Page 22 of Caper Crush
“I can recommend you to some art dealers,” he says. “I’ve got a whole list I’m going to meet in New York. But we should probably wait until I solidify my contacts and this blows over for you. You only get one shot, and you don’t want to blow it. Further.”
He’s not coming just to see me. I swallow.Relief.And that alone tells me that my heart is no longer in it for him.
I say, “Peter—”
He cuts me off. “I know that last time you said you just wanted to be friends, but let’s see each other again in person and take it from there. No pressure, no commitments. Don’t say no. I’ve gotta go, but I’ll see you in New York.” He hangs up.
I hate it when he does that to me.
Right.Time to paint. I sit back on my stool again, staring at the canvas. That whole interview with Kimberly was a total disaster. I’m too scattered right now—too upset about my painting being stolen. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in, sitting up straight on my artist’s stool. I’m letting my emotions take over. Another deep breath.Focus.I can figure this out.
My phone buzzes. The police want to talk to me.
Chapter five
Thepolicearecomingover. Tessa sits at our dining table, twirling her pen. Our doorbell rings.
“Should I act as your lawyer?” she asks.
“I think that will just look suspicious.” I buzz the officer in. “I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t steal my painting.”
“That’s what people think, and then it all goes bottoms up.”
“Are you trying to reassure me or scare me?” I ask. “Maybe you should stay, and we’ll see if he says anything. At least you’re not implicated because you worked that night.”
Tessa pouts. “Now I wish I’d gone. What if I’d caught the thief in action?”
“It’s got to be the catering waitstaff. In the kitchen. For money,” I say.
The police officer is thin and muscular, with closely cut black, curly hair, around forty-five years old. He’s dressed in plain clothes but shows us his badge. We shake hands. I introduce Tessa as my roommate and say she wasn’t at the party.
“I had to work. I’m a lawyer,” Tessa says.
I ask him if he’d like some water to drink. He shakes his head, pulls up a chair at our table, and takes out a notepad. I sit across from him. Tessa gives us each a glass of water and sits next to me. He looks at the wall behind us, which is filled with my paintings. I watch his face; it looks like he appreciates my work. His eyes narrow and he nods. At least he likes art.
“Those yours?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
He says, “I’ve seen the ads for the Vertex show. I liked your painting. So how do you support yourself as an artist?”
The perennial question. For me and all other artists.
“Odd jobs. I sell paintings here and there, and that brings in a few thousand. I’m a singer/guitar player for a band, The Tempest. We perform around town at bars and other venues and post on our YouTube channel. We didn’t have a gig yesterday so I could go to Uncle Tony’s anniversary party.” Where I should have spent the night guarding my painting. “I pick up freelance graphic artist jobs. And I waitress. My parents don’t support me, despiteTheSquirrelcalling me a trust fund artist. My mother is an HR executive, and my father is an artist as well—who hasn’t made it.”
“So you’d have a financial motive to steal the Kimimoto?” he asks.
“Objection,” Tessa says.
I put my hand out to stop her and shake my head. I don’t want her to make it look like I’m worried. “No. It’s not like you can sell it. So even though I’m not flush with money, stealing the Kimimoto isn’t going to do it for me. Plus, I really love my uncles.”
“And why would she steal her own painting?” Tessa asks.
“To give cover,” he says.
Great. I seem to be the number one suspect. Because I’m impoverished.
“I looked you up on LinkedIn,” Officer Johnson says. “You used to work in Christie’s provenance department.”
