“They are the perfect addition to your gallery opening on Friday,” Ilsa added.
“Right along with Da’rel’s collection of acrylics and Marilyn Culpepper’s watercolors,” he countered.
“Your entire collection is lovely,” Jillian added. “But that goblet is especially stunning—the way it fades from purple to violet to white. And that metal filigree design of wolves and the moon—gorgeous!”
“That’s the blood goblet,” Ilsa said. “My husband and I acquired it from a dealer in Romania. The dealer said whoever drinks from it and has an impure heart will be cursed. Those who drink and have reckless courage will be gifted with abundant success and great wealth.”
Harvey rolled his eyes.
Ilsa winked at him. “It worked for me. It’s my good luck charm. And my favorite piece.”
Unconvinced Harvey turned to Jillian. “Hand me those ruby-colored flutes. I want them under the blood goblet.”
“They look so gothic and magical.” The comment came from behind them. Angie Webb, the receptionist, hung over her circular desk for a better view of the display. “I can’t keep my eyes off all the pieces. The lighting is perfect over there.”
“I’m hoping your guests will enjoy them as much as I do. I’ll see you all on opening night.” Ilsa slung her Gucci purse over her shoulder and tossed a wave at Harvey and his staff.
Just as the older woman stepped toward the gallery door, Marilyn Culpepper, the featured artist barreled in, pushing the door with enough force for it to hit the jamb. The rotund woman waved several sheets of paper at Harvey and said, “I need to see you about this. Now!”
“I’m working here, Marilyn,” Harvey said. “Can’t whatever it is wait?”
Jillian shelved a set of Ilsa’s delicate perfume bottles and crystal decanters.
“No, it most certainly cannot,” Marilyn sputtered. “These figures you sent me for last month’s sales and consignments are off. You sold four of my large paintings, and your report shows only three.”
“I’m sure it can be explained. Step into my office, and we’ll look at it.”
“Harvey, I’m getting tired of this,” Marilyn said. Her voice got louder as she shook the papers again at the portly gallery owner.
He grabbed them, licked his fingers, and paged through them. “Come with me.”
“This is the second time that the numbers and your checks have been off. I seriously doubt you want me to spread the word that you cheat artists. Richmond is a close-knit art community. We all talk to each other.”
Ilsa Prescott frowned and slipped out the front door. Harvey followed Marilyn to his office and shut the door.
Jillian closed the ladder and stuck it in the corner. While she was putting the finishing touches on Ilsa’s stoneware display of fiery orange and red sunset-patterned plates, Harvey’s door burst open. Marilyn stormed out through the gallery and slammed the front door. Angie Webb raised her eyebrows and returned to the papers on her desk.
Harvey strode out of his office and stopped in front of the glass cases on the long wall of the main gallery in the refurbished antebellum warehouse. He looked transfixed by the glassware exhibit.
“Everything okay with Marilyn?” Jillian asked.
“That old bat has a greater sense of her talent than actually exists. It was just an accounting error. I don’t know if we’ll show any more of her stuff here.” He started rearranging the plates and cups on the first shelf. Then he snapped his fingers. “Ladder.”
Jillian dragged the stepladder back in place. He climbed up and rearranged the goblets. Green, red, and royal blue gemstone-colored glasses surrounded the blood goblet. He picked up the amethyst one again and admired it under the spotlight. He turned it around and tilted it to catch the light. Harvey looked mesmerized by the Romanian glass.
“Harvey. Harvey!” Angie called out from the reception area. “Kathy from the catering company is on line one. She wants the final count on the attendees for the opening. And she needs a check to cover the balance.”
He put the glass back and climbed down the ladder. “I’ll take it in my office.”
* * * *
The next morning, Jillian found Angie standing on the sidewalk in front of the gallery smoking. “Morning. How are you?”
“Dreading the exhibit tonight. There is still so much to do and it looks like the rat bastard isn’t even here.”
“Does that surprise you?” Jillian asked.
“We don’t need him anyway. You’re the one who holds everything together around here. Ol’ Harvey would be in a world of hurt if you ever left.” She dropped her cigarette on the sidewalk and crushed it with her pointy-toed shoe.
“Thanks. I want to learn everything I can while I’m here. I want to be a curator someday.” Jillian unlocked the door.
“It looks like Harvey ran off and left the lights on again,” Angie said as she dumped her purse and coffee mug on the counter. “This place is a wreck. People—even the rich ones—are slobs.”
“Harvey. Hey, Harvey!” Jillian yelled. She walked through the gallery and pushed open the partially shut door to his office. A foul stench smacked her in the face.
Stepping inside, she covered her nose with her hand. She jumped when she spotted two thick legs on the floor jutting out from behind Harvey’s desk. Her stomach did a flipflop. “Angie, call 9-1-1!”
“What’s going on?” Angie stuck her head in the office and immediately raised her fingers to her nose. “What died in here? Oh, crap. Is he okay?”
“I don’t think so,” Jillian said.
Jillian stepped closer to the body and the smell, a mixture of bodily fluids and stale alcohol, caused her stomach to roil. A puddle of congealing dark vomit surrounded the body, and a coffee mug and its contents lay beside him. Harvey’s bloated face and hands made it look like he’d been in a fight, but the red and purple splotches on his cheeks hinted that it was something else. His swollen tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth like that of an elderly dog.
Harvey, what happened to you last night?
The question barely formed in her head when Angie snapped a picture.
Jillian glared at her. “What are you doing?”
“I watch CSI,” Angie said. “I want to show the police how we found him. He’s on his side like he fell out of his chair—covered in a mess of yuck.” She punched numbers in her phone.
Jillian’s heart pounded, and her knees felt weak as she stepped out and took a couple of deep breaths in the gallery. She dialed 9-1-1, reported their find to the police.
Angie followed. “Who else do you think we should call?”
“Ilsa Prescott is Harvey’s landlord and silent partner,” Jillian said.
“Wonder if we’ll still have jobs?” Angie asked.
They stood in the doorway for several minutes until they heard sirens blare louder and louder. Two police cars and an ambulance parked in front of the gallery.
The first EMT jumped out of the ambulance with his bag. “Where is the patient?”
“In the office. Behind the desk.” Jillian pointed toward the back of the gallery.
The EMTs scrambled inside, and the two police officers followed closely behind.
A few minutes later, both officers returned to the main gallery. One spoke into his shoulder mic. The other said, “I’m Sergeant J.T. Mason. Officer Ridgely and I will take your statements.”
Officer Ridgely stepped toward Angie and the oval receptionist’s desk while Sgt. Mason and Jillian stood near the front door.
“Your name and relationship to the gentleman in there,” Sgt. Mason said as he nodded his head toward the office.