Her gaze met his. “Too tight?”
“Mmm?”
“Is the knot too tight? You groaned.”
“No, it’s fine. Are you done?”
She folded his collar back down, then as naturally as breathing, she smoothed his hair off his forehead.
Hank remembered she had done the same thing after the accident on Sunday. She used to enjoy running her fingers through his hair when they were teenagers. And this was one thing she hadn’t practiced on her ex-husband, because in every picture of Spencer that Hank had seen, the man had sported an almost military-short haircut that wouldn’t have allowed one strand to be out of place. He’d also had a receding hairline.
Hank smiled. “Thanks.”
Her gaze lingered on his mouth for a tantalizing moment, but before he had a chance to close the gap between them—or to debate whether or not he should—she retrieved her purse and stepped out of the car.
Whitcombe’s sat between a store advertising vintage books and a furniture shop that displayed a stark, Scandinavian-style dining room set in the front window. The gallery’s window display consisted of a framed painting on a wooden easel in front of a draped backdrop of white velvet. To Hank, the art seemed to be an incomprehensible collection of blobs—maybe the artist was trying to match the bullet-hole theme of the building. Another, smaller easel held a gilt-edged sign advertising an upcoming charity gala and auction.
Amelia didn’t pause to regard the window. She went straight for the door. Hank lengthened his stride so that he could pull it open for her. Though it was made of glass, it was heavier than he’d expected. The weight was likely due to the thick slabs of steel that surrounded the edges of the glass. A distant chime sounded as they crossed the threshold.
The showroom was a cool expanse of pale, hardwood flooring and white walls. Classical music played softly from speakers that had been painted white to blend into the decor. Small spotlights in the ceiling provided cones of illumination for each of the paintings that hung on the walls. There were also a few pedestals with sculptures on top of them. More art was displayed on vertical panels that had been arranged in a zigzag configuration across the center of the floor. An empty, glass-topped desk stood in front of an arched doorway at the rear of the room that appeared to lead to a hall. Aside from the two of them, there was no one else around, which wasn’t surprising, since it was just past noon and the place had been open for only a few minutes. The staff had to be aware of their arrival—the low-tech security of the entrance chime was supplemented by several darkened glass domes that likely concealed surveillance cameras.
“I don’t see it!” Amelia hissed, whipping her head from side to side.
Hank proceeded more slowly, checking each painting as he made his way around the room. He saw another blob painting and a few that seemed to be composed of spatters from an overloaded paintbrush, but there were also more true-to-life canvases. One depicted a bowl of fruit on a windowsill. Another was a portrait of an old man with a pipe. There were several framed ink drawings of flowers that he thought were pretty good, considering they were only done in black and white. He saw some landscape paintings, too, but nothing that matched the description of Amelia’s.
A tall woman with poker-straight black hair appeared from the doorway behind the desk. She glided toward them, her footsteps swallowed by the flowing black dress she wore. She offered them a subdued smile. “Hello, I’m Evangeline. Welcome to the Whitcombe Gallery.”
Amelia seemed about to blurt a question, so Hank spoke before she could. “Thanks,” he said. “You have quite a selection here.”
“We pride ourselves on maintaining an eclectic mix.” She flashed long, scarlet-tipped nails as she wafted one hand toward the group of ink drawings. “I noticed the Drummonds caught your interest. They’re beautifully executed, aren’t they?”
“For sure.” Hank tilted his head, as if he were studying them. From the corner of his eye he sensed Amelia shift impatiently beside him. He tapped the back of her waist in a silent message.
They’d discussed their strategy on the drive here and had decided it would be wise to heed the parting advice Hazel had given them at the flea market. The direct approach might not work very well with a professional art dealer, so they had decided to pose as a couple out shopping. If Whitcombe realized how important Amelia’s painting was to her, it would be far too tempting for him to set an exorbitant price. From what Hank had seen on the small, discreet information tags that were mounted beside each painting, he considered the prices already exorbitant. There was nothing under a thousand dollars, and he’d spotted a few in the five-figure range.
