go on about the primacy of art. And when I was painting back then, during MFA school, I used to glue pieces of broken records into my work. So it had two meanings. I guess both were lost on Mick if he took it the wrong way.”
“Everything looks suspicious after a fire,” Grace said. “Mick lost his friend and studio assistant, Don Hines.”
Annie frowned. “Mick must be devastated.”
“Yes,” said Grace.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing Mick,” Annie said suddenly. “It’s been… Gosh. I think it’s been thirty years. Maybe the next time he has an opening in New York, I’ll go.”
“It’s been a long time,” Grace agreed.
“Do you have an alibi for the night of the fire?” Cat asked.
“I doubt it,” Annie said. “I’m usually here, painting.”
“I see you’re losing your horses’ heads,” Grace said, gesturing to the painting that had caught her eye when they’d entered.
“Yes,” said Annie, beaming. “It’s good of you to notice.”
“A gorgeous movement,” Grace replied. “I think of the knight in a chess set. And Caligula. Not to mention the horse’s head in The Godfather .”
“That’s imbedded in it for sure,” Annie beamed. “Pun intended.”
Riding down in the freight elevator in Annie’s apartment building, Grace was taken aback when Cat accused her of flirting with their suspect.
“Excuse me?”
“You seem to be developing a girl-crush on Ms. Lin.”
“I was merely bonding with our suspect,” Grace said. “It’s something you should try sometime.”
“Bonding,” Cat replied. “Right.”
Grace let the sarcasm go for now, though sometimes she had to resist the urge to take her granddaughter down a peg or two. Their next interview wasn’t till tomorrow, and in the meantime, they meant to visit some of the galleries in town showing Mick’s work to see what else they could find.
Grace had always admired her brother’s talent, and it thrilled her to see his work in some of the top galleries in New York. Winston Price Gallery gave his Conch Series prime real estate in their main window, facing the vibrant Chelsea neighborhood. Its prominence was such an impressive sight that Grace stopped to take a photo with her phone. Mick complained that he wasn’t showing in as many galleries as he used to, but in every gallery that showed his work, it held a prominent position. Grace enjoyed her cachet as the older sister of a celebrated artist, and they tolerated her picture-taking. It seemed to rub off on Cat as well, who dropped her attitude toward modern art for the day, chatting up the gallery owners and uncovering a few anecdotes about what Mick had been like in his early days.
“He used to have a beard,” said Greta Stein, who owned the Painted Stick Gallery in SoHo. Grace remembered her brother’s facial-hair period. “He would show up to an opening with food stuck in it. It was clear he hadn’t showered, and his clothes were a mess, full of paint. But New Yorkers embraced him. They thought he was delightfully eccentric, the unkempt artist. You could get away with that, back then. Now everything is business, business.”
In Greta’s gallery, Cat paused longer than normal at a triptych on a back wall, not heavily trafficked and near where Greta kept her overflow stock. Grace noticed her lingering and came to find out what held her in sway.
It was one of Mick’s vaguely representational pieces, and the subject was a young girl, likely no more than eleven or twelve. There were three images, joined together. The girl had long red hair and tanned skin and was sitting on the edge of an armchair. Her legs were open to the viewer’s gaze in a manner that forced a sort of visual invasion of the girl’s space in each image, though her body language was slightly different in each. She wore shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, budding breasts visible beneath the shirt, and no bra underneath.
The look on her face seemed to accuse the viewer of ill intent
“Everything looks suspicious after a fire,” Grace said. “Mick lost his friend and studio assistant, Don Hines.”
Annie frowned. “Mick must be devastated.”
“Yes,” said Grace.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing Mick,” Annie said suddenly. “It’s been… Gosh. I think it’s been thirty years. Maybe the next time he has an opening in New York, I’ll go.”
“It’s been a long time,” Grace agreed.
“Do you have an alibi for the night of the fire?” Cat asked.
“I doubt it,” Annie said. “I’m usually here, painting.”
“I see you’re losing your horses’ heads,” Grace said, gesturing to the painting that had caught her eye when they’d entered.
“Yes,” said Annie, beaming. “It’s good of you to notice.”
“A gorgeous movement,” Grace replied. “I think of the knight in a chess set. And Caligula. Not to mention the horse’s head in The Godfather .”
“That’s imbedded in it for sure,” Annie beamed. “Pun intended.”
Riding down in the freight elevator in Annie’s apartment building, Grace was taken aback when Cat accused her of flirting with their suspect.
“Excuse me?”
“You seem to be developing a girl-crush on Ms. Lin.”
“I was merely bonding with our suspect,” Grace said. “It’s something you should try sometime.”
“Bonding,” Cat replied. “Right.”
Grace let the sarcasm go for now, though sometimes she had to resist the urge to take her granddaughter down a peg or two. Their next interview wasn’t till tomorrow, and in the meantime, they meant to visit some of the galleries in town showing Mick’s work to see what else they could find.
Grace had always admired her brother’s talent, and it thrilled her to see his work in some of the top galleries in New York. Winston Price Gallery gave his Conch Series prime real estate in their main window, facing the vibrant Chelsea neighborhood. Its prominence was such an impressive sight that Grace stopped to take a photo with her phone. Mick complained that he wasn’t showing in as many galleries as he used to, but in every gallery that showed his work, it held a prominent position. Grace enjoyed her cachet as the older sister of a celebrated artist, and they tolerated her picture-taking. It seemed to rub off on Cat as well, who dropped her attitude toward modern art for the day, chatting up the gallery owners and uncovering a few anecdotes about what Mick had been like in his early days.
“He used to have a beard,” said Greta Stein, who owned the Painted Stick Gallery in SoHo. Grace remembered her brother’s facial-hair period. “He would show up to an opening with food stuck in it. It was clear he hadn’t showered, and his clothes were a mess, full of paint. But New Yorkers embraced him. They thought he was delightfully eccentric, the unkempt artist. You could get away with that, back then. Now everything is business, business.”
In Greta’s gallery, Cat paused longer than normal at a triptych on a back wall, not heavily trafficked and near where Greta kept her overflow stock. Grace noticed her lingering and came to find out what held her in sway.
It was one of Mick’s vaguely representational pieces, and the subject was a young girl, likely no more than eleven or twelve. There were three images, joined together. The girl had long red hair and tanned skin and was sitting on the edge of an armchair. Her legs were open to the viewer’s gaze in a manner that forced a sort of visual invasion of the girl’s space in each image, though her body language was slightly different in each. She wore shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, budding breasts visible beneath the shirt, and no bra underneath.
The look on her face seemed to accuse the viewer of ill intent
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