Page 108 of Caper Crush
William rubs my back. “I promise you we’ll take it down if that doesn’t work.”
I say, “Let’s take a picture of it. In case something happens and he can’t get it. I want proof that we saw it.”
Signs every five feet announceNo Photos.
“I’ll create a diversion. I’ll drop a glass by the bar over there. When everyone looks at me, you take a picture.” He squeezes my hand. “Unless you have a better suggestion?”
“No. You’ll really do that?”
“Don’t you think it will work?”
“It totally will. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Okay,” he says. “But let’s call Officer Johnson first.”
I call. Thankfully, Officer Johnson picks up and I explain the situation. He’s on it. He’s on his way, and his colleague will call the owner of the gallery to see who funded the party.
Vinnie:Almost there. How is show? Edmund recommended.
I show the message to William. “Edmund again.”
“All right, let’s take a picture,” William says. “Get ready.” He winks.
I’ve corrupted William.
I take out my phone and swipe to my camera, but pretend I am texting.
I stare at the painting. The brushstroke has a similar intensity and weight to mine, but more tentative. I tilt my head. The colors are a little off, and where they overlap is more jarring than joyful.
Objectively, ironically, it makes me see the skill in my own work.
William stands by the bar, waiting to order. A woman approaches him and looks like she is chatting him up. Her hand reaches out to touch his arm. We don’t have all day, and he’s so polite. He’s nodding.C’mon, where’s the cool cucumber brush-off that you used to give me?What’s the point of having that ability if you’re not going to use it in dire circumstances?
I’m supposed to be working on not getting jealous.
I am a cool cucumber. I am a cool cucumber.
I imagine the taste of a cucumber and the refreshing feeling of cucumber slices on my face.
William receives two drinks from the bartender and leaves the woman as he turns to go to the corner of the room.
I swipe back to my camera app, focusing on the painting, waiting for the glass to drop.
Crash!The sound of a glass breaking cuts through the conversations. Dead silence flattens the room. I focus and click a picture. I take two more photos to be safe.
People are still looking over to the corner where William dropped the glass.
I hesitate for a moment. I still want to grab the painting and run.I will stick to the plan.
I pocket my phone and stride toward the gallery exit, head high, grabbing my raincoat and my umbrella on the way out. I walk down the cobblestoned street to the corner to wait for William and Officer Johnson. The wind inverts my umbrella so it’s inside out. Pointed into the wind, the umbrella flips back. I email Officer Johnson the photos.
And I think back to John’s fundraising party and my remark: “Forgeries are the worst. They’re literally taking your creativity, blood, sweat, and tears and passing them off as their own.”
It’s back to Edmund as the prime suspect.
The cobblestones are soaked, and it smells like fresh rain. I feel better now. This is an actual clue. This is a breakthrough. And it confirms that it’s personal.
But they don’t know me as well as they think they know me. I am determined to crack this case and find my painting. I may be emotional, but I don’t always let emotions cloud my judgment.
