Hamilton was not Mr. Perfect. I don’t know where she is so I can’t even call her.”
“Take it from me,” Nick said, “she’s a whole lot better off finding out the truth about him now rather than after the wedding.”
Vivian shot him a quick, irritated glance.
“I’m aware of that,” she said.
“Sorry. Voice of experience.”
“I know.” Vivian took a deep breath. “But she’s my sister.”
“And you think you should have protected her. I understand. But sometimes a person has to run headfirst into the brick wall in order to see it.”
“Voice of experience again?”
“Yep.”
Vivian turned back to study the large photograph.
“I’ve had some experience in bad choices myself,” she said. “Thankfully I never got as far as the altar but things ended badly. There was a ghastly scandal. My parents were mortified. It was one of the reasons why I left San Francisco a year ago.”
“Married man?” Nick asked.
“Nope.” Vivian made a face. “He was an artist. I took a class in pictorialism from him.”
“Right. The Carousel of the Damned photograph that I saw hanging in your office?”
“If you took a close look at the specters riding the horses, you probably noticed they all had the same face.”
“I noticed. That’s the face of the man who took advantage of you?”
Vivian looked surprised. “He didn’t take advantage of me. I knew exactly what I was doing. I got what I expected—lots of drama. Lots of fascinating conversations about the future of photography. I also recall a great many discussions about how artists had to be free. We could not be bound by social conventions, et cetera, et cetera. Things went splendidly for a while. But I made the mistake of falling for his line.”
“He told you that he loved you?”
“No.” Vivian narrowed her eyes. “The bastard told me that he admired my art.”
“Ah.” Nick tried to process that. “He lied?”
“Yes. And I caught him red-handed. I overheard him talking to the owner of a very prestigious San Francisco gallery. He went on and on about how female photographers would never be able to produce high art. Their work is too sentimental. Too emotional. It lacks artistic vision. It’s suitable only for greeting cards. He didn’t break my heart. He made me furious. There was a huge scene, of course.”
“Because that’s what artists do?”
“Absolutely. Things got rather personal. Observations about each other’s inadequacies in bed were exchanged.”
“In front of the gallery owner?”
“Yep. Word of the scene spread like wildfire. Needless to say, I got a reputation for being fast. The gossip got worse when I turned down Hamilton Merrick’s proposal and left town to pursue my art in Adelina Beach.”
“What about the reputation of the artist?”
Vivian waved that off. “His reputation didn’t suffer a bit. He’s an artist, after all. And male.”
“Right. Double standard and all that.”
Vivian studied him for a long moment. “Your romance disaster was a lot rougher than mine. You nearly got killed. Think you’ll ever take another chance on love and marriage?”
The question stopped him cold. A couple of days ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. His answer would have been a flat no. He was not so sure now. The kiss in the garden last night had changed some crucial element in the equation. He needed to recalculate.
When in doubt, dodge the question.
“I don’t know about love and marriage,” he said, going for a lighter note, “but I’ve got nothing against passion.”
She nodded, deeply serious. “People say that passion is a reckless, potentially destructive force, and I’m sure that is frequently the case. But I think love is infinitely more dangerous. Passion blazes hot and fierce and then it burns out. You’ll get scorched but you’ll probably survive. Love is more complicated. More mysterious.”
They were like a couple of gamblers playing high-stakes poker, he thought.
“In other words, you don’t have anything against passion, either?” he asked.
“Not as long as the only people who are put in harm’s way are the two who decide to light the fire. It’s not right to burn innocent third parties, though.”
“Agreed,” he said.
Okay, that sounded like progress, he decided. He tried to think positive. There were no innocent third parties involved here, just a hired killer and the client who had paid him to murder Vivian. No relationship was perfect.
Vivian went back to examining the photograph in the window. The small sign in front of the picture read, FEATURING NEW IMAGES BY WINSTON BANCROFT. The scene was an artfully posed close-up of a female nude framed by a window and set against a backdrop of a vast, abstract desert. Considering the subject matter, it struck Nick as oddly lacking in genuine sensuality.
“What was the name of the artist?” he asked. “The one with whom you had the scandalous affair?”
Vivian flashed him a sly, amused smile. “Winston Bancroft.”
“I was afraid that would be your answer. If you ask me, Bancroft doesn’t just disapprove of female photographers. He doesn’t like women.”
Vivian turned quickly, eyes tightening a little at the corners. “What makes you say that?”
Nick shrugged. “Something about that picture. It’s cold. Lifeless. He might as well have been photographing a robot.”
Vivian gave him a brilliant smile. “It strikes me the same way. It’s as if Bancroft deliberately composed the pictures to make the viewer regard the subject as an object, not a human being.”
