False Colors Read online

  Tim looked dubious, but I continued. “Officer, we’re going to send another detective in to work with you. Don’t eviscerate another one of those animals until she arrives. I don’t want the stuffed animal rights people on our backs for no reason.”

  Thanks to the credit I’d given him, and to his own natural ability, Orby was on the fast track. Two and half years later, he had his detective t-shirt and shield.

  “So you know the cops,” Nora said. “Anything else?”

  “I know Guillermo and Brian have been partners for a long time. I don’t know any of the other people. How about you?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? These are the people who help me to make my living. They’re collectors. And artistes.” She gave it the French pronunciation.

  I asked for clarification.

  “Artistes truly believe that their fecal matter should be packaged and sold. Artists have a sense of humor about their work. And they keep air freshener in their bathrooms.”

  “All these people are artists? Excuse me, artistes? Are any of them included in the group you were just telling me about?”

  “Those were the last group, the ones that Brian and Guillermo used to have in indentured servitude. Now they’re off on their own. They use The Artery for displays, but their financial arrangements have changed.”

  “Nine times out of ten, it’s love or money that’s the motive. So you’ve aroused my interest.”

  “I thought I’d done that earlier.”

  “Let me rephrase. This was not an accident. Cars don’t just explode on a regular basis. And we think the bomb was meant for Brian. And that’s why, when you mentioned financial arrangements, my ears perked up.

  “So give me the rundown,” I said. “What are the financial arrangements you mentioned?”

  “It’s like this. Brian and Guillermo are very savvy when it comes to young talent, Brian especially. He’s the aesthetic end of the partnership. He spots talent where no one else can. Guillermo is the money man. He keeps track of all the expenses. He’s the one who decided that there was a need for more than one location. He’s the one who came up with the original idea of long-term contracts.”

  She pointed to a movie-star-handsome blond man in his late thirties seated several tables away. Anderson was questioning him. The blond’s pose, even under pressure, was arrogant. He looked like someone who knew he was good looking and how to use those looks to his advantage. Firm chin, straight nose, broad shoulders. Baywatch meets the paintbrush.

  “Damien Harmony. He’s become a top seller for The Artery. He’s very upset about his contract.”

  “Why?”

  “Brian and Guillermo get seventy percent of the price of everything Damien does for the next seven years.”

  “What happens if he doesn’t produce?”

  “The contract remains in effect until he’s produced the agreed-upon volume of work. Of course, if he decides he doesn’t want to be an artist anymore, it won’t be worth much. But after tasting the lifestyle, most of these people know it’s better than anything else they’re qualified for.”

  “Painting houses won’t keep him in caviar.”

  “Exactly the point that Brian and Guillermo make when they set up these ten-year deals. They, though it’s usually Brian, will find an artist whose work they think is good or that they can develop. They feed him, house him, and showcase his work in one or more of their galleries. He and Guillermo feed the publicity machine.”

  “Which you are a part of, no doubt?”

  She nodded and winked at me. “Anyway, they pay the artist a straight thirty percent of the selling price. Which they set.”

  “That can’t be worth much in the first couple of years,” I suggested. “Even if Damien is a terrific artist, if he’s an unknown, he still won’t command more than three or four thousand dollars a painting. How does that pay off for Brian and Guillermo? And why is he complaining?”

  “You have to understand the art market,” she explained patiently. “It’s not like buying Beanie Babies that are produced by the thousands. If the price limit remained at the original level, there’d be no point. But The Artery doesn’t sell all the paintings from the early years of production immediately. It buys them at the offered price and then resells them at an inflated value as the market for them matures.”

  She raised her eyebrows at me, smiled slightly, and held out her hands as if waiting for the response of a student.

  “In year one and two, Damien earns twenty-five grand a year plus living expenses. But by year three or four, the value of the painting increases four or five times, and he’s annoyed because he thinks he should be getting more.”

  “You’re close,” she said. “By year three or four, he’s into the high-five to medium-six figures for each painting. Or more. Sometimes, if critics have truly glommed onto an artist, he becomes museum quality.”

  “Picasso?” I asked. “Jackson Pollock?”

  “Exactly,” she said, nodding. “Lots of money for your paintings.”

  “Picasso did all right for himself, but Pollock was a bit nuts, as I recall.”

  “Most of these artists are pretty weird, but they all think they’re smarter and far more unique than everyone else. They want their independence.”

  “But would they be anywhere without the guidance of Brian and Guillermo?”

  “Jeff,” she said, putting her hand on my cheek, “remember what I told you. These people believe with all their heart and soul that they are different than the rest of us. They believe that they are geniuses.”

  “Well, they must have some talent. Otherwise, why would Brian and Guillermo work with them?”

  “What do you know about art other than a few names?”

  “I know what I like when I go to a museum, and I can tell the difference between brushstrokes and finger-painting.”

  “The fact that you know that little and are willing to admit it places you several steps ahead of many of the people who are wealthy enough to purchase the works of people like Damien. It’s people like me and connoisseurs like Brian who really know the field, who help you and everyone else decide what’s good or bad art.

