Sharp Edges (14 page)

"Remember what I said," Cyrus murmured behind her. "Take a look at some of the other paintings before you ask about the one you think Nellie Grant did."

"How hard can this private eye stuff be? None of the detectives in any of the mystery novels I've read seem overly bright. They just stumble around until they trip over a clue."

"At this rate, I'm not going to have any ego left by the end of this job."

"Something tells me you'll survive." She jerked off her sunglasses as she swept through the door.

There were three other people inside the small gallery. They were busily examining an array of bland watercolors that featured morose-looking seagulls perched on top of chunks of gnarled driftwood.

Eugenia did not see anyone behind the counter. A black curtain concealed the opening to the back room. Someone was moving behind it.

Cyrus took a look around and then sauntered over to a framed picture of storm-tossed surf and leaden skies. He examined it without removing his dark glasses.

"What do you think about this one, sweetheart?" he asked. "Don't you think it would look great over my fireplace?"

Eugenia ground her teeth at the
sweetheart
, but she made herself join him in front of the picture. "I don't think so. You don't really want that seascape in your living room."

"What's wrong with this picture?"

Good question
, Eugenia thought grimly.
A lot of things if we're talking about the picture that includes you and me. Dear God, what if I am sexually obsessed with this man?

She had never been obsessed with any man. She liked men and she enjoyed their company. But she had always kept a certain distance between herself and the male of the species, even on those rare occasions when she had gotten romantically involved with one.

A therapist would no doubt say that she was afraid to trust a man because her father had proved weak and self-centered, she thought. And maybe the therapist would be right.

She only knew that it was important to keep a safe distance. Deep down she wanted to avoid the risk of trusting someone who ultimately could not be trusted. She wanted to stay far enough away to ensure that she would not be hurt and disappointed when she discovered the inevitable weakness beneath the surface. Far enough away to keep her heart out of the danger zone.

Far enough away to be certain that she was always in control.

She told herself not to panic. What she had experienced out there in the Jeep was nothing more than the explosive results of a volatile mix of long-suppressed sexual energy, adrenaline, and anger. A heady brew when one was unprepared, but she was back in command of herself now. It would not happen again.

She concentrated on the seascape Cyrus was admiring. "There is nothing wrong with that picture. It's just that I don't think you'd enjoy it for long. It's insipid. After a while you'll get bored with it."

"Insipid? I thought it was kind of colorful. And it's just the right size for the mantel."

He was deliberately taunting her now, she thought. She wondered just how obnoxious he was going to be. "It has a superficial decorative quality, but it's flat. Like wallpaper."

"Wallpaper, huh?" Cyrus's sunglasses gleamed as he tilted his head slightly to get another view of the seascape. "You know what I think, honey?"

She forced a frozen smile. "No, darling. I haven't got a clue."

"I think that your ability to appreciate nice pictures like this one has been ruined by the influence of post-modernism."

She gazed blankly at him. "Huh?"

Cyrus fitted his hands to his hips. "The insecurities imposed on the artistic establishment by twentieth-century minimalism and the modernists were bad enough. But now we're dealing with a whole generation of art critics and curators whose sensibilities have been savaged by the confusion of post-modernism."

Eugenia glanced uneasily around, aware that everyone in the shop was listening. "Uh, Cyrus—"

"It's created a quagmire, that's what it's done. Until the art world finds a way to redefine the condition of contemporary art, no one can move forward. Oh, sure, people like to talk about post-postmodernism, but give me a break. That's a meaningless concept. Nothing but static…"

Eugenia considered how he would look with the frame of the seascape around his shoulders. "Speaking of meaningless static…"

The curtain behind the counter shifted. "That's an interesting observation you just made on post-postmodernism." A tall, fine-boned woman in her early forties stepped out of the back room.

She had sharp features and eyes that were an unusual shade of blue. Fine lines radiated out from the corners. Her curly, auburn hair was strikingly streaked with silver. She wore it in a long, cascading fall anchored with a large clip at the back of her head. The folds of an exotically patterned caftan flowed around her. Heavy earrings fashioned of metal and semiprecious stones hung from her ears. They matched a broad necklace.

