“Jesus-shoes wearing freaks. She looks like a good prospect. Follow her.”
Ash squeezed his hand into a fist, held it tight until he began to lose feeling, and then relaxed. He repeated that maneuver until his temper died down.
I don’t need advice. I know a prospective canvas when I see one.
He packed up his computer, walked outside, and pretended to look at the menu taped to the café window next door while he waited.
His wait was short. She opened the door with her shoulder, never looking up or making eye contact with anyone. Three boisterous college students plowed through the other door, bumping into her and nudging her out of their way as if she were invisible.
Head down, she never saw the assault coming and lost her balance. Ash jumped to her rescue and wrapped his arms around her frail frame as she fell. His contact made her jump, and she spilled her coffee on his shirt.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he smiled. “I just didn’t want you to fall and get hurt.”
She looked sheepishly at his face and quickly downcast her eyes to his arm. “Tha—thank you,” she stuttered. “I’m sorry about your shirt. I hope you’re not hurt.”
Ash glanced down at his shirtsleeve and lifted the wet, coffee-stained spot away from his skin. “Nah,” he smiled, “it’s an old shirt anyway. I usually just wear it when I paint. Can I help you with your things?” Ash asked, holding out his arms.
She shook her head vigorously. “No, thank you. I live right there,” she cocked her head in the direction of an old, Spanish-style mansion that had been retrofitted into apartments.
“Are you sure? You seem to have a lot of bags, and I know those old buildings don’t have elevators.”
Eyes pointed to the ground, she elicited a slight smile. “I’m fine, thank you anyway.”
She flicked her eyes up toward Ash and gave a glimmer of a half-smile before ambling on her way.
Ash hung back, but when she crossed over at the end of the block, he followed. From across the street, he could see her stop at the small bank of mailboxes, open the first box on the bottom, check for mail, and then continue into the building.
The corner of Ash’s mouth rose and quivered. His anticipated victory had him dreaming of how he would attack his next project.
He crossed the street, checked the apartment number that corresponded to the mailbox, and quickly walked away.
There was a lot of preparation to be done before he could be sure she was the right one.
But if everything worked out as Ash hoped, he’d soon be back for his new, beloved canvas.
13
Sin entered the Stokler Gallery, flashed her badge, and asked to speak to the proprietor.
A blonde with expensive highlights, roughly in her mid-thirties, greeted her with a smile. “Hi, I’m Ashley Stokler, the owner of the shop. How can I help you?”
Sin asked if they could speak in private, and the woman led her to a small office in the back of the busy gallery.
“I’m here investigating the death of Vivienne Spinner,” Sin said, her eyes taking in the expensive furnishings before coming to rest on Ashley. “I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“I will do what I can,” she replied amiably.
Sin pulled a photo out of her file and placed it in front of Ashley. “Does this girl look familiar?”
“I’ve seen her face on the news.”
“I’m curious,” Sin continued, “if she’s ever come into the gallery.”
Ashley walked behind her desk and opened the bottom drawer. Sin sat and watched as she lifted a half-empty, recorked bottle of wine and deftly popped the top. “It’s about that time,” she said, pouring herself a glass. “Care to join me?”
“Maybe some other time,” Sin said. “Now back to Ms. Spinner. By your expression, I assume you knew her.”
“She was a frequent visitor to the gallery. Very quiet, never really spoke until,” Ashley lifted the glass and took a healthy sip of the dark red wine, “she found out that I was Miranda’s daughter. Then I couldn’t shut her up. It was so bad that when either my receptionist or I saw her coming, I hid back here until she left. She became a nuisance.”
“Tell me about Miranda.”
“Not much to tell,” Ashley said, refilling her glass. “She was my mother. I opened the shop a few years after she passed when her work gained popularity.”
“Sorry for your loss.”
Ashley waved away her apology with another sip of wine. “Thanks, but it’s not necessary. My mother died fifteen years ago.”
“She must have been a big deal around here,” Sin said.
“How do you mean?”
Sin looked at her strangely. “I mean there is an entire gallery out there with her name on it, and I noticed her books at the college.”
“It’s funny how that works,” Ashley replied. “Miranda was a local artist with no real following. After her death, her work picked up a lot of notoriety. It seems to happen to artists after they’re buried. When her art started to increase in price, I opened this gallery. It only made sense to use her name.”
Sin noticed a coldness in Ashley’s voice when she spoke of her mother.
“What type of questions did Vivienne ask about Miranda?”
“Questions about her technique and why she painted what she did. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.”
“How so? I would think you would be an expert on your mother’s work.”
Ashley swallowed the rest of her glass and placed the empty bottle in the trash. Her words began to fumble on her tongue. “Miranda and I weren’t close. I didn’t live up to her expectations. And let’s just say that she didn’t have time for anyone who didn’t live up to her standards.”
“Kind of harsh for a mother.”
“She was a perfectionist in her art. Not so much as a mother. My
