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Zoe Peterson’s designer heels clicked on the parquetry flooring of her Surry Hills gallery as she prepared to lock up for the night. It had been a successful evening. She’d received several offers for one painting in particular. It was simply entitled, My Laura. The beautiful young woman in the painting had intrigued many.
One man had stood staring at it for, what seemed like, hours. That was one reason she’d noticed him: he’d barely glanced at the rest of the exhibition. The second reason was the fact he was also tall and attractive in a dishevelled kind of way. His mussed brown hair set off his ice-blue eyes, and he hadn’t shaved in days, whether through laziness or an attempt to grow a beard, she couldn’t tell. Then he’d abruptly left, without making an offer.
She shrugged, dismissed him from her thoughts, and continued to lock up. Zoe did a final patrol of the gallery before strolling past the other prize nominees to the portrait that had everyone talking.
The unknown artist had been a popular choice for the coveted prize. For the first time in years, the entire committee had voted unanimously. All had agreed the technical skill and the detailed approach to the subject was unsurpassed.
‘Definitely should be entered in the Archibald Prize,’ one of them had said.
She couldn’t agree more.
Beneath the recessed floodlight, dark auburn hair, luminous porcelain complexion and unusual lavender eyes stared back at her. Who was she, this girl in the painting? The artist’s lover perhaps? She wouldn’t be surprised. If only they could find him, it would be the first thing she’d ask.
She craned her neck to view his signature in the bottom right of the painting—John Phillip Reynold. Why hadn’t she heard of him before? Her secretary had scoured the Internet searching for any other works by him. He didn’t have a website like most other artists. Mystery man.
David, her secretary and right-hand man, strode out from the office. ‘I officially give up. Our man doesn’t exist!’
‘Any response to the notice in the papers?’
He shook his head. ‘Not even a flea bite.’
‘That’s ridiculous! Nobody submits a portrait and then disappears.’ Frustration laced her voice as she turned and faced him.
David crossed his arms. ‘This guy did. I went everywhere online that was legal, and some that weren’t. Even checked the hospitals in case the guy had an accident. And before you ask, I rang the morgue. They’ve got no one by that name.’
She rubbed her temples. Artists! Why did they have to make life difficult? According to the contest rules, they couldn’t award the prize without the artist being present, and the official ceremony was only a few weeks away. Unless he showed up—and soon—first prize would go to the runner-up. Blasted shame.
‘Maybe it’s time we got the cops onto this.’
The front doorbell rang. She sighed. ‘Doesn’t the Closed sign mean anything anymore?’
‘It’s that bloke again, the one who keeps coming in here and staring at the portrait.’ David nudged her.
Sure enough, peering through the dark glass and holding up—what looked like an ID—stood the same tall, attractive man. ‘Open up. Police.’
The guy was a cop? Zoe’s gaze panned to David.
‘Don’t look at me. I didn’t call him.’
She hurried to the door, and cracked it open wide enough to examine his badge. ‘Anything the matter?’
‘Detective Inspector Matt Sommers. I need to ask you a few questions about one of your clients.’ Steely grey-blue eyes gazed back at her. He pocketed his ID, unfolded the newspaper that had been tucked under his arm and showed it to her. ‘The painter in your missing persons notice.’
Zoe recognised the advert she and David had just been speaking about. They had posted the first one a few months ago, doing a repeat, and final ad only yesterday. Her stomach gave a nasty little lurch as she worked through the reasons for the detective being here. There could only be one conclusion. ‘The guy’s dead, right? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
His lips thinned, and his gaze slid past her. David’s footsteps echoed on the polished floor as he joined her. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Somewhere we can talk?’
Her thoughts were a muddle as she ushered the detective into her office. Had his visits to the gallery been part of his investigation or something more? And probably more importantly, what to do with the painting if the artist really was dead? Then again, what could she or David tell the police? They’d never met the guy, only seen his photo, which he’d sent through with his application.
‘Tell me everything you know about him.’
‘Not much to tell. Never met him.’ She retrieved a folder from her desk and handed it to him. ‘All the paperwork’s in there. The painting was delivered via courier.’
The detective’s head bent over the mass of papers, his lips pulled taut as he stared at the artist’s photo. She was sure he’d suppressed a sneer.
‘Mind if I take these with me?’
‘Go ahead. Everything’s stored on here anyway.’ She waved toward her laptop.
He placed the papers back into the folder, tucked the newspaper in as well, closed it and stood. ‘Thanks. We’ll keep you updated.’
‘Something must’ve happened to him, right?’ David, ever ready for any juicy piece of gossip, smiled and leaned forward in his seat.
The detective’s eyes steeled. ‘As I said, we’ll keep you updated.’
‘Wasn’t he a mine of information,’ David said as Zoe returned from seeing the detective out.
‘Something’s going on for sure.’ She pivoted on her heel and strode back out into the dark gallery to stand in front of the painting of Laura.
‘Now what? Keep it up or take it down?’ David had followed her out.
Good question. There was nothing in the contest rules about withdrawing a deceased artist’s work. That is, if he was dead. But, what if the guy was just a crazy recluse?
She stared into the unusual lavender eyes of the mysterious girl in the portrait and wondered if she knew.
