It had been four weeks since Alice’s last visit to the Susan Kellermann Gallery. This time, she headed directly to her destination. She no longer had the luxury of a woman who could pause to admire a building’s architectural details.
A man in white painter coveralls carried a ladder into the gallery, followed by an identically clad man hauling a bucket of paint and two rollers. She caught the door for their convenience, then began to step inside behind them.
“Yoo-hoo. Hello there. I’m sorry, but we’re closed. Come back Tuesday night. We’re getting a Jeremy West exhibit ready now. Great stuff.”
From the neck up, the woman at the back of the gallery resembled the gallery owner Alice had seen a handful of times: same tight black bun, same gaunt pale face, same burgundy-stained lips. But today Susan Kellermann wore a black T-shirt, baggy blue jeans, and clogs. The dichotomy between her head and body brought to mind Mr. Potato Head.
“I need to ask you a question about the Phillip Lipton opening.”
“I’m afraid I don’t represent Phillip any longer. I think he’s a free agent now, if you want to try to contact him directly.”
“I’m not buying art. I’m looking for one of your customers.”
Kellermann’s attention had turned to a five-foot-diameter ball of twine being manhandled by two of her workers. “Careful. There’s nothing holding that together but a few drops of epoxy. About six inches more in this direction.”
“Please, Miss Kellermann. It’s very important.”
She peered at Alice as if she were a black speck tainting a perfectly tidy white wall, but then something in Alice’s face got her attention. “Pull one string loose, and the two of you will roll that thing all the way back down to Dumbo yourselves, where I’ll allow West to wrap you inside it as performance art. Got it?”
“Ah, yes, that handsome devil from opening night. Rough around the edges, but very charming. Agreed to purchase Carnival One for a client.”
“He hired me for a gallery job, but now it looks like the entire thing was a con.” She didn’t mention the nagging fact that the man was dead. Hopefully Kellermann hadn’t heard enough about yesterday’s murder at a new downtown gallery to start making connections. “I need to track him down. Do you have his payment information? Maybe the address where the canvas was delivered?”
“If only I did. I’m afraid all I have is a name, a disconnected phone number, and one very pissed-off nonagenarian.”
“I take it the sale didn’t go through?”
“I wouldn’t usually mark a piece as sold without a deposit, but he was very persuasive. He said he was acquiring the canvas for a client. Usually, dealers pay up front and then I take the art back as a return if the client isn’t satisfied with the selection. Steven, however—”
“He told you his name was Steven?”
“Yes. Steven Henning.” It was the same name Drew had used with the property management agent in Hoboken. “He told me he was certain the client would defer to his selection but was absolutely headstrong against letting Steven pay for a piece without his first viewing it in person. Supposedly Steven was going to bring the client in the following day but wasn’t willing to risk the piece being sold in the interim, or the client would have his head for needlessly dragging him around the city. And it was all very mysterious: a wealthy man, a serious collector, like someone whose name I’d recognize if only Steven trusted me enough to share it. He made it sound like he was between a rock and a hard place with a very difficult client.”
The story sounded familiar. It was the same shtick he’d handed to Alice.
“Frankly,” Kellermann continued, “having spent several weeks trying to appease Phillip Lipton, I suppose I empathized a bit too much. The art market’s in the crapper right now, so sometimes you’ve got to bend over backward to make the sale. And, what can I say, I have a weakness for a man who looks like George Clooney.”
“But he didn’t return the following day with the mysterious, wealthy client.”
“Oh, no, he most certainly did not. When he hadn’t appeared by late afternoon, I called the number he’d given me. It was a takeout falafel stand, as far as I could make out through the broken English. No art dealers on premises,” she added with a wry smile. “Unfortunately, our talented Mr. Lipton was not particularly understanding. All artists have unrealistic expectations, but I think Phillip really expected this show to be a comeback that would set the art world afire. He was shocked we didn’t sell out at the opening. I, on the other hand, was happy to have sold two pieces in this market, but when I had to notify Phillip that the Carnival One sale had fallen through, he was apoplectic. That wife of his only encourages him. Consider me one more art dealer in that very talented but absolutely insane man’s long path of self-destruction. I have Steven Henning to thank for that. I suppose from that look on your face that I wasn’t the only one to fall for him, hook, line, and sinker?”