I nearly fainted when I saw the delivery man. He was none other than the young guy with long hair who'd interviewed me that very morning. His long blond hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and he wore a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, but he was the same man, all right.
“Large veggie supreme,” he announced, unzipping the insulated sleeve surrounding the pizza. He lifted the lid of the box so that I could see the pizza.
I was still taken aback. When I didn't say anything, he looked up and his expression said it all: he felt as awkward as I did.
“It's Mrs. Trent, isn't it?”
“Ms. Trent, actually. Amanda.” I recovered myself enough to ask him to come in and put the pizza on the coffee table. Mr. Big had spotted a cat on the other side of the street, and he was far too interested in the feline for me to let him down while the door was open.
“And I'm Chip,” he said, placing the pizza box on the coffee table.
Chip? He'd been introduced to me as Travis at the gallery. I supposed Chip must be his nickname.
Belle handed him cash and told him to keep the change. He thanked her and headed for the door. As he was about to make his exit, he turned and looked at me.
“You're a wonderful artist,” he said with a wink, and then he was gone.
Chapter 3
The letter from the Roadrunner Gallery came the very next day. In a warm tone, it welcomed me to the artists' cooperative group that ran the gallery. According to the letter, I'd been assigned a mentor, an experienced gallery member who would show me the ropes. Members were required to work in the gallery two days each month, except for the first month when we had to put in five days, accompanied by our assigned mentor. The letter was signed “Cordially” by the stern gallery director, Janice Warren, and she'd included a handwritten postscript at the bottom: “Welcome to the Roadrunner!”
I gave a little whoop of joy, which immediately roused Laddie and Mona Lisa from their afternoon naps. Laddie ran to me, and Mona Lisa came over and wound herself around my ankles. I leaned over and petted them both. I could always count on Laddie, who never strayed far from my side, but Mona Lisa was a bit fickle. At times, she loved to settle herself in my lap or lie next to me while I slept; other times, she took to her perch, surveying Laddie and me from on high.
I called Belle right away to tell her the good news.
“That's great, Amanda!” she enthused. “I'm glad they let you know so soon. Now you don't have to worry they'll turn you down.”
“I was sure they would,” I agreed, “but then when Chip winked at me, I began to wonder. I still wonder why they acted the way they did during my interview, but I guess it doesn't matter much now.”
“You're in. That's the important thing.”
“Yes. And now, enough about me! How are you doing? Do you need anything?”
At lunchtime earlier, I'd taken Belle a casserole and some oatmeal cookies I'd made. She hadn't been having any trouble getting around the house with her crutches, but she'd been bored with having to keep her ankle elevated, which considerably limited what she could do.
“No, thanks, Amanda. I'm getting along all right—about as well as I can, I suppose. Right now, I'm trying to decide whether to take a nap or watch that new thriller on Netflix. Dennis is going to make us dinner tonight, so I'm all set.”
“Well, OK, but be sure to let me know if you need anything.”
After I talked to Belle, I re-read my letter of acceptance. My mentor's name was Susan Carpenter. Both her phone number and her email address were listed in the letter. Since I was eager to get started, I decided to give her a call, but my call went to voice mail. Disappointed, I left a message introducing myself and telling Susan the reason for my call.
Laddie followed me into my studio, where I put a few finishing touches on a commissioned landscape. I was pleased with the large piece, but worried about shipping it back to Kansas City. The buyers, a prominent judge and his wife, an equally prominent city official, had commissioned the artwork after attending the opening of my one-and-only solo show at a small gallery in Kansas City.
I'll never forget that June evening. My daughter Emma, on her summer break after her first year at a small, private college in California, and my son Dustin, a corporate accountant who'd been recently promoted at his firm, were there, along with my parents, who'd flown in from Florida, especially for the occasion. The gallery owner, Crystal Star, couldn't have been more enthusiastic as she circulated around the gallery, introducing the attendees to my work. Champagne flowed, and a pleasant, positive buzz rose in the room as Crystal placed signs proclaiming “SOLD” under three of my paintings.
I'd felt mildly irritated that Ned, my husband, had arrived late. His tardiness had become a habit during the previous couple months, but I didn't want to spoil the opening by complaining about it, so I didn't say anything. By this time, the judge and his wife had already approached me about painting a landscape for them, and I was over the moon.
After the show, my parents insisted on taking us all out to dinner, and we didn't get home until around midnight.
That's when Ned dropped the bomb.
He told me he was getting a divorce, handed me a sheaf of official documents, and told me to sign them. Then he walked out. I was so stunned that I couldn't speak.
My ringing phone brought me back to the present. Susan Carpenter was returning my call.
“It's been a while since we had a new member at the Roadrunner. I can't wait to see your paintings, Amanda. We probably should get together as soon as possible because you'll be able to hang your paintings in the gallery this Saturday night,” Susan said. “Most of our artists change their displays. on the first Saturday of the month.”
“That's great! I didn't realize I'd be able to hang my work so soon. If you're not busy, I could meet you in a few minutes.”
“As a matter of fact, that works for me. Would you mind if I came over to your place? I'd love to see your paintings.”
