A Game of Cones Page 8

  “Sure,” I said and nodded. I swallowed my bite of red snapper before continuing. “Black Market Paper. We can go there. And I think I saw that the village is having an art exhibit over at the visitors’ center. We can check that out, too.”

  “You have a visitors’ center?” she asked, leaning over and lowering her voice like repeating it was saying something dirty. “In this tiny little place? Why?”

  “There is a lot going on in our little village,” I said. “And already, we have two things that pique your interest.”

  “There is definitely a lot more to this place than I imagined,” she said, letting her gaze drift off again.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, thinking she might be being negative again. But her face belied something more.

  Sitting up and straightening out her napkin, she turned her attention back to me and gave me a slight smile. “For instance, everyone keeps coming back.”

  “By everyone, I’m assuming you mean my Aunt Jack?”

  That brought my mood down.

  “Yes. You. Your aunt Jack.” She scooped up some of the jasmine rice and speared a piece of asparagus. “She’s as intrusive as a hurricane.”

  “She is,” I said.

  “Looks like I came with Peter’s offer just in time.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?” I put my fork down. I had ordered the whole snapper, which I had been thoroughly enjoying until Rory brought up my aunt. Again.

  “The mall coming is sure to take out your ice cream shop if your aunt doesn’t get to it first.”

  “I’m not worried about my aunt. My grandfather put me in charge of it.”

  “Oh, but you are worried about that mall.”

  “No.” Then I realized I hadn’t thought much about it. Not anything about what would happen to our ice cream shop if a mall was built. I wasn’t sure how it would affect it. People would still eat my ice cream, there would just be competition. I looked at Rory and puffed out my chest. “I’m not worried about a mall either.”

  Rory chuckled. “I like that brave face you just put on. Reminds me of the one you used to wear when you were going into Peter’s office to get the green light on one of your off-the-wall ad pitches.”

  “I always came back out with what I wanted.”

  “And that’s why they want you back,” she said.

  “Not interested,” I said.

  “You’ll get an office, your old team back, and anyone else you want to hire, and a twenty percent raise.”

  “Twenty percent?”

  “Yep,” she said and took a sip of her wine. “Unless you want more?”

  “You’re not authorized to offer me that, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” I saw a sparkle in her eye.

  “Money can’t woo me.”

  “Why?” She tilted her head and gave me a smirk. “Because how much money are you making here?”

  I laughed. She got me on that one. If it wasn’t for my taking money from my savings, I probably would have had to move back in with my parents. Between paying back the construction loan, plus my student loans, and revamping our family business, I didn’t have, as my Grandma Kay used to say, two nickels to rub together.

  “Are you finished?” I said as she bent over her plate scooping up more rice.

  “Mm,” she grunted, trying to keep the rice from falling back out of her mouth. She pointed to my plate with her fork. “You’re not.”

  “I am,” I said. I put my napkin on top of my plate and glanced at my watch. “Didn’t you want to see the gallery before they close?”

  She nodded eagerly and gulped the rest of her wine, washing down any remnants of food. She swiped the napkin across her mouth. “I would love to go there.”

  I signaled for the waiter. “I got this,” I told her and reached for my purse.

  “No,” she said and stretched her hand across the table. “Peter gave me an expense account. Don’t spend your money when we can spend the company’s!”

  I chuckled. “Okay. Now, that I’ll go along with, I’ll let Peter treat us.” My face brightened. “I should have ordered dessert!”

  The waitress took Rory’s company Amex card, and as we waited, I saw Ari. He was showing those beautiful teeth of his going from table to table greeting his customers. I was sure he wouldn’t want to talk to me, not after the earlier confrontation with Maisie. But his eyes locked with mine and he beamed. He headed our way.

  “Here comes the owner now,” I said to Rory and discreetly pointed to Ari. “I can introduce you.”

  “Where?” she said, turning her head. When she saw him, though, her face went pale.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said and started fidgeting in her seat.

  “Hi, Win.” Ari made it over to our table, his smile even wider. I was glad he didn’t hold Maisie’s craziness against me.

  He turned to speak to Rory and recognition sparked in his eyes. “We meet again.”

  “Hi,” she said, not looking up, keeping her head tucked.

  “You find whatever it was you were looking for?”

  She cleared her throat like her words had gotten stuck and nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “I’m Ari.” He stuck out a hand to Rory. “This is my place.”

  “Rory. Rory Hunter,” she answered and placed her hand inside of his.

  “Nice to see you,” he said. “Again. Kind of scary meeting strangers in the dark, I know.”

  “You met before?” I scrunched up my face.

  “But you can see—” Ari stepped back, still talking, and gestured down his body. “I’m one of the good guys. Aren’t I, Win?”

  I chuckled at his comment. Good thing he was asking me that question and not Maisie. “Yes, Ari. You’re one of the good guys.”

  “Win, was the fish okay?” He pointed down at my plate. “You didn’t finish.”

