by Linda Joyce
Interstate traffic moved steadily. Ahead, a flashing sign advising drivers to prepare to stop due to construction caught Lia’s attention. She pulled off I-29 and into a truck stop. They’d been on the road for only two hours, but there was no reason to die of thirst. Sitting in traffic would make her antsy. Jack, too. A pit stop would do them good.
White lines marked parking spaces with fronts of the cars pointing toward a building. She parked in the section for tractor-trailers, pulling between two, and grabbed her wallet before leashing Gentleman Jack, taking him to a grassy pet walk area directly on the far side of the parking lot.
Forty-five minutes later, after paying for a bottle of water and a bag of chips, Lia pulled back on the highway.
“Jack,” Lia said when the dog bumped her shoulder. “I gave you water and a cookie. This is my drink and the chips are my treat. Lie back down.”
Unless traffic on the bridge crossing into Kansas City had been reduced to one lane, she’d make it to her one-thirty appointment.
At the construction zone, traffic narrowed to one lane on the approach to the bridge crossing the Missouri River, moving slowly, but steadily. She checked her watch. Shifting in her seat a moment later, she checked her watch again. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. Even at the turtle’s pace, she’d make it on time, but only if there were no other delays.
When she rounded a long sweeping curve, Kansas City rose on the hill before them.
“Gentleman Jack, look! I’m sure this was Oz in the movie with Dorothy and Toto.”
Jack braced his paws on the armrest and barked excitedly. Lia lowered the windows to capture breezes as she navigated city traffic. When she finally reached the tree-lined streets of Brookside, she pulled into the art gallery’s parking lot at the rear of the building. Excitement vibrated, tingling all the way to her toes. She hopped out of the truck and ran the few steps to the gallery’s back door. The buzzer sounded. A moment later, a heavy steel door opened.
Janice Keller, one of the gallery owners, appeared. “Lia! Welcome! I can’t wait to see the pieces.” She rubbed her hands together in apparent anticipation.
“Ms. Keller, I am very honored that you’ve decided to give me a show.”
“Call me Jan. It’s only two weeks away. We sent out postcards made from the images you sent us. They looked professional and the work so refined. Let’s get these paintings unloaded. Paul will be in after lunch to start hanging the art in our new wing. It’s so exciting to share new talent.”
Lia walked beside Jan toward the back of the trailer. Gentleman Jack barked excitedly as they passed the truck cab.
“I see you brought your own fan club.” Jan chuckled, reaching through the open window to pet Jack. “I’m thrilled, too. Talent like yours doesn’t come along every day.”
“I think the paintings you’ve selected are some of my best work,” Lia said, rounding the corner of the trailer, her feet wanting to tap dance. If she were any more excited, she’d bob above the ground, floating like a helium-filled balloon. She stopped. Staring at the lever holding the double doors closed, she blinked and looked again.
Hair on the back of her neck stood up. Slowly she shook her head and blinked again. “No!”
Jan jumped. “What?”
“It can’t be. It just can’t be.” Grabbing the lever, Lia jerked it, throwing open the trailer doors.
Her greatest fear stared back, taunting her. The words of her brother whispered in her ear, “You will fail.”
Dread bloomed in her gut. She doubled over in pain.
“Oh no,” Jan whispered.
All that remained inside was an empty wooden rack.
Chapter 10
Lia pushed her fingers impatiently into her hair, wanting to yank it out by the roots. Her anxiety was riding a rollercoaster. She fought back rising nausea and forced her feet to anchor to one spot inside the art gallery. Every nerve in her body urged her to hop in the pickup and return to the truck stop in search of the paintings.
There had to be a clue. Someone had to have seen something. Her mind recreated the events of the pit stop step-by-step. What had she overlooked? No one loitered about the trailer. Not that she saw, but then, she really hadn’t paid much attention. How naive of her to believe all was safe because of a padlock.
“Trailer was locked?” a policeman asked as he handed back her driver’s license and insurance card.