  “There are thousands of talented artists out in the world working in total obscurity. They may paint for their own enjoyment, they may exhibit their work at crafts shows, and some even make a modest living selling their wares. But until they’re discovered and supported by people like Brian, they shouldn’t quit their day jobs.”

  “Is this your way of telling me that Damien is what we might term, in the vernacular, a spoiled brat?”

  “He’s an absolute asshole, if you ask me,” she said with more vehemence than the situation seemed to demand. “But I’m just a simple scribe, so what do I really know?”

  5

  “Who’s that good-looking black guy near the plants in the back?” I asked, gesturing at a broad-shouldered, rugged, crew-cut man in a suit that looked like it cost as much as Brian’s party.

  “That’s Bruce Remsen,” said Nora. “He’s a clothing designer who is getting very big. He’s also an art connoisseur who discovered Betsy Washington. He collects stuff from Brian when it’s low and holds until it’s high. Sometimes, it doesn’t move fast enough to suit him.”

  “Why does he care about the speed of appreciation?”

  “He collects art as a commodity; to him it’s just a supply-demand item.”

  “And his colorful companion?” I asked, referring to the raspberry-hued suit of a striking, smooth-featured gentleman with the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen on a man, seated two tables away from Remsen.

  “How do you know they’re together?”

  “I’m a detective, remember? They keep making kissy faces at each other. I’m sure Orby picked it up already.

  “So what does your instinct tell you about their relationship?”

  “Gay and comfortable, like Brian and Lorenzo. But the sultry looks suggest to me that it’s still new. Bruce is the more successful of
the two because he’s not trying as hard, but he’s interested. They both look like they stepped out of a modeling catalog.”

  “I’m impressed, Mr. Shott. Ashford Rogers, Mr. Ashford to you, is one of the hottest hair designers in Palm Beach. He’s all the rage. Suzy Dickerson – she’s the somewhat overstuffed brunette near the front window – introduced him to Kathy Ross” – Nora moved her head slightly to the right to indicate what looked like a pink-frosted layer cake with blond hair – “who then brought him to the attention of the Palm Beach art crowd. Their husbands, Dickerson and Ross, Esquire” – she nodded toward two bored-looking men who were trying to nap – “pay the bills.”

  “Does Mr. Ashford now do your do?”

  “And he’s quite the source of gossip, which is one reason I go to him. Writing about the art world and the art crowd involves knowing who’s who and whom to kiss up to.”

  “Is that a brown spot at the end of your nose?”

  She picked up a napkin, wadded it up, and threw it at me. “Not funny,” she said, laughing.

  “Tell me more about our guests.”

  “You said you know Guillermo. How well?”

  “Other than that’s he been Brian’s partner for close to a dozen years and that he just married someone young enough to be his daughter, that’s about it.”

  She leaned forward conspiratorially. So did I. “Guillermo’s a gambler. And he’s been on a long losing streak. I have it on good authority that he owes Nicky Nestor somewhere into the seven figures. And Nicky is known as a very nasty guy.”

  Nicky was a loan shark who catered to the wealthy in the Palm Beach area. Interest rates on loans from Nicky usually ran at least five percent. Per week.

  That kind of weekly interest rate could make even someone as wealthy as Guillermo into a desperate man. If he came into possession of Brian’s share of the gallery, he could repay his debt in full and, if he were smart, walk away from his gambling habit free and clear. If someone had a good motive to blow Brian into smithereens, Guillermo was an excellent candidate.

  “You think Guillermo could kill Brian?” I asked her in amazement. “He’s a money man, when his head is on straight. He may be the one who came up with the ten-year arrangement for these artists, but Brian finds the artists. He’s made both of them multimillionaires.”

  “You’re wondering why he doesn’t just pay off the lump sum?”

  “I know the answer to that,” I said. “Most of his assets aren’t liquid, and they’re jointly owned.”

  “You mean he’s rich on paper,” she said. “But he can’t touch it.”

  “Exactly. What about his wife?”

  “Queen Marlene?”

  “Do I detect a teensy note of envy?”

  “Let me explain it this way, Jeff, so even a man can understand. I’m a good-looking woman. But take a look at her.”

  I kept my eyes on Nora.

  “No, really, turn around and take a good look.”

  I turned and I looked. And I kept looking for a few seconds as Anderson came to Marlene Valladares’s table and asked her to join Orby up front. There was a lot to look at. She was wearing a clinging, low-cut sheath that appeared to be held up by sheer gravity. It managed to cover her thighs all the way down to about two inches below her well-rounded rear end.

  “Yes, those are real,” she remarked. “So’s the tush. And the red hair is natural.”

  “Mr. Ashford?” I asked.

  “Ladies locker room at LA Fitness,” she said. “And along with his interest payments to Nicky, he’s got that to keep in clothing and jewelry. And rumor has it the queen is serviced by her court of admirers while hubby is out earning the daily bread.”

  “Is there anything you don’t know about anyone here?” I asked.

  “Very little,” she said. “Except for you. I don’t know whether you’re seeing someone steadily and just flirting or whether you’re really interested in me.”

