I had done my best to dress like a wealthy art collector, which meant my ninja outfit with the addition of a colorful silk scarf that looked almost like a Hermès design.

  Tizzy was the perfect wing-whatever. She could start a conversation with anybody, and she picked up on my cues easily. And she was helpful at taking care of details, like finding out the directions to the gallery since Theo had driven us there when we went before. It turned out to be just a short walk down Randolph.

  As soon as we walked in, we were greeted by a woman dressed in a black skirt and black sweater with some interesting silver jewelry, making me realize my clothing choice was perfect. Her eye glazed my scarf. It was arranged so the pattern wasn’t quite discernible, but I think it passed her muster because she offered us both a warm smile.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ she asked, and I suddenly felt deflated. I should have figured that. I started to say no, but Tizzy gave my arm a nudge and took over. I almost choked when I heard her start talking with a Southern accent. She turned toward me just long enough to give me a wink and I remembered that she’d called the place before and must be trying to disguise her voice. Tizzy really took being my wingman seriously. She threw around her boss’s name and his connection to the Hyde Park Art Center in a whirlwind of comments meant to imply that we were more than lookie-loos. It seemed to work. The woman brightened and said she’d be happy to waive the requirement in our case and introduced herself as Melanie Gilbert. She subtly asked for our IDs and asked us to sign the guest book.

  ‘We like to escort our visitors so that we can offer background on the pieces,’ she said. In other words, a sales pitch. It was probably also to make sure we didn’t touch anything or have a snack as we looked – or try to take a souvenir.

  ‘It would be a pleasure to have your expert comments,’ Tizzy said, laying it on a little thick in her Southern belle voice.

  There had been such a crowd at the reception and, since I had no idea the gallery would be connected to my client, I hadn’t really paid that much attention to the artwork. The only thing that had registered was seeing the unpleasant woman I’d met at Maeve’s who had turned out to be her stepdaughter.

  ‘Let me tell you a little about us first,’ our escort said. ‘We like to say that art is in Zander Paul’s genes. The gallery was started by his late father, who introduced him to the world of artists and collectors. The goal of the gallery is to bring the two worlds together. Zander is intent on carrying on the tradition of discovering fresh faces in the art world, along with offering works of known masters.’

  I started to ask her questions about how the gallery worked. Did they own the paintings, and how did they pick what they were going to include? She seemed a little put off by my questions. ‘There’s no reason for you to worry about any of that. Just enjoy the viewing,’ she said.

  I was concerned that my questions might be brushed off, and had a ready reason for asking, with a slight stretching of the truth. ‘I’m a writer,’ I began. ‘I’m pitching an idea for an article about contemporary art, and I’m trying to gather up as much background information first as I can.’ My profession was a convenient shield for asking a lot of questions.

  ‘Oh,’ she said with sparked interest. ‘Of course, we’d love it if you mentioned the gallery by name. Actually, it is a mixture between artwork that Zander Paul Galleries owns, and those by artists looking for a place to display their work who we have offered space to. We also take works from collectors who want to take advantage of the appreciation of works they own.’

  It sounded like a lot of words to say they wanted to cash in on a painting that had gone up in value.

  Personally, art was an emotional thing for me. I liked it or I didn’t, irrespective of someone telling me how I should feel or how much it was worth.

  ‘Some galleries feature just one artist or a couple of them. We have an eclectic group,’ she said, leading us into a large area, painted a stark white. It looked a lot different without the crowd at the reception blocking the view. The artwork was spaced so that each piece stood by itself. She stopped at an abstract painting that looked like a red square in the middle of a white canvas and started on her pitch. She pointed out some grayish lines along the bottom of the red box and, as she named the artist, said that he had tried to capture the shadows on a pile of canvases in his studio. I squinted and tried to see what she was talking about. I supposed that the marking on the bottom of the red square could indicate a kind of shadow from a pile of canvases, but it escaped me why that was important. She did a little pitch on the artist, with most of the emphasis on how the value of his paintings had been escalating since another of his paintings had been seen in the background during an interview with Brad Pitt about possibly being the first non-British James Bond. ‘Everyone knows what impeccable taste he has,’ she said, looking at us. We both nodded and murmured something about it being impressive.

