by M. C. Grant
I find myself suddenly afraid to make a sound as I glide across the gallery’s polished marble floor like a cat burglar. The eclectic collection surrounding me is both remarkable and completely unaffordable.
For all I know, automatic sensors have scanned my wallet and are already doing a credit check. If that’s the case, it shouldn’t take long before two burly linebackers burst through a hidden doorway to toss my impoverished ass out on the street.
I decide to look around before that happens.
In one small room to my left a Sixties Warhol stares through silk-screened eyes in seeming disdain at a lone Mark Kostabi on the far wall. Dominating another wall is a disturbing, and almost life size, tar-and-oil scene by Attila Richard Lukacs showing naked skinheads in a Berlin slaughterhouse. Countering that it is a stunning seascape by Frederick J. Waugh, plus a tranquil nude by Eric Fischl.
Another room, defined only by a transparent barrier, contains a well-chosen collection of modern stone sculpture. I recognize the clean lines and elemental shapes of Kazutaka Uchida but find myself immediately drawn to a collection of exquisite jade carvings by Canada’s Deborah Wilson.
I reach out to stroke the smooth, feminine green stone of a naked torso. Immediately, a thin figure scurries forward, a lemon-yellow scarf wound around his throat like an overly affectionate ferret. He makes clicking noises with his tongue.
“We meet again, Casper,” I say, before turning around to lock on to his beady eyes.
He is surprised that I know his name, but it doesn’t stop his advance.
“Please don’t touch,” he sniffs, his feeble mustache clinging desperately to his sweaty upper lip.
I grin cruelly at flesh-colored pimple cream on the end of his nose.
“Isn’t that what sculpture is for?” I challenge. “To please one’s sense of touch as well as sight?”
“I—I wouldn’t—I just—we do not like our nudes fondled.” He puckers his lips into a crinkled Cheerio and attempts to unlock my stare by concentrating on the bridge of my nose.
“You really should try it.” I allow my fingers to slide gently down the curve of sculpted back, slowing above viridescent buttocks before continuing around their smooth curve.
Casper glares at me, and I can tell it is pointless to continue annoying him. The poor man is in dire need of a personality transplant.
“Is there anything in particular you are interested in?” His voice has an irritating squeak that burrows beneath my skin like an invading army of ticks. If I were forced to work alongside such an annoying person, I would need to see if a few squirts of WD-40 could loosen him up.
The gleeful vision of Casper choking on a mouthful of oil makes me wonder if I might not be in the pre-alarm stages of PMS.
“Diego’s suicide note. What did it say exactly?” I ask.
Casper’s pale face turns even whiter.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” he says. “The police have a full transcript. Ask them if you’re so curious.”
“I will. I just hoped you could summarize it for me. Diego must have trusted that you would follow his wishes.”
Casper stands a little straighter. “We had a good relationship.”
“Hmmm,” I muse. “And how much will you get for his blood painting?”
He gulps. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a simple question. What’s your cut?”
Casper’s shoulders stiffen and I watch as several blood vessels form blue ridges in his forehead. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about that either.”
I stare at him for a few seconds, allowing the silence to grow awkward, before shrugging. “In that case, could you tell Mr. Stellar that Dixie Flynn is here to see him?”
Casper’s sunken cheeks flush a muddy red as he scurries across the marble with a staccato click, click, click to a glass-fronted office in the far corner.
I am studying a wall of watercolors when Declan Stellar walks out from behind a large transparent glass desk and frames himself in the doorway to his office. The atrium casts a diffusion of soft white light across porcelain features and makes mid-ear-length, plum-black hair shimmer. I am instantly drawn to stormy almond eyes perfectly centered above a strong nose and kissable lips.
My heart does a little dance as I scan the rest of him: black collarless shirt tucked into cashmere pants, expertly finished with a tasteful leather belt, silver buckle, and stylish John Fluevog lace-up shoes. As he moves, the shirt tightens to hint at a muscled chest and firm stomach.
Dixie’s Tips #5: Before meeting a hunky man, discreetly check there isn’t a nasty booger dangling from one of your nostrils. Otherwise, that’s all you’ll be thinking.
I quickly spin around to catch my reflection in a mirrored surface. All clear.
“Ms. Flynn? Hello. Would you care to join me in my office?” invites Declan with a smile that reflects the light as though his teeth are dusted in diamonds.
“Yeah, sure.” I wince upon hearing my voice, fearing I sound like a weak-kneed tweener being asked to dance at the Junior Valentine’s Ball.
Declan returns to his office and I follow. Focusing on the way he walks, a silly smile creeps onto my face, and I recall the sculpted nude I had been admiring earlier. The smile would have stayed with me all the way into the office if Casper hadn’t tossed a haughty harrumph in my path as he scurried out of the way.
Inside, I sit stiffly on a steel contraption that I mistake for a chair. It’s as comfortable as an ice-cube tray, but a quick scan of the office doesn’t reveal any alternatives.