He could only hope the price of the Mathers would be set at the low end of the scale. Although he was willing to fork out as much as he needed to in order to make Amelia happy, he didn’t have a whole lot of spare cash lying around. Spending a few hundred was one thing, but a few thousand would involve rejigging his budget. She would probably still insist on reimbursing him, too. Not that he wanted her to, but her sensitivity over money issues was genuine, and he would hate to saddle her with yet another debt she wouldn’t be able to pay.
“We’re very fortunate to have the whole series,” Evangeline said. “Shanna Drummond was quite prolific a few decades ago, but I understand her arthritis has taken a terrible toll, both on her work and her psyche.”
“That’s a shame,” Hank said.
“It is. A great loss for all of us who treasure Shanna’s work.” The woman lowered her voice, as if imparting a confidence, even though they were still the only ones in the gallery. “We don’t anticipate this series will remain on the market for long. It’s a fabulous investment.”
Hank lifted an eyebrow as he turned to Amelia. “What do you think, honey?”
“I would prefer something with color, darling.” She made a show of looking around the gallery. “What about a landscape?”
“We have an interesting Levesque watercolor of the Gaspé peninsula over here,” Evangeline said, swishing toward one of the panels.
Hank put his hand on the small of Amelia’s back as they followed. She was so stiff, she was practically vibrating. He brought his head close to her ear. “Relax. We’re getting closer.”
“If she mentions sepia portraits or mirrors, I may have to hurt her,” she whispered.
“You might not want to tangle with her. Those nails are pretty scary.”
She bared her teeth, but turned the expression into a smile as Evangeline stopped beside a painting and glanced back over her shoulder.
“It’s quite accomplished,” the woman said. “At the same time, it conveys the artist’s unique sense of playfulness.”
“I see what you mean,” Hank said, although he didn’t see anything except lots of white paper with a few streaks of blue and green around a brown cliff. Since the price of the painting was two and a half thousand, that meant each brushstroke was worth at least several hundred.
“You said it was painted in the Gaspé?” Amelia asked.
“Yes, Rob Levesque lives in Montreal but has a summer home near the coast. That’s where he does much of his work.”
“Do you have any Ontario landscape artists?” Amelia asked.
Evangeline lifted her eyebrows.
“We like the idea of supporting local talent,” Hank added.
“As do we,” Evangeline said. “The Whitcombe Gallery has discovered and promoted many artists from the area.” She hesitated. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Whitcombe returned from one of his periodic scouting trips to the hinterland just this past weekend.”
“Did he have any success?” Hank asked, slipping his arm behind Amelia’s waist. It didn’t seem possible for her to feel any tenser, but she was.
Evangeline’s hesitation was longer this time. “He would be able to tell you more than I would. Excuse me, I’ll see if he’s free.” She pivoted swiftly, her dress swirling around her ankles, and disappeared through the doorway in the back wall.
Amelia
stepped forward as if to follow.
Hank placed himself in front to block her path. “Cool it, Amelia. We don’t want to make them suspicious.”
“This is killing me.”
“Want to wait in the car?”
“Not a chance. The painting’s here. It has to be. They weren’t open yesterday, and we’re the first customers today.”
They were still the only potential customers six minutes later when a man approached them from the doorway Evangeline had departed through. He was as tall as Hank and at least eighty pounds heavier, judging by the overall snugness of his navy blue suit. Though he appeared to be only in his mid-fifties, his hair was completely white. He wore it pulled back in a ponytail that dangled well past his shoulders. Gold cuff links gleamed beneath the cuffs of his sleeves and heavy, jeweled rings adorned three of his fingers. His hands were pale and disproportionately large. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Rupert Whitcombe.”
