Picture Imperfect by Rickie Blair

Author:Rickie Blair [Blair, Rickie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Barkley Books

Chapter Nineteen

Outside Nigel’s art shop, I paused to inspect the painting of the three cows in the window. It was still unsold. After a glance at the price tag, I could see why. Clearly, I was not as informed on art as I could be. But I was about to remedy that. I pushed open the front door, setting an old-fashioned bell jangling over the doorframe.

The front of the shop was surprisingly spacious, with artwork hanging on stark white walls under overhead spots.

Nigel and his ears were seated behind a broad desk at the side. He looked up with a smile. “Hello. Feel free to look around. If you need any assistance, I’m here to help.” He lowered his head discreetly to study the paperwork before him, but I felt his eyes following me as I strolled from one painting to another.

When I paused a little longer at one work—an abstract painting titled Endless Spring—Nigel rose from behind the desk then ambled over to stand beside me, hands clasped behind his back.

“It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it?” he asked. “The use of negative space in the composition is quite striking.”

“Lovely.” I offered a dry chuckle. “A little out of my price range, I’m afraid.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Verity, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I grinned at him. “I’m surprised you remember. We met at the open house the other day.”

“I never forget a lovely face.” His smile did not reach his eyes. “I have pieces in the back that are more modestly priced, if you’d like to take a look.” He motioned to the open doorway in the back wall.

“Lead the way.”

The door led, not to the back of the building, but to a room filled with antiques and vintage furniture. As we strolled through, I paused to admire a grandfather clock of gleaming walnut and brass.

Nigel nodded in approval. “A beautiful piece,” he said. “Newly acquired. This way, please.”

I followed him through a door into a narrow hallway at the back. Nigel inserted a key into the lock of a door on the left, then ushered me in.

This room was also painted white, but the artwork here was leaning in stacks against the walls. Unlike the ostentatious front gallery, this space had a bargain-basement feel. I suspected that was Nigel’s intention, and that the bulk of his sales were actually made here, under the guise of “great deals” or “too much inventory.”

Noting my interest, he bent over the nearest stack to riffle through it. “These are mostly estate sales,” he said. “The families usually demand a quick transaction. I always tell them I could get a better price if they’d be more patient, but…” He shrugged. “Money talks.”

“So these are bargains?”

“They’re not cheap,” he cautioned me. “Although many of these prices are significantly undervalued—correct.”

Drawing from the stack a painting of a blue-gray lake under a blue-gray sky, he held it up for my perusal. “This series of prints is particularly popular. The artist is local.”

As he hefted the painting, I noticed a bandage on the palm of his right hand.

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