She stuffed the items in her purse. “Yes, Officer,” she said calmly, holding back an impulse to shout, I already told you, I had a padlock on it. This was the third policeman she’d spoken to, each time before she’d been passed off to another police department. They each said the correct jurisdiction needed to investigate.
“Tumbler or key?”
“Key.” She bit back a snarky retort—It was the kind of lock thieves used bolt cutters on. Key? Tumbler? Who cares?
“And you think this happened at the truck stop?”
“It was the only place I stopped on the trip between home and here. The truck stop across the river. Before the construction work begins. I was there for”—she glanced at her watch—“maybe forty-five minutes. Long enough to walk Jack, my dog, go the restroom, and buy a soda.”
“Twelve pieces of artwork.” The officer scribbled notes.
“I have photos of the paintings,” Jan interjected. “I can print them out for you now.” She left them in the gallery in a hurry and headed for the office.
“That would be great, along with a list, the titles of each artwork, and the approximate amount of the loss. Then email me the photos, please,” the officer called after her. Turning back to Lia, he asked, “You’re positive you didn’t have insurance on your work?”
“I think I would know.”
The officer raised an eyebrow at her.
“What? You think I made up this story to collect insurance money?” Shocked, she took a step back. “I am not that kind of person!”
“I’m not saying you are or you aren’t. I’m trying to get appropriate information to make my report. So, once again, you’re sure there’s no insurance on the paintings.”
Wasn’t that rich? The police considered her a suspect rather than a victim. Planned a heist to collect insurance money. The notion had never crossed her mind.
“Is there anyone else who might have insured the paintings?”
“Not that I know of. In fact, my knowledge of how to insure art could be placed on a nail head.”
The officer leaned in closer. “The gallery doesn’t insure art for you, do they?”
“I’m sure they have insurance for their property and maybe the artwork before it’s sold, but my work never made it through the door. I guess if my TV education is worth anything, you could ask Jan if they have surveillance cameras to corroborate my story.”
“Anyone who might benefit from your loss?”
The name that settled in her mind made her swallow hard. Craig. Only her bother would stand to gain from her loss—he and some unnamed thief would reap the benefits loss of her misfortune. The loss of her artwork created the perfect storm, one where no money rained down in her direction. One where she couldn’t pay the bills. One where the farm would be ripped from her just like Dorothy’s house had been ripped off its foundation in the Wizard of Oz. “No. Can’t think of anyone.”
“Well, then,” the officer snorted, “I wish I could give you more hope.” He handed over his business card. “Here’s the case number.” He showed her the handwritten number at the bottom. “But when items are so portable…”
“Portable? One of the paintings is four feet by five feet! Most people couldn’t pack that away inside their trunk, let alone get it into the backseat of their car.” She clasped her hands together and sucked on her bottom lip to keep from making a further scene.
“I’ll be in touch if I find anything.”
“So, you’re saying if with a capitol I and F,” Lia muttered as the officer left.
“Lia,” Jan said, returning
after walking the policeman out. “I’ll get us some lemonade, and let’s talk about this in the conference room.” Jan pointed to a door across the gallery.
Lia set her purse on the table. When she dropped down into a high-back padded chair, rioting panic surged through her. Leaning over, shoulders hunched, elbows on the table, she closed her eyes tight and hid her face in her hands. Her paintings weren’t Van Gogh or Monet, but her golden eggs, a reward at the end of the rainbow. In one swift blow, a stranger had ruined her life. Why?
She would lose the farm. Lose. The. Farm. Pain ripped a ragged tear in her heart. She curled her toes tight in her shoes. When she began to shake, she held her breath hoping to stop the tremors. It wasn’t that she’d failed, just as Craig had predicted, but her connection to family land would be forever severed, an amputation of something so dear it was rooted in her DNA. Anguish burned in her chest. She fought back welling tears. Losing the farm was as painful as losing her parents all over again.
