He shut down the painful memories and slammed out of the car. Hannah trotted after him.
Inside the gallery, Desmond fluttered like a small trapped bird not knowing where to land. A tiny man, he spoke with a slight French accent, despite being originally from nearby Oxnard. He wore a meticulously trimmed goatee and a matching set of plucked, highly arched eyebrows.
A burly policeman stood between a gleaming bust of a bald head and a glass sculpture. He looked as out of place as a Michelangelo painting in the Musée d’Orsay.
While Desmond talked with the officer, Ethan patrolled the gallery, looking for missing objects. Hannah stared up at the policeman, entranced and awed by the man’s size. She clearly found him more interesting thanThe Darling Detectiveshows she liked to watch.
“Who are you?” The policeman pointed his pencil in Ethan’s direction.
Ethan stepped forward. “Ethan Lawrence.”
“He’s my dad,” Hannah piped in. “He’s an artist. A very famous one.”
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m Officer Mack.” The policeman gave Hannah’s uniform and Ethan’s matching tie a sharp look and shook Ethan’s hand.
Ethan wondered if Mack was the officer’s first or last name, but didn’t have time to question him. Mack, though, had questions enough for both of them.
“Looks like you two belong at that fancy school up the hill,” Officer Mack said.
“I attend Canterbury Academy,” Hannah said. “My mom used to teach domestic arts there, and now my dad teaches just plain old art.” She froze and her hand flew to her mouth as if she could recapture her words. “Sorry, Daddy! Your art isn’t plain or old...although you haven’t made anything new in a really long time.”
Ethan stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He loved his daughter, but sometimes he found her eleven-year-old honesty brutal. He wasn’t going to admit to anyone, let alone himself, that the smell of paints reminded him of a happier time and set his stomach rolling.
Officer Mack glanced at his watch. “You’re not supposed to be at school now?”
“Are you a truant officer?” Desmond asked with a sneer.
Ethan shot the gallery owner a quick glance, hoping to convince him to play nice with the police. They would need the cops’ help if they wanted to recover Harold as well as the other missing work.
“One of my statues was stolen. It’s—” His voice cracked.
“Priceless!” Desmond interjected.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ethan said, “but it was an original.”
Officer Mack scribbled something on his notepad. “We’ll need to get an appraiser out here as well as an insurance adjuster. Any idea how the perps might have gotten in?”
While Desmond led Officer Mack to the back office, Ethan motioned for Hannah to follow him to the car. Rage and frustration thrummed through him. If he owned the gallery, something he desperately wanted to do, beefing up the security system would be high on his to-do list. This never would have happened if Desmond had taken the needed precautions.
Outside, the marine layer hung in the air, and the cold and damp did nothing to lighten his mood.
“So, when is Desmond going to sell you the gallery?” Hannah asked him, echoing his thoughts.
“I don’t know, sweetie.” Ethan hoped Desmond hadn’t heard her and pulled open the convertible’s passenger door so she could climb in.
After slamming inside, he ruminated over her question.
“He should let you buy it since everything he sells in there is yours,” Hannah said after he’d settled behind the wheel.
A sad smile lifted his lips. “Not everything, button.” He turned the key and the convertible roared to life.
Hannah huffed and folded her arms across her chest. “Most everything. I mean, who else is going to buy the place? That Misty lady?”
“Maybe. She’s a good artist.” Ethan steered the car onto Oak Hollow’s main drag.
“Her name sounds like fog.”