“Your pictures are a lot more interesting because you make your subjects appear mysterious, as if they’re hiding secrets.”
“Thanks,” Vivian said. “I appreciate the kind words, believe me. But I have to face facts. Bancroft is the one who has his photograph in the gallery window.”
“Your photographs will be in the window one of these days. Go on in and say hello to the gallery owner. Show her your portfolio.”
Vivian tightened her grip on the portfolio case and gave him another determined smile. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck. You’ve got talent.”
She looked surprised by the comment.
“Thank you,” she said.
She opened the door. A bell chimed somewhere inside. Nick watched through the window as Vivian walked briskly toward the desk at the far end of the room. A middle-aged woman in a severe black business suit got to her feet to greet her.
After a moment he returned to the reflections in the window, watching for anyone who did not fit into the patterns. Rex got bored with a nearby palm tree and settled down on the sidewalk below the window.
Nick leaned down to give him an affectionate pat. When he straightened he saw what he had been looking for all along, the one person who did not fit into the rhythms of the street.
A figure dressed as a deliveryman, cap pulled down low over his eyes, lounged in the shadows of a narrow walkway on the far side of the busy plaza. He turned and disappeared down the flagstone path but not before Nick had marked the air of elegant ennui that did not belong to a man who made his living with his hands.
“Got you,” Nick said softly.
Rex looked up at him and grinned.
Of course I remember you, Miss Brazier.” Joan Ashwood smiled. “We met at the Kempton Gallery exhibition in Adelina Beach several months ago. You had two excellent landscapes on display. They both had sold tags on them.”
Joan was middle-aged with the patrician demeanor of a woman who had been born to sell art to those who could afford the best but didn’t trust their own judgment. She had been surprised when Vivian had walked through the door but her welcome had been gracious.
She probably thinks I’m going to try to talk her into displaying some of my pictures. Which is exactly what I’m hoping to do.
“Yes, that’s right.” Vivian relaxed a little. “A hotel in Adelina Beach picked them up to display in the lobby. They were my first two art sales.”
And so far, my only two art sales. But she did not say that aloud.
“Are you on vacation or did you come to Burning Cove to take photos?” Joan asked.
“I’m here to relax but I’ve got my camera with me. I’m hoping to get some good landscapes. The coastline is very scenic.”
“If you want my advice, forget the landscapes. Ansel Adams has the corner on that market.”
Vivian sighed. “You aren’t the first gallery owner to give me that advice.”
“Anyone with a camera and some luck with the weather can get a good landscape shot,” Joan said. “You know the famous Eastman Kodak slogan.”
“‘You press the button, we do the rest.’”
“I fear that will become increasingly true in the future.”
“Landscape photos are not my favorite genre but I thought it was a good place to start.” Vivian tightened her grip on her portfolio. “Lately I’ve been working on a new series, however. Something quite different.”
Joan glanced at the leather portfolio. “I assume you brought some examples with you?”
“Ever had an artist walk into your gallery without some samples of his or her work?”
Joan chuckled. “No, and that’s fine by me. I’m always interested. Let me see what you’ve been doing.”
Vivian opened the portfolio and removed two pictures, both male nudes. She placed them on the counter.
“I’m calling the series Men,” she said. “Eventually there will be twelve photographs. Each will focus on a different aspect of how men are perceived in our modern world. I want the viewer to question their own assumptions about what it means to be perceived as male. To rethink the very meaning of manhood.”
She stepped back and held her breath, waiting for a reaction.
Joan reached for her glasses, slipped them on, and studied the photographs with a sharp gaze. She looked at them for a very long time. Vivian’s heart sank. She braced herself for a lecture on the difference between pornography and art.
Joan finally removed her glasses and set them aside. Intense satisfaction glittered in her eyes.
“Oh, yes,” she said softly. “I can sell these. They are riveting. You invite the viewer to question assumptions and roles but at the same time there is a startling intimacy and sensuality in these figures. Amazing.”
Vivian managed to breathe again. Euphoria sparked through her.
“I’m glad you like them,” she said, trying to sound cool and casual.
“I’ll need limited editions. Let’s say sixteen of each. Large size. Thirty inches by forty inches would be ideal. The bigger pictures make more of an impression. Usual contract terms. Oh, and I’ll want an exclusive on these images for the duration of the contract.”
“Certainly.” Vivian struggled to conceal her excitement. “I’ll print and mat the pictures for you as soon as I can set up a new darkroom.”
“How long will that take? I would very much like to have them for my show next week.”
Vivian’s euphoria died in an instant. It would take time to put a new darkroom together. She could not ask to use the Herald’s facilities again, not for the purpose of printing pictures intended for a gallery show. She would find a way to print the pictures. She had to find a way.