Hank didn’t often make snap judgments, but he did about this man. He didn’t like him. It could have been the tone he’d used as he introduced himself, as if he were bestowing a huge favor, or the way he angled his head back as he spoke, as if he wanted to look down his nose at them or had smelled something bad. Or maybe it was that ponytail. Not that Hank cared how long a man wore his hair, but on Whitcombe it appeared like a prop, as if he wanted to project an artsy image over a thug’s body.
Whitcombe gave them a subdued smile that teetered on the edge of condescension. “My assistant informed me you’re interested in Ontario artists.”
“Yes, we are,” Amelia said. “I’m also very fond of landscapes.”
Not subtle, but at least she wasn’t grabbing him yet.
“How fortunate.” Whitcombe’s smile expanded to reveal teeth as white as his ponytail. “It just so happens I’ve recently collected a number of pieces that feature our lovely province.”
Amelia pretended to scan the gallery. “Do you have them on display somewhere else?”
Whitcombe continued to regard Amelia. “Excuse me, but have we met?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Your face looks familiar.”
“No, I’m sure we haven’t met. Would you tell me more about these pieces you collected recently?”
“I’ll do better than that. Would you care to see them?”
“Certainly,” Hank said.
Amelia nodded, clasping her hands under her chin. “Yes, please.”
Whitcombe turned and walked to the desk. He bent down to open a carton that was on the floor beside it and withdrew what appeared to be a small, glossy booklet. “These are the catalogs for the auction,” he said as he returned to them. “We had a few last-minute changes, so they just came in from the printer’s this morning. The finishing touches always end up being such a rush.”
“What auction?” Amelia asked.
“We host the event annually. I’m sure you must have heard of it. The Globe did a lovely feature on last year’s gala and auction. We donate the entire proceeds to charity, of course.”
“That’s admirable,” Amelia said. “But you were going to show me your new pieces?”
Whitcombe held out the booklet. “They’re all in here.”
Hank reached for it but Amelia was faster. She plucked the booklet from the gallery owner’s hand and opened it.
The pages were filled with photographs of paintings accompanied by what Hank assumed were written descriptions of each work. He couldn’t tell for sure since she was flipping through them too quickly for him to read. She stopped suddenly. The paper rattled in her grasp.
He looked at the photograph numbered fifteen. It was a rural scene of a farm on a hill, with fields and old barns. The artist was Dr. Jonathan Mathers. The medium was oil on canvas. The dimensions given were ninety-two centimeters by sixty, about three feet wide by two feet high. Every detail was exactly what Amelia had described, right down to the ornately carved wooden frame. That was her painting, all right.
“How much do you want for it?” Amelia asked.
“Excuse me?”
“For this landscape,” she said, pointing to the photo.
Whitcombe’s smile wavered while his eyes narrowed. The artsy demeanor slipped. “You have interesting taste,” he said slowly. “What attracted you to that particular item?”
“We’re redecorating,” Hank said, drawing the gallery owner’s attention away from Amelia, who was beginning to tremble. “Lots of wall space to fill.”
“I see. Jonathan Mathers isn’t widely known, although he is enjoying a resurgence of popularity. His work doesn’t come on the market often so we were thrilled when we acquired one of his canvases. No one quite captures the primitive feel of the rural regions as well as Mathers did.”
“What’s the price?” Amelia persisted.
“I’m sorry. That will be determined at the auction. You’re welcome to attend.” Whitcombe did another of his down-the-nose glances. “The gala is black tie, of course.”
She rolled the brochure into a tube and tapped it against her skirt. “What if I wanted to buy the painting now?”
“Oh, that would be impossible.”
“Why?”
“As you can see, the catalog has been printed. It would be unfair to our other patrons if I didn’t give them an equal opportunity to bid on every piece.”
“When’s the auction?” Hank asked.
“It takes place on the twenty-third.”
“The twenty-third?” Amelia’s voice rose. “That’s almost two weeks from now.”
