Chapter 9

A good design guideline is to hang artwork sixty-two inches from the floor to the center of the piece.

That afternoon, Nita pulled up in her lime green VW bug for our ride to the Fischer College Arts Center. She was involved with the Louiston Arts Festival and had convinced me to help with the art intake. Aunt Kit had volunteered to come along.

When we approached the car, Aunt Kit insisted on squeezing her tall frame into the small backseat—too stubborn to let me sit back there. I’d hoped to get in first because I knew I’d later hear how the backseat caused her sciatica to flare up. There was no winning with Aunt Kit.

Nita looked perkier today. “How’d your meeting go with Josh? Is he going to rent us storage space?”

“He’s going to look around his buildings for a spot large enough to meet our needs. Also space we can lock to keep his customers from picking through our things looking for a bargain.”

Aunt Kit squirmed in her seat, trying to get comfortable. “Why do you need all that furniture?”

“We use it to stage houses that are unoccupied,” I said. “For an occupied home, we work with things the homeowner has—many times removing some furniture to make a place look bigger. But if the home is unoccupied, we furnish it to make it look lived in. Furnished homes sell faster than empty ones.”

As Nita and Aunt Kit chatted, my thoughts strayed back to Warren and his worries about being a suspect in the murder. I wondered how he was doing. Warren and I had been friends for years, and I couldn’t imagine him striking out at anybody in anger much less stab a man in cold blood. It just wasn’t consistent with his gentle nature, which was perfect for comforting the bereaved at his funeral home.

“You sound quite knowledgeable, Nita.” Aunt Kit’s words brought me back to the present. I could tell she was impressed and relieved I’d finally begun to build a team of helpers.

“Nita’s been taking online courses to obtain her staging certification. Having two certified home stagers will give us more creditability,” I said.

Aunt Kit grunted. She was still convinced I’d made a mistake leaving my well-paying job in IT to start a home staging business. She was also upset about our discovering a body at the funeral home. So was I, but it was hardly my fault. Nothing I’d said so far relieved her worries. As her only living relative, she worried about me far too much.

Nita pulled into the Arts Center parking lot, and after much back and forth maneuvering, she managed to park. Nita’s driving and parking abilities, or lack of, were her biggest challenges. I helped Aunt Kit pull herself from the backseat where she had been curled up like a pretzel. Once we alighted, we helped Nita unload her bags of gear and the framed photographs she was submitting to the festival and carried them into the center.

Nita had joined the arts group after she’d become serious about her photography. I was happy to see her more active and involved in things for herself and suffering less from empty nest syndrome. Being a part of the arts group inspired her to do more with her photography than just take photos of the houses we staged.

When we walked into the Arts Center, the place was bustling with activity. Aunt Kit wandered away and hopefully would stay out of trouble. She tended to direct people how to do their jobs. Once she’d told the bishop which priests he should assign to the various parishes in the diocese. The funny thing was the assignments nearly matched her recommendations. Pure coincidence?

Volunteers had already started to erect the wooden display boards the artwork would hang on. The boards created a maze throughout the large room. When the volunteers saw us, they bombarded Nita with questions about the body she’d found.

She assured everyone she didn’t have anything more to say other than she’d found the body, and that was it. Again it made me wonder who could have wanted to kill someone who hadn’t been in town in over twenty years.

“I remember Ian Becker,” a voice called from the back. “He was a nice kid. Occasionally got into trouble, but nothing serious—just enough to keep his aunt chasing after him.”

I glared at him and he must have gotten the message we didn’t want to hear anymore because he faded into the crowd.

When everyone returned to work, Nita assigned Mrs. Webster, another volunteer Nita had recruited, and me to direct the artists where to take their artwork and check off their names. It was an assignment we could handle that didn’t require any experience in dealing with the artwork. My only involvement with artwork was recognizing pieces I liked and selecting ones to use in homes we staged. As the pieces came in, I kept my eye out for any that would be a good addition to our inventory. Some of them were brilliant.

The pieces would be displayed in various categories and labeled with the name of the artist, the name of the piece, and a price for each.

Mrs. Webster’s eyebrows shot up. “Heaven sakes. Do you think anyone is going to pay these prices?”

