7

Minneapolis Institute of Art

Salem wasn’t well acquainted with Dr. David Keller, Assistant Curator at the nonprofit Minneapolis Institute of Art. He had been an occasional guest at Vida and Daniel’s dinner parties, and then after Daniel’s death, Vida would bring Salem by his office when they visited the institute. She remembered him as a stern man who rarely spoke except to critique what someone else was saying.

Talk: to Keller about revenge then go home follow the trail trust no one

They’d been waiting in the car until the institute, recently nicknamed “Mia” in a marketing blitz, opened at ten. When the doors were finally unlocked, Salem and Bel breezed past the welcome desk, under the gigantic Chihuly Sunburst chandelier, and up the stairs until they reached the Target Galleries. Their impatience condensed around their feet, spurring their movements.

“Excuse me?”

Salem, agitated and out of breath, whipped her head toward the woman behind the special exhibitions desk. She’d been so intent on their destination that she hadn’t noticed her. “Yes?”

The staff member pointed toward the “Woman in the Arts” sign perched on her desk, then toward the doorway of the Target Galleries. “You’re going into the special exhibition. It’s sixteen dollars for members, twenty for nonmembers. Do you have tickets?”

Salem’s brow furrowed. “We’re actually looking for Dr. Keller. His office used to be down here.”

“Ah.” The woman smiled. “All the offices moved a few years ago. Before my time. But I have good news: Dr. Keller curated this exhibit. He’s inside right now.”

Salem touched her pocketbook without thinking. Teaching at-risk youth how to navigate Excel spreadsheets paid about as well as one would expect. “We have to buy tickets?”

The museum worker put her finger to her coral-colored lips. They matched the beads at her neck. “I won’t tell. As long as you’re just here to speak with him.”

Salem beamed with gratitude and continued through the glass doors. The Target Galleries were quieter than the rest of Mia and crowded for a Monday morning.

“You think he’ll help us?” Bel asked, her voice pitched low.

“I think he will if he can.”

They hurried across the herringbone parquet floor, their footsteps muffled. Salem scoured the room for Dr. Keller, her attention drawn to the sculptures displayed in the center. According to the sign outside the gallery, every piece of art in the exhibit had been created by a female artist. A breathtaking Sarah Bernhardt marble sculpture of a grandmother holding the dying body of her grandson dominated the center of the room. Display blocks were arranged around the sculpture to
create a movement path. The cubes held ornate silver urns crafted by Hester Bateman and an exquisite silver tea caddy designed by Elizabeth Godfrey in the 1700s, and under glass, an oval tobacco box silversmithed by Elisabeth Haselwood in the 1600s.

Salem was drawn toward the paintings decorating the walls, most especially the Maria Sibylla Merian plates. Her dad was the one who’d introduced her to Merian’s botany-based sketches, first created after Merian traveled with her daughter to Suriname in 1699. They were grotesquely, grandly beautiful in their realism. The blending of periods and styles created a gorgeous visual cacophony inside the gallery.

“Salem?” Across the room, a short, trim man in his fifties separated himself from a group of patrons and made his way to Bel and Salem. “How are you?”

“Good, Dr. Keller.” The lie was automatic. She held out her hand, and he clasped it briefly. “This is my friend Bel.” They also shook hands.

And then Salem was at a loss.

She pushed her hair behind her ears and frowned, grasping for a way to explain what they needed. My mom and her best friend have disappeared, and Mom left instructions for me to talk with you about revenge, and I have no idea what it means so me and my friend bundled ourselves into a car and drove straight here, and can you tell me who my mother really is because I am beginning to wonder if I knew her at all. It sounded ridiculous any way she parsed it, even if Dr. Keller didn’t intimidate her.

He tossed a sentence into the awkwardness. “You’re here to see the exhibit?”

Salem shook her head vigorously. “Um, no. At least I don’t think so. I’m wondering if you know anything about this.” She shoved her hand into her coat pocket, yanked out the note, and held it toward Dr. Keller, realizing too late that her scribbles would be indecipherable to him.

“Sorry.” She jerked the note back. Was Dr. Keller looking at her strangely? “It’s a note from my mom.” She held it up. “I’m afraid it’s a bit cryptic. I’m wondering if you can help us figure out what it means?”

He barked out a short laugh and glanced incredulously from Salem to Bel. “You want me to translate a note from your mother? Is this a parlor game? Can’t you ask her yourself?”

“I’m afraid not, Dr. Keller.” Bel used her official-police-interview voice. There was no broaching it. “We really need your help. Now.” She shot Salem an encouraging glance, cuing her to share the contents of the note.

Salem nodded, grateful that Bel was taking charge. She’d memorized the translated message, but it was still a challenge to get it past the cotton of her tongue. “The note says ‘talk to Keller about revenge.’ Any idea what it means?”

All around them, art patrons murmured respectfully, appreciating centuries-old art.

Security guards discreetly patrolled the perimeters.

Dr. Keller didn’t immediately answer. Salem couldn’t read his expression. He appeared to be annoyed, but maybe he was trying not to laugh? Or, more likely, he was considering the safest route to a phone so he could call the nearest mental institution to haul her and Bel away.

Turns out it was none of these.

Dr. Keller stepped aside so the women had a clear view of the wall immediately behind him. A proud smile bloomed on his face, and he held up his hands, Vanna White style. “I’d like to introduce you to the greatest representation of revenge ever painted.”