Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mandy
Somehow, I get through the rest of the day.
My movements are slow and mechanical, each action requiring conscious thought. The simple task of lifting a fork at lunch becomes an ordeal as waves of nausea roll through me. I manage a few bites before pushing the plate away, my appetite gone.
Every time I think of my night sky painting, my stomach clenches. The memory of those rich colors, the depth I achieved. It feels like a physical ache in my chest. I have to pause, breathe deeply until the sensation passes.
You might be thinking, big deal, just paint another one.
Here’s a secret. An artist’s biggest fear—or at least one of mine—is that you won’t be able to replicate it. Like it’s one and done. Fifteen minutes of fame and that’s it. I’ve seen it happen. The thought of trying to recreate that painting makes my hands tremble.
What if I can’t replicate it?
I clean my house to keep moving. Artists clean too, especially when stress builds up and nervous energy needs an outlet. Between bursts of activity, I find myself sitting motionless on the couch, staring at nothing, my mind replaying the image of my burning studio.
Barrie stops by, bearing flowers and warm hugs. She sits with me, her presence comforting, but even she recognizes when I need solitude. The flowers she brought rest on my coffee table, their sweet scent a gentle reminder that I’m not alone.
Seymour never calls.
No texts either. No unexpected visits. Yes, I said needed time, needed to get through this next event, but the silence still stings. I understand his reasons now for the wealth test. The explanation about Anna, his caution about trust. The hurt has faded, mostly.
I didn’t tell him Todd’s name for a reason. That dangerous glint in his eyes when he asked about the artist. It was enough to make me hesitate. I don’t need Seymour ending up in prison over this.
I’ll tell him later. Much later. After Todd is safely touring Europe or California.
The hours between breakfast and the gallery event stretch endlessly. Each second drags, yet somehow the hours slip past until suddenly it’s time to get ready.
I stand before my closet, selecting a simple black dress. My hands shake slightly as I apply lip gloss, and I have to steady them against the bathroom counter.
Scott arrives to help with the microphone wire. His presence fills my small living room with reassuring energy as he explains how to tape it under my dress.
“So no talking to myself and sharing my deepest secrets?” I ask, trying to inject some lightness into my voice.
Scott’s lips quirk into a knowing smirk. “Well, you can, but we’ll all hear them. Wouldn’t be the first time.” He pulls me into a hug, his familiar cologne comforting. “You can do this.”
Yes, I can. I can find clues to a killer to save the reputation of Lakeside Gallery. Or destroy it completely.
The drive to the gallery feels surreal. I shudder at the thought of spending the evening in the same room as Todd and his paintings. The scent of smoke seems to follow me, clinging to my hair and clothes even though I know I’ve showered it away. It’s there in my mind, a constant reminder.
Throughout the day, I couldn’t stop myself from looking at my studio. Again and again, my eyes were drawn to the blackened wood, the collapsed side. Each time, hope would rise. Maybe just one painting survived. Each time, reality would crush that hope.
The question of what caused the fire weighs heavily. The studio wasn’t a fire hazard. Then a thought hits me, accompanied by a sickening realization. That fizzing sound in my mind, like a light bulb about to die. The special lighting Seymour bought me.
Oh no. That had to be it. It must have thrown a spark and that’s all it took.
I sit in my car outside the gallery, gathering courage. You can do this. You can act like nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. You’re fine. The mantra feels hollow, but I repeat it anyway.
The gallery’s entrance looms before me. Inside, I can see the warm glow of lights, hear the faint sounds of violin music. I straighten my shoulders and step forward, arranging my features into what I hope passes for a normal expression.
The interior welcomes me with familiar sights.
The white tablecloth adorned with champagne glasses catching the light, platters of carefully arranged finger foods, two violinists in the corner creating an elegant atmosphere.
Maybe Diana won’t notice my distraction during the biggest event we’ve ever hosted.
No servants glide about offering appetizers and drinks. There were no tickets sold for this event. Perhaps I can fool Diana with my performance. But not Seymour. Neither of them appears to be here yet.