Clenching her hands, she banged them on the table until her fists hurt. What she wanted was a brick wall to bang her head. Sniffling, she swallowed hard. She would not cry in front of Jan. Being labeled a temperamental artist was one thing, but unprofessional was a word she wouldn’t have attached to her name. She swallowed again and straightened in the chair. All of this heartache because of a stupid padlock. Would Lucas have recommended something different? Could the theft have been avoided if he’d been along?
Her thoughts continued to drift to him. How had he survived when he returned from the war to find his family farm sold out from under him? He never said much, just took over organizing his parents’ relocation to Arizona and got Megan back in school. Whenever someone in town offered condolences over the loss, Lucas shook them off, said he was glad he’d made it back alive and that’s what mattered most. He always looked on the positive side of any situation. But still, the loss of his family’s farm had to be a great disappointment.
A glass of lemonade appeared before her on the smooth granite tabletop. She looked up. Jan wore an expression of determination.
“We must have lemons to make lemonade,” Jan said, taking the chair directly across the table from Lia.
“You made this fresh?” Lia asked, examining the liquid in the glass. The color looked a little too yellow.
“No.” Jan laughed. “It’s out of a can. Frozen. I meant that we have to make a buzz about the theft and that may attract more people to the opening. The ones we sent postcards to will have seen the quality of your art. Maybe we can work some commissioned pieces out of this and capitalize on the loss.”
“Opening of what? I can’t reproduce a dozen paintings in two weeks. Eight landscapes? Not doable. And even if it were, I just can’t magically conjure up four still-life paintings. Those take me even more time.”
“I looked through the portfolio of your work while the police talked with you. I believe there are ten, maybe twelve other paintings, I could show. They’re good, but I won’t lie, I prefer the ones I first chose. I like the idea of doing mixed media work. It will be unique. I’ve got a source that could take a print of your work and transfer it to canvas.”
“But that’s not original artwork,” Lia said, shocked at Jan’s suggestion.
“Just think about it.” She reached over and patted Lia’s hand.
“A collage? I worked with that in college. It takes even more time. I have to find the right details to add. Like the perfect piece of grayed, weathered board from an old barn.”
“Give it some thought. In the meantime, I’ll print the list of the paintings you have to replace the stolen ones. Only this time, make the trip without stopping, please.”
“I’ll hire an armed guard,” Lia said dejectedly.
Jan flashed a half-smile, as though placating a temperamental artist and left the conference room.
Lia rose and paced. The more she tried to focus on a mixed media piece the more a fog seemed to settle in her brain. When the phone in her purse rang, it jolted her into a panic. Grabbing for the phone, she prayed the police had some news. A quick look at caller ID deflated her momentary hope. Lucas.
“Hello?” she tried to sound cheery. She couldn’t handle a scolding from him. If she’d allowed him to bring her to the city, the theft probably would’ve never happened. Her conscience managed to heap continuous self-recrimination, but for how long could she keep the loss a secret?
“You made it okay? You promised to call me.”
“I’m sorry. I was swept away when I arrived. The art gallery has expanded. The new wing will perfectly showcase my artwork.” Had she successfully controlled the warble in her voice? “I didn’t forget.” She managed not to lie. At least she retained some measure of integrity.
“Well, let me know when you’re back. I think we should talk about the argument Craig and I are having.”
“Sure. As soon as I get back. I need to go. The gallery owner has some paperwork for me.” She had to get him off the call. Hearing his soothing voice made it much harder not to break down and cry, not to share the misery of her loss.
“I’m taking that as a promise. Call me when you get back. As soon as you do.”
“Promise. Got to go. Bye.”
Jan walked back into the room and handed her the list.
“Thanks.” She reviewed the list quickly.
“Let me know when you’ll deliver the new set of paintings. The sooner, the better. Today?”
“I have a few at my studio here in town. The rest…I’ll try to make it tomorrow,” Lia said heading out of the room. She tucked the paper in her purse for a quick escape from the gallery.
