“Alyia.”
Dark eyes fastened on Kris, then angled toward James Morgan. “Symbolism is important, don’t you think?” she asked.
“It can mean many different things to different people.”
“I once heard it explained that the medium is the voice the artist chooses to express an idea,” Kris replied.
Alyia nodded. “You have studied art?”
“Mostly the Renaissance period.”
“Ah, the period of enlightenment.” A faint smile curved her lips, as though she found that amusing. She turned to Callish.
“You will excuse me. There is still much work to do.”
She turned to Kris with that dark gaze. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss McKenna.”
“We are very busy,” Sir Jonathan explained as she left. “The show is only a few days away.”
“I won't take much of your time,” Kris explained. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about the gallery showing you were planning for Cate's father, Paul Bennett.”
He gave her a too-quick smile, the professional mask firmly back in place.
“Of course.” He gestured in the direction of his office. “I was very curious when you contacted me.”
“I'm interested in a particular photograph you may have seen when you met with Cate. I understand that she selected the photographs she wanted for the gallery showing.”
“Oh, yes,” Jonathan commented as they followed him to the office. “She was most insistent that the photographs represent work that he'd done, but might not have been previously seen. And of course I agreed with her. I was excited to work with her on the exhibit.” He rounded the desk, indicating the two chairs across from it.
Kris handed him the scanned photograph Cate had sent her. “Do you remember this particular photograph?”
He frowned as he stared down at it. “I'm usually very good at remembering different pieces, paintings, photographs, but I don't remember this one.”
“I'm told that it was among the photographs Cate brought to you.”
The look he gave her was more than curious. He looked startled, then quickly recovered, and shook his head. “It's most unusual—I would have remembered it. It wasn't among the ones she chose for the exhibit.”
“Unusual in what way?” James asked, curious what his answer would be. Until that moment he had been content to listen and watch.
He'd learned a long time ago that people talked too much. It was what they didn't say that often revealed far more, and it was about body language—the way the artist refused to make eye contact, except when she was introduced to Kris, the way Callish kept folding then unfolding his hands, the smile that came too easily.
They were lessons hard-learned in encounters with insurgents, sources embedded behind enemy lines or wherethere were no lines—something in the voice, a glance, in the shift of the body, a gesture that was too convincing with a far different meaning behind it. There were messages in all of it, if you knew what to look for.
“Well for one thing, it's completely out of place with his other work from that period,” Callish replied. “Pictures of the war, soldiers, people in the streets, the photographs that people are familiar with, that sort of thing.” He handed the photograph back to her.
“I would remember it if I'd seen it before.”
They walked back to the car together after leaving the gallery. Kris didn't bother to hide her disappointment. She had hoped he might be able to tell her something about the photograph.
“He's lying,” James said. “And not very good at it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He talked around everything, and kept repeating himself.”
Kris frowned. Callish had no reason to lie about the photograph. It was possible he simply didn't want to be bothered with questions about an obscure photograph, especially since the gallery showing wasn't going to happen now.
He had obviously put a lot of time and effort into the exhibit. Never before seen photographs from the war, with the recent anniversary, would have been a very lucrative draw. Now, with the accident, all of that time and effort was wasted.
