“I don’t get paid to wait.”
Nick tossed a twenty in the guy’s direction. “There. You’ve been paid.”
The rain on the passenger’s side of the car let up, and a posh elderly woman’s face appeared in the window. Under the sizable protection of a black golf umbrella, she raised her wrinkled knuckles to rap against the passenger-side glass. The driver rolled down the window a crack.
“Mr. Grandstaff.” The woman smiled toward Nick. He got the sense she’d been royalty in a former life, or maybe a ballerina based on that straight back and long neck. All he knew for sure was that there was enough cashmere and pearls adorning her perfect posture to warrant her own security guard, and her gray hair was tamed into a perfect twist at the back of her head. “Miss Valor requests that you join her inside and release this driver. She’s having her personal car brought around to take you both to your destination.”
Nick grabbed the twenty back from the driver.
“Hey!”
“You heard the lady. Take off.” He exited the car and hunched to fit under the umbrella.
“I am Rowan’s personal assistant, Harriet. Mr. Grandstaff, it’s a pleasure.”
“Nick.” He shook her hand.
“Please, come with me.”
He jogged ahead and opened the door for her, thankful for the small awning over the entrance. Harriet shook out the umbrella and angled it carefully beside her. He entered behind her, brushed the mist off his jacket, and realized he was in a different world.
“Oh wow,” he said.
Whoever the artist was liked red. Canvas after canvas showcased the color, some depicting a scene entirely in rose-colored hues, others highlighting one important thing in the painting with a shock of red.
“Do you know Able McKenzie?” Harriet asked.
“I read about him in theNew York Times,but I’ve never seen his work up close.”
She folded her hands in front of her hips. “How does it make you feel?”
Crap. He hadn’t expected a pop quiz. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m no art critic, but I guess… it reminds me of blood.”
“Oh?”
“Like this softer one here, that’s like blood as the source of life. And that one over there with the splash of red in that ice-cream cone shape—that looks like poison, like something dangerous. And that one there with the black areas, that’s someone bleeding to death.” He chuckled. Of course they weren’t any of those things. The paintings were abstract. What he’d described as an ice-cream cone was a random grouping of shapes that probably weren’t meant to represent anything at all.
But Harriet was smiling. “Very insightful, Mr. Grandstaff.”
“Was I close?”
She shrugged. “Interpretation, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. But that one you pointed toistitledPoisoned Ice Cream.”
“Really?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s calledSunday Afternoon in Central Park.”
“Ah, but I had the ice cream thing.”
She sent him a thin smile.
“Mr. Grandstaff…”
“Nick.”
“Nick, I wonder if you might allow me to have a look at your palm.” Harriet held out her hand to him.
“My palm?”