I told Susan that would be fine and gave her my address. While I waited for her arrival, I tidied my studio, arranging some of the paintings I planned to hang at the Roadrunner on easels around the room. I didn't move the judge's landscape since the paint was still wet. Oil paint could take forever to dry, but I was learning that the low Arizona humidity helped out a bit on that score.
The doorbell rang, just as I finished. Laddie ran to the door, his feathery tale sweeping back and forth as he awaited our visitor. When I opened the door, he stood politely beside me while I invited Susan to come inside.
“A golden!” she exclaimed, as she petted my friendly retriever.
“This is Laddie,” I said, as my dog soaked up attention from his latest admirer. Susan was short, about my height, and her brown hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders. I guessed she was probably a few years younger than me. She was dressed casually in jeans and a drapey tunic, and she carried a large brown envelope.
She held up the envelope. “Paperwork from the gallery. It's pretty standard stuff—our policies and procedures, the gallery schedule, inventory sheets and tags. The usual,” she said as she handed it to me. “I highlighted all the places you need to sign with a yellow marker.”
“Thanks. I'll be sure to take care of it today.” I set the bulging envelope on an end table. “Shall we go into the studio? It's right through here.” I opened the door to my six-hundred-square-foot studio. It was actually the same size as the rest of the house, which was divided into a living room, a kitchen, one bedroom, and one bathroom.
“What a wonderful space!” Susan enthused.
“Yes. I was lucky to find it. It was the only house with a studio available for rent in Lonesome Valley when I moved here.”
“I think you're going to do very well at the Roadrunner,” Susan told me. “Your paintings are every bit as good as Chip said they are.”
“Thank you. That's nice to hear.”
“Chip's my nephew,” Susan added. “He wants to be a full-ti
me artist, but it isn't easy. He's been out of college a few years, but he still lives at home and works at my brother's pizzeria.”
No wonder my art judge was doubling as a pizza delivery man. His father owned the pizza parlor.
If I didn't start selling some of my artwork locally, I might be delivering pizzas soon, too. Either that or clerking at the feed store.
Since neither alternative appealed much to me, I resolved to re-double my efforts and stick to Plan A for as long as my money lasted.
Chapter 4
The Roadrunner closed at five o'clock on Saturdays. As soon as all the customers departed, the artists could begin changing their displays. Susan told me that, although it wasn't mandatory to change the artwork every month, many members did just that. Gallery artists were each allotted fifteen linear feet of wall space, and they could arrange their paintings or other two-dimensional artwork as they chose, as long as they stayed within the confines of their own space. Sculptors, ceramists, and jewelry artists were assigned pedestals or cases for their three-dimensional works.
Susan had volunteered to pick me up and guide me through the check-in process. Together we'd selected which paintings I'd be displaying and discussed how to arrange them for the best effect.
We arrived at the gallery shortly after five, and Susan introduced me to several artists as we made our way through the gallery to a table where Janice Warren, the gallery director, was checking in the artwork. She hadn't been in the gallery that morning when I'd stopped by to drop off my signed paperwork, my check for the yearly membership fee, and my first month's rent. As I handed over my check, I felt a brief moment of panic, knowing how puny the balance in my bank account would look after the gallery cashed the check, but I reminded myself that I could always fall back to Plan B, if necessary.
“Hello, Susan,” Janice greeted my mentor. “Ah, and here's our new member. Glad to have you with us, Amanda.”
Although Janice's words were welcoming, her demeanor was as stern as it had been during my interview.
“Thank you,” I said. “I'm thrilled to be here.”
Slight crinkles appeared at the corners of Janice's mouth. I guessed that was her version of a smile. She quickly checked that the numbers on my paintings matched those on my inventory sheet and tags and handed me a floor plan, indicating where I could find my wall space. Susan and I went to work hanging my paintings. We arranged them and re-arranged them until we were satisfied with the display. Susan stepped back and gazed at my wall.
“Amanda, you do great work. I'd be willing to bet you'll sell a couple paintings this month.”
“I really hope so.”
“I know so,” a masculine voice added. I turned to see Chip, who grinned at me.
“It can't hurt to be optimistic, I suppose,” I said.
Chip nodded and winked at me.
“I snagged a parking spot right in front of the gallery, Aunt Susan,” Chip said.
“Oh, good. I'll be right with you. Back in a few minutes, Amanda. I need to help Chip unload his truck.”
“I can help, too,” I offered.
“No need. We have it covered. Stay here and meet some of the other members. I know they'll want to talk to you.”
After Susan left, I noticed that one of my smaller paintings looked slightly askew. I was gently nudging it back into place when Janice came over.
“Do you mind if I make a suggestion?” she asked.
Instantly, I froze. I know Janice must have noticed my deer-in-the-headlights expression, but she plunged ahead without waiting for my reply.
“I've been the gallery director here for twenty years, and I know what sells. I strongly advise you to frame your paintings, with the proper framing, of course. I can recommend an excellent framer in Scottsdale, who does high-quality work.”
“Well, I don't know,” I hedged. “I've always shown gallery-wrap paintings. That way, buyers can have them framed to suit their own taste or hang them just the way they are.”
