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“Good evening, Chelsea.” He smiled at her briefly before turning his attention back to the painting.
“Henri Babineux, as I’m sure you know, is one of the most renowned artists of his day. This piece was painted circa 1862. Today is the first day we’re showing it. I don’t think we’ll have it long. Wouldn’t it look fabulous in your collection?”
“You might be right,” he replied. “Excellent turnout, by the way. I don’t usually go for these types of events, but I couldn’t resist coming this evening to see what new treasures you might have available.”
“I trust you’re not disappointed.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not.”
She stepped a little closer and lowered her voice. “Should I get a sold sign for it?”
“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
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.
“Oh, yes, they’re close. Adam’s story is a sad one, though. Adam’s father—that’s Mr. Rochester’s considerably younger brother—was in the military and frequently deployed overseas. What I’ve heard is that Mr. Rochester was the principal father figure in Adam’s life as he was growing up. Adam’s mother was already struggling with alcohol and drug abuse by the time her husband was killed in the line of duty. His death pushed her over the edge. The Rochesters tried to get help for her, but it was futile. Although they didn’t have legal custody of Adam, they tried to be positive influences in his life.”
“Where’s the mother now?”
“Excuse me,” Joel interrupted, as he joined them. He glanced at Sam—seemed to size him up, Chelsea thought—before he turned his attention to her. “Mr. Anderson was looking for you. When we saw you were...occupied, he asked my opinion of the Babineux. I didn’t know enough about it, so I steered him to Mr. Hadley.”
Pushing aside her immediate concern that she’d dropped the ball, Chelsea asked, “Did Mr. Anderson buy the Babineux?”
Joel frowned. “No, he didn’t. He left.”
“Without buying anything? Is Mr. Hadley upset with me?”
“I smoothed it over for you. But the auction’s about to start, so I thought you might want to get ready for it.”
Chelsea had been enjoying herself with Sam so much, she’d lost track of time. “Thank you for reminding me,” she said gratefully. “I’ll get to it right away,” she added, but she couldn’t help noticing that Joel kept looking over her shoulder. “Oh, Joel, let me introduce you to Detective Sam Eldridge. Detective Eldridge...uh, Sam is leading the investigation into the robbery next door. Sam, this is Joel Sinclair, grandson of Nadine Sinclair, the owner of the gallery.”
“The last part of the introduction is superfluous, I hope, as I like to think my role at the Sinclair Gallery is earned rather than nepotism,” Joel said stiffly as he shook hands with Sam. “Are you working tonight?” he asked, with a meaningful glance at the flute Sam held.
“No, I’m not,” Sam replied and took an unhurried sip from his glass.
“What brought you to our gallery this evening? I don’t recall seeing your name on our invitation list.”
Sam glanced at Chelsea. “Curiosity.” There was something in his eyes she couldn’t decipher.
Joel took a sideways step toward her and ran a hand casually up and down her arm. “You enjoy art, Detective?” He continued probing, obviously not in any hurry to leave them alone, and she sensed friction between the two men.
“Not particularly.”
“The filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard said, ‘Art attracts us only by what it reveals of our most secret self.’”
“Very profound, but I like to keep my most secret self to myself,” Sam retorted.
Chelsea felt as if she was watching a chess game, and it had started with Joel’s inappropriate display of possessiveness. Two could play that game, she thought, and she moved away from Joel in a way that put her equidistant between the men. She intended to stay neutral.
“Well, Detective Eldridge,” Joel said after a moment. “I hope you got some pleasure from your tour. Even if you’re not a huge fan, the right work of art always adds richness and interest to a room. You should consider acquiring one of our...more traditional pieces.”
Sam stuck his hands in his pants pockets. “You’re correct that I am more of a traditionalist.”
They didn’t seem to want to let up, and Chelsea didn’t need to stick around while they jockeyed for alpha position. She cleared her throat. “I see Mrs. Fontaine admiring the Oldenburg. Joel, if you’d attend to the detective, I’ll see if she’s interested in making a purchase. Good evening, Detective,” she added, deliberately using his title rather than his name, before she walked away.
* * *
SAM WATCHED CHELSEA march off. March seemed to be the most accurate way to describe it. He had to give her credit for determination. There was no question she’d had enough of the verbal sparring he and Sinclair had been engaged in. His gaze still on her, he noted that she moved with poise, too.
