Promise Not To Tell(19)
He paused in the vestibule that shielded the front door, and checked the sidewalk. Music blared from a nearby club. There were a few people exiting a restaurant at the end of the block, but they were heading in the opposite direction.
He took out one of the tools he had purchased online and applied it to the lock on the front door of the gallery. He was inside less than thirty seconds later.
Once again he used the jamming device to silence the silly alarm system. It was astonishing how frequently people went with cheap security junk.
The shades had been pulled down in the front windows of the shop, so he took out his flashlight. He made his way through the stark white showroom, weaving a path through a small forest of display pedestals, and opened the door behind the counter.
The back room of the gallery was a different world. In the showroom, individual objects and paintings were elegantly arranged for maximum visual impact. But in the back room, paintings were stacked four and five deep against the walls. Sculptures littered the floor. Art glass in various shapes and sizes sat on wide shelves. There was a cluster of colorful glass paperweights on a table near what appeared to be the door to an employee restroom.
It seemed unlikely that something as valuable as the key to a fortune would be sitting around in the crowded back room of an art gallery. But he reminded himself that Troy didn’t know what she had. He could only hope that, given his extensive research into the cult, he would recognize the key when he saw it. Still, the prospect of searching the cluttered back room was daunting.
He decided to start with the counter in the showroom.
He went back through the door and started opening drawers and cupboards.
The search proved futile. Nothing but invoices, receipts, catalogs and wrapping materials emblazoned with the gallery’s name.
He was about to give up when he noticed the keychain in the top drawer of the desk. There was a single key on it and a helpful label, Storage Closet. He returned to the back room and tried the key on the door of what he had assumed was the staff restroom.
A little thrill pulsed through him when the key worked. He told himself not to get too excited.
He got the door open and aimed the flashlight into the darkness. The beam played across a number of large paintings covered in protective drapery. The canvases were propped against the side walls of the deep, closet-like space.
Disappointment slammed through him. Just more paintings. He was about to back out of the room but he paused, his curiosity aroused. What was so special about the paintings that were kept under lock and key?
He gripped a corner of the nearest dust cover and raised it partway to take a look at the canvas.
In the beam of the flashlight, the picture glowed with all the hot colors of hellfire. A dark, powerful-looking figure with long black hair strode through the flames.
Tucker stopped breathing for a beat. And then his pulse started to pound. He studied the picture for a moment before he dropped the cover. He went down the aisle formed by the big paintings, yanking off the covers one by one.
Each picture was slightly different, but when he reached the far end of the storage closet and looked back, he realized he was looking at a multi-canvas series that, when viewed as a whole, showed the Quinton Zane compound on fire.
Each picture was signed by the artist – Hannah Brewster.
There were two more pictures at the very back of the closet. Each had a tag that read, Not for Sale. Client may call.
When he lifted the covers, he saw that the paintings were signed by Brewster, but they were not part of the fire series. Each was a portrait of the same woman. She appeared to be in her late thirties, forty at most. He thought she had probably been quite beautiful in her younger days, but in the pictures she looked weak and faded.
In each painting she was shown seated in the same chair near a big stone fireplace, doing some kind of needlework. There was more needlework hanging on the wall beside her.
The setting looked vaguely familiar. It took him a few seconds to recognize the parlor of the Lost Island B and B. Finally, understanding dawned. He realized that he was probably looking at a couple of portraits of Abigail Watkins.
Curiosity made him pause to examine the woman more closely. No question about it, Watkins had been weak and pathetic. Perfect cult material.
Disgusted, he let the covers fall back into place.
Once again he turned to study the hellish scenes that Brewster had painted. He was not into art but he was thrilled by the fiery scenes. A heady excitement shivered through him. The pictures were important – they had to be important – but damned if he could figure out how or why.
Virginia Troy had hired a private investigator for some reason, and not just any private investigator – she had hired a man who had been at the California compound. There was only one logical explanation – Troy didn’t have the key, either; not yet, at any rate. But she was looking for it. That explained why she had contacted Cutler, Sutter & Salinas. She had probably agreed to cut them in for a share of the money if they found it.
The trail was getting hot.
He took out his phone and started snapping pictures. They might contain a clue or they might simply be the work of a delusional artist who could not forget the past. Either way, they would make an excellent addition to his private collection.
CHAPTER 10
The bastard had used her and then dumped her when he had concluded that he no longer needed her. And then he had gotten her fired. Now she was going to make him pay and pay dearly.