by Paige Sleuth
“I see.” That was true enough. Kat saw a big motive for murder looming in front of her.
Shannon cleared her throat. “Naturally, if Nikita were still alive we would expect to make a lot more money.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, she would still be around to produce. We would have more items to sell, and therefore we could expect to see a steady stream of income for as long as she was alive.”
“How much did her work sell for before this week?” Kat asked.
Shannon shrugged. “It varied.”
Kat interpreted that to mean nowhere near five figures.
But Shannon did make a good point. A gallery wouldn’t last long if it made a habit of killing the artists whose works they displayed.
Still, could the prospect of a quick infusion of cash have been enough of an incentive for Shannon to murder Nikita? Her death had been a huge financial boon for Fireside Gallery, enough that Shannon wouldn’t need to worry about operating expenses for a long, long time.
Kat inspected her surroundings. Although the gallery didn’t look as though it were hurting, she knew looks could be deceiving.
Her gaze shifted to Shannon, and her gut stirred. For that matter, could Shannon’s form-fitting dress and flawless makeup be concealing a cold-blooded killer? It was a question bound to haunt her until Nikita’s murderer was finally behind bars.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kat’s mind was still whirling when she left Fireside Gallery. She had been hoping her visit would help her gain some insight into who might have killed Nikita, but she hadn’t expected to leave with the gallery owner herself added to the suspect list.
“Hey, watch it, lady.”
Kat stopped short. She had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t seen the thirtyish man until she’d almost walked into him. With wild wisps of black hair and the edge of a tattoo visible above his coat collar, he was standing on the sidewalk, his arms stretched around a bulky canvas the size of a bureau as he dragged it out of the rear door of a red Toyota Highlander. At least, Kat assumed it was a canvas. It was wrapped up tight in generic, brown paper.
“Sorry,” she said, stepping out of the way.
“You mind getting that door for me?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the gallery.
“Oh, sure.”
Kat backtracked and held the door open while he wrestled with locking up his SUV without losing his hold on the canvas. She was impressed he managed the maneuver without much hassle.
“Are you an artist?” she asked when he got close enough.
“Yeah. You a collector?”
She shook her head. “I’m not really into art.”
He sniffed. “Yeah, well, a lot of the garbage you see in here isn’t real art.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s commercialized. Some of these so-called artists, all they make are mass-produced, cookie-cutter pieces you can find anywhere.”
Kat wondered if he was referring to the room full of nudes.
“If you want to see real art, check out my stuff.” The man hefted the canvas in his arms. “This here, this is one of my most emotional creations yet. You wanna see it?”
“That’s okay,” Kat said. “I should be getting home.”
“You’ve got a second for this,” the man said. “Close that door. Once I show you what I’ve got here, you won’t want to look away. It’s brilliant.” Without giving her time to argue, he balanced the bottom of the canvas on his thigh and ripped the paper away, revealing an angry jumble of reds and blues and yellows.
“Oh,” Kat said, the door handle slipping out of her hand.
“It really captures your eye, huh?” The man twisted his head around to get a better look at the painting, a smile erupting on his face. “Believe it or not, I finished this all in one session.”
Kat could believe it. It looked similar to what she imagined Matty and Tom might come up with if she ever poured some finger paint on the floor and set them loose.
“When I woke up last night, inspiration grabbed me by the throat and forced this out of me,” he went on. “It was like my muse had total control of my body. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t pump blood through my arteries, until I captured this. This is what I was put on this earth to create.”
Kat racked her brain for something positive to say about the mess before her. It was clear this man thought his painting was some kind of masterpiece, and the longer they stood here the more likely it would be that he would ask for her opinion.
“The primary colors are symbolic of our primal struggle in this world,” he said. “You’ve got blue, representative of water and sky, the elements surrounding us. Then there’s red, the color of blood and fire. That’s our life force, our passion, leaving a trail wherever we go.”
“And the yellow?” Kat asked. Maybe if she did all the questioning he wouldn’t think to ask her anything.
“Ah, yellow. The color of light, and inspiration, and jaundice.”
“Jaundice?” Kat repeated.
He nodded. “You ever seen anybody with jaundice?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“This,” he enunciated as he jabbed his finger at the painting, “this captures its essence.”
“I see.”
“So.” The man straightened, his eyes meeting Kat’s. “How much will you give me for it?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The painting. You’re obviously smitten. I’ll give you a discount if you buy it right now, before it goes on display. Then we can limit this transaction to the two of us, cut out the middleman and his never-ending need to steal a portion of the working man’s profits.”
“Um, I’m not really looking to buy anything at the moment.”
“Sure you are. You were just in here.” He angled his head toward the gallery. “You were looking for something, you just didn’t find it—until you ran into me.”
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Kat said. “I was inside on behalf of Furry Friends—”
“Six thousand,” he interrupted. “You give me six Gs, and it’s all yours.”
Kat gaped at him. He thought that wreck was worth six thousand dollars? He was obviously delusional.
“All right, five,” he said. “You drive a hard bargain, but you have an honest face. Five grand and you can have your very own Nolan Calabresi.”