Under the harsher lighting of the office, Declan doesn’t look quite as flawless. He’s still handsome, but the illusion of pampered softness has faded to reveal deeper furrows on his brow and crinkled recesses spreading around his eyes like spiderwebs.
I wonder if he has trouble sleeping in that big, empty bed of his.
“You don’t look like an art critic, Ms. Flynn.” Declan crosses his legs and fixes a slumped sock to purposely distract my attention while he ravishes me with his eyes.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I try an innocent smile, but it likely comes across too much like a leer. At least I’m obeying Dixie’s Tips #6: Don’t drool over men. Cheesecake, I understand, but never men.
“But you are a journalist,” he says.
“Who told you that?”
“My secretary, Mr. Blymouth. He says you’re definitely not a client, but you might be a critic. He has a good eye for this sort of thing.”
“Ever run a background check on him?”
“I beg your pardon?”
I lean across the desk (which is a great move if, unlike myself, you have been blessed with a bosom) and whisper, “I caught him fondling the nudes.”
Declan tries to stifle a laugh, fails, and allows it to trickle forth. Instantly, he becomes less stiff with eyes relaxing into warm pools and one hand tugging absently on a nibble-worthy earlobe.
“He is a touch odd, I admit,” he says. “But he’s been with me since I opened and is a perfect companion for some of our more eccentric clients.”
“So you’re loyal?”
“Always.”
I smile. Normally I avoid the drop-dead gorgeous creatures who haunt our mundane lives, but that’s because they tend to avoid me too. In this case, however, Declan has laughed at one of my jokes, and everyone knows that handsome men love funny women. Of course, once again, that could be that third glass of wine talking.
“So how can I help you?” Declan asks.
Back to business.
Pity.
I slide the Polaroid across the table. “Can you tell me anything about this?”
Declan picks up the photo with slim, long-fingered hands and studies it carefully. His brow furrows as he reaches in
to a drawer to produce an antique, brass-handled magnifying glass. He studies the photo more intently.
“It appears to be an Adamsky,” he says finally. “But I have no recollection of this particular piece.”
“Wouldn’t you normally see all Adamsky’s work before it’s parceled out?”
He shakes his head. “Not always, although I definitely try to.”
“So you wouldn’t know which gallery displayed or sold this one?”
“It could be any one of the ten who sell locally or one of the galleries in Canada or Mexico that also handle his work.” He hands the Polaroid back. “Who’s the owner?”
I notice he doesn’t even consider it may be mine.
“The police have it now,” I answer. “But it was in the possession of a local artist, Diego Chino.”
“The one who killed himself last night?”
I nod.
“Why do the police have his painting?” He leans forward, caressing my eyes with his own in an obvious attempt to seduce.
The office is getting warm.
“Good question,” I admit. “Since it doesn’t look likely that there is going to be an investigation into his death, I suppose they’ll return it to his next of kin.”
Declan leans back in his chair and narrows his eyes in puzzlement.
“His death doesn’t have anything to do with this painting, does it?”
“That’s something I’m trying to find out.”
“I knew you weren’t an art critic.”
“I still take that as a compliment.”
I smile again.
This time, he smiles back.
“What can you tell me about Adamsky?” I ask.
“There isn’t a lot to tell, really. He’s a talented artist who didn’t pick up a brush until he was in his seventies. He lives in Portugal and is simply trying to translate all the images of his mind onto canvas while he can.”
“Does he ever pop over for a visit?”
“We’re planning a small tour for later this summer actually.”
“Is there a number where I can reach him?”
“Do you speak Portuguese?” He laughs, but when I don’t join him, he continues. “Actually, Adamsky is quite impossible to reach. He is somewhat of a recluse.”
“How do you get in touch?” I feel myself slipping into hard-nosed reporter mode.
“I’m contacted when he is ready to ship over more paintings.”
“You speak Portuguese?”
The comeback catches him off guard.
“N—no … it’s Adamsky’s agent who gets in touch.”
“I thought you were his agent?”
“I’m his North American distributor and also the largest seller of his work.”
“And his agent …”
“Roger King—” The name leaves his lips before he can stop it and his eyes widen, exposing both shock and a flash of anger.
“Roger Kingston,” I complete. “A man of many interests.”
“Please don’t disturb Sir Roger,” Declan says anxiously. “He is a very important business associate and a man who places a high value on privacy. I had no right to mention his name.”
He’s making me feel bad, which I hate. Here I am, all pleased that I pulled some juicy information out of him, and he ruins it by reminding me why I don’t get many dates. But since I’ve already blown it, I carry on.
“Why is such a powerful man acting as an artist’s agent?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Because you don’t know, or—”
“Because it’s not my place to comment on Sir Roger’s relationships.”
“He has a relationship with the artist?”
“A business relationship!” he snaps.
