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“Last I heard he was being represented by the Imago Gallery,” Theodosia said. “I’m sure if you spoke with them...”
Barr nodded and said, “Thank you, I know where that gallery is located. We’ll for sure follow up on that information.”
“Oh, and I know Booker also hangs out at the Arts Alliance over on Bay Street,” Theodosia said.
“Theo?” Delaine gave a stiff nod toward the door.
But Theodosia was back to surveying the graffiti-covered walls. Wondering if Booker was responsible for this frenzied vandalism. And if he was, what motivated him to cause such wanton destruction? Was he trying to scare Mignon or warn her? If that was the case, did it mean that Booker had killed Claxton? Or, as Mignon had surmised, was Ginny Bell involved? Could Ginny Bell, in her hatred for Mignon and Claxton, have encouraged Booker to do this?
Theodosia studied the angry whorls and dripping letters. For some reason they didn’t look exactly right to her. Had someone imitated Booker’s work? Plagiarized it? Because the more she looked at it, the more it felt like a bad copy.
Of course, there was only one way to be sure.
22
Since the Imago Gallery was only a five-block walk from Belle de Jour, Theodosia assured Delaine she didn’t need a ride and that she was fine walking back to the tea shop.
“Are you positive?” Delaine asked even though she’d already jumped in her car and was gunning the engine.
“No problem. You go on.”
Theodosia wasn’t about to tell Delaine that she wasn’t going directly back to the Indigo Tea Shop. That she was taking a side trip to the Imago Gallery instead. Because right now she was feeling a strong imperative to look at Booker’s work—if some of his pieces were still there—and decide for herself if he might have had a hand in trashing Mignon’s shop. She was also curious to see if there’d been any sort of improvement in the gallery’s financial picture.
But when she arrived at the Imago Gallery, Holly and Philip were still bemoaning the gallery’s ongoing plight.
“Another artist pulled out,” Holly told Theodosia. She looked weepy but cute, dressed in a hot pink T-shirt and filmy light pink skirt that looked almost like a ballet skirt. “That’s the tenth one. Well, actually, this one was a photographer.” Holly gestured to where Philip was busy taking photos down from the wall, wrapping them in bubble wrap, and then placing them in a large crate.
“I need to talk to you,” Theodosia said to Holly.
“Sure,” Holly said in a distracted tone. “Come on back to my office. I need a cup of java to keep me going.”
Holly’s jam-packed office smelled of burned coffee, oil paint, and a top note of Chanel No. 5. As Holly poured herself coffee from a funky-looking urn, Theodosia told her about the vandalism at Mignon’s shop. And how the graffiti on the walls reminded her of Booker’s art.
“Oh no!” Holly set her mug down and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened, then she pulled her hand away and said, “Do you think it was actually Booker?”
“The police—and Mignon for that matter—don’t know who’s responsible.”
“And you didn’t say anything about Booker?”
“Actually, I did,” Theodosia said. “I pretty much had to tell the officers that the graffiti was somewhat similar to Booker’s work.”
“Which means the police will be contacting me.” Holly’s mouth turned down. “Again.”
“The damage to Mignon’s shop was fairly severe. Which is why I wanted to stop here and give you a heads-up. Also, I’d like to take another look at Booker’s work.” Theodosia hesitated. “Do you still have any of his paintings?”
“I think we might. One or two anyway. They’re...” Holly seemed beyond frazzled. “They’re out in the gallery.”
They walked into the gallery just as Philip placed the last of the photos in his crate. He looked up, dusted his hands together, and said, “Well, that does it for Bobby Rousseau. He may be a great landscape photographer but we won’t be seeing his work anytime soon.”
“Philip, Theodosia needs to take a look at one of Booker’s pieces,” Holly said. “Can you pull out that really big painting? The blue one with the crazy wolf drawing?”
“Sure,” Philip said. He ducked behind a tall bronze sculpture of a sand crane, ran his hand across the edges of four large paintings that were leaning up against a wall, then tapped one and slid it out. “This is... um, one of Booker’s better, more saleable pieces.”
“Can you pull it all the way out?” Holly asked.
Philip pulled the six-by-eight-foot canvas out, manhandled it awkwardly, said, “Oops,” then finally got it leaned up against the wall. “There you go,” he said. Then he looked at Theodosia and said, “Are you thinking about buying one of Booker’s pieces?” He sounded hopeful.
Theodosia quickly explained to Philip about the vandalism that had just taken place at Belle de Jour. And how the boutique was owned by Mignon Merriweather, Claxton’s wife.
