Chapter 27
I cruised Falmouth’s main drag until I spied the art gallery. A curb parking spot was available, but I hated to leave Miss M on the street. I found a spot at the edge of the municipal lot around the corner instead.
I’d been able to get out of Mac’s Bikes before five, glad I could squeeze in a potential spot of investigation before swinging through the large supermarket here to pick up my supplies for dinner.
A sandwich board on the sidewalk in front of LeGuin Fine Art advertised the Byrne watercolor exhibit with an opening reception tonight at seven. I paused. Maybe I should skip this drop-in visit and come back tonight after dinner.
No. The artist would be busy schmoozing with attendees during the event. And I often didn’t want to go out again in the evening after I was comfortable at home with my sweetie. I stepped through the open doorway.
They weren’t kidding about fine art. The white walls were lined with tastefully framed paintings of all kinds, from abstract to seascapes to portraits. The entire right half, though, featured watercolors all labeled to be by Hal Byrne, with the display stretching into a room beyond.
I moved along the wall, gazing at each piece of art. From what I’d seen last night on the internet, my impression of evocative paintings was magnified in person. The man had a gift for capturing the atmosphere of Cape Cod, but it was more than that. The waving dune grasses, the dark clouds shading the ocean, the skiff stranded on a desolate stretch of sand—all were imbued with emotion.
Stepping into the room at the back where the art continued, I came across a man separating a stack of plastic wineglasses and setting them on a table. He peered through his half glasses, concentrating on the task. I shuffled my feet so I didn’t startle him.
He straightened and turned. “Pardon me, ma’am. I didn’t see you.” The soft-looking skin of his face was wrinkled and ruddy. Smile lines crinkled around blue-green eyes that reflected the color of the ocean on a cloudless day. His work pants were dotted with spots of paint, and his T-shirt was a faded pink.
“Not a problem. I was just looking at the paintings. They’re lovely.”
He inclined his head.
“I’m afraid I don’t know the language to talk about art, but these make me feel things.” I shrugged. “In a good way.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He ran a hand through thinning white hair in an absent-minded gesture.
“You must be the artist.”
“I am.” He extended his hand. “Hal Byrne.”
“Mac Almeida. I’m honored to meet you.” I swallowed, suddenly less eager to turn the conversation with this seemingly gentle man to a darker topic. But that was what I was here for. “I had a high school teacher at Westham High School named Mr. Byrne. Are you related?”
The light went out of his expression. “Bruce. My brother. He was murdered this week.”
“Yes, I heard. I am so sorry for your loss, Hal.”
“Thank you, Mac.” He squared his shoulders. “We were about as different as two brothers can be.”
I nodded but didn’t speak, hoping he’d go on.
“I try to live without regrets, but I hadn’t seen Bruce in three years. I deeply regret that now.”
“Please accept my sympathy.”
He gazed at me over the top of his glasses and gave a wistful smile. “We had a tough upbringing. I chose moving on and joy. He chose wallowing and bitterness. It was hard for us to find a middle ground. And now we never will.”
“Harold, time’s getting short.” A tall woman in flowing purple pants and a long linen top hurried in from an interior door. The gray knot of hair on top of her head made her look like Katharine Hepburn. “Pardon me. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“That’s all right, darling,” Hal said. “Mac, this is Malvina LeGuin, owner of this fine gallery and my sainted wife. Mal, meet Mac Almeida. She knew Bruce.”
Malvina blinked behind half glasses that matched her husband’s.
“Happy to meet you, ma’am,” I said. “And you, too, Hal. I need to run. I’m sure you have a lot to do to get ready for your reception.”
“Like someone changing his clothes, for example?” Malvina pointed at the paint-spattered pants.
He gave her a sheepish smile.
“I’ll be back, with a closer eye to buying a painting,” I added.
“Thank you,” Hal said. “I appreciate that.”
I moved to go but turned back. “May I ask, are you planning a service of any kind for Bruce?”
Hal shook his head and flipped his palms open. “Who would come? All he had left were enemies.”