“I’ve, uh, lost the cottage I was renting in Adelina Beach,” she said. “But I expect to find new lodgings soon. I will get another darkroom set up right away.”
“You’re welcome to use mine while you’re here in town,” Joan said. “It’s in the back of the shop.”
Vivian nearly collapsed with relief. “Are you a photographer?”
“I was a hobbyist for a few years. I don’t do much photography these days, but I’m still a member of the Burning Cove Photography Club, hence the darkroom. I don’t have much use for it myself, but I make it available to other members of the club. It’s fully equipped with a commercial enlarger and an extra-large easel.”
“That sounds perfect. What time would be convenient for me to use it?”
“Would tomorrow work for you? I’d like to get a couple of your pictures on the wall as soon as possible.”
“Absolutely,” Vivian said. “I really appreciate this.” She slipped the prints back into the portfolio and turned to leave. But two steps toward the front door she stopped and turned back. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“What is it?”
“You looked surprised to see me when I walked through your front door a few minutes ago.”
“Well, yes, I admit I was rather startled. It was the portfolio, you see.”
“What about it?”
“I had heard that you had given up trying to make it as a serious photographer.”
Vivian’s mouth went dry. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was under the impression that you were pursuing a career in, well, to put it politely, photojournalism. Crime scenes. Fires. Famous actors caught in scandalous situations. That sort of thing.”
Vivian clutched her portfolio very tightly. “Where did you hear that?”
“You know how it is in the art world. There are always wild rumors circulating. I believe that an associate of mine, the proprietor of the Kempton Gallery in Adelina Beach, mentioned that none of the more exclusive galleries there were hanging your work these days because of your association with the press.”
Vivian recalled her last depressing encounter with the owner of the Kempton Gallery. He had treated her latest photographs as if they were beneath contempt.
“Richard Kempton told you that?” she said.
“Yes. He said it was all over town that you were no longer serious about your art.”
A wave of fury swept through Vivian. She took a deep breath. “That explains a few things.”
“I’m sorry,” Joan said. “But everyone knows the art world can be very cruel to an artist who is believed to have dipped her toe into commercial photography.”
“Given the rumors, why are you willing to hang my pictures?”
Joan winked. “Let’s just say I know what it’s like to try to balance on the very fine line between the commercial world and the art world. Before I opened this gallery I sold hats at Bullocks Wilshire in L.A.”
“Really?”
“Nobody pays much attention to a woman who sells hats, even very expensive hats. But things are different now that I sell art. People who move in the most exclusive circles are terrified of being accused of having acquired bad art. Here in Burning Cove my wealthy clients will buy whatever I tell them to buy.”
“What’s the difference between selling hats and selling art?”
“As far as the business end of things goes, there is no difference. It’s all just smoke and mirrors.”
“What about artistic vision? Doesn’t that matter?”
“Absolutely. But whether or not the works of an artist with a great vision actually sell is very much up to dealers like me.”
Chapter 31
What the hell just happened in there?” Nick asked. He glanced through the window and saw the dealer
sitting down behind her desk. He turned back to a flushed and seething Vivian. “Did that gallery owner insult you?”
“What?” Vivian looked startled. “Oh. No, not at all. She wants to hang two of my prints and she’s offered me the use of a fully equipped darkroom that she maintains in her back room. I’ve got an appointment to develop my pictures tomorrow.”
“That’s great.” Nick took her arm and steered her toward a sidewalk café. “So why did you come out of the gallery with fire in your eyes?”
Vivian’s jaw tightened. “Because she enlightened me about why my career had stalled in Adelina Beach.”
“Did she?” Nick asked softly. “And what exactly did she have to say about it?”
“Evidently there are rumors going around to the effect that I have debased my artistic vision by dabbling in scandal sheet photography.”
“Debased, huh?”
“None of the reputable galleries in Adelina Beach will hang my work for fear of making it look as if the proprietors can’t tell the difference between real art and cheap, freelance photography. Apparently the owner of the Kempton Gallery started the rumors. So much for keeping my newspaper work a secret.”
“But the proprietor of the Ashwood Gallery here in Burning Cove is willing to display a couple of your photos in spite of those rumors?”
Vivian clutched the portfolio to her breast. “She saw what I was trying to do with my series, Nick. But in addition she said there was intimacy and sensuality in my work.”
Nick reflected on the parade of muscular young men who had displayed their very fit bodies in Vivian’s studio.
“Hard to miss the intimacy and sensuality in your pictures,” he said.
Vivian shot him a suspicious glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I was just confirming the gallery owner’s opinion. If she’s willing to hang your photos in spite of the rumors of your newspaper work, it’s obvious she has a lot of confidence in her own taste.”
Vivian looked a little more cheerful. “Yes, it is.”