  “It was delicious, Ari.” I glanced down at it. No need to tell him that I’d lost my appetite because everyone was trying to disrupt my life with murder investigations, job offers and the invasion of fly-by-night relatives. “And filling.” I rubbed my stomach.

  “As long as you enjoyed it.”

  “I did.”

  “I can tell Rory Hunter enjoyed hers.” He smiled down at her, but she had yet to look up. “Her plate is clean.”

  At that, Rory abruptly popped up. It was like she had just gathered up enough combustible energy to do it and it was coming out at once. “We have to go” spilled out as she pushed her chair back and took off for the door.

  Ari and I stared after her, then he looked at me. I shrugged. “We’re trying to get to Black Market Paper before it closes.”

  “Oh,” he said, one eyebrow arched upward.

  “Ma’am!” It was our waitress. Rory had left so quickly, she’d forgotten her credit card.

  “I better go catch her,” I said, excusing myself. “That’s a company credit card. I don’t want her losing her job over a half-eaten red snapper and some jasmine rice.”

  Ari laughed. “I wouldn’t want that either.”

  “Ma’am!”

  The waitress was still chasing Rory.

  There was definitely something going on with her.

  chapter

  TWELVE

  What is wrong with you?”

  Rory had made it all the way to the door before I caught up with her. I got her to sign the check—didn’t want the server to have to chase her up the street—and ushered her out the door. The sun had started to set and it wasn’t as hot out as it had been earlier, but Rory was sweating.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. She nodded and started up walking again. “Look.” I grabbed her arm. “You have to tell me what’s going on with you. You are not okay.”

  “I am,
” she said. She sucked in a breath and blew it back out through her mouth. “Really, I’m fine.”

  I glanced back toward the restaurant. “I don’t believe that. But I’m guessing you’ll tell me when you can.” I tried to soften my eyes, make her feel more comfortable. She looked tense. “How do you know Ari?”

  “I don’t,” she answered a little too quickly.

  “Then what was the whole in-the-dark-but-now you-see-I’m-not-so-scary thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okaaay.” I didn’t know what to make of her. She’d always been a bit high-strung and sometimes even moody. But I’d always attributed it to her being the creative type. I knew sometimes to us “unartistic” folk, artists could appear to be a little weird.

  “You still want to go to Black Market Paper?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And you’re sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay,” she repeated.

  “Okay, good,” I said.

  “I’d be better if you’d agree to come back to New York and take your job back,” she said and bumped her body into mine.

  “You are so weird,” I said. “I forgot how much so. You’re worse than Maisie.”

  “Is she weird?” Rory asked.

  “After spending the day with you, I’m thinking I should rethink that assessment of her.” I shook my head. “I think you might win the prize.”

  “Is that any way to treat company?” She smacked my arm. “I’m good, I tell you. Just probably, you know, I’m tired from the drive and I’ve got my mission on my mind.”

  “So c’mon, then. Let’s give you some art intervention. Maybe it’ll help you feel better.”

  * * *

  BLACK MARKET PAPER was bright and had a good vibe with the recessed lighting, stark white walls and contrasting shiny dark wood crown molding. The store was narrow and long and seemed to go on forever. Every inch of the walls was covered in paintings and prints and sketches, whether they were framed or rolled up and stuffed into little cubbies stacked along the walls. The floor had easel after easel scattered about the space, with just enough room to squeeze by to get to the next picture just beyond. And the AC was set to “freezing.”

  When we walked in, the place seemed deserted. No one came to greet us, but the faces and landscapes of the pictures seemed to welcome us. Warm brushstrokes, vibrant watercolors and chalked figures beckoning us to come on in and have a look.

  “They have a really nice collection,” Rory said, her eyes wide with delight and wonder. She had walked over to me and whispered her declaration.

  “I see you’re surprised.”

  “After the coffee debacle this morning, and all the . . . uhm . . . quaint shops”—she smiled at me—“I really didn’t expect much from Chagrin Falls.”

  “You should be more open-minded.”

  “Maybe I will, but I’ll never be open-minded enough to ever want to live in this itty-bitty place.”

  “Not even with this awesome gallery?”

  “This is an awesome gallery.” A man with a Russian accent had walked up behind us. “It is awesome, because we are awesome.”

  “Don’t harass our customers.” A woman’s voice, deep and throaty, came out from the back. Rory and I turned to look at her. “Hi,” she said and offered a limp hand. “I am Baraniece Black, and this”—she did a head nod—“is my husband, Ivan Rynok.” She shook hands with each of us.

  Rory looked down at her hand, then ran her other one over it. “Paint,” she said. I looked down at mine. I had red streaks on it, too. We’ve must have interrupted a painting session.

  “We are the owners.” Baraniece, not seeming to care that she’d used us like a canvas, not even apologizing, spread her arms wide as if she was going to take flight. Rory and I couldn’t help but to let out a chuckle.

  “I know you.” Baraniece pointed one of her talons at me. Her nails were long and painted in a shiny black. I didn’t know how she painted with nails that long. “You’re Aloysius’s daughter . . . family . . . or something. You put the glass wall up in his store.”

