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Kat’s mind was still whirling when she left Fireside Gallery. She had been hoping her visit would help her gain some insight into who might have killed Nikita, but she hadn’t expected to leave with the gallery owner herself added to the suspect list.
“Hey, watch it, lady.”
Kat stopped short. She had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t seen the thirtyish man until she’d almost walked into him. With wild wisps of black hair and the edge of a tattoo visible above his coat collar, he was standing on the sidewalk, his arms stretched around a bulky canvas the size of a bureau as he dragged it out of the rear door of a red Toyota Highlander. At least, Kat assumed it was a canvas. It was wrapped up tight in generic, brown paper.
“Sorry,” she said, stepping out of the way.
“You mind getting that door for me?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the gallery.
“Oh, sure.”
Kat backtracked and held the door open while he wrestled with locking up his SUV without losing his hold on the canvas. She was impressed he managed the maneuver without much hassle.
“Are you an artist?” she asked when he got close enough.
“Yeah. You a collector?”
She shook her head. “I’m not really into art.”
He sniffed. “Yeah, well, a lot of the garbage you see in here isn’t real art.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s commercialized. Some of these so-called artists, all they make are mass-produced, cookie-cutter pieces you can find anywhere.”
Kat wondered if he was referring to the room full of nudes.
“If you want to see real art, check out my stuff.” The man hefted the canvas in his arms. “This here, this is one of my most emotional creations yet. You wanna see it?”
“That’s okay,” Kat said. “I should be getting home.”
“You’ve got a second for this,” the man said. “Close that door. Once I show you what I’ve got here, you won’t want to look away. It’s brilliant.” Without giving her time to argue, he balanced the bottom of the canvas on his thigh and ripped the paper away, revealing an angry jumble of reds and blues and yellows.
“Oh,” Kat said, the door handle slipping out of her hand.
“It really captures your eye, huh?” The man twisted his head around to get a better look at the painting, a smile erupting on his face. “Believe it or not, I finished this all in one session.”
Kat could believe it. It looked similar to what she imagined Matty and Tom might come up with if she ever poured some finger paint on the floor and set them loose.
“When I woke up last night, inspiration grabbed me by the throat and forced this out of me,” he went on. “It was like my muse had total control of my body. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t pump blood through my arteries, until I captured this. This is what I was put on this earth to create.”
Kat racked her brain for something positive to say about the mess before her. It was clear this man thought his painting was some kind of masterpiece, and the longer they stood here the more likely it would be that he would ask for her opinion.
“The primary colors are symbolic of our primal struggle in this world,” he said. “You’ve got blue, representative of water and sky, the elements surrounding us. Then there’s red, the color of blood and fire. That’s our life force, our passion, leaving a trail wherever we go.”
“And the yellow?” Kat asked. Maybe if she did all the questioning he wouldn’t think to ask her anything.
“Ah, yellow. The color of light, and inspiration, and jaundice.”
“Jaundice?” Kat repeated.
He nodded. “You ever seen anybody with jaundice?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“This,” he enunciated as he jabbed his finger at the painting, “this captures its essence.”
“I see.”
“So.” The man straightened, his eyes meeting Kat’s. “How much will you give me for it?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The painting. You’re obviously smitten. I’ll give you a discount if you buy it right now, before it goes on display. Then we can limit this transaction to the two of us, cut out the middleman and his never-ending need to steal a portion of the working man’s profits.”
“Um, I’m not really looking to buy anything at the moment.”
“Sure you are. You were just in here.” He angled his head toward the gallery. “You were looking for something, you just didn’t find it—until you ran into me.”
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Kat said. “I was inside on behalf of Furry Friends—”
“Six thousand,” he interrupted. “You give me six Gs, and it’s all yours.”
Kat gaped at him. He thought that wreck was worth six thousand dollars? He was obviously delusional.
“All right, five,” he said. “You drive a hard bargain, but you have an honest face. Five grand and you can have your very own Nolan Calabresi.”
Her breath caught. This was Nolan Calabresi? She looked at the painting again, wondering why she hadn’t figured that out sooner. Now that she was searching for it, she could see the similarities between this painting, the one in Lady Fairchild’s guest room, and the piece titled My Life that she’d found online.
Nolan stamped his foot on the sidewalk. “Take a close look at this. See these lines, the colors, the composition? You aren’t going to find anything else like this. Five grand is a steal.”
“I need some time to think about it.” She had no intention of doing anything of the sort, but she didn’t want him to walk away before she could find out what his relationship with Nikita Stoll had been like.
“Okay, okay, four point five. It’s worth at least twice that, but, hey, if we can strike a deal right here, right now, I’ll let you rob me.”
“I don’t know, that’s still a lot of money.” Kat let a slight pause elapse. “Although, it is much cheaper than the paintings I looked at by Nikita Stoll.”
Nolan sucked air through his teeth. “Nikita Stoll?”
“The artist who died Thurs—”
“I know who Nikita is,” Nolan snapped. “She’s a hack. She knew nothing about art.”
Kat stepped back, startled by his venom.
“Her works were all blooming flowers, chirping birds, happy trees.” He scowled. “That’s not what real life is about. Real life is about struggle, and darkness, and facing our own mortality.”
“Well, her art seems to be in high demand,” Kat said. “Several of her paintings sold for an awful lot of money, according to Shannon.”
“Shannon.” Nolan shook his head. “There’s another yuppie with no appreciation for real art.”
“Aren’t you here to show your work in her gallery?”
“Yes, I’m forced to display my creations alongside all the hacks because I have no other means to connect with true aficionados,” Nolan said, a bite in his tone. “I have rent due, bills to pay, expenses that keep going up, up, up, just like all the other drudges held hostage in this so-called free world. But I refuse to respect Shannon merely because she steals half my profits in exchange for some space on a wall. She’s a know-nothing, an impostor.”
“She sounded like she knew what she was talking about,” Kat said, remembering her tour of the gallery.
“Those who cannot do, talk. Shannon is merely a liaison between us and the public, an essential evil.”
“You don’t sound happy about that,” Kat commented. “Isn’t she doing you a favor by providing space to showcase your work?”
“A favor?” He scoffed. “What favor would that be? Feeding like a leech off of my blood, sweat, and tears? But how else can my work find its way to those who will truly appreciate it? This society has me handcuffed, trapped at the bottom of a hierarchy that ensures the do-nothings have the means to earn money for their talent-less selves. So, yes, I make deals with the devil because I have no other options.”
“That’s a pretty bleak outlook.”
“It is a bleak world.” He firmed his grip on the painting. “Now, if you’ll get that door, it’s time to put another piece of my soul on display for the ingrates to gawk at.”
Kat didn’t say anything as she held the door open. But watching Nolan stomp into the gallery, lugging his masterpiece along with him, she had no trouble picturing him running down a woman as she stood helplessly in his path.
