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Kat had made the other Furry Friends Foster Families board members a promise when she’d agreed to approach Fireside Gallery about 4F’s January fundraiser. That was what she kept telling herself anyway as she headed to the art gallery Saturday morning after finishing up her shopping at the Wenatchee malls.
But a small part of her couldn’t help but wonder what she might learn about Nikita Stoll while she was there.
The gallery occupied a single-story building located on one of Wenatchee’s main thoroughfares. Only street parking was available out front, but a yellow Corvette was pulling out of a spot just as Kat arrived. She grabbed it.
The first thing that struck her when she walked through the entrance was how bright and spacious the showing area was. Rather than being cluttered with furniture, the floor had been left open—probably to encourage potential buyers to keep walking as they took in the different items on display. In addition to the paintings and framed photographs hanging on the walls, several pedestals were spaced around the room, each supporting a single sculpture, pottery item, or other three-dimensional piece.
Kat heard the click of heels on hardwood floors seconds before she saw the tall redhead materialize from a side room. Dressed in a sleek black dress with her hair gathered in a stylish chignon, she looked as if she were on her way to a cocktail party.
The redhead halted next to Kat, a warm smile stretching out her ruby-red lips. “Welcome to Fireside Gallery. I’m Shannon Gottfried, the proprietor.”
“Kat Harper,” Kat said, shaking Shannon’s hand. “I believe Imogene Little called to let you know I would be stopping by today on behalf of Furry Friends Foster Families.”
“Ah, yes.” Shannon’s expression turned grim. “Imogene gave me the skinny on what happened to Nikita as well. Her death was a great loss to the art community. I’ve never met another human being with her talent.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Probably not as well as her fellow artists did. They’re quite a tight-knit community.”
“They are?”
“Well, sure. They’re always doing things together. In fact, the man who left here right before you arrived threw a party for the whole crew just the other night.” Shannon hung her head. “It was on Thursday night, actually, the night Nikita died. It’s a shame to think she might still be alive if she had attended.”
“Maybe she wasn’t invited,” Kat said.
“It was an open party. Anybody could have shown up, even those who aren’t particularly interested in art.”
“Huh.” Kat pondered over that. “So the artists don’t view each other as competition?”
“They’re more like colleagues than competitors,” Shannon said. “Most are eager to help each other out. And who better to understand the struggles that all artists face than another artist? By fostering a community spirit, everybody benefits.”
Kat supposed that made sense. Still, she thought Shannon might be sugarcoating the situation a little. “So you’re saying there isn’t any jealousy between some of the local artists?”
“Well, naturally, some friction is bound to exist. But for the most part, they tend to want to help each other out.”
Kat let her gaze stray as she thought about the best way to coerce Shannon into revealing the names of the people who might have envied Nikita’s success a little more than was healthy. But before she could figure out how to phrase the query, Shannon stepped back and held her arm out.
“Would you like to see some of the pieces we currently have on display?” she asked.
“Oh, sure.” Since Kat was here for a favor, it seemed prudent to humor Shannon a little.
Shannon led Kat around the gallery, stopping to provide some background on each piece. Kat nodded at the appropriate intervals, doing her best to appear as though she could see more than colors on a canvas.
After forty minutes, they finally reached the spot where they’d started.
“That’s it out here,” Shannon said.
Kat blew out a breath, grateful that was over. Looking at art was not one of her favorite pastimes.
Shannon headed for the entryway she had first emerged from. “Now I’ll show you the back room, where we keep some of our more evocative pieces.”
Kat hoped Shannon didn’t hear her sigh.
Kat followed Shannon only to stop dead in her tracks as soon as they rounded the corner. The sculpture given the prime display space in the center of the room was that of a naked man, his head held high and his arms folded across his chest as he stared intently off into the distance. Kat couldn’t help but wonder if he was supposed to be looking for his clothes.
“Striking, isn’t it?” Shannon said. “That particular piece isn’t for sale, but we do have some of the artist’s other work available. Would you like to see those?”
“Er,” Kat stammered, “it’s not really my style.”
