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here?”
    “If you mean new on the art scene, the answer is yes. I’m Guinevere Jones.”
    “Henry Thorpe.” He waited impatiently for some sign of recognition, and when it didn’t come, he frowned. “I’ve had a couple of showings here myself, but I guess if you’re new in the art world, you wouldn’t have known about them.”
    “I see.” One of Mason’s freeloading fellow artists, Guinevere decided. There was a certain nervous energy about Henry Thorpe that she found curious, almost unnatural. It was as if he were operating at a higher internal speed than most of the others in the room. Perhaps Henry Thorpe indulged in other substances besides free champagne. Anything for the sake of art.
    “You don’t look like you’re here for the free food,” Thorpe announced, scanning her neat suit. “So I assume you’re a potential buyer?”
    “I’m very interested in Mason’s work,” Guinevere said politely.
    “Yeah, so are a few of the others,” Thorpe said slightly grudgingly. “I guess it’s the superficial accessibility of the stuff. People who don’t know much about art like it because they think they can understand it.”
    Detecting more than a small measure of professional jealousy, Guinevere deliberately turned back to study the painting of the bay. But Henry Thorpe edged closer.
    “You’d never guess it from that sweet little painting of sunset on the water, but ol’ Mason wasn’t exactly a sweet character when he did that picture. He was running pretty wild a couple of years ago. Hung out with a weird crowd.”
    Guinevere frowned. “Mr. Thorpe, I’m really not interested in hearing this.”
    “If you want to buy a painting from a guy who used to run around with witches, that’s your business. But personally I—”
    “Witches!” Astonished, Guinevere swung around to confront Henry Thorpe. Memories of a black pentagram flashed into her head. “Witches? What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Thorpe?”
    Sensing that he may have blundered socially, Thorpe tried to back off. “Oh, well, it was no big deal. You know how it is. People sometimes get mixed up in strange things, and Adair was pretty strung out a couple of years ago. Had a bad time with his family back East, and I think he tried to forget his problems by getting involved in something really off-the-wall. But that’s all over now. I mean, it’s not like he would have painted hidden symbols of the occult into these canvases or anything. You don’t have to worry about that.”
    “What doesn’t she have to worry about, Thorpe?” drawled Mason Adair as he came up behind the smaller man. Carla was still firmly tucked into his grasp.
    “Nothing, Mason,” Thorpe assured him hastily. “Just talking about some of your paintings. Not a bad crowd tonight. Any buyers?”
    “Most people seem to be here for the same reason you are,” Mason said, assuring him smoothly. “The free champagne.”
    Thorpe risked a cynical smile. “You can’t hold that against us, friend. You’ve been known to hit a few showings for the free food yourself. Excuse me.” With a nod for both women Henry Thorpe slipped back into the crowd.
    Mason watched him go with a wry expression. “He’s right, you know. I have made a few meals off a showing like this. Can’t blame the others for turning up tonight. I just hope they don’t elbow all the potential buyers aside in their lunge for the food.”
    “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Carla said with a certain satisfaction as she watched the gallery owner hang a SOLD sign on a painting across the room.
    Mason followed her gaze and whistled silently. “Jesus. Theresa put a price of fifteen hundred on that sucker.”
    Guinevere grinned. “Congratulations. You’re going to have something to celebrate when this is all over.” And then, remembering the comment Thorpe had made about Mason’s past, she couldn’t resist adding, “Your family will be excited.” The reaction was immediate