She might not have been particularly tall, but she had long legs. Elongated by the sexy heels. How did a woman manage to stay on her feet all evening in a pair of those? And then there was her trim, shapely figure. Maybe not his type, but a man had to appreciate a form like that.
He kept his gaze on Chelsea longer than he might have, because he knew he was being watched by Sinclair. Sam could tell that it irritated him, and for some reason that gave him satisfaction. When he finally looked back at Sinclair, he wasn’t surprised by the scowl on the other man’s face. He hadn’t missed his possessive stroking of Chelsea’s arm, either. Boyfriend? They did appear to be suited, but the thought of the two of them together annoyed him for some reason.
Sam decided to test his hypothesis. “How long have you been seeing each other?” He noticed the immediate tensing, the breaking of eye contact. Both possible tells that Sinclair wasn’t comfortable with the question.
“Oh, we started dating about two and a half years ago.”
“Uh-huh.” Well, she was off-limits to him. Where did that come from? He hadn’t realized he’d been thinking about Chelsea in that context.
Forcing his thoughts onto a different subject, he looked at the statue on a pedestal not far from where they stood. From his discussion with Chelsea he’d gathered that statue would be priced in the six figures. With the value of the artwork displayed, if his theory about the robbery at All That Glitters and Shines was correct, the gallery could be the real target. Since Sinclair was still standing next to him, he’d take the opportunity to learn more about the gallery...and Sinclair himself. He pointed to the statue. “What can you tell me about that piece?”
Sinclair gave him the rundown. It was evident that he knew his facts, but he didn’t show any of the warmth or passion that Chelsea had. Sam deduced that for him it was a job. For Chelsea? More of a calling.
Sam decided to try another angle. “Chelsea mentioned your grandmother owns the gallery.”
“Yes. She does.”
Sam saw Joel glance around the room, his eyes resting briefly on the gray-haired woman dressed in a muted pink—he supposed it would be called rose—suit in the far corner of the room.
“Is that your grandmother?”
“What? Yes.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
“I don’t see why—”
“You never know when connections to the Camden Falls Police Department might come in handy,” Sam interrupted in a tone that deterred argument.
“Yes, of course,” Sinclair said curtly.
Sam followed him to the corner where his grandmother was. They waited until she’d finished her conversation with a distinguished-looking gentleman.
“Grandmother, I’d like to introduce you to Detective Sam Eldridge,” Joel said when she turned to them. “Detective, this is my grandmother Nadine Sinclair.”
Sam noticed the slight narrowing of her eyes before she offered him a bright smile and held out her hand. Her charisma was powerful. Joel Sinclair didn’t inherit his lack of charm from his grandmother.
“It’s always nice to have a Camden Falls police officer visit our establishment.” Her expression sobered. “Do you have news about the robbery next door? What happened to Arnold Rochester is simply horrible.”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t, but we’re doing our best.”
“I’m the one who needs to apologize. How rude of me to ask about such a terrible incident when you’re a guest at our little gallery. I imagine your line of work is often thankless, but I’m grateful for what you and your colleagues do to keep our community safe and free from crime. I trust the investigation is in good hands.” The glint in her eye made Sam think she would’ve been a force to reckon with in her younger days, and probably still was. Age hadn’t dulled her intelligence or her perception. Although she made him feel as if he was her focus, she kept a vigilant eye on the room behind him.
“No apology necessary. I’m never entirely off the clock.”
She angled her head. “As I said, we’re grateful for your service and dedication. I noticed Chelsea showing you around. You haven’t been in here before, have you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I hope you like our gallery and will visit us again.”
“Thank you. You have an impressive place. I expect you have a sophisticated security system, too.”
“We do, supplemented by security guards and patrols,” Joel responded, drawing his attention. “But it’s also something we avoid discussing in public. Part of the system’s effectiveness has to do with the fact that it’s unobtrusive. If would-be thieves were to know the details of the system, it would be that much easier for them to disable or circumvent it.”
Mrs. Sinclair patted her grandson’s arm. A subtle sign of admonition perhaps?
“Joel can get very protective of the gallery...and me. So, Detective Eldridge, can I interest you in any of our works of art?”
“You’d be the third one to try,” Sam said with a smile. “And the one most likely to succeed, but no. I came more out of general interest today.”
