Temporary Partner (Valor and Doyle Book 1) by Nicky James

Author:Nicky James [James, Nicky]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2022-05-15T16:00:00+00:00

eighteen

Aslan

Splendid Visual bordered on kitsch. The small store was bursting with all kinds of strange and unusual art from pottery to paintings, woven crafts to traditional native leather and beading. There was metal art, wood carvings, and art pieces made with what I could only describe as someone else’s garbage. There were sculptures made from driftwood, others made from tin cans, and a few pieces that had been done with blown glass. It hung from the ceilings and walls, and it overflowed shelves that were stacked too close together. It was crowded, the room heightening my sense of claustrophobia.

Everywhere we turned, we risked knocking something over. There were too many items for the square footage of the store.

A flashy man in his early twenties worked the counter. He had a hot pink pompadour and was dressed in a shimmery blouse with black skinny jeans. His mile-long lashes were obviously fake, and his makeup was meant to make a statement.

He brightened when the tinkling door chimes announced our arrival. Quaid must have had the same thought as me and glanced around, likely looking to see if Mary Ellen was working.

“Well, hello there,” the man cooed as he not-so-subtly scanned us head to toe, appraising us and noting our holstered weapons. He lingered longer on Quaid. I could hardly fault him. “How can I help you today, officers?”

“Detectives,” Quaid corrected. “Is the owner around?”

“Mary Ellen? No, she doesn’t come in on weekends. I can give her a call, though.”

“Not necessary. We’re going to have a look around.” I guided Quaid by the elbow around a corner where a display of seashell creations occupied shelf space. We would be better off without alerting Mary Ellen to our presence.

“Let me know if I can help you find anything,” the man called after us.

Quaid and I wandered the tight aisles, scanning the abundance of creations. It was overwhelming, and most of it came across as junky to me.

“Confession. I don’t speak art,” I said, frowning at a crudely made rock sculpture with various detritus from nature glued all around it. It looked like something Graham would have put together after a trip to the beach.

“Me either. Jack dragged me to one of those wine and painting nights last winter. Have you heard of them?”

“No.”

“He liked it. I thought it was…” He glanced back at the man behind the counter and lowered his voice. “It was utterly pointless. Everyone paints the exact same picture. There is nothing creative about it. They serve you tons of wine—that part was great—then an instructor goes through the painting process step by step like you’re in kindergarten until the entire class has managed to create this beautiful work of art that not a single person would have been able to do without such strict instructions. So you walk out thinking you’re the next Rembrandt when the only thing you’ve proven is that you’re good at following directions.”

“While inebriated.”

Quaid smacked my shoulder and laughed. “Exactly. While drunk on too much wine.”

“Did you keep the painting?”

“Hell no.

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