Philips made a loud scoffing sound and glared at the dreamy canvases studding the walls.
“All right,” he said after another moment. “It’s probably best to hold on to them for a while. That’s what my attorney says, anyway. But I’ll need you to provide me with the proper paperwork and provenance for each painting, and I want to get them professionally photographed and advertised so people know what I have. The anticipation will help drive up the price.”
“I will be happy to,” Highbaugh said, his demeanor now livelier, no doubt by the thought of future commissions. “Why don’t I have my photographer get in touch? And, oh! We could put together a brochure featuring just your paintings. The Philips-Mason Collection, that has a nice ring to it.”
“Sounds like a cigarette company.”
“We’ll work on the title,” Highbaugh assured him. “Just a thought.”
Philips seemed mollified, his hands on his hips, a muscle working in his jaw. He checked his watch again. “All right. You get started on that paperwork, and I’ll instruct my assistant to meet with your photographer.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Highbaugh.
The man turned on his heel and left without another word. Harper could hear him arguing with a meter reader before jumping into his double-parked Jaguar and zooming off, narrowly avoiding a bicyclist who wobbled and swore at the expensive car.
Harper met the gallery owner’s eyes. He gave her a half smile.
“Man’s a little intense,” Harper said.
Highbaugh shrugged. “Impatience tends to go hand in glove with money and power, in my experience. I apologizefor the interruption. Is there anything specifically I might help you with?”
“As it happens, I’m also interested in Delilah Mason’s work,” said Harper, handing him her card.
“Lovely to meet you, Professor. I’m sorry to say that, as you may have overheard, I’ll have to wait until the estate is settled before selling more of Ms. Mason’s excellent paintings. However, I do have a brilliant young artist who has several new canvases…”
“I should confess, I’m not a buyer. I sort of met Delilah Mason, and after what happened…”
“Sucha tragedy,” said Highbaugh with a dramatic sigh. “A great loss to the world.”
“Very sad, indeed. I’m new at Monterey College, and everyone keeps telling me that I have to check out Carmel, so here I am. While I’m here, I thought I’d look at some of her work.”
“Welcome. Please, enjoy our gallery.”
“Was that man her…?”
He nodded. “Delilah Mason’s ex-husband, Benjamin Philips. She kept her maiden name, Mason.”
“He doesn’t seem exactly broken up over her death.”
Highbaugh shrugged. “You know what they say: Everyone grieves differently.”
“I was just reading Mason’s artist’s statement. Remind me of the myth of Hero and Leander?”
“Leander was in love with Hero and used to swim across the river to visit her at night, guided by the flame of the lighthouse. One night, Hero allowed the flame to die out, and Leander lost his way…and drowned.”
“How romantic,” Harper said.
“Indeed,” said Highbaugh, either missing or ignoring hersarcastic tone. “The name Leander is from the Greek for ‘evergreen,’ and in Greek mythology the oleander plant symbolizes romance and charm.”
The couple that had been lurking in the back of the gallery reappeared. Highbaugh gave them his card and recommended a restaurant where they might have a “highly pleasant” lunch. The couple thanked him and slipped out into the sunny day, leaving Harper the lone customer in the gallery.
Harper was about to ask Highbaugh how much Delilah’s work went for when the gallery owner suddenly launched into a dramatic monologue:
“Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him…something, something…but being taken with a cramp was drowned and the foolish chroniclers of that age found he was ‘Hero of Sestos.’ But these are all lies: men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.”
Harper had no idea how to react.
Holding her gaze, Highbaugh smiled. “As You Like It.”
