Read The Art Whisperer (An Alix London Mystery) for Free Online

you’d been paying attention. I’ll tell you this, though: They’re workmanlike and attractive, and I certainly wouldn’t mind having them on my own walls. They have a kind of rough energy—”
    “Okay, okay, you’ve sold me. I want to see for myself. I’ll be there tomorrow. What time would be good for you?”
    “Whatever’s convenient for you.” Chris had a membership in an outfit called ShareJet, giving her a one-sixteenth time-share in a very snazzy Gulfstream 200, which meant she could fly just about anywhere she wanted almost any time she chose, and do it in fantastic comfort.
    “Well, let’s see . . .” Alix could hear her clicking away at a computer keyboard. “. . . It’s about a thousand miles, so I’d have to allow about three hours, all told. How about eleven? I imagine I could drag myself to the airport in time to fly out at eight. It won’t be easy, mind you.”
    “Wonderful! Call me before you land and I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
    “No, not necessary. I’ll just get a taxi and have it drop me at the museum. Okay, eleven o’clock, see you—no, wait, I’d better book a hotel reservation for a couple of nights. Where are you staying?”
    “I just moved a couple of days ago to a lovely little place, the Villa Louisa, built in 1926, by some big silent-movie director, with a bunch of guesthouses around the swimming pool. I’m in one of the guesthouses.”
    “You moved? Why? Where were you before?”
    “Oh, they put me up at the Colony Palms. Very nice and everything, but awfully . . . I don’t know, not for me. A big, fancy place, ultra-hip and trendy, bright colors everywhere, the bars jumping at eleven in the morning. Rock music playing all day at the swimming pool, tons of Beautiful People dressed in up-to-the-minute—no, make that up-to-the-second—fashions. You know.”
    “Uh-huh. And at the Villa Louisa it’s ugly people dressed in 1926 styles?”
    “No, normal everyday people dressed like normal everyday people. It’s quiet there. Restful, understated, an old wood-burning fireplace in my bedroom, another big river-rock one out on the patio. No bar. No TVs. At night they show classic movies under the stars. Last night I watched a Cary Grant from 1932. They have these lounge chairs you can lie back and snooze in if you want.”
    Chris was quiet for a few seconds. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “that really does sound like my kind of place.”
    “Good, I’ll call them and make a reservation for you right now. I think the bungalow next to mine is free.”
    “No, not there! Good heavens! I meant the Colony Palms. Are you kidding me?”

A lix had been in Lillian Brethwaite’s presence no more than fifteen minutes in total: once when she was offered the job, and then later, when she’d arrived to go to work, a five-minute welcoming to introduce her to the curatorial staff. Still, she knew a lot about the director, mostly gleaned during a lunch at a taqueria just south of downtown that garrulous, slightly boozy Alfie had treated her to on her first day. He’d hardly paused for mouthfuls of shrimp fajita between witty, rambling observations about the institution’s shortcomings, dysfunctionalities, and appalling policy changes, especially since—here he stopped to make obeisance with upraised hands—“the coming of the Boy Wonder, blessed of God, all praise him.” Later there had been a couple of coffee breaks with Madge and Drew, who had been equally forthcoming. Added to that, she’d simply overheard enough griping among the staff to know that all was not well at the Brethwaite, and that the new senior curator was unloved.
    Thus it was with sharp anticipation that she sat herself down in a creamy leather chair in the richly furnished boardroom, with a cup of coffee and an almond biscotto in front of her. She sat at one of the long sides of the table, between Prentice and Alfie and facing Madge and Drew, all with coffee and biscotti of their own.