would have told them to keep Elvis away from the light of day, where he belonged. Forever.
But I couldn’t exactly inform Joanne that velvet Elvis wasn’t whimsical or wonderful. After all, she was sort of an aunt to me. Not to mention the richest woman in the city.
“I’ve told those guys at least five times the painting of Elvis goes on the left wall, not the right. Idiots. I’m surrounded by idiots,” Abby muttered.
The event planner stomped off to go make some more of the movers cry. I shook my head, glad I wasn’t in the line of fire. And Fiona thought I was wound too tight. She needed to spend some quality time with Abby, who morphed into Ms. Hyde the second she stepped into the museum. I didn’t know what was wrong with the event planner, but every single thing had annoyed her today, from the smell of the cleaning supplies used in the museum to the glare of the lights overhead. Abby even complained the movers made too much noise walking around—though they wore thick coveralls that just barely whispered together.
Footsteps sounded on the smooth marble floor, and Arthur Anders appeared in one of the wide arches. He was a thin man who always wore a brown plaid jacket and corduroy pants. Half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he sported a small ponytail. Arthur was the museum curator and sort of a mentor to me. He also worked as a professor at Bigtime University, and I’d taken many of his classes. The man knew more about art than anyone else in the city. Even now, several years removed from college, his discerning eye and expertise still awed me.
“It’s coming along nicely, Bella. Very nicely,” Arthur said, taking in the items already on display.
People had donated a little bit of everything, from elaborate crystal candlesticks and animal figurines to antique miniature cars to old-fashioned Barbie dolls to Fabergé eggs to tea sets. The gleam of gold. The red fabric of the dolls’ dresses. The luster of the dishes. The objects decorated the room with a rainbow of colors and shapes. Everything was classy, but fun, just the way I’d intended it to be. Art wasn’t just about O’Keeffes and Whistlers and Pollocks. To me, anything well crafted with loving care was art.
Well, anything except velvet Elvises.
“Thank you. But I couldn’t have done it all without the others, especially Hannah and Joanne. They’re the ones who convinced people to donate such wonderful, interesting items.”
“I still can’t believe you got Berkley Brighton to show the Star Sapphire,” Arthur said, his eyes going to the gem. “That was quite a coup, Bella.”
I shrugged. “Berkley is a family friend and Joanne’s husband. It really wasn’t that difficult.”
The sapphire was the first thing we’d put into the room this morning—in the very center, of course. The gem, cut into an oval bigger than my fist, rested on three curved silver tines. Thanks to the maintenance workers positioning the lights just so, the sapphire cast out hundreds of rays of cool blue light that reached into the farthest corners of the open area. The display dazzled me, even if the stone rested behind four inches of bulletproof, shatterproof glass rigged with more alarms than a fire truck. Berkley hadn’t gotten to be one of the wealthiest men in the world by taking chances with his treasures, and I wasn’t about to take any with his most prized possession.
“Still, we’ve had more excitement about this exhibit than any we’ve had in a long time,” Arthur said. “You’ve done a wonderful job.”
“Don’t congratulate me just yet,” I warned. “There’s still plenty that could go wrong.”
Like Debonair or someone else breaking in and stealing Berkley’s sapphire. That was my main, paranoid fear, although the museum staff and I had done everything in our power to prevent that from happening. Added more patrolling guards. Increased the number of cameras in the room. Blanketed the entire wing with alarms and
But I couldn’t exactly inform Joanne that velvet Elvis wasn’t whimsical or wonderful. After all, she was sort of an aunt to me. Not to mention the richest woman in the city.
“I’ve told those guys at least five times the painting of Elvis goes on the left wall, not the right. Idiots. I’m surrounded by idiots,” Abby muttered.
The event planner stomped off to go make some more of the movers cry. I shook my head, glad I wasn’t in the line of fire. And Fiona thought I was wound too tight. She needed to spend some quality time with Abby, who morphed into Ms. Hyde the second she stepped into the museum. I didn’t know what was wrong with the event planner, but every single thing had annoyed her today, from the smell of the cleaning supplies used in the museum to the glare of the lights overhead. Abby even complained the movers made too much noise walking around—though they wore thick coveralls that just barely whispered together.
Footsteps sounded on the smooth marble floor, and Arthur Anders appeared in one of the wide arches. He was a thin man who always wore a brown plaid jacket and corduroy pants. Half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he sported a small ponytail. Arthur was the museum curator and sort of a mentor to me. He also worked as a professor at Bigtime University, and I’d taken many of his classes. The man knew more about art than anyone else in the city. Even now, several years removed from college, his discerning eye and expertise still awed me.
“It’s coming along nicely, Bella. Very nicely,” Arthur said, taking in the items already on display.
People had donated a little bit of everything, from elaborate crystal candlesticks and animal figurines to antique miniature cars to old-fashioned Barbie dolls to Fabergé eggs to tea sets. The gleam of gold. The red fabric of the dolls’ dresses. The luster of the dishes. The objects decorated the room with a rainbow of colors and shapes. Everything was classy, but fun, just the way I’d intended it to be. Art wasn’t just about O’Keeffes and Whistlers and Pollocks. To me, anything well crafted with loving care was art.
Well, anything except velvet Elvises.
“Thank you. But I couldn’t have done it all without the others, especially Hannah and Joanne. They’re the ones who convinced people to donate such wonderful, interesting items.”
“I still can’t believe you got Berkley Brighton to show the Star Sapphire,” Arthur said, his eyes going to the gem. “That was quite a coup, Bella.”
I shrugged. “Berkley is a family friend and Joanne’s husband. It really wasn’t that difficult.”
The sapphire was the first thing we’d put into the room this morning—in the very center, of course. The gem, cut into an oval bigger than my fist, rested on three curved silver tines. Thanks to the maintenance workers positioning the lights just so, the sapphire cast out hundreds of rays of cool blue light that reached into the farthest corners of the open area. The display dazzled me, even if the stone rested behind four inches of bulletproof, shatterproof glass rigged with more alarms than a fire truck. Berkley hadn’t gotten to be one of the wealthiest men in the world by taking chances with his treasures, and I wasn’t about to take any with his most prized possession.
“Still, we’ve had more excitement about this exhibit than any we’ve had in a long time,” Arthur said. “You’ve done a wonderful job.”
“Don’t congratulate me just yet,” I warned. “There’s still plenty that could go wrong.”
Like Debonair or someone else breaking in and stealing Berkley’s sapphire. That was my main, paranoid fear, although the museum staff and I had done everything in our power to prevent that from happening. Added more patrolling guards. Increased the number of cameras in the room. Blanketed the entire wing with alarms and
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