  “I’m flattered that you find me so appealing. Most people just ask me to leave because I’m always asking for information. So, no, I’m not seeing anyone, and yes, I am really interested. However, I’m more interested in knowing about all these people. Because all of us, including me, will be on Orby’s suspect list. And all of us, excluding me, will be on mine.”

  “Even me?”

  “Please don’t be angry, but yes, even you. Just because you’re here.”

  “Does this mean that you’ll come and visit me in order to question me closely about my activities and connections with Brian?”

  I grinned. “Yes, it does.”

  “In that case, you’d better put me down as the number one suspect.”

  At that moment, Anderson intruded upon our conversation and asked Nora to come with him. “You can come too, if you’d like, Mr. Shott. Sergeant Orby said it was okay.”

  Nora repeated most of our conversation to Orby.

  He was intrigued. “It’s ten times what I knew before I came in. Is there more? Because all these people swear they’re as pure as bottled water from Publix.”

  “Peter Kaplow” – she pointed at a thin, ponytailed young man in a purple tuxedo and sneakers – “is one of the most vocal of the artists who want their contracts changed. And Trish Vernon, who does restoration” – she gestured, again for my benefit – “and is Betsy Washington’s best and maybe only friend, has become their spokesperson.”

  “Why do you say she’s Betsy’s only friend?” I asked.

  “You’d have to meet Betsy to understand. Let’s just say that nobody minds that she’s extremely reclusive.”

  “What’s the big deal with her?” asked Orby. “I’ve seen her name in the news a couple of times.”

  “She’s a modern-day ‘highwayman’ painter. It’s another way to say she’s untutored in art but has a natural ability to paint whatever she sees.”

  “What’s the difference between a highwayman and a naïf artist?” I asked.

  “The naïf artist can’t seem to paint faces or people too well. But if you ask me, I can’t see the difference. By definition, highwaymen and women specialize in landscapes. Anyway, Betsy Washington’s paintings are suddenly hot and selling at increasingly higher prices. Betsy’s also not happy with the arrangement she has with Brian and Guillermo. She figures she can get more selling on her own.”

  “Could she?” asked Orby, frowning. “And is it worth killing someone to get out of a contract?” He exhaled audibly. “Besides, even if Brian was dead, his partner is around to run the place, so they’re still under contract.”

  He suddenly stopped speaking.

  “They could try again,” he said.

  “They could try for both,” I said.

  6

  Everyone was gone except Brian, Orby, and me.

  “Mr. Gorey,” Orby asked, “I’m inclined to go along with Jeff’s theory. Of course, you should expect us to visit your home and turn your life upside down for about a week, just in case you weren’t being straight with us.”

  “Sergeant, I have nothing to hide. You won’t need a warrant. You are welcome to come to my home and my office and check me out thoroughly.”

  Orby backed off. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Gorey, but I want you to understand that I’m a policeman, and unlike Jeff here, who’s been softened by his life among the elite, I still have to check everything.”

  “What he means,” I said, “is that you’re guilty until proven innocent. I used to think like that until my finer instincts and high-paying clients came to my rescue.”

  Orby flashed a minor smile and said good night.

  Brian sat staring at the floor for a few moments. “Jeff, I’m trying to maintain my composure, but I think I’m going to puke my guts out at any minute. I’ve just lost Lorenzo, and I’m frightened. Why would anyone want to kill me?”

  I gave him a synopsis of Nora’s information.

  “That’s nothing new. Every one of my artists who hits the big money starts in on that issue with me. These
prima donnas all think that they’re God’s gift to the art world. They don’t realize that without the public relations and the gallery blitzes and the mailing lists and the parties we sponsor, they’d be selling their work at art shows in the mall.”

  “But are any of them serious enough to want to kill you to break that contract?”

  “I’ve made most of my artists rich and famous. Not all, but those who never made it were well supported during their years with me. They probably lived far better than they would have had they been on their own.”

  He massaged his temples as if fighting a massive headache. The pressure of the evening was evident in his face.

  “Guillermo and I are basically patrons of the arts. But we’re patrons who expect to make a handsome profit. And we’ve done it for a long time. If occasionally our children, and that’s what most of these artists are, complain to daddy and threaten us, we disregard it. It’s a part of our weekly existence.”

  “How do you calm them down?”

  “I ask them to go back to their homes, their expense accounts, their weekly paychecks, their luxury cars, all of which we provide, and the fee per painting that we pay them even when there’s not yet a market for their product or there’s only an occasional call for their paintings. The next day, they come in and apologize.”

  “But what about when they become famous, like Betsy, Damien, or Peter?”

  “We live with it,” he said, shrugging. He realized the implication. “Or not.”

  “How about Guillermo’s gambling debts?”

  “He says he’s almost out of debt. Marlene’s charms seem to be having a good influence on him.”

  “Well, rumor has it that Nicky Nestor is collecting five points a week from him because Guillermo owes him several million dollars.”

  He looked grim. “Nora told you this?”

  “Tonight. Is she for real, or have I just been charmed by her topography?”

  “If Nora says so, it’s probably true. Her sources of information seem to be impeccable.”