Page 51 of Captive Ruin

I’m nervous about the empty walls. Amiento’s work is our big feature, the centerpiece of the exhibition, and we only have three of his pieces. The other six are due today, and they can’t come soon enough.

I wander the gallery, picturing which pieces I’ll put where. Jeanne Quek’s metal sculptures arrive Monday and will take the central space. Then Amiento’s pictures giving depth and contrast.

It will work. In fact, it’ll be fantastic. This is exactly the event I need to get the gallery’s name out there, and a reporter coming from Time Out is the icing on the cake.

I’m so lost in my thoughts I’m barely aware of Sierra walking up, until she steps close, voice pitched low, mindful of the handful of walk-ins who are perusing our usual stock.

“Ammy?” she says tentatively. “There’s a guy from Crozier here.”

“Ah, great. The deliveries from Amiento.”

“Uh…” Her expression is kicked puppy. “It is Amiento, but the guy says he’s collecting, not delivering.”

“What?” My voice rises, and one of the viewers turns to glance our way. I take Sierra’s arm, steering her back toward my office. “That can’t be right.”

“Maybe I misunderstood?”

“I’ll talk to him. Any problems are resolvable.”

“Oh, good.” She gives me a tremulous smile in return. “I’ll go get some coffees while you sort it out.”

“Great idea.”

Leaving her, I head for the back door, irritated that this isn’t the delivery I was expecting, but some administrative screwup instead. I force myself to take a breath, then paste on a smile as I round the corner.

The delivery guy from Crozier has a clipboard. The door’s open, a van waiting outside.

“Miss… uh…” He glances at his sheet. “…Anderson?”

Yes, that’s the name on the gallery.

“What can I do for you?”

“Collecting three pieces by a Michael Amiento.”

“That’s not correct. You’re supposed to be dropping off, not picking up.”

“That’s not what this says,” he replies, tapping his clipboard.

I square my shoulders. “Show me the docket, please.”

“Sure.” He hands it over.

The instructions are clear and concise, printed in neat type, the page embossed with the company logo. Crozier specializes in art shipping. They rarely make mistakes.

What the hell is going on?

“I’m sorry, I know nothing about this,” I tell the delivery guy as I hand back his clipboard. “I can’t authorize this without speaking to the artist. You’ll have to return next week.”

He’s not happy, but I apologize again as I usher him out of the door, close it after him, frowning at it in confusion.

A fast walk back to my office. Sierra is still getting coffees, thankfully. I close the door, sit down behind my desk, take a breath or two.

Then I pick up the phone.

It rings for so long I’m not sure he’s going to answer, but then he does. “Hello?”

“Michael. Amelia Anderson. I’ve just had a puzzling request for a collection.”