the wall.
“... And I will not tolerate your arrogance. I simply will not put up with it.”
“Shut up, Maurice. This is business. Why the hell do you think Hans and I have gone to the extent we have to ... ?”
I’d moved slightly to my right to get closer to the voices. In doing so, I bumped into a small table on which a piece of sculpture was displayed. Fortunately, it was metal. It fell off the stand to the floor, making a racket but suffering no damage. My ego was another matter.
A door opened, and Maurice St. James stepped through it. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, eyes wide, voice slightly higher than I remembered it to be.
“Mr. St. James.”
“What a pleasant surprise.” He quickly regained his usual composure.
“I was just admiring Mr. Leopold’s work.”
“Wonderful. Still interested in buying the lot?”
“Afraid not.”
I looked past him to the door through which he’d arrived. I only saw him for a moment, a fleeting glance, but enough to know who it was. Miki Dorsey’s father.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I said.
“Of course not. I didn’t hear the bell. It isn’t very loud.”
Not as loud as your voices, I thought.
“May I act as your guide?” St. James asked, glancing over his shoulder, seeing that the door was open, and closing it with his foot.
“No need,” I said. “Actually, I was enjoying a solitary tour of the art. Very relaxing, very soothing.”
He forced a laugh. “Few refer to Josh Leopold as ‘soothing.’ But it is, after all, in the eye of the beholder.”
“As it should be. Please, don’t let me take you from your—meeting.”
“Meeting? I—”
I moved away from him and began looking at the other paintings on the wall. I glanced back. His smile was pasted on his face, but there was a worried look in his eyes. I smiled. He did a little bow from the waist, then opened the door and disappeared through it.
I’d lost interest in viewing any more of the art on the walls.
What was Mild Dorsey’s father doing there discussing what sounded like serious business? His daughter was dead only two days. What kind of a man was he?
Maurice St. James reemerged. “Any questions about the work?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I understand that art theft is common. Have any of Mr. Leopold’s works disappeared?”
It was a thin smile.
I waited for a reply.
“Disappeared? I don’t think so.”
“Is he a—what would you call it?—was Mr. Leopold a hot item in other parts of the world?”
“Yes. His reputation has begun to develop a strong foreign following.”
“Was he a prolific artist?”
“Extremely. Remarkably so.”
“So this gallery represents only a small percentage of his work.”
He drew a deep breath; he was obviously annoyed at my questions.
“I don’t mean to ask so many questions, Mr. St. James, but I might be interested in buying some of his paintings. I think knowing how many pieces of his art exist would have something to do with the value of each piece.”
“Very astute, Mrs. Fletcher. And you’re right. It does have a bearing. To answer your question, yes, what you see on these walls is only a small portion of his overall artistic output.”
“That would diminish his worth. Supply and demand, I believe it’s called.”
“That’s right. I think you might—”
The door opened, and Dorsey poked his head into the gallery. “Maurice!”
“Mr. Dorsey,” I said, stepping in his direction and extending my hand. “Jessica Fletcher. I met you last night at the house where your daughter lived. I’m terribly sorry about what happened.”
He had no choice but to take my hand, although his sour expression said loud and clear he wasn’t happy to see someone else there.
Dorsey dropped my hand and said to St. James, “Maurice, please.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher,” St. James said. “Please continue to browse. I’ll be—back there—in case you have any questions.” With that, he disappeared with
“... And I will not tolerate your arrogance. I simply will not put up with it.”
“Shut up, Maurice. This is business. Why the hell do you think Hans and I have gone to the extent we have to ... ?”
I’d moved slightly to my right to get closer to the voices. In doing so, I bumped into a small table on which a piece of sculpture was displayed. Fortunately, it was metal. It fell off the stand to the floor, making a racket but suffering no damage. My ego was another matter.
A door opened, and Maurice St. James stepped through it. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, eyes wide, voice slightly higher than I remembered it to be.
“Mr. St. James.”
“What a pleasant surprise.” He quickly regained his usual composure.
“I was just admiring Mr. Leopold’s work.”
“Wonderful. Still interested in buying the lot?”
“Afraid not.”
I looked past him to the door through which he’d arrived. I only saw him for a moment, a fleeting glance, but enough to know who it was. Miki Dorsey’s father.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I said.
“Of course not. I didn’t hear the bell. It isn’t very loud.”
Not as loud as your voices, I thought.
“May I act as your guide?” St. James asked, glancing over his shoulder, seeing that the door was open, and closing it with his foot.
“No need,” I said. “Actually, I was enjoying a solitary tour of the art. Very relaxing, very soothing.”
He forced a laugh. “Few refer to Josh Leopold as ‘soothing.’ But it is, after all, in the eye of the beholder.”
“As it should be. Please, don’t let me take you from your—meeting.”
“Meeting? I—”
I moved away from him and began looking at the other paintings on the wall. I glanced back. His smile was pasted on his face, but there was a worried look in his eyes. I smiled. He did a little bow from the waist, then opened the door and disappeared through it.
I’d lost interest in viewing any more of the art on the walls.
What was Mild Dorsey’s father doing there discussing what sounded like serious business? His daughter was dead only two days. What kind of a man was he?
Maurice St. James reemerged. “Any questions about the work?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I understand that art theft is common. Have any of Mr. Leopold’s works disappeared?”
It was a thin smile.
I waited for a reply.
“Disappeared? I don’t think so.”
“Is he a—what would you call it?—was Mr. Leopold a hot item in other parts of the world?”
“Yes. His reputation has begun to develop a strong foreign following.”
“Was he a prolific artist?”
“Extremely. Remarkably so.”
“So this gallery represents only a small percentage of his work.”
He drew a deep breath; he was obviously annoyed at my questions.
“I don’t mean to ask so many questions, Mr. St. James, but I might be interested in buying some of his paintings. I think knowing how many pieces of his art exist would have something to do with the value of each piece.”
“Very astute, Mrs. Fletcher. And you’re right. It does have a bearing. To answer your question, yes, what you see on these walls is only a small portion of his overall artistic output.”
“That would diminish his worth. Supply and demand, I believe it’s called.”
“That’s right. I think you might—”
The door opened, and Dorsey poked his head into the gallery. “Maurice!”
“Mr. Dorsey,” I said, stepping in his direction and extending my hand. “Jessica Fletcher. I met you last night at the house where your daughter lived. I’m terribly sorry about what happened.”
He had no choice but to take my hand, although his sour expression said loud and clear he wasn’t happy to see someone else there.
Dorsey dropped my hand and said to St. James, “Maurice, please.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher,” St. James said. “Please continue to browse. I’ll be—back there—in case you have any questions.” With that, he disappeared with
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