The following morning Virginia unlocked the front door of the gallery shortly after eight. She had been dreading the moment. Murder had been done in the back room of her gallery. She would never again be able to enter the space without remembering the dead woman lying in the pool of blood.
The pizza dinner with Xavier and Anson had gone fairly well, she thought. True, Cabot’s contribution to the conversation was minimal, but he had not been rude. He just seemed withdrawn. Later, when they had returned to her apartment, he immersed himself in research on his laptop. He was still at it when she went to bed. Eventually she’d heard the door of his room close.
Sooner or later they would have to talk about how he was going to deal with his cousin, but intuition told her that it was too soon to try to coax him into that particular discussion. Cabot needed time. There was steel in the man, but steel did not bend easily.
At breakfast that morning neither of them had mentioned Xavier.
Cabot followed her into the back room of the gallery. He surveyed the surroundings with a professional eye and then nodded once.
“The cleaners did a good job,” he said.
Virginia looked at the place on the floor where they had found Sandra Porter’s body. Astonishingly, there was no trace of blood.
She shivered. “You know, until recently it never occurred to me that there were people who specialized in cleaning up after crimes.”
“It’s another one of those career paths that high-school guidance counselors often neglect to mention,” Cabot said.
He walked deliberately through the space.
“What are you looking for?” Virginia asked.
“Nothing in particular,” Cabot said. “I’m sure the forensics people were thorough. Still, you never know.”
The front door opened again. Jolted, Virginia turned quickly. When she saw the familiar figure standing on the threshold, she took a deep breath.
“Sorry, Boss,” Jessica said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Not your fault,” Virginia said. “I’m a little jumpy today, that’s all.”
Jessica grunted. “I don’t blame you. I’m not the one who found the body, but I’m feeling rather twitchy myself this morning. To be honest, I’m very glad you got here before I did. I wasn’t looking forward to being the first one through the door.”
Jessica Ames was in her early fifties. Tall and generously proportioned, she tinted her hair jet black and kept it cut in a razor-sharp Cleopatra style. The fringe above her dark eyes looked as if it had been trimmed with the aid of a straight edge.
Like many in the art world, Jessica wore a lot of black. Today was no exception. She wore a black turtleneck and a pair of flowy, calf-length trousers. A statement necklace fashioned of some copper-colored metal completed the look.
Virginia had not hired her because of her expertise in art. Jessica had arrived on the doorstep of the Troy Gallery knowing almost nothing about the field. But Jessica had two very important attributes. The first was that she was a fast learner. The second was that she had a talent for sales. A lot of people thought it would be nice to work in an art gallery. Very few people had the ability to match a client with the perfect object of his or her desire.
Jessica also knew how to pull people in off the street. It had been her idea to put the display of brilliant, hand-blown glass paperweights in the front window of the shop. They glowed in the carefully arranged lighting, catching the eyes of passersby. Once people opened the door of the shop, Jessica went to work. Very few customers left empty-handed.
Virginia waved a hand at Cabot. “Jessica, this is Cabot Sutter. He’s the investigator I hired to look into Hannah Brewster’s death. Cabot, this is my assistant, Jessica Ames.”
“Nice to meet you,” Cabot said.
Jessica sized him up in one quick glance and smiled approvingly. “A pleasure.” She took a long, slow look around the shop. “I still can’t believe someone got murdered in here. Do the cops have any leads?”
“Currently they’re leaning toward a theory that involves drugs,” Virginia said. “But Cabot and I are wondering if Sandra Porter’s death is in any way linked to Hannah Brewster’s.”
“Weird thought,” Jessica said. She paused. “You think Hannah Brewster might have known Porter?”
“I’m almost positive they never met,” Virginia said. “But the door of the storage room where we keep Hannah’s paintings was open.”
“Maybe someone thought those pictures are worth a lot more than we assumed,” Jessica suggested.
“We’ve had them on display from time to time,” Virginia reminded her. “We’ve never had a single offer on any of them.”
“True. They’re fascinating in some weird way but they make people uneasy.” Jessica got a familiar gleam in her eye. “One thing’s for sure, though.”
“What’s that?” Cabot asked.
“In case you haven’t noticed, the murder-in-the-art-gallery story is getting a real run in the local media. That kind of publicity will help get out a nice crowd for the show next week.”
Virginia winced. “We don’t need a lot of curiosity seekers. We need a crowd of people who are actually interested in buying art.”
“Don’t worry, Boss,” Jessica said. “I can turn curiosity seekers into art collectors. It’s my superpower.”
Cabot regarded Jessica with a mix of admiration and curiosity.
“You’re that good?” he said.
Jessica smiled modestly.
“She’s that good,” Virginia said.
Cabot studied Jessica with his usual intent expression.
“What’s your secret?” he asked.
“Depends on the customer,” Jessica said.
“Client,” Virginia said. “We call them clients, not customers.”
“Oh, right,” Jessica said. She gave Cabot a winning smile. “Clients.”
“What would you sell me?” Cabot asked.
“If you were passing by on the street, it would most likely be the glass paperweights that would make you enter the shop.”
“Because I don’t look like an art connoisseur?”
“Everyone responds to some kind of art,” Jessica said. “Not everyone knows that, though. It’s my job to find out exactly what type of art a person needs and then put that object into his or her hands. Between you and me, the paperweights are what I call starter art.”
“What about the whole art-for-art’s-sake thing?” Cabot asked.
“That’s bullshit,” Jessica said. “Every piece of art has a purpose, even if it’s just to make someone stop and look for a couple of seconds.”
“The best art tells a story,” Virginia said. “That’s why the Old Masters survive and a lot of modern abstract art won’t.”
Cabot looked at Jessica. “So I’m a paperweight kind of guy?”
“You’re a form-follows-function kind of guy,” Jessica said, very serious now. “You’re the type who responds to well-designed objects that have a well-defined purpose. You would admire a beautifully crafted knife or an elegant car or a brilliant paperweight that would catch the light while it was holding down a stack of papers on a desk.”
She plucked a dark-blue-and-gold paperweight from the cluster on the table near the storage locker and handed it to Cabot. He studied it for a moment, watching the light play in the heart of the glass.
“You know, Anson’s got a birthday coming up,” he said. “I think he might like this. It would look good on his desk.”
Virginia hid a smile.
Jessica nodded. “Excellent choice for a man’s desk. Masculine and useful. It will complement any style of décor.”
Cabot whistled softly. “Virginia’s right. You’re good.”
“Everyone has a talent,” Jessica said.