  I looked ahead at all the artwork in the room, figuring she’d give us a pitch on each of the paintings and then move on to the sculpture in the middle. I really wanted to cut to the chase. Yes, it was a cliché, but it said it so perfectly. I’d looked into the derivation and it came from the film industry in the 1920s, and literally meant cutting to the exciting chase sequence which was the best part of early movies.

  ‘I’m really interested in Michael Angel. Do you have any of his works?’ I said before she could begin her pitch on the next work of art.

  ‘Yes, we do. In fact his daughter just joined our staff. It’s too bad she isn’t working today because she could give you even more background on him,’ Melanie said. I feigned disappointment while thinking how grateful I was that she wasn’t there.

  ‘We have a whole gallery dedicated to him. Let me show you.’ She led us into the next room and my eye went right to a canvas on the back wall. ‘That’s his newest. It’s seasonally appropriate,’ she said with a smile. The black dog was in the foreground, staring out with its soulful eyes that somehow also had a feeling of fun. A decorated altar was in the background with a vase of marigolds, a blue patterned cup, a loaf of bread and a skeleton in dancing mode. ‘It’s called The Scotty and the Day of the Dead,’ Melanie said. I noticed she’d pulled out a piece of paper and looked at it surreptitiously. ‘The holiday is celebrated on the first and second of November, honoring the departed with traditional marigold flowers, a favored drink and food, with a skeleton added for fun.’ She stopped and looked at the paper again. ‘It’s supposed to be joyous rather than somber.’

  To say that I loved it was an understatement. No matter what I thought of Michael Angel personally, I loved the painting. I glanced at the card with the price and almost choked. Maybe if I won the lottery.

  Tizzy moved toward an adjacent wall that had several landscapes. I joined her, noting that each had a nude woman in it rather randomly placed. Melanie rushed to join us and began what sounded like a scripted pitch.

  ‘These are done by Michael as well. They show the breadth of his talent.’ She went on about the style of trees, the way he handled the light and the graceful nude figures. I nodded and pretended to be impressed, but maybe I just wasn’t into nude women. I was glad to move on to another of the dog pictures. She followed me, going on about the deeper meaning of the Scotty and how the soulful eyes seemed to exude love. I was more interested in the painting itself. It was called The Scotty and Friends. The black-haired dog was in the center, flanked on one side by a stylized Jack Russell terrier. Michael had captured the short-haired dog’s bon vivant type of personality. A black-and-white cat that resembled Rocky was on the other side. It seemed like the cat was smiling. Just looking at it made me smile. I didn’t dare look at the price tag.

  I asked Melanie how they discovered new artists. ‘Zander goes to all the art fairs and small art shows, hoping to find the next big star.’

  ‘And that’s how he found Michael Angel,’ I said as more of a statement than a question.

  She stopped for a moment. ‘I think that was more of an experiment,’ she said rather cryptically.

  She pointed to an adjacent wall and another of the Scotty paintings. ‘That one is called The Scotty and the Lake.’

  I loved that one, too. The foreground of this one had a tree branch lacy with leaves dangling over the Scotty dog. He had the same expression that drew me in. There was something moody and maybe a little sinister about the lake in the background.

  ‘We have prints available on this one, for the budget minded,’ she said. I didn’t want to tell her that the best my budget would allow was the postcard I’d bought at the reception.

  Tizzy nudged me and I got my mind off the paintings back to the reason we were there. ‘I’m sure you’ve met Michael Angel,’ I said to Melanie. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Utterly charming,’ she said. ‘It’s such a pleasure to have an artist who likes to meet our patrons. It’s like he was born for the spotlight. And now he’s nominated for that important honor and being featured in a documentary.’

