Groundwork for Murder

by Marilyn Baron

  This time Elizabeth greeted her personally. Alex had returned to the gallery triumphant, and in a position of power.

  “So, have you got some exciting work to show me?” Elizabeth asked eagerly, strumming her fingers on the granite counter, tapping her toe impatiently.

  “I think I have exactly what you’re looking for.”

  As Alex unveiled each drawing with great fanfare, Elizabeth remained uncharacteristically quiet. She studied each one, riveted where she stood. Then she appeared to shake beneath her cool exterior. What did that mean? Was she trembling with excitement or anger? The woman was hard to read. Perhaps she was focusing, carefully envisioning where each piece would go in her gallery. Or maybe she couldn’t believe her luck.

  Alex imagined each piece surrounded by a four-inch white acid-free mat and simple black satin frame. Nothing too elaborate, to take away from the beauty of the art. They should hang at eye level all around the gallery, in one horizontal line from room to room, to reveal the couple’s story in stages.

  “Where did these come from?” Elizabeth demanded. “Who drew them? You didn’t do them, did you, Alexandra?”

  “Of course not. I told you. The artist is Dominick Anselmo. Look at the signature.”

  Elizabeth examined the bottom right area of each sketch. She turned around and picked up an art reference book from behind the counter and rifled through the pages, obviously looking for any page with an Anselmo print.

  “They seem to be legitimate,” Elizabeth admitted. “And they’re breathtakingly original. I’ve never seen anything like these before.”

  Alex allowed herself to relax for the first time that day. The first part of her mission had been a success. Now for part two of her plan.

  Something about the way Elizabeth was eyeing the couple in the painting disturbed her. She kept studying the sketches and didn’t speak again for some time.

  “This couple,” Elizabeth asked pointedly, “who are they? The likeness is incredible.”

  “Likeness?” Alex shook her head. “I have no idea. Their faces are hidden.”

  Elizabeth furrowed her brows.

  “Didn’t you ask him? Didn’t you wonder?”

  “Umm, not really.”

  “You must know that a patron would ask that question.”

  “I could find out, if it’s that important.”

  Elizabeth frowned.

  “Never mind. I was just curious.”

  “The sketches are pretty hot,” Alex said.

  Elizabeth looked at her like she was an amateur. That was a dumb thing to say. Of course the sketches were hot. That was part of their allure. She was stating the obvious. If they were any hotter, steam would rise off the paper.

  “Well, whoever they are, they’re about to become famous—or infamous. Their anonymity will be part of their mystique, like the Mona Lisa.”

  Alex liked that idea. “I have a feeling he conjured them from his memory, his longing and his love for his dead wife.”

  “Hmmm, I didn’t know he was married. We don’t know much of anything about the man after he dropped out of sight,” Elizabeth said, as she flipped through the sketches again, getting more and more agitated, then excited. She smiled smugly. “Do you think you could coax some biographical information out of him, where he’s been, what he’s been doing?”

  “Mostly landscapes, I think,” Alex said, trying to hide a smile.

  “The fact that they’re not landscapes will make them more valuable. These are perfect. Provocative, edgy. I have been looking for a Dominick Anselmo all my life. I’ve finally found him.”

  For some reason, Elizabeth’s proprietary reaction was unsettling.

  “How can I get in touch with him? I want to give him the good news about his show.”

  Alex’s smile was bittersweet. How she’d longed to hear those words about her own work. But Nick Anselmo had a rare and wondrous talent. Not a talent to be envied, but a gift to be celebrated. “I can’t say, but if you’re interested in giving him a show, you have to go through me.”

  “So you’re his rep?” Elizabeth eyed her, circling like a vulture.

  “I’m more than that. I’m his student. He’s my mentor.”

  “Really? You?” Elizabeth looked doubtful.

  “That’s right, and as part of the condition of showing his sketches, he would like some of my work to be displayed.” Alex swallowed the words that sank like stones to the pit of her stomach. Before she could lose her resolve, she lifted her own paintings out of the portfolio case and placed them on the counter prominently for the gallery owner’s inspection.

  “These are my paintings, the ones that, um, Dominick wants included in the show.” Alex kept a tight rein on her wavering voice.

  Elizabeth frowned again. “So that’s what this is all about? I wouldn’t give you a show, so you’re going through the back door.”

  “No, it’s about reintroducing Dominick Anselmo’s talent to the world,” Alex insisted. “Nick is a very special man, and he believes in taking chances on new talent. I thought, perhaps, you might understand that.”

  The woman’s gaze drilled into her soul, but Alex didn’t flinch.

  Elizabeth looked through the paintings, but these weren’t the same paintings the gallery owner had ripped apart earlier. Alex had created this new series of paintings, called the Bald Cypress, with Nick’s guidance and his inspiration. She had reached deep within herself, tapped a special reserve of talent even she didn’t know she possessed, and she knew with certainty that these represented some of her best work. Alex anxiously awaited the verdict.

  The gallery owner cleared her throat.

  “These are different,” she noted, tilting her head to view the paintings at different angles. “Interesting technique.”

  “Do you like them?” Alex blurted out, hating herself for having to ask.

