It was yet another man in a suit. He had a professional air about him, as if that were his everyday attire.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Jerry Turner, Edwin Morris’s attorney.” He held out his hand.
I clasped it and shook. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. Edwin earmarked a number of his paintings that he wished to be gifted to his students in the event of his passing. One of them is for you.”
I touched my chest. “He wanted to give a painting to me?”
“Yes. Your name is on the list. I can give it to you now, or if it’s more convenient, I can take your contact information and make other arrangements.”
I glanced up at the loft, but Gina was no longer at the railing. “Is it okay with Mrs. Morris? All his things must be hers now.”
“She’s happy to respect her husband’s wishes.”
“What a lovely gift. Sorry, I’m just very touched.” I brushed my hair off my forehead and glanced at Theo. He nodded. “I can take it now. That would be fine.”
“Wonderful. This way.”
We followed Jerry to the back of the gallery and through the door that led to the large classroom workspace. The walls were exposed brick, and it was cluttered with paintings on easels—the pieces that had been moved to make space for the gathering.
A chill hung in the air, and I crossed my arms while Jerry sorted through a stack of framed canvases leaning against the wall. He took one out of the middle and held it up.
It wasn’t very large, maybe eighteen by twenty-four, with a simple wood frame. A creek meandered across the landscape, and a big rock formation rose on one side. Mountains loomed in the background and trees blazed with fall color, their cheerful tones a stark contrast to the cloudy sky.
“It’s beautiful,” I said as he handed it to me. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for coming.”
Theo offered to carry the painting, so I handed it to him. We went back through the gallery, and it was a relief when we stepped outside. I didn’t want it to look like we’d stolen something.
We paused on the sidewalk and looked at each other open-mouthed. There was so much tea, we didn’t know where to begin.
CHAPTER 8
Theo
Penelopeand I walked to my truck in silence. I wasn’t sure where tostart. The gossipy ladies accusing the deceased of having an affair? The woman in question, wearing a dress that barely concealed her boobs? The drunk son, going on a tirade about his father and getting kicked out by his mother?
So. Much. Tea.
It wasn’t that I was a gossip. Not like the Tilikum busybodies who spread rumors like it was their job. I wouldn’t tell anyone. But discuss it—at length—with Pen? Heck yeah, I was doing that. How could I not?
I unlocked my truck and when Penelope got in, I handed her the painting before heading around to the driver’s side and climbing into my seat.
“Wow,” I said, not sure what else to say.
“You can say that again.”
“Where do we start?” I shifted in my seat so I was partially facing her.
She did the same, angling toward me. “Those ladies meant he was having an affair, right?”
“That’s totally what they meant. Did you know anything about it?”
“No, but I don’t really know anything about his personal life. I’ve seen the woman before, though.”
