Milo was pacing the gallery, setting off echoes as he drifted from painting to painting. I began doing the same.
A smug psycho-prediction of Julie Kipper’s art based upon the cheerlessness of her photo would have fallen flat. She’d created fifteen luminous landscapes, exuberantly colorful and textured, each marked by a master’s control of composition and light.
Sere arroyos, fog-shrouded, razor-hewn mountains, furious waterfalls emptying to mirror-glass streams, deep green forests pierced by gilded bursts that promised distant discovery. Two ocean nocturnes were livened by cerulean blue heavens and lemon moonglow that turned the tide to froth. Every painting bore the confident brushstrokes of someone who’d known how to move pigment around the canvas. Layers of color seemed to fluoresce; in lesser hands, the work would’ve veered into tourist kitsch.
Prices ranged from two to four thousand. I examined the canvases with another eye, searching for familiar locales, but finding none. Then I read the title tags: Dream I, Dream II, Dream III . . .
Juliet Kipper had created her own terrain.
I said, “To my eye, she was a major talent.” My voice bounced around the near-empty space.
Milo said, “I like her stuff, too, but what do I know? C’mon, let me show you where she died.”
The bathroom was too small for both of us, and Milo waited outside as I checked out the grimy spot where Juliet Kipper had been strangled.
A nasty little space, windowless, dank. Cracked sink, oxidized spigots. Black threads of mold curled in the corners.
With all that dirt, the series of faint brown smudges on the cement floor would’ve escaped my notice if I hadn’t known better.
I backed out of the room and Milo showed me the rest of the rear space. A large storage area to the left was filled with unframed paintings and office supplies and random pieces of cheap-looking furniture. The men’s room was no more generous or attractive.
The gallery’s rear door was striped by a push bolt.
“Another self-locking mechanism,” I said. “Another deliberate attempt to invite discovery.”
“Exhibitionist.”
“But he keeps it in check. Someone very measured.”
He pushed the bolt, propped the door open with a block of wood left there for that purpose, and we exited the building. An asphalt strip was backed by a ten-foot block wall. A Dumpster took up the far corner.
“What’s on the other side of the wall?”
“Parking lot of a plumbing supplies outfit. The ground’s higher on their side—two feet or so, but it would still be a climb. And there’d be no reason for the killer to scale it because all he had to do was walk right in.” He led me around the north side of the gallery and pointed down another tarred passageway that bordered the plating plant and opened to the street. Fumes rose from the plant; the air smelled lethal.
“Not much security,” I said.
“Why would a bunch of artists need any?”
We returned to the propped-open door, and I had a closer look at the lock.
“Same key as the front?”
“Yup.”
“I assume all the co-op members have keys.”
“Access is no mystery, Alex. Motive is. Like I said, I’ve already talked to all the co-op members, and none of them even remotely twangs my antenna. Fourteen out of twenty are women and of the six guys, three are of CoCo’s vintage. The young ones seem like your basic, head-in-the-clouds creative type. We’re talking the Venice crowd, here. Make art, not war. No one’s being evasive. I ran checks on all of them, anyway. Clean. I’ve been fooled too often to think it can’t happen again, but I’m just not picking up any serious vibes from this bunch.”
We reentered the gallery, and I had another look at Julie Kipper’s paintings.
Beautiful.
I wasn’t sure that meant much in the art world, but it meant something to me, and I wanted to cry.
I said, “When was she divorced?”
“Ten years ago. Three years before she moved out here.”
“Who’s the ex?”
“Guy named Everett Kipper,” he said. “He used to be an artist, too. They met at Rhode Island, but he switched careers.”
“She kept his name.”