“No walk-ins?”
“You mean unrepresented or unsolicited work? Yes.” Smiling, she gestured Eve and Peabody into another section, then to a painting of a dancer en pointe, the one beside it of another in mid-leap, and a third caught in a pirouette.
“These were brought in by what you might call a hopeful. Ankha Haversnell. As many artists don’t have representation, we at the very least try to look, evaluate. For the most part, the work doesn’t suit, but every now and again, you find something wonderful.”
“They really are wonderful,” Peabody said. “You see the grace, the movement, but you can see the effort and focus.”
“Yes, exactly.” Harlee beamed at Peabody. “Do you paint, Detective?”
“No, not really. I just admire.”
“As do I. We’ve only had these on display for a few days, and already had considerable interest.”
“What about the ones you turn down?” Eve pressed.
“Reactions vary. Rejection’s painful. Our standard response to work we find unsuitable is we work through agents. Of course, not every represented artist is accepted.”
“Either way, represented or not, does anyone stand out? A negative reaction that concerned you.”
“Oh my goodness, Lieutenant, they run the gamut. Tears, despair, anger, insults, even threats.”
“What kind of threats?”
“Self-harm, or threats to bring violence. For instance, I should have my eyes gouged out, as I’m already blind, or they’d see the gallery burned to the ground before they’d allow their art to be displayed here.”
“Have you reported the threats?”
With a head shake that had the curls dancing, she smiled.
“Lieutenant, it’s a momentary and passionate response. Most of themmake a dramatic exit, and a good many of them come back again with new work. Or they make the rounds of other galleries. A few come back to tell me they’ve had their work accepted elsewhere. I wish them all the best.”
“Let’s go back to repeaters. Someone who comes back, is turned down again. A male, someone who strikes you as having enough money to indulge himself.”
Harlee pursed her lips. “We do get hobbyists—as I think of them—who can afford to devote their time to their hobby.”
“Who think they’re the next big deal.”
She smiled again. “Of course. We had a woman who’d taken up watercolor in her eighties. And they were pleasant enough paintings. She was, obviously, very used to getting her way. She offered me five thousand dollars to accept her work, and became quite irate when I refused. The next visit, she offered ten thousand. And on the third, she threatened to buy the gallery and have me fired.”
Harlee lifted her shoulders. “I’m still here. I did hear that another gallery accepted her work. I expect they were… compensated.”
“Anyone else like that? A man who tried bribes, threats, or intimidation?”
Harlee pursed her lips again.
“Now that you mention it…”
And they got their first buzz.
“There was someone, very persistent. It’s been some months since he’s come in. As I recall, he said he could buy this excuse for an art gallery ten times over. I didn’t take that seriously, of course, but if I remember correctly, he dressed very well.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry. His work… what was it?” Now she squeezed her eyes shut. “Oil on canvas—I’m reasonably sure. I do remember it was, at best, pedestrian. As I said, it’s been some months. It might be close to ayear since he’s come in. I honestly hadn’t given him a thought until you asked.”
“Give him a thought now. What did he paint?”
“What did he paint?” Harlee repeated. “Portraits. Yes, I remember that, as he didn’t have the talent for portraits. His paintings lacked life. And he had no real style of his own. Stagnant is the best way I can describe them. I think he came in three, possibly four times.
