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Phil pinched me on the underside of my arm.
Instead of insult, I caught a glimpse of respect in the older woman’s eyes. “Everyone should be able to do what they love. I’ll be looking for more of your work, Grace.”
Surprised, I could do no more than nod. Phil steered me over to the desk. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but tread carefully, dear.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I wasn’t really prepared for her to bring up my grandmother.” People had been doing it all evening, but it had been more condolences than a direct swipe at my situation.
“Cat just likes to stir up trouble.” Phil slid a piece of paper over to me. “I told you there would be a bidding war.” She smiled before she sailed off to another old friend across the gallery.
I flipped open the folded piece of stationery.
That couldn’t be right.
There were far too many zeroes.
It was just one piece.
My heart raced and I barely heard the patron who came up and asked me questions. I stuffed the slip of paper in my pocket as I answered on autopilot. I explained the blind system we had for auctions at the gallery.
Most of the artwork was bought at face value, but a few pieces ended up with some haggling. I didn’t even know what to put on my piece for a base figure. I usually left it up to Phil.
When the patron wandered off to one of Singer’s pieces, I floated my way into the Cove Room. A discreet red dot was on the front of the pedestal next to the name, “Fallen Angel.” I drew my thumb across the embossed lettering.
Someone had actually wanted my work badly enough to put it into an auction situation. It was unfathomable. I’d always done okay with my work, but nothing like the number I clutched in my hand.
The rest of the night was a blur. When we were finally down to a handful of guests, most waiting for Philomena, I was able to finally sit down with the ledger. Lady’s Cove Gallery had sold most of the pieces. A few minds had been changed by the end of the night, and maybe stickers had become no’s.
I tucked the personal checks from reputable patrons of the gallery, as well as a pile of certified checks, into our bank bag. It had been a good haul for Phil, and I had made a few commissions of my own. She may have started the gallery as a lark, but she was turning a very good profit these days.
I finally came to my name on the ledger and paused. If the patron didn’t want the artist to know who they were, we made anonymous sales part of the agreement. Phil hadn’t told me the name of my buyer earlier, but there wasn’t a mark on the sales receipt to keep it a secret.
Normally, I was the one who didn’t want to know. Once it was out of my hands, I just wanted the person to enjoy it, but I had to know. I opened the computer to see who’d made the first request.
Catherine Bishop had been one of two people who had inquired about it. The other name, I didn’t know. Then a third name had been added to the history of “Fallen Angel”.
My fingers shook over the tab key.
No.
The bids had been neck and neck for a good hour before the one name outbid by nearly ten thousand dollars.
It couldn’t be. I opened the bank bag and fanned out the checks. Sure enough, there was a personal check with a familiar block print, followed by a scrawling signature.
Blake Carson.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Eight
“Grace?”
I actually knew what blind fury felt like. This was the second time that it had taken me out like a wave during high tide. The familiar red haze over my vision—it was a real thing. I literally saw a bull’s-eye on Blake Carson’s chest in my mind.
I punched out of the gallery door and down the pathway to the parking lot.
“Grace!”
“I’m sorry, Phil. I have to go kill someone.”