Let it go, Dixie. He’s getting pissed.
“Of course.” I use my softer voice. “How often does Adamsky ship paintings over?”
“Whenever he has enough. There are no set dates.” Declan attempts to rebuild his composure by brushing invisible lint off his shirt.
“What was the time span between the last two shipments?”
“I’m not sure.”
I try the coy smile. “Could you please check? It would be such a hassle to have to go through Customs to find it.” Now I was being both a bully and a liar. I just hoped he didn’t know it would be practically impossible to squeeze information out of the Customs office.
He reaches into another drawer and produces a ledger. He opens it with an annoyed sigh.
“The shipments were a month apart; twenty-eight days to be exact.”
“How many paintings in each shipment?”
“I only have invoices for the ones I keep.”
“How many was that?”
“Five.”
“Was any of the paint still wet?”
“Of course not!”
“Then—”
The chirp of a clear glass phone cuts off my question. When I first saw it on the desk, I assumed it was a piece of sculpture rather than a functioning device. As it rings, its electronic innards light up in a rainbow of neon.
When Declan answers it, I take the time to notice a simple diamond stud in his left ear and the absence of a wedding ring. He tells whoever is on the line to hold a moment, and then extends his right hand across the desk.
“This is an important call,” he says. “And I have a lot of work to catch up. I hope I’ve managed to answer all your questions, Ms. Flynn.” His voice is so cold it practically has freezer burn.
I squeeze his hand, pocket the Polaroid, and head for the door.
“By the way,” I say, turning around in the doorway. “What is Adamsky’s first name?”
“He doesn’t use one,” Declan replies stonily.
I give him my best smile with just a touch of lost-girl pout. “Well, just remember mine is Dixie,” I say. “Thanks for your time. You have a terrific gallery here.”
He doesn’t reply.
I walk into the showroom, intending to look around more, but Casper scurries up beside me.
“Are you leaving, ma’am?” he sniffs.
“Yeah, but—” I narrow my eyes, voice turning ice cold. “Did you just call me ma’am?”
“Y-yes,” he stammers. “It’s a sign of—”
I hold up one hand. “Just don’t, OK?”
“The door is this way,” he says quickly and rushes over to open it.
I scowl at him as I walk into the concentrated heat of a blistering day, sweat instantly beading on my freckled forehead. I ponder whether to further study the Adamskys in the window, but Casper’s rat-like countenance looming behind the art makes me turn away.
That’s when I notice a small café perched on an upper-level balcony. Its large shady umbrellas invite me to climb the short flight of stairs and indulge in an iced mochaccino.
How can I refuse?
Ten
The cafe has a magnificent view of the bay and a cheerful waitress who delivers a mochaccino on the rocks with a long straw peeking out from a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.
I enjoy the coffee and friendly smile before pulling out my notepad and jotting a few scribbles. There isn’t much in there, but it’s a start:
I have learned that the local expert doesn’t recognize Diego’s hidden Adamsky, and that the paintings are being shipped directly from Portugal. I also learned that Declan has never come across one that was still curing. What that means, I don’t know, but it’s worth filing away in the back of my mind.
I take another sip of cold coffee just as the sun is eclipsed by a broad-shouldered vision.
“Do you mind if I sit?” Declan asks.
I glance up. “Not at all.”
I indicate the empty chair facing me, while attempting to keep the puzzled amusement off my face.
Declan smiles nervously as he sits and orders a soda and lime from the hovering waitress. It may be a trick of the light, but I could swear that both the waitress’s smile and her peek-a-boo bosom swell at the sight of Declan.
“I got the impression you didn’t want to spend any more time with me,” I start.
“Are you always that direct?”
I shrug unapologetically, and his face melts into a mask of such boyish charm that I want to stroke his hair, coo softly in his ear, and nestle him to my chest.
“Actually,” he says, “I want to apologize for my rudeness. I’m not used to reporters and didn’t realize being interviewed would make me so … nervous.”
He nibbles on his lower lip, and I have to resist the temptation to ask if I can join in.
“I should be the one apologizing,” I say, trying to lift my eyes above his lips. “My interview style can be on the rough side. Most times I don’t notice what a jerk I’m being until someone kicks me in the ass.”
Declan laughs, and I join in. When his spritzer arrives, he lifts it into the air for a toast.
“To art,” he says.
“To beauty,” I agree and clink my mug against his glass.
The apologies done, Declan sighs contentedly, allowing his shoulders to slump as the tart soda cools his throat.
“Can I ask why you’re interested in Adamsky?” Declan asks.
“I’m not, really.”
“Then why the questions?”
“Curiosity. The painting is an anomaly in Diego’s death.”
“Anomaly? I thought it was a clear suicide.”
“The cops think so too.”
Declan narrows his eyes. “I don’t understand?”
“Neither do I. That’s why I’m looking into it.”
Declan takes another sip of soda. “You don’t buy that he killed himself?”