Hank eased the brochure from her grasp, slipped it into his jacket and took her hand. He had the feeling she was about to lunge. “We’ll check our schedule, honey.”
She looked at him. Her lips pressed into a tight line.
“I know how busy you are,” he continued, “but an auction and gala sound like fun. And it’s for charity, after all.”
“Indeed,” Whitcombe said. “I hope to see you both there.”
Hank began to turn her toward the front door, hoping to get her outside before she completely lost her cool, when she pulled free and moved back to Whitcombe. She glanced toward the desk and the doorway behind it. “Excuse me, but do you have a washroom I could use?”
* * *
AMELIA OPENED THE first door on the left, as Whitcombe had directed her. The room was small, windowless and smelled strongly of lavender air freshener. Light from the corridor gleamed on a white toilet and a small vanity. After a quick glance to ensure she was still alone, she hitched her purse onto her good shoulder and pulled the door closed without going inside. She could still hear the sound of Hank’s and Whitcombe’s voices from the showroom, so she slipped off her shoes, hooked the straps through her fingers and padded silently down the hall on her bare feet. From a partially open door to her left came the chug of a fax machine and Evangeline’s voice. It was likely the gallery office. She was speaking softly, probably on the phone since the conversation was one-sided, and her heels clicked on the hardwood floor, so she must be pacing as she talked. Any second now her pacing could bring her into the hall.
Moving as quickly as she dared, Amelia grasped the knob of the first door on the right and swung it open. It turned out to be a closet containing cleaning supplies and a large fuse box. She returned to the hall. The only other door was almost directly across from the office. The odds of getting in there and out without being noticed were slim, but she had to try. The painting had to be around here someplace. All she needed was a few seconds alone with the frame.
“Yes, the arrangements for payment and delivery after the auction will be the same as last year.” Evangeline’s tone firmed, as if she were preparing to terminate the call. “Excellent. We’ll courier the special catalog to you within the hour, Emilio. We look forward to doing business with you again.”
It was now or never. Amelia ran on her tiptoes to the remaining door and tried the knob. It didn’t turn. On impulse she gave it a push. The door
swung open with a soft snick—apparently the knob had been locked but hadn’t been closed enough to latch completely. She slipped inside and shut the door behind her.
Blackness enveloped her. She groped for a light switch. A pair of plain, fluorescent bulbs flickered on overhead. This was evidently a combination storeroom and workroom. She saw piles of flat, wooden packing crates next to a long worktable littered with tools and scraps of lumber. Brackets on the wall supported lengths of framing in various styles. Beneath them was a rack of glass panes. Several colorful canvases leaned haphazardly against more crates at the rear wall of the room where there was another door. That one was made of steel and had two dead bolts plus a riveted hasp with a chunky padlock. If her painting was in there...
But it wasn’t. Her heart thumped as she caught sight of the familiar scene. She hadn’t noticed it right away because it was tilted sideways and propped on end, as if it had been casually discarded where it leaned against an open wooden crate next to a roll of bubble wrap.
Yes. Yes! She half ran, half slid across the floor.
The door smacked against the wall. “What are you doing in here?”
Amelia started at the sound of Evangeline’s voice, but she didn’t turn around. She couldn’t see the ticket. Had it fallen out? Had someone taken it? “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I think I got turned around. I was looking for the washroom.” She pressed her hands to her stomach and staggered closer to the painting. “Oooo. I don’t feel well.”
Evangeline moved forward swiftly and grasped her arm. “You have to leave, miss.”
“I’m really sorry. I... Oh, no!” Amelia doubled over and pretended to retch. Her shoes dropped to the floor while her purse swung forward from her shoulder and smacked her in the cheek. The motion also brought her face within inches of the painting. She scanned the frame feverishly. There! She spied a telltale, pale sliver of folded paper. It was in the narrow gap where the wood had warped away from the canvas.
Winning Amelia Page 11