She smiled at Cyrus. "The problem of self-definition is always a complicated one, isn't it?"

Cyrus looked pleased. "You can say that again."

Eugenia drummed her fingers on a nearby frame. "My friend, here, has recently decided to take an interest in art."

The auburn-haired woman gave Cyrus a frankly appraising look as she moved around the end of the counter. Then she smiled at Eugenia. "Glad to hear it. Wish more people would. It would be good for business. I'm Fenella Weeks, by the way. I own this gallery."

"I'm Eugenia Swift. This is Cyrus Colfax."

"Pleased to meet you." She raised her brows. "You're the couple who are staying out at Glass House, aren't you? The ones who found Leonard Hastings last night?"

"That's right," Cyrus said. "News travels fast around here."

Fenella laughed. "You'd better believe it."

"Did you know Hastings?" Cyrus asked.

"Not well. I'm new on the island. I moved here and opened the gallery a few months ago. Leonard never came in. I don't think he was interested in art." She looked at Eugenia. "You're with the Leabrook, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"We have a couple of glass artists on the island. Unfortunately, I don't have any of their pieces in the gallery at the moment. But I'm expecting to get something from Jacob Houston in a day or two. You might want to take a look at his work. Rather special."

"I'll look forward to it," Eugenia said politely.

Fenella sighed. "It's so important for an artist to catch the attention of the right curators, dealers, and collectors. I do my best to get the local artists some exposure, but it's impossible for a small, out-of-the-way gallery like this one to exert any real influence."

Eugenia gave her a commiserating smile "I understand."

The facts of life in the art world were harsh. The value of a piece of contemporary art was established by the complex interplay of collectors, dealers, and museums. The right exposure meant everything. An artist's career depended entirely on getting his or her work into the most prestigious galleries and on having that work purchased by the most important collectors and museums.

Eugenia was well aware that the situation was especially difficult for glass artists. She found it endlessly frustrating to know that glass was still not accepted as a medium for high art in some circles.

Historically, those who worked in glass had been viewed as craftsmen, not artists. Their creations, no matter how exquisite, were considered examples of craftsmanship, not art, in many quarters. If she had her way, the Leabrook would help change that image.

Fenella turned to Cyrus. "Are you interested in that painting?"

He grimaced. "Guess not. But I still think it would look great over my fireplace. That wall needs something and it needs it bad."

Eugenia seized the opening. "If you're serious about a painting for your living room, why don't you take a look at the one in the window?"

Cyrus brightened. "The one with the whales and dolphins?"

She wondered if she should strangle him now or later. "No. The one with the old goblet and the mirrored-glass backdrop."

He looked dubious. "You really like that one?"

"Yes, I do," Eugenia said firmly. She glanced at Fenella. "A local artist?"

"That's right." Fenella's huge earrings chimed as she walked to the window display. "Her name is Rhonda Price. This is a new direction for her. Nice technique, don't you think? A wonderful sense of light and color. That bowl seems to glow."

"Rhonda Price?" Eugenia was stunned. She glanced at Cyrus, who merely raised his brows behind his shades. "Have you got anything else by her?"

"Not yet, but she promised to bring in another one soon." Fenella picked up the painting and turned it around so that Eugenia and Cyrus could examine it more closely. "I just put this one on display yesterday. The price is three hundred dollars."

"I'll take it." Eugenia saw Cyrus's mouth tighten slightly and knew that he was not pleased with her impulsiveness. She ignored him.

"I thought we were going to buy a picture for my living room, not yours," he said.

"Don't worry, we'll get you something with seagulls in it before our vacation is finished." Eugenia stared at the small signature in the bottom right corner of the painting. She was close enough to read it now. Rhonda Price.

But this was Nellie's work. She was certain of it.

"Do you want to see the next one Rhonda brings in?" Fenella asked as she carried the painting to the counter.