“The artists set their own prices. From what Nita said, they have to be willing to sell the piece to enter. If they don’t want to sell it, they set the price high to discourage buyers. But that doesn’t always work. I understand one artist priced her piece for what she thought was an outrageous amount so it wouldn’t sell and was shocked when it sold.”

Later, Nita stopped at our table to see how we were doing. “Have they all checked in?”

Mrs. Webster nodded and handed her the check-off sheet. “Who is the juror for the show?” The juror would select first, second, and third places in each category as well as honorable mentions.

“Damian Reynolds,” Nita said. “He’s famous for his wild abstracts, and you see his artwork everywhere. He recently joined the faculty of Fischer College, either as an instructor or guest lecturer—I don’t know which. Great for the college, but people wondered why someone so famous would come to a small town like Louiston.”

“That is a bit surprising,” Mrs. Webster said.

“Anne Williamson still can’t believe she was able to convince him to serve as the juror.” Nita pointed to a short, stout woman with a head of tight gray curls, hanging paintings. “That’s Anne over there.”

Nita grimaced. “I tried to convince her to hang the art so the center of each piece is sixty-two inches from the floor, a decorating standard. But she insists the top of each piece is to be seventy inches from the floor, regardless of size. It makes the smaller pieces look funny. But she heads the organization and holds it together—almost singlehandedly—so I don’t make an issue of it.”

“Anne always likes doing things her way.” Mrs. Webster knew most of the people in town and their idiosyncrasies.

“She usually refuses help. And everyone is happy to let her do it so they don’t have to. Except for this festival.” Nita pointed to the gallery. “She couldn’t do all this on her own.”

Mrs. Webster sniffed. “You know what they say. People often don’t want anyone involved to cover up their mishandling of the funds.”

Nita laughed. “Believe me, Mrs. Webster, there isn’t much money to mishandle. And from what I understand, there never has been. Besides, Anne is a very talented artist and her work sells for lots of money. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

As we approached, Anne Williamson hoisted a large framed piece and started to hang it on a display board. Aunt Kit came over to join us.

I rushed over to the older woman. “Here, let me help you with that.”

“Don’t you worry, dear, I’ve got it.” With that, she dropped the frame into place and slapped her hands together to remove any dust that dared cling to the frame. “I’m stronger than I look.”

When the others approached, Nita made the introductions. Anne beamed at our compliments about the artwork that was beginning to surround us. Her pride in the work of her members was obvious.

“We’re very fortunate to have talented artists here in Louiston. We’re especially happy that Nita joined us. Nita, you’ll have to take your friends over and show them your photographs. They’ve all been hung. Now if you’ll please excuse me, we have an artist who is unhappy with where his work was hung, and I have to go deal with it.”

We said our farewells to Anne and followed Nita to the photography area. The variety of images was amazing, but it was Nita’s two photos of Inky that immediately drew my attention.

“Nita, they’re wonderful.” My friend didn’t realize how talented she was. The photos she had taken of my cat were truly imaginative. How she was able to get him to pose with such interesting expressions, I’d never know. He wouldn’t have done that for me.

Not comfortable with the attention she was receiving, Nita blushed and pointed to another area. “Come on, let me show you around. Most of the works are up now, so you’ll get to see the exhibit before anyone else does.”

“Maybe I’ll find some pieces we can add to our staging inventory.” I thought the original works were fabulous, but seeing the prices made me realize that for now, I would have to stick to shopping at resale shops or garage sales for artwork.

When we walked into the room containing the two-dimensional pieces, a large painting of a woman dressed in shades of black, purple, and lavender immediately caught our attention. It was dramatic and breathtaking.

“That’s Anne’s submission,” Nita said. “Stunning isn’t it?” That was an understatement.

Mrs. Webster whistled at the price. “Did she set it that high to discourage buyers?”

“No. That’s what her artwork sells for. You see why we don’t have to worry about her mishandling our little treasury.”

“You could buy a small car with that kind of money,” Mrs. Webster said.

Aunt Kit, who was really into art, stood looking at the piece. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t sell for even more than that if two or more people start bidding on it. I need to get to know Anne Williamson better.” With that, she left us in search of her.

I looked up to see Tyrone weaving his way around the art boards. Mrs. Webster had said he’d be arriving soon to give her a ride home.

“Laura. Glad you’re still here. I just came from Vocaro’s. Word is out the police are questioning Warren again.” Uh, oh. Would Nita be next?