Read Online Buttoned Up by Kylie Logan - Free Book Online Page B

galleries. Forbis had a couple pieces there, too, and he tried to interest me in representing him.”
    “You weren’t impressed with buttons?” I tried to keep the acid from my voice, but let’s face it, when people start dissing buttons, it’s bound to get me riled up.
    “Oh, he wasn’t doing the button thing then,” Richard said. “Back then, Forbis was what I like to call a serious artist. He worked in oils.”
    “Painting?” It didn’t exactly fit with the notion of the weird outsider artist I knew.
    “Oh yes, landscapes mostly,” Richard said. “He did beach scenes, ocean scenes, scenes around that old plantation home of his back on the island. You both met Forbis. You won’t be surprised to hear that he thought he was brilliant. The Barrier Islands’ answer to Michelangelo.”
    We were talking art, and art is a little outside Nev’s area of expertise. I felt perfectly comfortable taking over, at least for a bit. That’s why I prodded Richard, just a little. “And you thought . . . ?”
    Richard shrugged. “His work was OK. Just OK. It wasn’t especially inspired, and it certainly wasn’t brilliant. He had average technique. A so-so understanding of color. None of it was very exciting.”
    “And so you weren’t interested in representing him.”
    “I didn’t see there would be any money in it,” Richard said matter-of-factly. “So why would I waste my time? About five years later . . . well, I guess that was about when Forbis realized he was wasting his time, too. He tossed his easel and his oil paints and started in on this whole crazy button thing. When he contacted me again and I saw what he was up to—”
    “So you do think it’s art?” Nev asked.
    “And you did finally realize Forbis was brilliant?” I said.
    Richard apparently wasn’t sure which question to answer. That would explain why he sidestepped both of them. “Hey, I’ve got bills to pay and a credit card balance just like everyone else,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if I thought what Forbis was producing was art. Or if he was brilliant. Truth be told, I thought the guy was a certified nutcase. But that didn’t mean people wouldn’t buy his stuff. It’s different. It’s weird. And a lot of collectors, they like weird.”
    “Are any of them weird?” Nev asked. Then because it looked as if Richard wasn’t sure what he meant, he added, “Was Forbis having trouble with anyone? Did anyone have a beef with what he was doing?”
    “With the buttons?” Richard barked out a laugh, then looked at me to see if I was offended. I was, but I didn’t let on. “I can’t see anybody getting worked up about buttons.”
    “How about someone getting worked up about vudon?” I asked.
    Richard shook his head. “This was a brand new show. No one had ever seen it before. Forbis’s last show was classic cars covered with buttons. The one before that, that was the one with the household items. Who would care so much about a couch covered with buttons that they’d want to kill someone over it?”
    “Just so I have this straight . . .” Nev pulled a small, spiral-bound notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “What exactly did you do for Mr. Parmenter?”
    “What an agent does.” Richard nodded. “I handled sales. I arranged shipment when a piece was sold. I put out feelers to the art community so that I could book shows for him.”
    “Speaking of shows . . .” I sat down next to Richard. “Laverne told us that this show was originally scheduled at another gallery. What happened?”
    Richard pulled at his left earlobe. “The guy was a real flake,” he said. “That Bart McCromb over at Mango Tango. Promised us the moon for the show and backed out of every one of those promises. And the gallery?” He clicked his tongue. “In the famous words of Bette Davis, what a dump! When I got to Chicago and went over there, I just about had a cow. I was so excited. Finally, a big show in a big city. We were bound to