Although the room was cheery and bright, to Aster’s dismay there was no sign of either a camera or a darkroom.
Warily, she eyed the two easels in a far corner, both featuring similar works. One was a landscape of the beach at daybreak; the other a still life of an old, rustic shed with a surfboard propped alongside it.
While Aster was no expert when it came to art, the two pieces hardly seemed like the work of the woman responsible for the photos that hung on Madison’s wall.
The note she’d received had specifically said: There’s an artist you need to meet / she lives on a flower-named street / she knows Madison’s secret / so don’t let her keep it.
She and Ryan had been so sure they’d cracked the code, but had they somehow gotten it wrong?
Was there another piece of art by another artist they should’ve gone after instead?
“Everything okay?” Roland studied Aster’s face. “You look a little uneasy.”
Aster shook her head and forced her lips into a halfhearted grin.
“No, I’m good. It’s just—”
Before she could finish, Roland headed for the electric teakettle she kept on the counter and pressed the switch. “I’m about to make some tea. Would you like to join me?”
Ryan was quick to agree. Aster nodded wordlessly.
“I’m sorry,” Aster tried again. “But I thought you were a photographer. I didn’t realize you were a painter.”
She watched as Roland measured precise amounts of loose-leaf tea into a mesh infuser basket, which she then placed inside the ceramic pot.
“Can’t I do both?”
“Of course. Absolutely. It’s just . . .”
“I teach painting.” Roland hooked a thumb toward the easels. “Those are works by my students.” She turned to Aster with a smile. “But you wanted to commission a photograph, is that it?” Her gaze switched to Ryan. “Listen, you two are great-looking kids, but if it’s head shots you want, I don’t do that sort of work. Though I can recommend someone who does.”
Aster stole a glance at Ryan. Was it possible the woman didn’t recognize them? “No, no head shots. Nothing like that.” Aster waved the thought away as Roland motioned for them to sit, and Aster sank so deep into the cushion it forced her knees to heave up awkwardly as she struggled to reposition herself.
“Don’t waste your energy.” Roland laughed. “That’s a war you won’t win. Those chairs are older than you, and they don’t give up easily. Better just to surrender until it’s time to leave.” She grew silent as she waited for the water to boil and the tea to steep. Once it was ready, she placed a teacup in front of Aster and Ryan, claimed her own seat, and looked at them expectantly.
Aster sipped from her tea. Then, setting the cup aside, she said, “We’re here because we saw some of your work.”
Roland stared in a way that made Aster nervous.
“It was at a . . . at a friend’s house. The pieces were really unique.”
Roland warmed her hands with her cup but kept her gaze blank.
“They were photographs,” she started, before Ryan stepped in.
“They were part of a series,” he said.
Roland offered no clue as to whether she knew the photos he referred to.
“The pics were dark and edgy. Sort of domestic scene. You know, downtrodden living rooms, old, secondhand furniture . . .” He rubbed his lips together. “A shiny gun on a battered coffee table.”
Roland rocked back in her seat and studied them at length. “Aw, yes,” she said. “The trailer park series. I shot that a couple years ago.”
Instinctively, Aster reached for the gold-and-diamond hamsa hand charm she’d once worn at her neck. Her fingers fumbled awkwardly against her bare collarbone when she remembered what had become of it. “That’s it,” she said, trying to contain her excitement. Was it her imagination, or was Roland suddenly acting cagey and suspicious? “I was really drawn to it. It had such a gritty, authentic feel.”
Roland’s face pinched, her gaze narrowed until her eyes were barely visible. “Funny.” She sipped her tea and nodded toward Aster’s expensive designer handbag. “Gritty is not something I’d think you’d be attracted to.”
Aster stilled, unable to breathe.