A Priceless Find

“Now, now! I might be known for impulse buying, but even I’m not quite that spontaneous.” He turned shrewd eyes on her. “However, you could tell me how much it would set me back if I did decide to acquire this painting.”

Chelsea named the number in the mid six figures and knew that as pricey as it was, it wasn’t out of Mr. Anderson’s range.

His expression turned contemplative. “Let me think about it while I help myself to a glass of champagne and see what else might capture my interest.”

“Please do,” she said, not in the least disappointed. If she was a betting person, she would’ve laid money on Mr. Anderson’s buying the Babineux sooner or later. She was familiar with that look in his eyes. Once he’d moved on, she turned back to the painting. It wasn’t her preferred style, but she recognized the artistic talent. More important, she knew that the Babineux was to Mr. Anderson’s taste. She then studied the abstract next to it.

“Help me understand what, exactly, this painting is supposed to represent.” The deep voice, with a touch of humor, had Chelsea glancing over her shoulder.

Her courteous reply caught in her throat as she found herself staring into familiar bold blue eyes. “Detective Eldridge, I didn’t know you had an interest in art.”

His laugh was warm and masculine at the same time. “I don’t normally, no. And when I do, I tend to like...ah, the more mundane.”

He was standing so close, she could see the faint stubble of a day’s growth of beard, and the fine lines at the outer corners of his eyes and mouth when he smiled. There were a few strands of gray in his black hair. His scent, clean and woodsy, teased her nostrils. She let her gaze slide over him. She was sure there was a fit and impressive body under his conservative suit.

“I hope I’m not underdressed,” he said.

Chelsea felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She obviously hadn’t been as subtle in her perusal of him as she’d hoped. “Oh, no, you look perfectly fine.” Now she could feel her cheeks burn even more. “What I meant is your attire is fine. Black tie is optional. Are you here for professional or personal reasons?” she rushed on, wanting to change the subject.

“A bit of both.”

His answer perplexed her, but she remained quiet.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d enlighten me about this particular painting,” he said after a moment.

“Of course, Detective. This painting is by Jackson Pollock, who’s among the leaders of abstract expressionism.” Noting his blank look, she went on to explain. “In abstract expressionism, the artist is mostly interested in color, movement and rhythm, rather than trying to depict specific objects. The artists also worked with new ways of applying paint. Pollock, for example, used sticks to fling and drip paint on his canvases. This piece was painted in 1934 and was in a private collection until the gallery acquired it recently through auction.”

“That gives me its history, but tell me about the painting itself. And Sam is fine.”

His blue eyes and the sparkle of humor in them captivated her, and she missed his concluding comment. “I’m sorry? What did you say?”

The smile became a wide grin. “I’d prefer it if you called me Sam instead of Detective.”

“Oh, okay...Sam.”

“Now, tell me about the painting. What is it supposed to be? Aside from blobs of color, I mean.”

Chelsea should’ve been offended by his barely restrained mirth but was instead tempted to laugh along with him. Instead, she ran through the sales pitch she’d developed for the painting. “Well, as you can see, this is a painting of an enchanted forest shrouded in mist,” she concluded and glanced up at Sam.

He was staring at the canvas intently, his brows drawn together, his eyes narrowed. She tried not to feel disconcerted by his proximity.

Finally, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see it at all. This,” he said, pointing, “looks like a sand crab to me, but mostly all I see is spattered paint.”

She was about to point out the key elements of the painting to him, but the absurdity of even trying struck her. “It’s a stylized depiction of the forest,” she conceded.

“Can we at least agree that it’s highly stylized?” he asked.

Now Chelsea did laugh, but quickly clamped one hand over her mouth, her eyes darting around. Satisfied that no one had noticed her outburst, she looked back at Sam.

“Well, am I right? Can you see the crab?” he asked. “I should help you sell paintings here.”