Her breath caught. This was Nolan Calabresi? She looked at the painting again, wondering why she hadn’t figured that out sooner. Now that she was searching for it, she could see the similarities between this painting, the one in Lady Fairchild’s guest room, and the piece titled My Life that she’d found online.
Nolan stamped his foot on the sidewalk. “Take a close look at this. See these lines, the colors, the composition? You aren’t going to find anything else like this. Five grand is a steal.”
“I need some time to think about it.” She had no intention of doing anything of the sort, but she didn’t want him to walk away before she could find out what his relationship with Nikita Stoll had been like.
“Okay, okay, four point five. It’s worth at least twice that, but, hey, if we can strike a deal right here, right now, I’ll let you rob me.”
“I don’t know, that’s still a lot of money.” Kat let a slight pause elapse. “Although, it is much cheaper than the paintings I looked at by Nikita Stoll.”
Nolan sucked air through his teeth. “Nikita Stoll?”
“The artist who died Thurs—”
“I know who Nikita is,” Nolan snapped. “She’s a hack. She knew nothing about art.”
Kat stepped back, startled by his venom.
“Her works were all blooming flowers, chirping birds, happy trees.” He scowled. “That’s not what real life is about. Real life is about struggle, and darkness, and facing our own mortality.”
“Well, her art seems to be in high demand,” Kat said. “Several of her paintings sold for an awful lot of m
oney, according to Shannon.”
“Shannon.” Nolan shook his head. “There’s another yuppie with no appreciation for real art.”
“Aren’t you here to show your work in her gallery?”
“Yes, I’m forced to display my creations alongside all the hacks because I have no other means to connect with true aficionados,” Nolan said, a bite in his tone. “I have rent due, bills to pay, expenses that keep going up, up, up, just like all the other drudges held hostage in this so-called free world. But I refuse to respect Shannon merely because she steals half my profits in exchange for some space on a wall. She’s a know-nothing, an impostor.”
“She sounded like she knew what she was talking about,” Kat said, remembering her tour of the gallery.
“Those who cannot do, talk. Shannon is merely a liaison between us and the public, an essential evil.”
“You don’t sound happy about that,” Kat commented. “Isn’t she doing you a favor by providing space to showcase your work?”
“A favor?” He scoffed. “What favor would that be? Feeding like a leech off of my blood, sweat, and tears? But how else can my work find its way to those who will truly appreciate it? This society has me handcuffed, trapped at the bottom of a hierarchy that ensures the do-nothings have the means to earn money for their talent-less selves. So, yes, I make deals with the devil because I have no other options.”
“That’s a pretty bleak outlook.”
“It is a bleak world.” He firmed his grip on the painting. “Now, if you’ll get that door, it’s time to put another piece of my soul on display for the ingrates to gawk at.”
Kat didn’t say anything as she held the door open. But watching Nolan stomp into the gallery, lugging his masterpiece along with him, she had no trouble picturing him running down a woman as she stood helplessly in his path.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After Nolan went inside Fireside Gallery, Kat got back into her car, but she didn’t start the engine. Instead, she watched Nolan talking to Shannon through the window. They discussed something for a few minutes, then Shannon pointed somewhere, Nolan nodded, and they disappeared out of view.
Kat turned her key in the ignition, not sure why she felt a twinge of disappointment. After all, what had she expected, that one of them would dig the keys to the stolen black car out of their pocket and dangle them in front of the store windows?
Checking for traffic, Kat pulled onto the street. As she braked for a yellow light, questions about the accident flooded her mind. Had Nikita seen that Camry barreling toward her? What had gone through her mind when she realized it wasn’t going to stop? When had she screamed, before or after it hit her?
Kat leaned her head against the headrest, her heart heavy. She was so lost in thought she almost didn’t notice the yellow Corvette driving through the intersection.
She snapped forward in her seat. She would swear that was the same car that had been pulling away from the curb outside Fireside Gallery when she had arrived. After all, how many yellow Corvettes could there be in Wenatchee, Washington?
Shannon Gottfried had mentioned a party the night of Nikita’s death. The way she’d spoken, the driver of the Corvette was the person who had hosted it. And hadn’t that Cherry Hills police officer claimed that the car used to kill Nikita had been stolen from someone who had left it parked at a party in Wenatchee? Could Nikita’s killer have also been at that party?
If so, the driver of the Corvette could have some insights into whodunit.
The light for the left turn lane turned green. Kat verified the coast was clear, then cut her steering wheel to the left and stepped on the accelerator.
She caught up to the Corvette as it was turning off into a residential neighborhood. It wove up a short hill, passing a school and veering left. She followed, slowing down when it pulled into the gravel driveway of a tiny, rundown house.
Kat parked on the edge of the street, deciding it would be better to stay off this man’s property in case it turned out she was unwanted. But when she stepped out of her car, he was smiling at her. She couldn’t help but notice that with his blond hair, chiseled jaw, and blue eyes he was rather good-looking.