My immediate goal is to speak with Diana, to watch for any slip that might provide a clue. I want to believe she’s innocent. The Diana I know, who has encouraged my art and supported the gallery, couldn’t be involved in murder.
The sight of Todd’s car in the parking lot makes my stomach clench. My secondary goal becomes clear. Avoid him at all costs.
Julie spots me first, her heels clicking rapidly across the floor as she hurries over. Her face is flushed, breath coming quick. “Diana called and can’t make it. She’s not feeling well.”
“Seriously?” All our plans for questioning her, gone. “This event is crucial. She must be on her deathbed to keep her home.”
Julie’s shoulders lift in a helpless shrug.
“What about the other board members?” I scan the growing crowd, searching for familiar faces. “What about Seymour?”
“Stephen and Lilly are here somewhere. I haven’t seen Seymour.”
“Ok, thanks.” The responsibility of the event weighs heavily. “If we’re short help, why don’t you stay at the desk so you can help customers who want to purchase. I’ll schmooze the guests.”
The words taste bitter. The thought of convincing people to buy Todd’s art makes my stomach turn. As guests filter in, wandering between paintings and engaging in quiet conversation, I try to do my job. But each time I open my mouth to promote a piece, the words dissolve on my tongue.
Finally, I pull out my phone and text Seymour.
Where are you?
I continue my circuit of the rooms, trying to appear busy.
Each painting feels like a personal accusation.
My concept, my vision, hanging on every wall, in every room.
I pause before one painting, my fingers trembling as I study the brushstrokes.
The technique is there, but something vital is missing.
Yes, it still hurts.
The scars aren’t as fresh, but seeing these paintings tears them open again.
A hollow ache spreads through my chest as I move from piece to piece.
In one, a woman stares out from the canvas, her face fragmented in the Picasso style, but her eyes lack the depth of emotion I’d envisioned.
In another, a man’s profile splinters across the canvas, but the colors are flat, lifeless.
Looking at them with an artist’s eye, I notice something.
Todd never mastered the depth of emotion, the richness of color that makes art truly breathe.
His historical Picasso-style portraits look washed out, pale imitations of what they could have been.
The paintings are technically correct, but they’re hollow shells of the vision I’d had years ago.
The way I’d imagined bringing historical figures to life through vibrant colors and emotional resonance.
Of what mine would have been.
That’s why he wants the originals. Why I’m a threat. Why he stays away from Lakewood.
As time passes with no sign of my two biggest supporters, my resolve crumbles. I stop trying to sell the paintings. Without Diana or Seymour here, there’s no one to notice my failure.
Halfway through the evening, Scott appears at my elbow, gently guiding me to a quiet corner.
“First, how are you managing?” His voice is soft, concern evident in his expression.
He doesn’t know the full story. Only Barrie knows about Todd Stane-slash-Alexander Silvano.
“I’ve been better. But I can do this.” I study his face, recognizing the look he gets when he’s holding something back. “Go ahead. What are you thinking?”
He moves closer, lowering his voice further.
“Tell me if this doesn’t work.” His eyes sweep the room.
“It looks like this event is running itself. How about checking on Diana, see if she’s okay, then asking questions.
” The words tumble out faster. “Not to say that’s more important than this event. It’s not. I just thought...”
Relief floods through me. A legitimate reason to escape this gallery of ghosts. “Sounds like a good idea. I’ll do it.”
After explaining to Julie that I’m checking on Diana, I make my way to the exit. The night air, though warm and heavy with humidity, feels cleansing after the suffocating atmosphere inside.
I’ve just reached my car, hand on the door handle, when I hear my name.
“Mandy! Wait up.”
Todd’s voice sends ice through my veins.
I turn slowly, steeling myself against whatever’s coming. His figure cuts through the darkness, the tuxedo making him look overdressed and artificial. Once, I found him attractive. Now all I see is the ugliness beneath the polished surface.
His soul is ugly.