Page 121 of Passions in Death
“There was another photo on the dresser—one of those e-frames that holds a bunch of photos and scrolls them when you want.”
“Some of the jewelry’s gone,” Peabody told her. “I’m going to say Shauna’s again—it’s the style. Erin’s stuff is more—I guess bold. Artistic.”
Peabody moved into the bathroom. “Basic supplies missing. Hair, skin stuff, some makeup, OTC meds, like that.”
“Okay. Okay. We’ve seen what we can see. I want to go by the gallery, speak to Frost, then we’ll go to the memorial.”
“Frost?”
“She’ll know what’s happening with the art. Let’s find out.”
Chapter Eighteen
Glenda had just opened the gallery when they walked in. Eve supposed she’d dressed for the memorial—or for work—which involved a slim back dress.
She stood with a man—early thirties, black suit, burnished blond hair in a small topknot—and held up a finger to Eve as a signal to give her a minute.
“Essie will prepare the Stenner watercolor for transport. Ms. Eglin’s sending a messenger to pick it up around noon. Just make sure everything’s ready. If Dale Wisebrenner brings in the bronze I approved after I leave, I want it placed in the south gallery.”
“Glenda, you told me. We’ve got it. And I know to contact Mr. Gibbets about the pottery, and tag Wilfred if he doesn’t show up by one. Don’t worry, please don’t worry. You’ve got enough on your mind.”
“Nagging you helps take my mind off what’s on it.” She gave his arm a squeeze as she spoke. “Give me a second.”
As she crossed to Eve and Peabody, the man discreetly moved through an alcove to give them the space.
“I hate memorials,” she said. “I can’t imagine anyone actually enjoys them, but I just hate them. Add I’m barely back from vacation and taking most of the day off. I’m dumping a lot on our team. Which is an excuse,” she added, “not to think about how much I hate going to Erin’s memorial. She’s too young to be memorialized. She should’ve had decades more.”
She brushed a hand over her perfectly styled hair. “And now I’m rambling. How can I help you?”
“I’m curious whether there are any plans for Erin’s art. You mentioned you hoped to have a posthumous showing.”
“Yes. Actually, Erin’s mother contacted me yesterday. It seems the family, and Shauna, talked it over. They’re going to choose some of Erin’s paintings for themselves. They’d asked if I’d be willing to hold a showing in the fall. They want to start a scholarship in Erin’s name for art students.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Damn it. It gets to me. It’s a generous idea, and Erin would love it. No question. I want to put together a proposal for the owners. They’re in Florence at the moment. I want to waive or at least greatly reduce our percentage.”
“So all her paintings—other than what she sold or gave as gifts, and whatever her family and Shauna want to keep.”
“Exactly. None of them want to profit, and instead want to create something meaningful. She has a lot of work stored at the studio.”
“Yeah, we saw it. Since they’re planning this, there’s a piece I’d like to pre-buy or bid on—whatever it is.”
“Oh?”
“Pizza parlor, interior. A lot of color and movement, and a lone figure sitting at the window counter.”
“Yes, I know the piece. It’s good. Not her best, if you want my opinion—which was also hers. But it’s good. Can I ask why you want it?”
“The place has a personal meaning for me.”
Glenda smiled a little. “Which means I could double its price, but won’t. In any case, if you find who killed Erin, they’ll want to gift it to you.”
“I couldn’t accept that. Not how it’s done.”
“Understood. I’ll speak to them. Personal meanings matter.”
Glenda looked over toward the portrait of the old woman.
“It’s all personal now.”