A blip of disappointment passed over Shannon’s face before her smile returned. “Very well, then. Perhaps you would be interested in something else.” She strolled toward the far wall and held her hand up to one of the photographs. “What about this?”
Kat’s cheeks flamed when she saw the black-and-white photo was of a woman with nothing covering her private areas except for her crossed arms and strategically arranged hands.
Shannon squinted at Kat. “I take it nudes aren’t your thing.”
Kat imagined she had to be as red as a radish. “No, not really.”
“Very well, then.” Shannon dragged her gaze around the room as though in search of something more modest.
Kat figured she’d better steer this conversation back to Nikita before the gallery owner found her something else to look at. “Shannon,” she began, pretending to scan the room, “Nikita Stoll didn’t happen to create any of the works in here, did she?”
Shannon shook her head. “Nikita preferred to focus her energy on nature paintings.”
Kat nodded, relaxing a little. She had half feared her question would be answered in the affirmative.
“I can show you some of her work, but I’m afraid none of it is for sale,” Shannon said.
“Because of her death?” Kat guessed.
“Because we sold out this afternoon,” Shannon corrected.
“Sold out?”
“Once word of her passing made its way around, we had people scrambling to snatch up her paintings. I’ll tell you, some collectors were offering double the asking price. Nobody wanted to be left out.”
Kat frowned. “That’s pretty morbid, isn’t it?”
“Not at all.” Shannon didn’t seem the least bit ruffled by the urgency to buy up a dead woman’s artwork. “You have to understand, Nikita’s demise means she can no longer produce. There will never be another Nikita Stoll created for all of eternity.”
“So her dying actually made her artwork more valuable,” Kat mused.
“Yes.” Shannon wrung her hands together. “Of course, I’m not saying her death wasn’t a terrible tragedy. I’ll miss Nikita as much as anyone. But from a business standpoint, well, I can’t deny the effect her car accident had on the value of her paintings.”
“How much are her paintings worth now?” Kat asked.
“Some of her work went for mid to upper five figures.”
Kat’s jaw almost hit the floor. “And that’s all because she died?”
“It’s a matter of supply and demand. The supply has been cut off, therefore the value of her art goes up.”
“And you benefit from this?”
Shannon frowned. “Well, my gallery works on commission, so we only receive a portion of that.”
“How much is your commission?”
Shannon shifted her weight between her feet. “Fifty percent.”
“Fifty percent?” Kat arched an eyebrow. “You mean half of the artists’ profits go to you?”
“You have to understand, it costs a lot of money to maintain a gallery. And our rate isn’t anything unusual. Fifty percent is quite standard for this industry.”
“So how much did Fireside make this week just off of the sales of Nikita’s work?”
Shannon fingered her hair. “I have yet to tally up the numbers. The sales aren’t technically final until the money changes hands and the artwork is shipped.”
“How long does that take?”
“There’s no set timeline.” Shannon was looking more flustered by the minute. Several tendrils of her hair had slipped out of the perfect do behind her head and were now sticking to her forehead. “And our cut really only covers the cost of keeping the gallery operating.”
“I see.” That was true enough. Kat saw a big motive for murder looming in front of her.
Shannon cleared her throat. “Naturally, if Nikita were still alive we would expect to make a lot more money.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, she would still be around to produce. We would have more items to sell, and therefore we could expect to see a steady stream of income for as long as she was alive.”
“How much did her work sell for before this week?” Kat asked.
Shannon shrugged. “It varied.”
Kat interpreted that to mean nowhere near five figures.
But Shannon did make a good point. A gallery wouldn’t last long if it made a habit of killing the artists whose works they displayed.
Still, could the prospect of a quick infusion of cash have been enough of an incentive for Shannon to murder Nikita? Her death had been a huge financial boon for Fireside Gallery, enough that Shannon wouldn’t need to worry about operating expenses for a long, long time.
Kat inspected her surroundings. Although the gallery didn’t look as though it were hurting, she knew looks could be deceiving.
Her gaze shifted to Shannon, and her gut stirred. For that matter, could Shannon’s form-fitting dress and flawless makeup be concealing a cold-blooded killer? It was a question bound to haunt her until Nikita’s murderer was finally behind bars.
