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Authors: J. A. Jance
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physically inserting herself between Dee Canfield and Bobo. “Now. Before things get out of hand.” She turned toward the man with the hammer. “As for you, put that thing down. On the desk. Now.”
After a momentary hesitation, Warren complied. Meanwhile, Bobo Jenkins ignored Joanna’s presence entirely. “Give me my picture, Dee,” he said, speaking over Joanna’s head. “You can go on with the damned show if you want, but it won’t be with my picture in it.”
“All right,” Dee said. “Go get it, Warren. Whatever it takes to get him out of here.”
Again, Gibson hesitated. “Go,” she urged again. Finally, shaking his head, Warren shambled out of the room.
“Look,” Joanna said reasonably. “You’ve all had a terrible shock this morning. No one here is thinking clearly.”
“Those pictures shouldn’t be sold,” Bobo Jenkins insisted. “Or, if they are, it should only be done once Shelley’s family members have given permission.”
For the first time Joanna took a moment to look around the room. Her eyes fell on a picture of a boy and a dog sitting on a front porch. The heat of a summer’s day shimmered around them, but the two figures in the foreground rested companionably in cool, deep shade. The boy and the dog had been lovingly rendered by someone who knew them well; by someone who cared about who they were. Even without looking at any of the other pictures, Joanna knew instinctively that Dee Canfield was right—that the portraits were those of Rochelle Baxter’s loved ones. She was equally sure that Bobo was correct as well. The people painted there would want the pictures to treasure far more than any amount of money.
“Shelley’s family!” Dee Canfield spat back at him. “What family? Did you ever meet any of them?”
Bobo shook his head.
“If Shelley’s work was so damned important to that so-called family of hers,” Dee continued, “don’t you suppose one or two of them would have been included in the invitations for tonight’s opening party? I asked Shelley specifically if there was anyone she wanted me to invite. She said there wasn’t anyone at all.”
“Now that Rochelle is dead, her family is bound to turn up,” Bobo said.
“Fair enough,” Dee replied. “When they do, I’ll have a nice fat check waiting for them, and they’ll be more than happy to take the money and run.”
Warren Gibson appeared in the doorway carrying an almost life-size portrait of Bobo Jenkins. Bobo swallowed hard when he saw it, then he stepped forward and snatched it out of Warren’s grasp. He walked back over to Dee and stood there, holding the painting with both hands.
“Do you know what you are?” he demanded. “You’re a money-grubbing bitch who doesn’t know a damned thing about what’s important.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the gallery while the little bell tinkled merrily overhead.
Once Bobo was gone, all the starch and fight drained out of Deidre Canfield’s face and body. She staggered over to the polished wooden desk where Warren had deposited his hammer. She sank into the rolling desk chair and laid her head on her arms. “I can’t believe Bobo would talk to me that way,” she sobbed. “He and I have been friends for a long time. How could he?”
Warren Gibson moved to the back of Dee’s chair and gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “It’s all right, Dee Dee,” he said. “He’s gone now.”
The doorbell tinkled again. A young uniformed police officer wearing a City of Bisbee badge with a tag that said “Officer Jesus Romero” ventured cautiously into the room.
“Everything all right, Sheriff Brady?” Romero asked. “I was told there might be some kind of problem.”
Joanna felt embarrassed. The lights, siren, and call for backup had all proved unnecessary. “Sorry about that,” she said. “It turned out to be nothing. Everything’s under control.”
The officer grinned at her. “I’d rather have it be nothing than
After a momentary hesitation, Warren complied. Meanwhile, Bobo Jenkins ignored Joanna’s presence entirely. “Give me my picture, Dee,” he said, speaking over Joanna’s head. “You can go on with the damned show if you want, but it won’t be with my picture in it.”
“All right,” Dee said. “Go get it, Warren. Whatever it takes to get him out of here.”
Again, Gibson hesitated. “Go,” she urged again. Finally, shaking his head, Warren shambled out of the room.
“Look,” Joanna said reasonably. “You’ve all had a terrible shock this morning. No one here is thinking clearly.”
“Those pictures shouldn’t be sold,” Bobo Jenkins insisted. “Or, if they are, it should only be done once Shelley’s family members have given permission.”
For the first time Joanna took a moment to look around the room. Her eyes fell on a picture of a boy and a dog sitting on a front porch. The heat of a summer’s day shimmered around them, but the two figures in the foreground rested companionably in cool, deep shade. The boy and the dog had been lovingly rendered by someone who knew them well; by someone who cared about who they were. Even without looking at any of the other pictures, Joanna knew instinctively that Dee Canfield was right—that the portraits were those of Rochelle Baxter’s loved ones. She was equally sure that Bobo was correct as well. The people painted there would want the pictures to treasure far more than any amount of money.
“Shelley’s family!” Dee Canfield spat back at him. “What family? Did you ever meet any of them?”
Bobo shook his head.
“If Shelley’s work was so damned important to that so-called family of hers,” Dee continued, “don’t you suppose one or two of them would have been included in the invitations for tonight’s opening party? I asked Shelley specifically if there was anyone she wanted me to invite. She said there wasn’t anyone at all.”
“Now that Rochelle is dead, her family is bound to turn up,” Bobo said.
“Fair enough,” Dee replied. “When they do, I’ll have a nice fat check waiting for them, and they’ll be more than happy to take the money and run.”
Warren Gibson appeared in the doorway carrying an almost life-size portrait of Bobo Jenkins. Bobo swallowed hard when he saw it, then he stepped forward and snatched it out of Warren’s grasp. He walked back over to Dee and stood there, holding the painting with both hands.
“Do you know what you are?” he demanded. “You’re a money-grubbing bitch who doesn’t know a damned thing about what’s important.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the gallery while the little bell tinkled merrily overhead.
Once Bobo was gone, all the starch and fight drained out of Deidre Canfield’s face and body. She staggered over to the polished wooden desk where Warren had deposited his hammer. She sank into the rolling desk chair and laid her head on her arms. “I can’t believe Bobo would talk to me that way,” she sobbed. “He and I have been friends for a long time. How could he?”
Warren Gibson moved to the back of Dee’s chair and gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “It’s all right, Dee Dee,” he said. “He’s gone now.”
The doorbell tinkled again. A young uniformed police officer wearing a City of Bisbee badge with a tag that said “Officer Jesus Romero” ventured cautiously into the room.
“Everything all right, Sheriff Brady?” Romero asked. “I was told there might be some kind of problem.”
Joanna felt embarrassed. The lights, siren, and call for backup had all proved unnecessary. “Sorry about that,” she said. “It turned out to be nothing. Everything’s under control.”
The officer grinned at her. “I’d rather have it be nothing than
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