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“What, for fuck’s sake?”
“It’s personal.”
I turned my gaze toward the café, noticing Wallace had left without his main squeeze. Then something caught my eye.
Eden.
“Is it worth getting yourself killed over?” he asked in disbelief.
The answer was easy. “Yes.”
* * *
Eden
“Can you believe the shit in that article?” I glared down at the computer screen, ready to bite the head off a chicken. Both the gallery and Talon had received mostly glowing reviews in the various articles written over the last week. Now this.
“‘A gallery that’s not fit to be so close to Bourbon Street, the lighting alone creating an ominous glow around every painting, dooming the artist into a life of purgatory. As far as what others have called an up-and-coming artist, Talon Martin’s talent is akin to a petulant child scribbling on his bedroom walls after being sent to his room.’” I walked away from my computer before I raked my arm across the surface of my desk. I wouldn’t mind hearing the crash as my MacBook was shattered into pieces.
“You know what they say,” Jasmine said, far too cheery in my opinion.
“Don’t start with me.”
“I am. Bad publicity is better than a crack in the head.”
I gave her a hard look, unable to keep from laughing. “Fine. I’ll give you that. I hate it for Talon. I don’t like his work personally, but obviously some people do. Did I tell you I’ve received several pieces of hate mail addressed to him? One even threatened him. The words were something about him being a fake, a liar, and a criminal.” My thoughts instantly drifted to the phone call. I’d tried the number again, only to get the same thing. Maybe there’d been a malfunction on the other end.
Who are you trying to fool?
“Jesus. Some people just need to get a hobby,” Jasmine snapped.
I rounded the corner of my desk, heading toward out of my office, Jasmine trailing. “No. Some people need to get that crack in the head. Maybe it would jar their useless brains. I can’t tell him about them.” I already had thoughts of closing the gallery down for a few days after the event. I would if his work wasn’t scheduled to be in the gallery for another five days after the showing. Damn it.
Why would my masked man call and not say anything? Was this another part of the game, stalking me like prey? I hadn’t seen him clearly given the distance but who else would be standing there staring at me? Maybe I was allowing my imagination to get the better of me. For all I knew, it could have been a spam call. They spoofed their numbers all the time.
“Let me guess. Talon is sensitive.”
I walked by the various tables, double checking everything. “You could say that. I think strange is a better word. I’m afraid he’d throw a tantrum, destroying his work before the show.” I heard footsteps and clenched my eyes shut. Nothing about this event was going easily. First, I’d almost broken the key off in the lock in my attempt to get inside. Then I’d knocked a painting to the floor. Oops. And finally, the caterer had been late, now scurrying to try to get everything together.
“Ms. Brusillo?”
I heard the caterer’s voice and grimaced. If there was another last-minute problem, I’d be the one throwing the tantrum. “What’s wrong, Maggie?”
The look on her face was indescribable, but the look in her eyes registered fear. “I can’t explain it. You just need to come with me.”
Before I could object, she backed into the supply room that had been turned into a food preparation space. With the exterior rear door, she could have easy access to her van.
“Let me see if I can help,” Jasmine suggested.
“I’ll take any assistance right about now.” I took long strides into the kitchen, my feet already killing me since I’d changed into my way-too-tall heels thinking the last-minute preparations would be a breeze.
Maggie pointed to the exterior door, backing away almost instantly. “I went to grab the last things and it was just there.”
‘It’ implied an object. By the look on her face, it was easy to tell whatever ‘it’ was didn’t have a pleasant connotation. I glanced at Jasmine who had her eyes open wide. As soon as I was standing in front of the door, I became hesitant. I had pretty good instincts when it came to assessing danger, or so I’d thought until recently. Right now? I wasn’t so certain. I cautiously opened the door, peering at eye level.
“What. Is. That?” Jasmine asked in her dramatic tone of voice.
At first glance, it appeared to be a gift box that had ketchup spilled on the surface. Then I realized the dark stain was blood. As the sweet stench of copper floated to my nose, I resisted the urge to gag.
