Page 76 of Passions in Death
Glenda slipped off her sunshades, dropped them into her bag. She crossed the white floor to a black counter and stowed her bag behind it.
“She recently sold three pieces,” Eve said.
“Yes, a triptych, moody still lifes, beautiful use of light and shadow. I saw them in progress, and told her I thought I had a buyer. My sister’s an interior designer, and is working with a client I thought they’d be perfect for.”
Glenda came back around the counter. “I took photos of the works in progress, showed my sister, who agreed. But there was a deadline, and Erin worked so hard to finish them. It was her biggest single sale. We were so happy.”
“She also sold a single through you. About two weeks ago?”
“Yes, ChiChi bought one of Erin’s we had on display. She’s a collector. That’s a smoke tree in full blossom. Erin painted it from one on the High Line, with a stormy sky behind, a flash of lightning in the clouds. Dramatic and detailed. We considered it an unexpected bonus so close to the wedding.”
“Did she tell you what she intended to do with the money from those sales?”
“No. When I saw Shauna yesterday, she did.” Pressing her lips together, Glenda looked back at the portrait. “It was so Erin, all of it. The trip, the surprise, the way she’d intended to announce it. Do you see the life in this portrait?”
Walking closer, Glenda gestured up at the old woman. “The light in the eyes, the humor in the curve of the mouth? I can see Erin in there, in her great-grandmother. That should’ve been her in another seven decades. Someone stole those years, that light, that life from her.”
“You didn’t make the party Monday night.”
“No.” Turning back, she faced Eve. “I’d arranged my travel and my schedule so I’d make the shower, and the wedding. I was coming back on Thursday—tomorrow—but…”
She let that trail off.
“The last time I saw her was in her studio. I helped her box the paintings, the ones for my sister’s client, for transport.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“Anton. He often works at night. He actually helped us carry the paintings down. It surprised me he interrupted his work to help, but, well, Erin’s happiness could be infectious. And she was so damn happy.”
“Any artist envy with the others who share the studio?”
“That wouldn’t be uncommon.” Idly, Glenda patted at the roll at the back of her neck. “Temperaments, egos. I’ve worked with artists for nearly twenty years. Some—many, in fact—can be challenging. But I didn’t notice anything like that there.
“Roy—that’s Roy Lutz—is focusing on his mural work, and that’s a wise choice for him. My sister’s commissioned him several times. Anton? He does mostly commercial art. Large pieces for offices and commercial spaces. He’s quite good at what he does. He and Roy, opposites in style and personality. Roy’s got a sweet nature, and Anton—you’d have to say a sour one. Donna? She and Erin were very close, and absolutely supportive of each other, in every way.”
“Do you have access to the studio?” Eve asked her. “A swipe?”
“No. I wouldn’t have any need for that. For the most part, I’d arrange to go by, see the work. Unannounced drop-bys interrupt the work. On commissions, occasionally the artist needs a little nudge, but you don’t want to interfere with the process.”
“Erin had a lot of her work stored at the studio. What happens to it now?”
“That depends on Shauna and Erin’s family, as it does with what we have displayed here. If possible, I’d like to offer to do a showing. For the art, for the business of art. And for Erin, for Shauna and Erin’s family.”
“Regarding the business of the art, you think you’d be able to sell her work?”
Glenda glanced back at the portrait, smiled a little.
“I do. If I’m able to select the pieces, with the right display and marketing, I think her work would sell very well. That’s my job,” she added, “and also a tribute to a friend.”
“Are you friends with all your artists?” Eve wondered.
“Absolutely not. But Erin was a friend. I met her when I browsed by the street art, something I often did and do. And I saw something in her work—that was, God, about five years ago. I bought two of her pieces—a cityscape at sunset, and one of a pub scene. Both underpriced, and I bargained her down from that just to see if I could. Then I gave her my card, told her to bring me what she thought were her two best pieces.”
Glenda laughed even as her eyes went damp. “She told me I’d just bought them, but she had more. And that started our professional and personal relationship. I helped her. I like to think I helped her. Her work needed to ripen and mature, and she lacked business sense. I like to think I helped her.”
“On the business of art,” Eve began, “what’s the price of the portrait up there?”
“Forty-seven hundred.”