  “They’re respectable.”

  The insult was delivered like a blow to the gut.

  Alex cringed. “Well, then I see I’ve wasted your time.” Nursing her wounded pride, she gathered the paintings into her portfolio and attempted to do the same with Nick’s sketches.

  Elizabeth stayed her hand.

  “Wait. Let’s talk about the Anselmo sketches.”

  “There’s nothing left to talk about,” Alex said.

  “I want those sketches.”

  “And?”

  “And if I refuse to show your work?”

  Alex swallowed.

  “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to go elsewhere with my offer.”

  Elizabeth sighed.

  “You’re a lot tougher than I thought. I want this show. It’s done, then. I’ll show your work as well.”

  Alex smiled. She was going to get her own show—well, a side show of sorts, an afterthought, but still a show. She had accomplished what she’d set out to do. Then why did she feel so disgusted with herself? Maybe because she was getting the show under false pretenses. But she knew her work was more than mediocre, and it wasn’t worthy of the contempt the gallery owner had shown. Why wouldn’t Elizabeth admit that?

  “When do I get to meet the great Dominick Anselmo?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Dominick Anselmo is very vulnerable,” Alex said, and even as she delivered the words, she felt guilty about giving away anything personal about Nick. And lying about Nick’s intentions.

  “Are you also his protector?”

  “No, just his friend. You’ll meet him at the show. He’s a very private person, but I think I can get him here.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so. If he shows, we’ll have press from around the world right here in the Diamond Gallery. We’ll make history. I’ve got a lot of work to do between now and then. I have to research him—with your help, of course—write his history, order the frames, issue the invitations, start some buzz.”

  Alex coughed. “I have some ideas about how his work should be displayed.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Elizabeth said sarcastically, dismiss
ing her. “Let’s get to business first. I get fifty percent of the proceeds of the show and Nick gets fifty percent. If you are indeed his representative, you two can work out what part of his profits he gives you.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of you getting a third, Nick getting a third and the remainder, including any money generated from my work, going to start a fund to build a shelter for the homeless in Jacksonville Beach.”

  “Aren’t you the generous one? Don’t you want anything for yourself? Not much of a businesswoman, are you?”

  “The homeless shelter is important to Nick.”

  “Whatever for? That hideous soup kitchen is bad enough. It’s practically sitting on my doorstep. That’s prime real estate, beachfront property. And it’s destroying property values. The city could get a fortune if they sold that to a more respectable establishment or a real-estate developer.”

  “Right now, they only have a soup kitchen on Jacksonville Beach but no place for the homeless to sleep unless they go all the way into Jacksonville,” Alex explained. “And the residents don’t have transportation. They have to take the bus into town.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. What do you care about those schizophrenic, drug-addicted, drunken, dirty people? You can see them on the streets, walking around with everything they own on their backs or sleeping in cardboard boxes. They’re sleazy and they have no self-respect. And what could a man like Dominick Anselmo possibly care about them?”

  Alex was horrified. She hadn’t given much thought to the homeless either until she’d reconnected with Nick, so she was just as guilty as Elizabeth of dismissing an entire class of people from her thoughts. But Elizabeth was positively cruel. And she knew nothing about Nick Anselmo’s situation.

  “Besides, I always get fifty percent,” she added.

  “It’s a deal-breaker,” Alex said, collecting the drawings and putting them back into her portfolio. “Here’s my card. If you’re interested in my proposal, call me. If not, I’m sure there are plenty of galleries who would be.”

  With sly eyes gleaming, Elizabeth stopped Alex.

  “Aren’t you clever? Come back here. I think we can work something out. This opportunity is too delicious to pass up.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A Done Deal

  When the Nick Anselmo art opening was set in stone, Alex told her best friend about her secret. Vicky lived around the corner, so Alex hand-carried the gallery opening invitation to her house. She was sure Vicky wouldn’t have run into Nick in the neighborhood because the colonel did all his own yard work. And Vicky wouldn’t be caught dead working in the yard.

  “He lives in a homeless shelter? That’s incredible.”

  “I know. I’ve been dying to tell you, but—”

  “You wanted to keep him all to yourself. Is he as hunky as I remember him from college?”

  “Hardly.” Her first lie to Vicky. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s still charismatic. After all, he is Dominick Anselmo. But the first time I saw him again he was, well, urinating in my bushes. Hardly heart-stopping.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. It was nasty. I don’t even know how I recognized him. I almost called the police.”

  Alex related the story of their reacquaintance, filling her friend in on Samantha’s tragic death, how Nick’s life had gone to seed, and the sexy sketches he’d delivered to her doorstep.

  “Some guys get you roses and some—”

  “It’s not a courtship or anything like that,” Alex interrupted. “I think he’s just grateful for the food and the art supplies, and frankly, for someone to talk to and someone to teach. He’s basically lonely. These sketches have helped him come out of his shell.”

  “Is that the significance of the sea shells he anchors each sketch with?”

  “No. He just appreciates beauty in nature. I’m saving them. I have quite a collection.”

  “So when can I see these sketches?”

  “At the opening. They’re all at the gallery now.”

  “And you said they’re good?”