  ‘What about his family?’ I asked.

  ‘I told you his daughter works for us, and she’s also been acting as his assistant lately.’

  ‘Then he’s not married?’

  ‘It’s not really our concern,’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘I suppose it isn’t,’ Tizzy said. ‘Veronica is only asking for the article. She wants to know about the life of the artist. Is he like Picasso with two wives, six mistresses and countless lovers?’ I had to keep myself from laughing at how direct her comment was. It was probably from more of Theo’s research.

  Melanie blushed and seemed uncomfortable. ‘He has had two wives, but I don’t know about the rest of it.’ Then her voice dropped. ‘His second wife just died in a horrible accident in their home.’

  Tizzy and I nodded with reverence, and probably both realized at the same time that her comment had just ended any more chances of probing into his personal life.

  She brought us back to the front and seemed anxious to be done with us. But before she could escort us to the door, two people came in. I recognized Zander Paul and Sophia from the reception. I suppose she had a last name, but I’d only ever heard her referred to by her first name and her YouTube channel. There had been a lot going on then and I hadn’t realized they had any connection to Maeve, and so I had only given them a cursory appraisal at the time.

  Trying to appear casual, I checked them out. He looked the part of a gallery owner. A combination of business and arty. The suit and the open-collared dress shirt were the business part, and the nubby scarf in tones of brown that hung loose against the lapels was the arty part.

  Sophia was distinctive rather than pretty. Her dark hair was so shiny, it looked shellacked, and she accentuated her generous lips with bright red lipstick. I was pretty sure the scarf she was wearing was a real Hermès.

  Melanie explained that she’d been showing us around and that we were Michael Angel fans. The gallery owner, thinking we might be buyers, introduced himself and Sophia, and waited until we gave our names as well. To say he was solicitous was an understatement. I hoped I could use that in my favor.

  It took a moment before I noticed the dog at Sophia’s feet. ‘He looks just like the dog in the painting,’ I exclaimed. I remembered that at the reception she’d said something about the resemblance of her dog to Michael’s paintings, and that was how they’d all come together, but I was curious about hearing her version again when it had relevance.

  ‘Everybody says that,’ she said with a smile. ‘My sweetie Drexel wasn’t that actual model, but I think somehow he crept into the imagination of the artist.’ She pointed out the small counter set up in the corner. I recognized the display of posters and other merchandise as the spot where I’d gotten my postcard. ‘Hard to believe that he’d never laid eyes on my darling when he painted that.’ She grabbed a T-shirt with the image of the painting. She looked from me to Tizzy. ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’ she said. She turned to her escort. ‘Tell them,’ she commanded. Then she laughed. ‘If I say it, it sounds self-serving, but if he does, it sounds better.’

  ‘She’s Sophia of the Second Chance Sophia YouTube channel.’ He gave it a moment to see if either of us responded, but Tizzy was following my lead and we both had blank looks.

  ‘She, with her trusty companion Drexel, turns trash into treasures. She can fix anything with Sukey’s Super Stick and a few other supplies.’ Sophia fluttered her eyes as if she was embarrassed by his hyperbole and then stepped in. She had pulled out business cards and handed them to the two of us. ‘This has the link, in case you’re interested. I’d love for you both to subscribe.’ She made it sound like getting a personal invitation was supposed to excite us. I glanced at the card and saw the painting was her logo. She saw me looking at it. ‘Everybody loves that picture. It’s like every one of my subscribers had gotten a T-shirt or a poster.’

  While Tizzy and I were making friends with the dog and eyeing the merchandise, I noticed that Zander had pulled Melanie aside. No doubt she’d clued him in to how we weren’t potential customers.

  The solicitous manner was gone when he rejoined us. He linked his arm with Sophia. ‘We just stopped in to drop something off,’ he said. He nodded to our guide. ‘Melanie can help you with whatever you need.’ Melanie watched as the three of them went out the door.