"Yes. Definitely." Eugenia followed her. "Any chance of meeting Rhonda Price?"

"Don't see why not." Fenella pulled a long sheet of brown paper off a roller and fitted it to the painting. "She took the ferry into Seattle yesterday. When she gets back, I'll tell her you'd like to meet her."

"Thank you." Eugenia opened her purse and took out her wallet. "I would appreciate it."

Cyrus strolled over to the counter. "Ask her if she ever does pictures of seagulls and waves."

Cyrus stood at the counter of the gleaming, high-tech kitchen and poured a glass of sauvignon blanc. "All right, out with it." He looked at the painting Eugenia had set up near the window. "You've been stewing since you bought the damn thing. What's going through your brain?"

"I know Nellie painted this picture."

He studied her as he carried the wineglass and a can of Pacific Express across the kitchen. The discovery of the painting in the Midnight Gallery had riveted her attention. He could feel the focused energy and intelligence pulsing through her as she studied the picture

"If you're right—" he said.

"I'm right."

He smiled faintly. "Then you've come up with what we in the detective business like to call a genuine lead. The next step is to talk to Rhonda Price."

"I hope she returns to the island soon. I've got a lot of questions for her. I have to know how she got hold of this painting and why her name is on it."

"If this Rhonda Price knew your friend well enough to try to pass her work off as her own, she may have been involved with Daventry, too," Cyrus said quietly. "In which case, I've got some questions of my own."

Eugenia glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

"I'm interested in anyone on this island who knew Daventry well."

"This is getting complicated."

"True. But as you pointed out to me only this afternoon, how hard could the detective business be? Even a guy like me can get a license."

She flushed. "I was annoyed."

"Yeah. I know. Don't worry about Rhonda Price. We'll find her. In the meantime, what do you say we take the drinks out onto the veranda? It's a nice evening. Weather report said there would be no rain until tonight."

She hesitated, obviously reluctant to leave the painting, even for a short while. Then she exhaled slowly. "Fine. I guess there's nothing I can do until tomorrow."

"Right." He led the way out through the French doors.

The late summer day was fading swiftly, victim of the thickly wooded hillside that rose behind the house. The looming trees cut off the last rays of the sun long before it actually set behind the Olympic Mountains. Standing on the veranda, Cyrus could hear the deep, cold waters of the Sound lapping at the base of the bluff.

He set Eugenia's glass down on a small table and settled into one of two chrome and white leather loungers. He leaned back, propped his feet on the railing, and took a swallow of his beer.

Without a word, Eugenia sat down beside him. She picked up her wine and took a sip.

Cyrus wondered what it would be like to be here on a real vacation with her, to know that she would sleep in his bed tonight.

"I suppose I should do some work in the glass vault tomorrow morning," Eugenia said after a while. "Tabitha will expect a complete inventory when I get back to Seattle."

"She doesn't know the real reason you volunteered to spend your vacation here at Glass House?"

"No." Eugenia leaned her head against the back of the lounger. "She's sure the authorities are right about Nellie's having been lost at sea. I think I'm the only person in the whole world who cares about what really happened to her."

"Nellie didn't have any family?"

"Not that I know of."

"What happened to her stuff?"

"Leonard Hastings packed it up and sent it to me." Eugenia hesitated. "I was going to give it to charity, but I couldn't bring myself to do it until I was sure about what had happened. I put it into storage for a while."

Cyrus felt a flicker of interest. "Any papers or letters that might tell us what was happening here at Glass House during the last few weeks?"

"No. Nellie didn't write letters. She didn't keep a journal or make notes. I couldn't find anything useful in her things. Believe me, I looked."

He considered that for a while. Then he took another swallow of beer. "I want to go through the files Daventry stored in that room that adjoins the vault. We can work together in the morning."

She cradled her wineglass in her hands. "I never thought I'd say this, Cyrus, but I'm glad you're here. Finding Hastings's body last night and knowing there was an intruder in the house was bad enough. Now there's this weird business with Nellie's painting. All in all, I'm getting a creepy feeling about this whole thing."