Chapter 18
Penelope
The wig was surprisingly comfortable, but walking without my glasses was not.
I kept my hand tucked in Theo’s arm as he led me up the sidewalk toward the gallery. It wasn’t far from the salon, but my fuzzy vision made it hard to tell exactly where we were. Plus, I was still reeling from this slick, sophisticated version of Theo Haven.
And from him calling me hot.
I was not a hot girl. Sean had called me things like pretty or cute—in the beginning, at least, until the compliments gradually fizzled out. But never hot.
It was probably just the blond wig. And lack of glasses. I felt a little bit like a girl in an eighties movie who gets her braces off and starts wearing contacts, and suddenly she’s the hottest girl in town.
Not that I was actually the hottest girl in town.
I needed to get my head together before we got to the gallery. I wasn’t dressed up to look like a hot girl. We were looking for clues to a crime.
We got to the gallery and fortunately, it was open. It seemed like Theo had thought his plan through, so he’d probably checked to make sure we’d be able to get in.
He opened the door. “Watch your step there.”
“Thanks.”
My sight wasn’t so bad that I was unable to see anything without my glasses. But unless something was right in front of me, it was fuzzy and indistinct. It made it hard to separate smaller objects from larger ones, and almost impossible to make out faces.
“Hello, welcome,” a female voice said.
I could see the outline of a person, but other than the vague sense that she was wearing blue, I couldn’t make out much about the gallery assistant. And I had no idea if she was someone I’d seen before.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Shepherd Calloway,” Theo said and held out his hand. She shook it. “This is my wife, Everly.”
“Hi.” A tingle of nervousness swept through me, and I stuck my hand out a little too aggressively. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you as well.” She took my hand and shook. “I’m Tina. Is there anything I can help you with, or did you just wander in?”
“We heard about the unfortunate passing of Mr. Morris,” Theo said.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I added.
“Thank you,” Tina said. “Yes, it was quite a shock.”
“My wife and I enjoy his work,” Theo continued. “We thought we’d come and take a look at his gallery in person.”
Every time Theo said my wife, my spine tingled.
“That’s wonderful,” Tina said. “Please, allow me to show you around the gallery.”
We didn’t want a gallery tour, but maybe once she showed us the highlights, we could find a way to be alone.
“That would be great,” Theo said. “Thank you.”
It was the perfect excuse to put on my glasses. I let go of Theo’s arm and started fishing in my purse for them. Where had they gone? They should have been right on top. I’d just put them in there.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
Theo deftly took the purse out of my hands, and a second later, he carefully slipped my glasses on my face. The first thing that came into view was his smile, dimples and everything.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He winked at me and my knees did not almost buckle. Okay, yes, they did.
I took my purse and put the strap over my shoulder, grateful that I could finally see clearly.
The gallery still looked fairly empty, as if they were only gradually putting back the displays after the celebration of life.
There were a few easels with paintings on them, but not as many as I remembered from times I’d been there before.
“I’m afraid you’ve come when quite a bit of Edwin’s work is not being displayed,” Tina said. “But I’d love to show you what we do have on display today.”
We followed her toward the side wall where several paintings were hung, lit by gallery lighting. I wanted to tuck my hand in Theo’s arm again, but I didn’t.
“As you can see, Edwin is primarily known for his landscapes. These depict scenery familiar to the Cascade mountains.”
“Are they real locations?” Theo asked.
“That’s an excellent question, and I’d say it depends,” Tina answered. “Some are specific locations. Others are more general. Amalgams of different places he painted from memory.”
We took slow steps around the gallery while she shared more details.
I was already familiar with his style, so it wasn’t new information for me.
He’d painted with both oils and acrylics, depending on his mood.
He’d experimented with other mediums, such as charcoal, but had always returned to paint.
He was known for his use of color and texture.
She led us to the loft, the scene of his son Michael’s drunken drama. Without the small knots of people standing around, it was spacious and empty. Theo asked a few questions as she pointed out more of Edwin’s work, as well as the works of a few other painters they had on display.
His paintings were beautiful, but I was getting anxious. Was Tina going to leave us alone? We only needed a few minutes—there weren’t that many paintings to check.
