Shelved Under Murder by Victoria Gilbert

Author:Victoria Gilbert
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Lane Books
Published: 2018-07-10T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

As we walked arm in arm to the party, which was apparently being hosted at a nearby art gallery, I told Richard about meeting Trey, my encounter with Lila, the missing painting, and my suspicions concerning Uncle Andrew.

“So you’re afraid your uncle might have been mixed up in some forgery work too?” Richard punched the elevator button.

After observing our surroundings, I wondered how and why the Ad Astra company had selected this venue. The glass-and-steel skyscraper felt eerily quiet, as all of its offices were closed for the day. If you didn’t know the gallery was on the top floor, you wouldn’t ever have guessed an event was taking place. Although maybe, I thought, that was the point.

“Yeah. Probably not with the same group, of course. But those paintings that resemble old masters are rather suspicious.” I stepped into the hall, which was so plain I wouldn’t have suspected that there was anything but a storeroom behind the wood-paneled double doors that faced the elevator.

“He may have just been copying their work as a sort of practice.” Richard held one of the doors open for me.

“I might believe that, if he hadn’t copied another painter’s signature. That, linked with the painting that resembles a Van Gogh, is pretty damning evidence.”

“Yeah, that does lead one to think he meant to forge a Van Gogh, at least.” Richard glanced down at me, cutting his eyes toward the crowd. “We’d probably better discuss this later.”

“Agreed,” I said, as we walked into the gallery.

It was a loft that had been renovated to retain an industrial feel. The entire space was off-white except for the pipes and vents, which were painted a flat black so they would disappear into the dark ceiling.

Paintings were aligned along each of the four walls. There were also a few museum-style dividers set up to display more pieces. I glanced at the informational poster displayed near the entry doors and realized that these were all the works of a single artist. It was someone I had never heard of, although that wasn’t surprising. Despite my background in art history, I’d been out of the loop of the modern art scene for several years.

The open space was filled with a hum of voices and occasional bursts of laughter. I looked over the milling crowd while Richard handed off my coat to a volunteer at the coat check table. It was easy to tell the dancers from the other guests, since they tended to be younger, fitter, and more casually attired, while those I assumed to be patrons of the charity were older and decked out in outfits that made me feel distinctly underdressed.

“Richard!” An elderly woman, her wrinkled neck draped in diamonds, bustled forward. She threw one rather dismissive glance at me before grabbing Richard’s arm. “Darling, you must come chat with my friend, Agnes.” She pronounced this name in the French fashion so that it sounded like “Ayn-yes.” “She has inherited quite a fortune from her late lamented husband and needs someplace to spend it.

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