Jack barked when she climbed in the truck. At least she wasn’t totally alone.
“Good boy,” she said turning around and stretching back to hug him. “Wish I were you right now. You’ll always have a home with me. Good food and a warm place to sleep. And even if you can’t run loose at the farm, there’s a great off-the-leash park in the city. At least I can make you happy,” she said, releasing his neck. Scrunching her eyes, she willed tears not to flow.
She made her way through the streets of Kansas City and over to the Crossroads Arts district. The first Friday of each month, all the galleries opened their doors to show off works of local artists. The free event pulled in big crowds, especially during the warm-weather months when restaurants offered free hors d’oeuvres and bands played on street corners. But with no crowds around, navigating the trailer proved to be easy. She pulled into a parking spot along the curb, next to the brick building housing her studio.
“Focus, Lia. You can’t give up.” She straightened her hunched shoulders. “The show will go on, just not an A-plus rated one.” Never before had she worried about what critics might say about her work. This time, reviews would be crucial to her future. Local newspapers and magazines, online and in print, would carry opinions from the area’s most acclaimed critics. What if they trashed her art? A lump knotted in her stomach. Humiliation would eat her alive. No one would buy her work, which would mean she couldn’t make the expenses for the farm, which would mean…
Jack nudged her.
“I know. I’m spiraling down the rabbit hole.”
“Woof.”
“You don’t have to agree with me.” She sighed. “You stay here and guard the truck,” she told Jack. “I’m going to bring the paintings down on a dolly. Then we’re headed right back to the gallery.” She hadn’t thought to find a hardware store and buy another padlock. Luckily, only three of the paintings on Jan’s request list were housed in the studio. She could load and leave promptly, unless something else went wrong.
Hiking up three flights of stairs, Lia unlocked the deadbolt and the door lock. She rolled open the large hanging, solid-wood door. The rollers creaked. She made a mental note to spray lubricant on them.
Sunlight flooded the studio, and she couldn’t help but smile. Craig had provided her with a wonderful place to paint. Brick walls. High wooden beam ceiling. Open meta
l ductwork. Perfect lighting. Everything at her fingertips. She breathed deeply. The energy wrapped around her like a protective security blanket.
Sliding the keys into her pocket, she stepped inside, held out her arms, and turned a full circle. Maybe she needed to consider hosting an open house in her studio when she had new paintings to show. Invite a group of local gallery owners over for a wine and cheese tasting. Maybe that would generate some interest in her work…if Jan’s show turned out to be a flop.
She pulled the list of paintings from her purse and scanned it. In her mind’s eye, each painting appeared with perfect clarity. Her heart pounded. Grief. Joy. Love. Emotions she had experienced when painting. Then, her goal had been to capture those feelings on canvas. Now, reflecting on the artwork collection soothed her mind some, but her heart bounced as though jumping on a trampoline.
“Maize Nocturne,” Lia said, flipping through the canvases in the storage rack. She grabbed it and leaned it against her hip. “Daze of Maize. Fields of Folly.” Once she had located all three, she placed a towel on the metal dolly before setting the paintings on their sides. The towel offered protection to the canvases. Since luck had abandoned her when she left Kansas, she took every precaution to protect her art.
Exiting the building, she approached the trailer from the rear. Jack barked like a two-alarm fire warning. The hair on the back of Lia’s neck stood up. On the sidewalk, she slowly approached the truck on the passenger side. A man in a suit stood in the street attempting to put his hand through the barely open window. The very reason she left them open only a crack—so no one could harm her four-legged boy. Quickly she leaned the handles of the dolly against the truck.
“Jack, quiet! May I help you?” Lia asked, intimidated by the stranger. Did he want to hurt Jack? There had been reports in the news about someone feeding pets poison. The police surmised the culprit wanted to punish pet owners who left their animals in vehicles. The day had been bad enough, trauma to last her forever. If anything happened to Jack… Her anger shot up. No one would hurt Jack! Not here or anyplace else.