One beach scene caught my eye. For some reason, I had a feeling about it. Maybe because it was one of several that weren’t set in the mountains. Or maybe it was the moody sky, so similar to the creek painting I’d received.
I wanted a moment to check the frame.
Finally, the door downstairs opened, and someone came in.
“If you’ll please excuse me,” Tina said.
Theo gestured to the stairs. “Be our guest. My wife and I appreciate your time.”
There he went with that my wife thing again. It gave me a very uncomfortable mix of feelings.
My heart started to beat harder as Tina walked down the open staircase.
That’s it. Keep going. We’re not doing anything up here. Just admiring the art.
When we heard her greet the person who came in, we sprang into action. I pointed to the ocean painting and Theo nodded. He took the one next to it—a typical Morris piece featuring a meadow dotted with wildflowers.
He’d seemed to like wildflowers. He’d painted a lot of them.
With my heart beating wildly, I gently removed the painting from the wall and checked the back. Nothing. I ran my fingers along the edges of the frame, but there was no sign of a note tucked inside. If he’d left one, it didn’t have the edge of the paper sticking out.
There was no way we could remove the backing on any of them to get a good look. We’d just have to hope that if he had left more notes, he’d made them accessible like the one in my creek painting.
I rehung the painting and checked to make sure it was straight. Theo returned the meadow piece to the wall. He glanced at me and shook his head.
Shoot.
We moved on, checking the paintings on either side. No luck. Tina’s voice carried from the first floor, as did a male voice, although they spoke too quietly to make out what they were saying. They didn’t appear to be coming to the loft, so we kept searching.
Just as I was rehanging a painting of a pine forest—with no sign of a note—Tina and the newcomer started up the stairs, their footfalls carrying through the airy space.
Eyes wide, I whipped my head to the side.
Theo looked at me with alarm. As if we were executing a choreographed dance, we both adjusted the paintings we’d been rehanging, then took big steps back so it wouldn’t look like we’d been touching them.
We sidestepped toward each other, and I tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow just as he turned us around so we were facing the stairs.
Tina and a tall man in a suit stepped onto the loft. Recognition hit me, and I dug my fingers into Theo’s arm. He’d been at the celebration of life—the man who’d been standing with Gina Morris, and who’d escorted Michael Morris out of the gallery. Curt Redfern.
We were dead. He was going to recognize us. We’d been right there, in that very spot in the loft of the gallery. I’d babbled to Gina Morris right in front of him.
His eyes passed right over us, as if he hardly deigned to notice there were other people present. Tina smiled and gave us a slight nod.
Theo led me to the stairs, and a moment later, we were on the main floor, with Tina and Curt in the loft above us.
I cast a quick glance around. It would be much riskier to check the paintings on the main floor—too easy for Tina or Curt to move to the railing, look down, and see what we were doing.
But we hadn’t found anything.
The door at the back caught my eye. The one leading to the classroom studio. There had been lots of paintings stored back there. Meeting Theo’s eyes, I pointed. He nodded.
Tiptoeing so my heels wouldn’t click on the wood floor, we hurried across the gallery. Theo tried the knob and at least a little bit of luck was on our side. It opened.
He ushered me through the door and softly shut it behind us.
The classroom studio looked almost the same as when the attorney had given me my Morris painting.
Artwork on easels still cluttered the space, and there was a stack of paintings propped up against the wall.
It looked smaller than when we’d been there last, as if more of the pieces had been distributed according to Edwin’s wishes.
I beelined for the paintings leaning against the wall while Theo kept his ear close to the door so he could listen.
The wig was starting to get warm, making my face feel hot. I crouched down and tilted the first painting so I could inspect the back. Nothing. Same with the second. I glanced over my shoulder and Theo gave me a thumbs-up. No one was coming.
I checked the third and started to wonder if this had all been for nothing. Or if we simply didn’t have time to look hard enough.
Come on, Edwin. Were you murdered? Give me a clue.
My breath caught in my throat as I felt along the back of the fourth painting. There was a rough spot, like the edge of paper. I whipped my head around and nodded to Theo.
“Hurry,” he whispered.