  “Brilliant is more like it. I swear the man is a genius. I can’t wait for the world to rediscover him. He’s improved since he taught my class in college. His style is much richer, deeper. He’s more connected to his subjects. The people on the pages practically sizzle.”

  “Sounds like you’re talking about more than just art now.”

  Alex blushed.

  “You’ll understand when you see the sketches. It’s almost as if he…”

  “What were you going to say?”

  “The two people—the couple in the sketches, I mean—they don’t look anything like Nick or me, but it’s almost as if he’s drawing us, as he imagines we’d be together.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just reading something into them that’s not there?”

  “It’s just a feeling I get. There’s so much intensity on the page. So much power. He may be trying to let me know how he feels about me the only way he can.”

  “Alexandra Newborn, do you know what you’re saying?”

  “I only know what his art makes me feel.”

  “How his art makes you feel, or how he makes you feel? It sounds like you think he’s trying to seduce you with his sketches.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I feel some kind of an emotional connection to his work. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

  “Does Mark know about this show? Have you told him about Nick?”

  “Not yet. He thinks we’ve closed our Reed’s account.”

  “How does he think your lawn gets mowed every week? And how did you explain that fancy herb garden of yours? If you’re not careful, they’re going to stick a Yard of the Month sign in front of your house. Then you’ll have some ’splaining to do.”

  “You know Mark. He’s never home until after dark, and when he is home, he’s tuned out. He doesn’t notice anything outside his personal space. The yard could dry up and wither away and it wouldn’t bother him.”

  “Just how close are you to this lawn man, Alex?”

  “He’s much more than just my lawn man.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. You haven’t seen the man for twenty years, and all of a sudden you’re baring your soul to him? Or maybe you’re baring more than that.”

  “Vicky, that’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? And how do you know he’s not some desperate serial killer or worse?”

  “Because I know him. He’s harmless. And anyway, it’s not like that between us. He’s helping with my painting, and we talk.”

  “About?”

  “Things.”

  “Are these nude paintings by any chance?”

  Alex laughed. “Yes, some of them are nude or nearly nude.”

  “As your best friend, I think I’m entitled to say this. Are you insane? You know a lot of homeless people have some kind of mental illness. Maybe he’s crazy. You can’t save him, Alex.”

  “I’m not trying to save him or change him,” Alex said. “He doesn’t want to be saved. He likes living in the shelter. He’s more comfortable with the life he’s leading now.”

  “The guy has to have something majorly wrong with him,” Vicky said. “I mean, to end up in the streets, just bumming around?”

  “He’s not bumming around. He has the job at Reed’s. He works hard. He didn’t have insurance, and Samantha’s sickness drained his savings. He sold off his paintings and painted some more to raise money, but I think he got burned out and fed up with the whole art scene. Then, after Samantha died, he lost confidence and interest in painting. But there’s nothing else wrong with him that a little home cooking in a place of his own wouldn’t cure.”

  “Are you going to play house with the homeless man?”

  “Vicky, that’s mean. And you know that’s not what I meant. Since he’s been drawing, I’ve noticed a spark of life in him. He had given up, lost his spirit. He has this incredible talent, and he hasn’t lifte
d a brush in years. These sketches are the first things he’s done since Samantha’s death. I think they’re a way back for him. At least that’s what I’m hoping this show is, assuming he’ll come to the show.”

  “You haven’t told him about it?” Vicky said.

  “He’s unpredictable. If I do tell him, I can’t be sure how he’ll react. He may not come. He might just pick up and leave town, like a tumbleweed. I can’t let that happen. He’s moved around a lot since Sam’s death.”

  “He’s a drifter. You need to stay away from him if he’s determined to live a life on the streets. I’ll bet if you tell him how much money he could earn he’d jump at the opportunity.”

  “You’re wrong. He’s not looking for fame or recognition,” Alex said. “He’s not into material things anymore. He’s changed. So he won’t be interested in the show for any amount of money. He came from wealth, so it doesn’t mean that much to him.

  “You know, I feel guilty every time I walk around my house and see everything we have,” Alex added. “It’s too much. And Nick has nothing. Mark and I collected a lot of things we don’t use or wear anymore, and I’ve brought them down to the shelter. It upsets me every time I imagine him in that place. I still can’t believe the great Dominick Anselmo is sleeping in a homeless shelter.”

  “Well, it’s better than sleeping in his car,” Vicky said. “Are you sure he’s not an alcoholic?”

  “If he was drunk or high, they would have kicked him out of the shelter.”

  “Still, it sounds like a horrible way to live,” Vicky said.

  “Nick doesn’t complain, but I’ve been there to see for myself. I made sure to go when he wasn’t there. It feels like a prison. I have to get him out of there.”

  “So you are trying to change him. Since when has he become your responsibility? Is this the reason you’ve been skipping the gym? To spend time with Nick? I thought you were working on your own show.”

  “I am. Nick needs this show. He deserves this. But, um, Bitsy did agree to show a few of my paintings as part of Nick’s show.”

  “Oh, Alex, that’s wonderful. It’s what you’ve always wanted.” Vicky hugged her friend. “I’m so proud of you.”