Twisted at the Root by Ellen Hart

Author:Ellen Hart [Hart, Ellen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

23

Cordelia loomed in the gallery doorway surveying her surroundings, her dark, smoldering eyes glinting under the track lighting. She was Greta Garbo in Queen Christina, standing at the prow of a ship, staring into the wine-dark sea with the rapt gaze of a monk, ready to take on the world for the sake of her beloved Sweden. Except, this wasn’t Sweden, it was an art gallery, and Cordelia wasn’t a queen, except in her own mind.

Jane was already inside, strolling around, musing over the art on display. Their task: Find out if George had already come and gone. Cordelia saw no blood on the floor, which she took as a good sign. Then again, there were probably lots of back rooms. If she had to rough someone up at sword point to get an answer, she was the person for the job.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, a somewhat gaunt man in a three-piece suit, his floppy brown hair parted in the middle, approached. “I’m Eli Chenoweth,” he said, smiling. He’d been looking at his cell phone when she came in. “Can I help you?”

So this was the notorious Eli. He didn’t look like a murderer, though that remained to be seen. “Possibly.” She stalked up to a painting of two black-and-gray figures hunched together inside a puke-tan barn, or maybe it was a cupboard. One figure appeared to be pounding a large nail through the head of the other.

“What do you think?” asked Eli.

“Well, huh. Hard to find the right word, don’t you agree?”

“I’d call it sensitive,” he said. “This artist is doing some amazing work.” He took another peek at his phone.

“Something interesting?” she asked, nodding to it.

“Oh, nothing really. I found a lost cat the other night. I took some pictures of her this morning.”

Cordelia leaned over to see. “She’s cute.”

“Yeah, I think so, too.”

“A nice cat?”

“Oh, yeah. Super friendly. And endlessly entertained by my dripping faucet in the bathroom.”

Cordelia moved on to a frenetic orange owl on a messy red, green, and yellow background.

“It’s a wonderful example abstract expressionism,” offered Eli. “The artist, Mayuri Naidu, is South African. I’d be happy to get you more information on her if you’re interested.”

The dude was into the hard sell. Not appealing. Examining the note next to the painting and taking in the price, she couldn’t help herself. She hooted. The hoot caused Jane to look in her direction. Cordelia tugged on her cape. “Do you have a business card?” she asked.

“Of course.” He slipped one out of his breast pocket and handed it to her.

Squinting at the tiny print, she said, “And this John Henry. Who’s he?”

“My father.”

Jane was being followed around by a different pursuer, a young woman who gave off a decadent Zelda Fitzgerald vibe—curly hair, bright red lips, eccentric clothing.

Following Cordelia’s gaze, Eli said, “That’s my mother-in-law.”

“Sure it is.”

“No, I’m not joking. Kit Chenoweth. She’s married to my father.”

Cordelia repositioned the earflaps on her hunter’s cap. “Moving on. A friend of mine, George Krochak, told me about your little operation here.

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