  “Our store,” I said and, following her lead about being the owners, I almost spread out my arms when I spoke. “It’s a family business.”

  “Did you come for art?” she asked, ignoring my correction.

  “I came—”

  “To admire your art.” Rory took over talking for me and gave me the eye saying let her handle this. “You have quite a collection here.”

  “We do, don’t we?” Baraniece said and smiled. “We have art from all over the world and from every period.” She clasped her hands together. “What is it that you want to see?”

  Baraniece Black didn’t have a trace of an accent, but the way she spoke seemed foreign. Her face was saggy, but it looked as though she tried to keep it in place by piling on makeup. She had dramatic smoky eyes and cherry-red lipstick. Her hair was shoulder length, but its height and curls didn’t move. I wondered if I touched it whether it would be hard and sticky from hair spray.

  “There are so many things I want to see,” Rory said, her gleaming eyes roaming the small boutique-style gallery.

  “If you need anything, just let us know,” Baraniece said. “We’ll be moving to a new location soon. Prices will be good.” She hunched her shoulders. “Almost like a fire sale.”

  “A fire sale,” Ivan said from behind us. It made me jump. I had forgotten he was there. He hadn’t said a word since his wife had made an entrance.

  “I’m going to do a little research,” Rory said when we left the art gallery. “I saw some things I really like.”

  “Are you going to buy something?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I might.” She had a thoughtful smile on her face. “I need to go back.”

  “Why?”

  “A couple of reasons. There was a section of Russian art that I’m very familiar with, but didn’t have a chance to check it out. I’m guessing from his accent Ivan is Russian. It’d be fun to have a look at it, then have a discussion with him about it.”

  “He’s Russian, but what is she?”

  “I know, right?” Rory said, her eyes brightening. “What was that accent?”

  “I would guess ‘made-up.’” We both chuckled. “But they are both very nice,” I said. “I’ve never bought anything from them. Too expensive. But I believe if they say they’ll give you a deal, they will.”

  “Good. I’m definitely going back.”

  “What’s the other reason you mentioned?”

  “I just want to make sure I’m paying a good price.” She bit her bottom lip. I could tell she was excited about her consideration. “Some things I saw were priced about right and some things I wasn’t sure of.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like the paintings they have by the Florida Highwaymen.” I could hear the excitement creep into her voice. “I’d really love to have one of those. I’ve never seen any for sale before. So I know I have to act quickly.”

  “The Florida who?”

  “Highwaymen,” she said.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them.”

  “They were black artists known for painting Florida landscapes from, like, the 1950s through the ’80s,” she explained. “They sold the paintings door-to-door and from the trunks of their cars.”

  “Door-to-door? Why did they do that?”

  “You know it was the fifties and because of racial barriers some galleries wouldn’t accept their work.” She shrugged. “But their selling techniques worked. They painted a couple hundred thousand pictures over the years.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “Yeah, and at first they were selling them for, like, twenty-five dollars apiece. Sometimes the paint wouldn’t even be dry when customers purchased them.”


  “Twenty-five dollars is certainly affordable,” I said. “If they have some you should get you a few.”

  “They were inexpensive then.” She emphasized the word. “I don’t know how much they go for exactly, but I know they cost more now. Nowadays, I’m thinking, they could sell as high as tens of thousands.”

  “Whoa. Isn’t that over your head?”

  “Those are, but there are some not so expensive.”

  “Oh. Okay. Did you see one you like?” I asked.

  “I did,” Rory said, her eyes lighting up. “Maybe more than one. They were by Alfred Hair.”

  “They had more than one in there?”

  She nodded. “And that is so exciting to me. Just think, I could start my own little collection.”

  “That would be nice,” I said. “Something to take back home from Chagrin Falls.”

  “Taking you and a Highwaymen painting back to New York.” She gave a low whistle. “That would make this trip more than worthwhile.”

  I laughed. “You probably should have picked up one,” I said. “It might not be there later, and I wouldn’t want you to go home empty-handed.”

  “Oh, I will convince you soon enough.” She laughed. “But, I didn’t want to get one because I think I recognized another one of the signatures of the artists, but I’m not sure.”

  “How will you find out?”

  “I’m going to check to see if I can find a catalogue raisonné.”

  “What’s that? And where would you find it?”

  “It’s a comprehensive annotated catalog of an artist’s work,” Rory said, speaking passionately. “I should be able to find one online. What it is, is a book, or booklet, that shows pictures and lists the locations, if known, of an artist’s work. But more importantly, it’ll give me an idea of their worth.”

  “So you’ll know what to offer?”

  “Right.” She nodded. “They had a price listed and I’m thinking that it was a really, really good deal.”

  “How much?”

  “Eight thousand.”

  “Whoa! Do you have money like that?” I grabbed her arm and stopped her from walking. “To spend on a picture?” I asked, my eyes wide. I knew how expensive it was to live in New York and I knew what Hawken Spencer paid.