Tips for Living(88)

Self-Portrait with Abbas, Knowing.

Wait. Did Abbas know Hugh was about to dump him? If he had known, he would have also recognized that Hugh’s death would be a boon to him. Abbas Masout, Hugh’s beloved dealer, would be the keeper of the Hugh Walker legend and make more money off Hugh’s paintings than ever before. The hard truth was sinking in, and it was chilling down to my soul.

Money. Follow the money.

The door creaked open. “Nora?”

I whirled around in a panic. My arm hit the screen, and it went down with a crash. I stood there paralyzed as Abbas stared at me from the doorway.

“Was it you?” I asked, astounded.

“Was what me?”

Abbas shut the door and started toward me.

“You are upset, dear girl. What is it?”

I came to my senses, reached in my pocket and took out the Champ, fumbling to open it.

“Don’t come any closer,” I warned, shaking and pointing the knife unsteadily. “Stop right there.”

Abbas halted at the edge of the fallen screen. His face was wet. Melting snow dripped off his silver hair onto his black cashmere scarf. I watched his eyes move to the easel and take in the image of himself with a hole in his chest. His right eye began to twitch.

“You killed them, didn’t you? In cold blood,” I rasped, the fear stealing my voice. “You murdered Hugh and Helene.”

Abbas frowned. “And why would I kill them, Nora? Why would I kill my good friend and his wife? A man I adored and represented for years. He was like my own child. There’s no reason in the world.”

“Because Hugh was going to leave you. You knew he was leaving. And that meant you’d be ruined.”

Abbas flapped his hand dismissively. “Who told you this nonsense?”

“You drove out here and shot them in bed. You posed them and stabbed the painting. You’re trying to blame me for it. All the evidence is in the book,” I said, glancing at the utility table.

No! Why did you tell him about the book?

“What book?”

He followed where my gaze had led him. He saw the ninjas.

“That book?” He took another step forward.

“I said stop!”

I jabbed the air with the knife and tried to look menacing. What to do? I had at least thirty years on Abbas. Could I grab the book, do an end run around him and make it out the door? Almost before I finished the thought, his hand went into his coat pocket and emerged with a small, silver gun. He aimed it at my chest.

“Drop the knife and move over there,” he said, waving me away from the table toward the shelves.

I thought my heart would pop; it was beating so hard. Obeying, I backed up. I heard the beautiful Japanese screen crack as Abbas walked across it to get at the ninja book.

“You are a real problem, Nora,” he said, keeping the silver muzzle pointed and steady as he perused the pages of the sketchbook.

I looked around frantically, my heartbeat thrashing in my ears. I can’t die here, I thought. Not here on the floor of Hugh’s studio, lorded over by his goat erection. Incredibly, that’s the first thing that came into my mind. Next—advice from some random crime-show psychologist. Best chance to stay alive. Make eye contact. Show empathy. He has to see a human being.

“What happened, Abbas? What went wrong between you two?”

Abbas looked up. I made contact with orbs hard as marble.

“Damien Hirst.”

“What does Damien Hirst have to do with it?” I asked, confused.

The artist Damien Hirst had rocked the art world decades ago by placing a rotting cow’s head in a large container made of glass and steel. Along with the head came maggots that turned into flies, which fried in a nearby fly zapper. Later on, he displayed a bisected shark under glass. His bold and edgy work shocked, and it made him about as rich and famous as an artist could get.

Abbas gestured with his free hand at the display of paintings in the studio.

“We planned a big show for Hugh at the gallery next spring. A show to run six months and change each month—old work, new work, work-in-progress. A big idea. No one has done this before for a gallery retrospective. We would announce to the press at the Art Basel market in December.”

Abbas stepped away from the utility table. Closer to me. I leaned back instinctively.

“But last Saturday morning, Hugh brings Callie to her aunt in the city for the weekend. I think he does this because he is fighting with Helene—they need time alone out here. He comes to the gallery after. ‘Abbas, I’ve been thinking,’ he says. ‘Remember how Damien Hirst let Sotheby’s auction his work in ’08? He didn’t use his dealer.’ He tells me Sotheby’s gave Hirst a show much bigger than the one I offer. That they brought in collectors from all over the world, and Hirst sold over two hundred million. ‘He broke Picasso’s sales record. It worked for Hirst—the free-agent thing.’ Hugh says he wants to do what Hirst did. ‘I’m thinking I’d like to go solo, Abbas.’ Those were his words. ‘I’m thinking I’d like to go solo.’”

Abbas stepped back, still aiming his gun at me. My heart thundered while he examined the book again in silence. Then he suddenly snapped his fingers. I flinched.

“Just like this,” he said. “I am one of Hirst’s dead flies.”

I blinked, absorbing this. “After all you’d done for him, he dropped you,” I said. “What a bastard he was.”