“Of course, that's true, but I think it's up to the artist to present a complete and cohesive piece. You can accomplish that with the right framing and make your paintings more salable at the same time.”
The last thing I wanted to do was argue with the gallery director on my first evening as a member, but the fact was I simply couldn't afford to pay for framing, which didn't come cheap, especially if it was high quality.
I could feel a warm blush coming on. I'm sure my face was beet red by the time I answered Janice.
“I'm afraid I can't afford to have any of my paintings framed right now,” I confessed. “I'm on a very tight budget. Maybe sometime in the future . . . ,” I trailed off, giving Janice the opportunity to pounce again.
“But surely you could buy frames on credit. I know Marcel's in Scottsdale takes any major credit card.”
Did she really believe that I didn't know that frame shops took credit cards? Mine just happened to be very close to its limit. I could feel little beads of perspiration popping out on my face.
A commotion near the front of the gallery sidetracked our conversation. I heard cries of “wow!” and “look at that!” Then a “bravo, Susan!” People crowded near the gallery entrance. Above them, I could see the head and long spotted neck of a large giraffe.
Janice and I both joined the crowd. When we moved closer, I could see the smooth, lustrous finish on the tall animal. Surely it couldn't be ceramic, I thought.
“Where would you like me to put her?” Susan asked Janice.
“Right in front of the window,” Janice replied. “Over here.” She pointed. “I marked your floor space with masking tape.”
When Chip lifted the creature with ease, I figured it was made of papier-mâché. He placed it on the spot Janice had indicated. Susan rotated it a few inches at a time until the gallery director was satisfied with its position. The big giraffe was at least two feet taller than I am. I looked up at its benevolent face, admiring the clever way Susan had painted it. My mentor had told me about her floral watercolors, but she'd neglected to mention that she sculpted, too.
“Susan, what a surprise! You didn't tell me that you're a sculptor.”
She smiled an enigmatic smile that reminded me of why I'd named my cat Mona Lisa.
“I wanted to see your reaction when I brought Lola in.”
“You named your giraffe Lola?”
“She seems like a Lola.”
“I guess she does, at that, with her fabulous long, curly eyelashes.” I gently stroked Lola's side. “How did you ever manage to get such a smooth surface on her?”
“It's taken me a decade of experimenting to finally settle on the techniques that work best. The short version is that there are several layers of paper clay of different consistencies and then, of course, coats of varnish after I do the painting. I also sand the surface before I paint it.”
“Well, she's just wonderful.”
I backed up as other artists crowded around Susan to discuss Lola. Finally, the hubbub died down, most of the artists drifted back to their own displays, and Janice returned to the table in the back. A few members followed her, and she handed them each a sheet of paper.
“Am I missing something?” I asked Susan. “It looks like Janice is handing out some kind of paperwork.”
“No worries. It's just the monthly schedule for working in the gallery. When I talked to Janice yesterday, she promised she'd schedule us together for the days we requested.”
“Would you mind picking up a copy of the schedule for me, too? I don't want to talk to Janice again right at the moment.”
“Uh, oh. What happened?”
Since I'd already confided in Susan about my precarious financial status two days earlier when she first visited me, I didn't mind telling her about my latest embarrassment.
“Janice is like a bulldog when she gets an idea in her head. Don't be surprised if she brings it up again. At least, next time you'll be prepared.”
“I'm not so sure about tha
t!”
“We can head out now if you'd rather not talk to her again this evening.”
“You don't mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Wait. What about the schedule? Shouldn't we check it to verify that we work the days we wanted?”
“No problem. Janice always posts it online right after everyone's finished with their set-ups. Shall we go to Miguel's for dinner? They make the best enchiladas in town, and, more important, they make a mean margarita. My treat.”
“Sounds good,” I agreed. “I'd love a margarita right about now.
Chapter 5
As Susan had predicted, the Roadrunner's online schedule had confirmed that we would be able to work at the gallery on the days we'd requested.
On Tuesday, our first day together at the gallery, I met Susan a few minutes before nine o'clock, in front of the gallery. She explained that, since Janice lived in the apartment above the Roadrunner and made it a point to stay in the building during the hours the gallery was open, she admitted members who showed up to work in the morning, and she always closed the gallery herself.
“I happen to have a key, too,” Susan said, “because I used to be a board member, but I've never had to use it. Janice always opens the door for me.” She pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket and poked it. “That's odd. She's not answering.”
“Maybe she stepped out to run an errand.”
“That's really not like her. I'll try again.” Janice didn't answer the second phone call, either. “Well, this is a first. I guess I'll have to use my key, after all.” She dug deep inside her purse and produced a ring of keys. “I remember marking it with red nail polish. Ah, here it is.”
Susan inserted the key into the front door lock and struggled with it briefly. She jiggled it a bit more, and the lock finally cooperated.
I followed her inside. Susan stepped to the left and turned on the overhead lights. I looked toward the back of the gallery. Although a divider wall obscured part of the rear area, I could see that something was amiss. A bronze sculpture of a bear lay on the floor. It had been the only bronze in the back room when I'd arranged my paintings for display on Saturday evening.
Artistic License to Kill Page 2
