Jack didn’t find out anything to derail Evelyn’s plan to buy into the gallery. What matters is the background of Laverne and Ronald Phillips. I’m going up to my room and do some calling.”
Sometimes it’s better to remain aloof from controversy.
I disappeared.
The Corvette squealed to a stop. Kay looked above, around, and behind. “Come back here. What are you going to do? Where are—”
Diane Hume stepped from the shadow of an elm. Eyes wide, she stared at Kay.
“Are you all right?”
Kay punched off the car. She managed a strained smile. “I’m fine. Sometimes”—she swallowed hard—“I practice questions before I talk to people. I asked myself, ‘What are you going to do?’ That helps me organize my thoughts.” Kay slammed out of the car, headed for the front steps.
Diane hurried to catch up. “That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll try it. ‘What are you going to do?’ Why, I already feel more empowered. That’s what Laverne urges me to do. Open up and be empower—”
The front door shut behind them.
I opened my eyes.
No red Corvette gleamed in the drive of The Castle.
Oh, well. It never hurt to try. Instead, I thought Gregory Gallery and there I was.
Built of golden adobe in the style of Santa Fe, Gregory Gallery drowsed in the shade of cottonwoods. Water splashed from a fountain of brilliant red-and-blue-patterned Talavera tiles. A bell tinkled as I turned the oversize iron knob and pushed the hand-planed, sugar-pine door.
The entryway opened to a large, rectangular room. Cleverly spaced lights plus natural light from skylights illuminated paintings mounted on pale lemon walls.
Alison Gregory moved gracefully toward me. Her cool blue eyes swept me, likely tallying the price of my hairdo, makeup, and wardrobe. The sum must have been adequate for a customer. I was glad I’d chosen the silk georgette blouse. Perhaps she admired the pale pink of the hand-painted flowers against the lime background. Her smile was welcoming. “May I help you?”
I smiled in return. “I hope so. I’m Francie de Sales.”
A graceful hand was extended. An emerald glittered in an elegant gold filigree setting. “Alison Gregory. Welcome to Gregory Gallery.” Her handshake was cool and firm. “Are you looking for a particular kind of painting?”
“I wish I were.” My voice was admiring. “That’s a striking scene.” I gestured at a painting of Indians on horseback against the backdrop of granite buttes.
“Thomas Moran.” She spoke as if he were an old friend.
“Remarkable.” My gaze swept the displayed paintings. “Your gallery is very impressive. No wonder Evelyn Hume plans to become your partner.”
Utter surprise widened her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh?” I showed confusion. “That was my understanding. Jack Hume told a friend that Evelyn hoped to become a partner in the gallery. Wasn’t that what he discussed with you?”
Her face was suddenly unreadable, smooth and controlled. “What do you have to do with the Humes?”
“I’m Kay Clark’s assistant. She asked me to visit with you for her book about him. He had an appointment with you. I doubt there’s much that would matter for the book, but she didn’t want to overlook you since he’d made a special note about seeing you. I hope you can spare a few minutes to tell me about your meeting.”
“I’ll be happy to do that, though I doubt my conversation with him will be of interest to you.” She gestured toward an alcove. Well-worn leather furniture looked comfortable. “Come sit down.”
We faced each other across a rough-hewn pinewood coffee table. Several art magazines rested on the table.
She relaxed against the soft leather, crossed her legs, and locked her hands around one knee. Even in the fairly dim light of the alcove, the emerald glowed grass green. “However, I first want to make it clear that you have received false information about my gallery. Evelyn Hume and I have never discussed going into partnership.” She spoke briskly, but pleasantly. “Evelyn is a dear friend and a valued customer, but she isn’t interested in being my partner, nor have I ever suggested a partnership to her. I own Gregory Gallery. I run Gregory Gallery. That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to be.”
It was my turn for surprise. “I see.” Though, of course, I didn’t. “Definitely there is a mix-up. Jack told a friend he was interested in the gallery’s business performance because Evelyn was considering a partnership.”
“How odd.” She stared toward the stuccoed wall, her eyes narrowed in thought. “I don’t see why he wanted to know about the gallery…” It was as if she were speaking to herself. “…unless he was taking that route to see if I was trustworthy.” She gave a decided nod. “I suppose that had to be his reason. The Humes”—and she was both admiring and critical—“always look at the bottom line. I suppose he was vetting me to decide if he could trust me. He did come to see me for a specific reason.” She gave me a searching look. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm now in revealing our conversation.”
I felt close to discovering something important. The mixture of hesitancy and reluctance suggested she knew something of a matter that had been important to Jack Hume.
“He wanted to talk about Evelyn. On a personal level. Evelyn”—the gallery owner’s smile was quick and unaffected—“comes across as a curmudgeon. In reality, she’s kind and sensitive. She is passionate about art.
