Read Online The Night Cafe by Taylor Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Taylor Smith
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his nose, and matching creases ran down either side of a fleshy, unhappy-looking mouth. A portrait of the artist as a crotchety old man , Hannah thought.
“Good morning, Mr. Koon,” Rebecca chirped as he clumped down the front steps. She held out a hand. “I’m Rebecca Powell. It’s so good to finally meet you.”
Koon ignored her outstretched hand, glanced dismissively at Hannah, then back at Rebecca. “Come for the painting, I suppose?” His voice was a deep, pack-a-day rasp.
“That’s right. This is Hannah Nicks. She’s a security consultant and she’s going to be delivering the piece to the buyer.”
“Humph.” Koon turned his narrow gaze back to Hannah. She couldn’t help feeling that he was finding her sub-par as security for his treasure.
Rebecca went around to the trunk of her car, her platform soles a little precarious on the rock-lined driveway. She withdrew a rectangular, padded black case from the trunk. “I brought a portfolio to carry the painting.”
“You’re not crating it?” Koon asked.
“It’s not really necessary. We’ll wrap it, of course, although not too tightly, since it’s going to have to pass through Security at LAX. Hannah will be hand-carrying it and the painting will be carefully stowed with her in the first-class cabin. It’ll be just fine, I can assure you. Shall we see it now?”
Koon hesitated, then nodded toward a walkway between the house and the garage. “Studio’s this way,” he grunted, heading off the porch.
Rebecca followed his rapid stride, but her platform espadrilles were having so much difficulty negotiating the uneven tile pavers that Hannah jogged ahead and took the bulky portfolio case from her. Rebecca smiled gratefully and then put her full concentration into trying to keep up with Koon. Dropping back behind her once more, Hannah noticed a small unraveling of fabric at the collar of her gauzy peach dress where it had gone tissue thin from much wearing. Like the strain in her face, it was a sign of the stress she was under. Hannah could empathize.
Koon’s studio was a freestanding structure at the back of the property, better maintained than either the house or the garage, with what looked like a brand-new air-conditioning unit humming away in one of the large windows. Koon opened the screen door and propped it with one of his paint-splattered Birkenstocks while he fished a set of keys from the pocket of his chinos. When the inner door was unlocked, he stepped in, then backtracked at the last moment in time to catch the swinging screen door before it slammed shut on Rebecca. He held it until only she reached it, then turned abruptly and headed inside, leaving her to scramble to catch the swinging door. What a gentleman.
The studio was long and narrow, a large open space with windows all along the front and on the western side wall. Overhead were three skylights, although they were on a side of the roof that sloped away from direct sunlight. It was all designed, Hannah realized, to allow maximum natural light into the room without harsh shadow or exposure to harmful UV rays that might damage delicate painted surfaces.
Along one window stood a banquet-sized table laden with rolls of canvas, T-squares, rulers and a yardstick, as well as bins of tiny nails, a staple gun, shears and a variety of sharp blades and knives. Stacked against the opposite wall were frames and mounted canvases of various sizes. It took a moment for Hannah to realize from the splotches of paint on their edges that the multiple canvases propped face to the wall were probably finished paintings. On the wall above them were displayed still more paintings, large expanses covered with wide swaths of color. Maybe they were drying, she thought, or maybe he liked these better than the ones hidden from view. Most of them still reminded her of Gabe’s finger-paint accident.
At the far end of the studio stood three separate easels, two of which held large canvases
“Good morning, Mr. Koon,” Rebecca chirped as he clumped down the front steps. She held out a hand. “I’m Rebecca Powell. It’s so good to finally meet you.”
Koon ignored her outstretched hand, glanced dismissively at Hannah, then back at Rebecca. “Come for the painting, I suppose?” His voice was a deep, pack-a-day rasp.
“That’s right. This is Hannah Nicks. She’s a security consultant and she’s going to be delivering the piece to the buyer.”
“Humph.” Koon turned his narrow gaze back to Hannah. She couldn’t help feeling that he was finding her sub-par as security for his treasure.
Rebecca went around to the trunk of her car, her platform soles a little precarious on the rock-lined driveway. She withdrew a rectangular, padded black case from the trunk. “I brought a portfolio to carry the painting.”
“You’re not crating it?” Koon asked.
“It’s not really necessary. We’ll wrap it, of course, although not too tightly, since it’s going to have to pass through Security at LAX. Hannah will be hand-carrying it and the painting will be carefully stowed with her in the first-class cabin. It’ll be just fine, I can assure you. Shall we see it now?”
Koon hesitated, then nodded toward a walkway between the house and the garage. “Studio’s this way,” he grunted, heading off the porch.
Rebecca followed his rapid stride, but her platform espadrilles were having so much difficulty negotiating the uneven tile pavers that Hannah jogged ahead and took the bulky portfolio case from her. Rebecca smiled gratefully and then put her full concentration into trying to keep up with Koon. Dropping back behind her once more, Hannah noticed a small unraveling of fabric at the collar of her gauzy peach dress where it had gone tissue thin from much wearing. Like the strain in her face, it was a sign of the stress she was under. Hannah could empathize.
Koon’s studio was a freestanding structure at the back of the property, better maintained than either the house or the garage, with what looked like a brand-new air-conditioning unit humming away in one of the large windows. Koon opened the screen door and propped it with one of his paint-splattered Birkenstocks while he fished a set of keys from the pocket of his chinos. When the inner door was unlocked, he stepped in, then backtracked at the last moment in time to catch the swinging screen door before it slammed shut on Rebecca. He held it until only she reached it, then turned abruptly and headed inside, leaving her to scramble to catch the swinging door. What a gentleman.
The studio was long and narrow, a large open space with windows all along the front and on the western side wall. Overhead were three skylights, although they were on a side of the roof that sloped away from direct sunlight. It was all designed, Hannah realized, to allow maximum natural light into the room without harsh shadow or exposure to harmful UV rays that might damage delicate painted surfaces.
Along one window stood a banquet-sized table laden with rolls of canvas, T-squares, rulers and a yardstick, as well as bins of tiny nails, a staple gun, shears and a variety of sharp blades and knives. Stacked against the opposite wall were frames and mounted canvases of various sizes. It took a moment for Hannah to realize from the splotches of paint on their edges that the multiple canvases propped face to the wall were probably finished paintings. On the wall above them were displayed still more paintings, large expanses covered with wide swaths of color. Maybe they were drying, she thought, or maybe he liked these better than the ones hidden from view. Most of them still reminded her of Gabe’s finger-paint accident.
At the far end of the studio stood three separate easels, two of which held large canvases
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