Page 67 of Caper Crush
“That Manhattan Gallery forgery case,” Edmund says. “It’s crazy.”
“It’s crazy that they thought they’d get away with it,” Annabelle says.
“They almost did,” Edmund says.
“Forgeries are the worst,” I say. “They’re literally taking your creativity, blood, sweat, and tears and passing them off as their own.”
“How are the olive oil farms?” Max asks. He’s a wine connoisseur. “I heard from a colleague who was just on vacation in Italy that it’s been very dry there this year.”
“They’re fine. Our region has had adequate rainfall.” Edmund does his annoying maneuver where he strokes his chin to look superior. He then covers his mouth with his hand. “In fact, now there’s only more demand for our product.”
Edmund is lying. I have a vivid memory of Edmund—his skinny fingers covering his mouth, insisting that he didn’t take my sketchpad. We were ten. I grabbed his backpack and found my sketchpad in there, defaced with scribbles.
I’d forgotten how he’d destroyed my art in the past.
“Are you still happy with that cleaning service that sends different people each time?” I ask Edmund. “I’m looking for a cleaning service.”
“Yes. They’re very professional, and this way, I don’t have any personal attachments. No Christmas bonuses.”
Edmund is so cheap sometimes.
“Tessa wants to get a cleaning service,” I say. “I don’t think we need one.”
He smiles fully. “I highly recommend them. I just got the Friday slot.”
“Don’t you usually visit Italy around this time of year?” Max asks.
“Yes,” Edmund says. “But I haven’t had time. So much has been happening.” His lips tilt up slightly. “But are you sure you can afford a cleaning service, Miranda?”
“I just got another show,” I say.Time to follow Takashi’s advice.
His brow crinkles.
“That’s great!” Annabelle hugs me. “As good as Vertex?”
“Good enough.” I smile broadly. “Several of my latest paintings. They particularly like a brown one I just finished.” Maybe the thief can steal my mud mishmash.
“I thought you were having trouble painting,” Edmund says.
“I was. But then after our trip to Brooklyn, it clicked again, like a shot of adrenaline to my creativity. I’m really happy about this show. I was rejected for it last year.” My stomach quivers.Don’t go overboard.I don’t want to regret this.
The lady in purple is alone at the dessert table.
“I have to talk to someone. C’mon, Max.” I grab Max’s hand, pulling him along with me. “Great to catch up with you.”
Max and I waylay the lady in the purple dress.
“Hi, I’m Miranda,” I say. “Max’s mom suggested we meet. I hear you are a fan of abstract art. And you probably know Max.”
They nod at each other.
“My late husband was a fan of abstract art,” she says. “Are you a fan too?”
“Yes, but I’m also an artist,” I say. “I’m looking to sell artwork. Sometimes I feel like I should wear a sign:Artist Seeking Patron.”
She laughs. “I like that you’re direct. I’m not as much into collecting as my late husband was, but I liked visiting artists’ studios and getting glimpses into other lives.”
“Miranda’s studio is such a happy place,” Max says. “And seeing her process is fascinating.”
