A stocky, silver-haired man sat at a desk in one corner. His gaze swept over Harper as she entered, and he appeared unimpressed, no doubt divining, correctly, that she was notlikely to spend thousands of dollars on art. He turned his attention back to his computer.
“Good morning,” Harper said, approaching the desk. “I understand you represent Delilah Mason.”
The man blanched slightly but got to his feet. “We do indeed. How do you do, I am Alastair Highbaugh, one of the proprietors.”
Highbaugh spoke in the clipped tones one might expect of a snobbish gallery owner, and though he wasn’t currently wearing one, Harper was willing to bet he had a few bow ties tucked away in his closet for special occasions. He seemed the type.
He waved a hand toward one wall. “Her paintings are right over there.”
The gallery had grouped the artwork around plaques featuring the artists’ biographies and brief statements. Delilah Mason’s section was prominently displayed up front.
The paintings were similar to those Tariq had shown her, the canvases colorful and surreal, and included tumbling crows and upside-down lighthouses, a startlingly realistic drowning man, a weeping woman sprouting wings, and massive cypress branches hovering above them all. Although most of the paintings were landscapes, Delilah had included a door that stood ajar and that grand arched mirror, again and again. The mirror always featured a ghostly visage within the glass.
There were no prices indicated. It was probably one of those situations in which if one must ask, one could not afford it.
Delilah’s artist statement read:
I love to disrupt the purity of a blank canvas with the representation of my dreams, my hopes and fears and demons. I look for the light in the dark, the dappled colors in the inkyshadows, the open door, the spirits in the very earth—the adobe—from which my home emerged.
Leander drowned for want of a light to follow
And Hero mourned him
A face in the mirror. It is the wrong face…or is it?
Whatever that meant.
Only two of the paintings were from Delilah’s earlier California impressionist period. The technique in her later work was similar—paint laid on thickly in some areas but lightly in others, with sections of bare canvas showing through the chalky brushstrokes—but Tariq was right: The artist’s style and subject matter had shifted significantly over the years. But that wasn’t surprising; artists developed over time. Pablo Picasso’s figurative Blue Period had famously morphed into outright abstract cubism as he matured.
At the sound of screeching brakes, Harper’s attention was drawn to the plate glass window up front. A shiny green Jaguar had come to a halt and double-parked in the street directly in front of the gallery doors. The driver jumped out, skirted his vehicle, and yanked open the gallery door. He was tan, tall, and handsome in a bland, boardroom kind of way. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, and his tailored wool slacks, cashmere sweater, and impeccably styled hair reeked of money.
“Highbaugh!” the man called out. “I need to talk to you.”
“Yes, of course. Always a pleasure, Mr. Philips,” the gallery owner responded, his tone obsequious. “Let us go speak in priv—”
“We’ll talk here. I have a tee time in twenty minutes,” the man said, glancing at the heavy platinum watch shackling his tanned wrist. “What’s the status of Delilah’s paintings?”
“In what sense?”
“What’s the legal status of her paintings now that she’s…” Apparently only now noticing there were other people in the gallery, the man paused and looked around.
Harper watched one couple slip out the front door while the other headed for the rear of the gallery, wildebeests fleeing the watering hole when the lion appears. The man’s pale eyes landed briefly on her and, evidently deciding she was just another hapless wildebeest, ignored her. He turned back to the gallery owner.
“As I was saying, now that she’s no longer with us, what’s the status of Delilah’s paintings?”
“Oh, I, uh…” Highbaugh turned red.
Harper decided “Mr. Philips” must be Benjamin Philips, Delilah Mason’s ex-husband. Feigning interest in an ugly glazed ceramic sculpture, she lingered nearby to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“As you can imagine, Mr. Philips, this sort of situation takes time to resolve,” stammered Highbaugh. “We’ll need to confer with lawyers, and until her estate is settled—”
“I’m not sure I can wait that long. I have certain obligations…”
“Of course, I’ve heard about the new housing developments. Out on the old army base, is it? I’m sure that’s a huge—”
“I have no intention of discussing my business plans with you,” Philips said. “Suffice it to say that I own several of her canvases, which I imagine are worth considerably more now. The early work, I mean, not this recent crap.”
“I— Yes, indeed that is true. Of course, her California impressionist works have always been in high demand. But the newer work really does have its own je ne sais quoi, if you know what I mean. It’s very popular.”