Activity in another part of the room had all three of them turning in that direction, and Sam guessed the auction was about to begin. It was time for him to go—before an innocent scratch of his head ended up costing him a year’s salary for something he didn’t need or want. He thanked both Sinclairs and started to navigate through the crowd toward the door.
He’d ascertained that the gallery would be a viable target, if his theory held. Whether related or not, his gut told him not to trust Joel Sinclair. The grandmother seemed nice enough, but there was something about Joel that rubbed him the wrong way.
Chelsea came to mind, and he nearly laughed at himself.
No, it wasn’t because Sinclair had a relationship with Chelsea.
Sam admitted to a certain fascination with her, but she wasn’t available and Sam never poached.
Still, he couldn’t resist pausing before he left the room to search her out. She was near the podium he assumed the auctioneer would use, in animated discussion with another young woman. When she glanced in his direction and smiled, he returned her smile and waved goodbye.
Wondering if he’d see her again, he astonished himself for the second time that evening with how much he wanted to.
Business. He had to focus on business, he reminded himself. And he had the answer to his question, he thought, as he pulled away from the curb a short while later. The gallery housed valuable art. The most expensive pieces on display far exceeded the highest-priced items in the jewelry store. But while jewelry and watches could be easily fenced, priceless and readily identifiable works of art could not. Private collectors with immense wealth, a disregard for the law and secret collections would be the only potential purchasers of stolen art, in Sam’s opinion. He presumed that was a very limited group.
Since he was here, he’d take a drive down Willowbrook Avenue to see if there were any other probable targets for a major heist.
As soon as the thought occurred to him, he chuckled.
Major heist and the quaint, peaceful little town of Camden Falls was a contradiction in terms. He wondered if he was looking for something big he could sink his teeth into, because—admittedly—the job here didn’t present the challenges that being a cop in one of the seedier areas of Boston had. And without a personal life to speak of, the job was all he had, he mused as he drove slowly by a gift shop and a pet food store, neither of which he considered a viable target.
But then peaceful and crime free were two of the reasons he and Katherine had decided to relocate to Camden Falls when they’d learned Katherine was pregnant. They’d also wanted a strong sense of community, and Camden Falls offered that, too. They’d been ecstatic at the prospect of raising a family here.
Well, that didn’t turn out as planned, Sam thought ruefully as he passed a ladies’ clothing boutique and a shoe store. And the big city had lured Katherine back to reestablish her career as a financial planner, while he’d stayed right here in Camden Falls, consumed with grief. They hadn’t spoken since the divorce.
With their son, Nicolas, gone, there hadn’t been any reason.
By the time Sam reached the end of the retail section of Willowbrook Avenue, he’d narrowed potential targets down to the Sinclair Gallery and an electronics store—if his theory was correct. He would’ve put the gallery at the top of the list, except for the challenge of fencing stolen works of art. So, the jewelry store struck him as the best of the possibilities, after all. And that negated his response-time-testing theory.
Maybe he was grasping at straws.
This wasn’t Boston.
He thought about the people he’d met that evening and wondered if any of them could have been responsible for the jewelry store robbery.
Sam considered Joel Sinclair and his lack of passion for the business. He wondered how much Joel made from the gallery in comparison with his grandmother. Sam’s thoughts returned to Chelsea Owens as he took a right onto Cedar Lane to head home. There was an irresistible quality to the quirky, upbeat, high-spirited young woman. But was his interest professional? Was he drawn to her because his instincts told him she might have a connection to the robbery next door? Or was the attraction personal?
He had to be overtired if he was thinking along either of those lines.
She wasn’t his type. He wasn’t interested in a relationship, even if she was. And she wasn’t available, anyway.
He’d get a good night’s sleep and talk his theory through with Colin on Monday.
But try as he might, he couldn’t get Chelsea out of his thoughts.
CHAPTER FIVE
CHELSEA SAID GOODBYE to Sharon Robinson, the third-grade teacher at Camden Falls Public School, and the kids in her class for whom she’d conducted a tour of the gallery that morning. Chelsea loved kids and loved teaching them about art. Their insatiable curiosity and the way they saw everything so differently from adults never ceased to amaze and inspire her. She was always more than willing to organize and run the tours, but that didn’t mean the kids’ limitless energy didn’t take a lot out of her.