“Don’t quit your day job,” she countered under her breath when two patrons strolled over to admire the Pollock.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Sam said, as they moved away to give the couple space. “We each have our strengths. Do you have the time—and the patience—to show me around?”

Chelsea heard the humor in his voice again and found herself drawn to him. All their guests seemed to be engaged and enjoying themselves. Mrs. Sinclair and Mr. Hadley were making the rounds, champagne glasses in their hands. Joel, Deborah and Tina were available to address any questions, and it was less than an hour before the auction started.

Happily, she noted that sold signs had been placed under a few more of the pieces. “Sure. I have some time. What interests you the most?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea!” he said with a chuckle. “Surprise me.”

CHAPTER FOUR (#u6ed0ef72-f91a-52cd-b0cb-4c5fe05b5c6f)

CHELSEA’S MISCHIEVOUS STREAK kicked in. Sam was someone who, by his own admission, knew little about art, and it stood to reason that he had equally limited interest. She’d see what she could do about turning him into an art aficionado.

“Why don’t we start with some baroques,” she suggested. “Are you on duty?” she asked, when she saw a waitress approach with a tray of champagne.

“Not at the moment. Why?”

Chelsea signaled discreetly to the waitress and she veered toward them. “Thank you, Marsha,” she said, taking two flutes from the tray and offering one to Sam. “If you’re not inclined to appreciate art, I thought this might help.”

He accepted the glass and took a sip. “Nice. Hmm...Krug Grande Cuvée, 2013.” When Chelsea raised her brows, he said, “I may not be an expert at art, but...”

“But you’re an expert in fine wines and champagnes?” she guessed.

“No, but I’m a detective and I have well-honed investigative and observation skills,” he said with a smug smile.

She stared at him blankly, not sure what he meant.

“There was an empty carton in the corner of the hall closet when I hung up my coat,” he explained. “It was clearly labeled.”

Chelsea wouldn’t have thought the intense cop had a sense of humor, but it appeared that he did. And when he smiled? He went from seriously good-looking to dangerously handsome.

“Why don’t we start here?” she suggested, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she was blushing again, and led him to a watercolor of a Venetian canal by American artist John Singer Sargent.

“I personally like this painting,” she began. “Sargent was said to be fascinated with Venice, and I think it shows in his work. He’s captured the different shades of the water and the brightness of the light beautifully. It’s interesting that although he turns a commonplace neighborhood into something so romantic, he didn’t use much detail depicting the people on the bridge.” She smiled up at Sam. “Sargent’s passion for the city didn’t seem to extend to its inhabitants.”

Next, she showed Sam a Ralph Curtis painting, also of Venice. “Curtis was the son of Bostonians, who moved to Venice in the late 1870s. He was educated at Harvard, but then studied in Paris. We purposely juxtaposed these two paintings to allow our patrons to compare and contrast the style and emotion of the two. Sargent and Curtis were, in fact, distant cousins. It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it, how Sargent’s work evokes romance and joy while this one...well, is quite bleak.”

“Uh-huh” was Sam’s noncommittal response.

Chelsea guided him to a Childe Hassam winter scene in New York next and continued talking until she could all but see his head spin. Since he’d said he was there for business and pleasure, she assumed the business had to do with the robbery next door, so she made a point of taking him to speak with the Rochesters. She almost laughed at the relief she saw on his face as they approached the elderly couple.

Chelsea introduced Sam to Mrs. Rochester, and he politely asked Mr. Rochester how he was feeling and just as politely answered that they still didn’t have any leads on the robbery. Adam joined them and also expressed an interest in the investigation. Chelsea was aware of how concerned he was about his aunt and uncle. He wanted the matter over with as much as anyone; she presumed that was so he wouldn’t have to worry about their safety, in case the perpetrator decided to return.

Adam questioned Sam until, eventually, Chelsea adeptly steered the detective away.

“The nephew, Adam, seems close to the Rochesters. What’s his story?” Sam asked when they were separated by some distance.