“Hey there,” he called out, leaning against the Corvette. “You looking for me?”
“Maybe.” She headed up the driveway, encouraged by his friendly demeanor. “Are you the person who threw a party the other night for some of the local artists around here?”
“Sure am. You lose your necklace?”
“What?”
“I found a necklace when I was cleaning up.” He was a couple inches taller than her, forcing him to tilt his head down to meet her eyes. “Is it yours?”
“Oh, no. I wasn’t actually at the party. I just wanted to talk to you about it.”
He regarded her a little more warily. “Who did you say you were?”
“My name’s Kat Harper. I was only a few yards away from Nikita Stoll when she was hit by that car.”
He grimaced. “Oh, man. That must have been rough.”
“Well, I didn’t actually witness the accident.”
“But you’re thinking somebody at my party stole that car and killed her.”
“Doesn’t that seem like the most logical conclusion?” she asked.
“Sure. I know exactly how it happened too.”
His statement sent Kat reeling. “You do?”
“Sure.” He took a step toward the house. “I’ll tell you inside. It’s cold out here.”
Kat hurried after him. When he opened the front door, she was bombarded by the smell of something rotting. Upon further inspection, she saw the whole place was in shambles. And it wasn’t just clutter like the inside of Lady Fairchild’s house, but the type of mess that invited bugs and mold. Soda cans and plates with food scraps were scattered amid crumpled-up tissues and open potato chip bags. The only space that was somewhat clear was where a sheet had been laid out on the floor to make room for an easel.
Despite finding that lost necklace, the man obviously hadn’t tidied up much after Thursday.
If he was embarrassed by the state of his house, he didn’t let on. “I’m Rick, by the way,” he said, shutting the door behind them.
“It looks like you know how to throw a good party, Rick.” Kat breathed through her mouth, grateful he made no move to shake her hand. After seeing how he lived, she wasn’t sure she would have welcomed the contact.
He took off his coat and tossed it on the couch. “I don’t host parties here.”
“I thought you—”
“I hold them at my dad’s,” Rick said. “His house is huge, and he goes out of town a lot.”
“Ah.”
“He understands I’m a starving artist, so he doesn’t mind letting me use his place as long as I clean up afterward.”
Kat hoped he did a better job of cleaning up his father’s house than he did his own.
Rick rested his shoulder against the wall. “So, you want to know how that car got stolen.”
Kat tore her eyes away from a half-eaten sandwich and gave him her full attention. “Yes.”
“I collect keys at the start of my bashes. Anybody who attends knows they’ve gotta give theirs up before they come in. I don’t want anybody driving home drunk, see?”
“That makes sense.”
“I leave a box by the door with a note on it, then about an hour into the party I put it up on the top shelf of the coat closet.”
“So you don’t actually know if people give up their keys or not?” Kat asked.
“I don’t police it. I mean, this isn’t high school. But most people are responsible. They don’t want the temptation of driving home drunk either.”
Kat’s heart sank. She had been hoping he could provide her with a solid lead.
He crossed his ankles. “I’ve never had a problem before now. Whoever hit Nikita had to have grabbed somebody else’s keys from the box. Wouldn’t be hard to walk around my dad’s yard pressing buttons until the right car
responded.”
“And nobody saw anything?”
“If they did they’re not speaking up. The cops questioned all of us.”
“Who’s ‘all of us’?”
“All of us who were still at my dad’s. ’Course, by the time the cops showed up things were winding down. There were only a couple of us left.”
“You didn’t give them a list of everybody who was there earlier?” Kat asked.
Rick shook his head. “I couldn’t. My shindigs are open. Everybody’s invited. There must have been at least fifty people there, and I didn’t even know half of them.”
“What about Nolan Calabresi? Did he attend?”
Rick lifted one shoulder. “Couldn’t tell you. If he did, I didn’t see him. But like I said, that doesn’t mean much.”
“How about Shannon Gottfried?”
“Never saw her either.”
Kat could see this line of questioning wasn’t going to be very productive. Either Rick honestly hadn’t paid much attention to who was in his father’s house Thursday night, or he didn’t want to implicate anyone in Nikita’s murder.
He gave her a small smile. “Sorry I can’t help you more.”
“It’s okay. Thanks for talking to me.”
He pushed away from the wall. “Let me get the door.”
Kat turned around, eager to be breathing in fresh air again. But before she could get very far something on the side table caught her eye. It was a shark’s tooth on a chain. She bent closer, something niggling at the back of her brain.
“You know who that belongs to?”
She jumped at the sound of Rick’s voice. “Excuse me?”
“That’s the necklace I was telling you about, the one somebody left at my dad’s house on Thursday.” Rick picked up the chain, letting the shark’s tooth sway between them. “You looked like you recognized it.”
“I thought I might.”
And then it hit her. The painting titled My Life that she’d stumbled across during yesterday’s Google search had depicted a man being pulled by a leash, a triangular object she hadn’t been able to make out dangling from his collar. Could the object have been a shark’s tooth? It certainly made sense, given how the artist had went on to talk about his inner shark.