  It seemed like she suddenly remembered what I’d said about writing an article. ‘They’re off to a charity event in Highland Park,’ she said. ‘Part of the gallery business is socializing with potential collectors.’ I was enjoying her use of words. The way she said collectors instead of buyers, and how she tried to keep the whole thing above what it was: turning art into cash. ‘I believe Michael Angel is meeting them there. He never says no to an event. Some of our artists seem to feel out of place with that crowd, but not Michael. He seems to come alive when there’s a lot of people.’

  I wondered about the event he was supposed to have gone to when Maeve had her accident. But I couldn’t think of a way to ask her without it seeming suspicious.

  ‘She certainly saw a different side of him than I did,’ I said to Tizzy when we left. ‘All I got was anger. And what was that voice about?’ I asked with a laugh. As I thought, she’d been worried the woman might recognize her voice from the phone call. ‘Well, Scarlett, how about getting some lunch?’

  ‘I’d love to, but I have to get back to work,’ Tizzy said, batting her eyes in a mimicry of the Gone with the Wind character. ‘Alex is understanding, but even he has his limits, and there is some work I have to get out today.’

  We took the train back to Hyde Park and, when we got to my corner, I started to thank Tizzy. ‘Why don’t you come to my place after work? I don’t have sherry, but I have cooking wine. We could talk over everything. You may have noticed something I missed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tizzy said with a smile. ‘That’s the job of a wingman.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  It was just as well that Tizzy had been in a hurry to get back to work. I went right to my computer and wrote down notes from our trip. They were just snippets that I would use to come up with an entry for the memoir. I decided it would be about the dog paintings themselves. I would just throw in a couple of lines about the landscapes and use what Melanie had said about it showing the breadth of his talent. I’d have to be careful not to go too over the top about the Scotty works and then seem indifferent to the others. I was sure that Maeve adored all his work. What was it that the headmistress of the Dupont Academy had said: ‘Love is blind.’

  When I’d gotten down everything I could remember, I wanted to let it jell a little before I wrote up the piece. I was considering going across the street to the coffee shop and having a bowl of soup. Wednesdays they had cream of mushroom and it was my favorite.

  Before I could do anything, my landline rang. It was Caleb reporting that he’d left the second of the new cards that he’d made. He sounded sure his artwork and my words were going to get through to her. Even though it would mean the end of the gig, I hoped he was right.

  Talking to Caleb made me curious about which house his wife lived in and I wanted to get some details of Maeve’s house to add to the piece I’d written about it. The soup would be my reward.

  Of course, the weather had changed in the short time I’d been home and a sharp wind was blowing in off the lake. Even the hint of sun from earlier was gone and the sky now had a gray, moody look which made the idea of something hot seem even more appealing.

  The chill and clouds did nothing to dissuade the group of joggers who ran past me as I turned on 57th. The world could be ending and some students would probably still be jogging to the lakefront.

  As soon as I turned on Harper, I went into observation mode. I noted how narrow the street was compared to mine, and how it curved, making it impossible to see all the way to 59th. Although the houses had been built at the same time and there was a uniform feeling in their size, each was individual. Now that Halloween was the next holiday, a lot of the houses had pumpkins and gourds displayed on their front porches. I stopped when I got to Maeve’s house. I made note of the little balcony outside her workroom and the sunburst design in strips of leaded glass at the top of one of the living-room windows. Being there reminded me of the big kitchen and the layout of the first floor. I forced myself to remove the memory of Maeve on the stairs and tried to imagine how it would have looked to her when they first moved in.

  For now, the house appeared quiet, and there was just a tiny shred of police tape left on the front-door handle from when they closed it off. I would have liked to look at the backyard, but I didn’t dare.

  I considered taking a picture with my phone, but I could only capture parts of it. I pulled out my notebook and pen and wrote down the details I’d noticed. Then I began throwing down words that came to mind. Brooding, holding secrets, scene of the crime. I stopped realizing none of those would be useful for what I was working on.