The same Vassar graduate sat behind the desk, reading the same Jane Smiley novel and waiting for her Wall Street prince to come. She nodded at Keller without moving her head-he wasn’t sure how she managed that-and went back to her book while he crossed the room to the painting.
And there it was, as vivid and powerful as ever. He felt himself drawn into the picture, sucked into the trunk and up the branches. He let himself sink into the canvas. This had never happened to him before and he wondered if it happened to other people. He stayed in front of the painting for a long time, knowing that there was no question of passing it up. He had the money, he could spend it on a painting if he wanted.
He’d tell the girl he wanted to buy it, and they’d take his name and perhaps a deposit-he wasn’t sure how that part worked. Then they’d record it as sold, and when the show came down at the end of the month he’d pay the balance and take it home.
And have it framed? It was minimally framed now with flat strips of dark wood, and that worked okay, but he suspected a professional framer could improve on it. Something simple, though. Something that enclosed the painting without drawing attention to itself. Those carved and gilded frames looked great around a portrait of a codger with muttonchop whiskers, but they were all wrong for something like this, and-
There was a red dot on the wall beside the painting.
He stared at it, and it was there, all right, next to the number 19. He extended a forefinger, as if to flick the dot away, then let his hand fall to his side.
Well, he’d left it too long. Remembering to look before he leapt, he’d hesitated, and was lost.
And so was the painting, lost to him.
Disappointment washed over him, along with a paradoxical sense of relief. He wouldn’t have to part with twelve thousand dollars, wouldn’t have to seek out a framer, wouldn’t have to pick a spot and hammer a nail into the wall.
But, dammit to hell, he wouldn’t own the painting.
Of course there were others. This was the one he’d picked, the old tree trying to get through one more winter, but the choice hadn’t been all that clear-cut, because he’d responded strongly to all of Declan Niswander’s work. If he couldn’t have his favorite, well, it wasn’t the end of the world. How hard would it be to find one he liked almost as well?
Not hard at all, as it turned out. But it would be equally impossible to buy any of the other works, no matter how much he liked them, because every single painting in the gallery had been given the red dot treatment.
He stared at the desk until the girl looked up from her book. “Everything’s been sold,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
“It’s great for you people,” he said, “and I suppose it’s great for Mr. Niswander, but it’s not so great for me.”
“You were in yesterday afternoon, weren’t you?”
“And I should have bought the painting then, but I wanted to sleep on it. And now it’s too late.”
“Things happen overnight in this business,” she said. “I always heard that, and here’s an example. When I went home last night there were only two paintings sold, the ones that were purchased the night of the opening. And when I came in this morning there were so many red dots I thought the walls had measles.”
“Well,” he said, “at least I’ve got the rest of the month to look at the paintings. Who bought them, anyway?”
“I wasn’t here. Look, suppose I get Mr. Buell? Maybe he can help you.”
She went away and Keller returned to Niswander’s trees, trying not to notice the plague of red dots. Then a man appeared, the willowy young chap who’d introduced Niswander at the opening. Up close, Keller could see that Regis Buell wasn’t really as young as he appeared. He looked like an aging boy, and Keller wondered if he might have had a face-lift.
“Regis Buell,” he said. “Jenna informs me we’ve disappointed you by selling out to the bare walls.”
“I’m the one with the bare walls,” Keller told him.
Buell laughed politely. “What painting was it? That you had your heart set on.”
“Number nineteen.”
“The old horse chestnut? A splendid choice. You have a good eye. But I have to say they’re all good choices.”
“And they’ve already been chosen. Who bought them?”
“Ah,” Buell said, and clasped his hands. “Mystery buyers.”
“More than one?”
“Several, and I’m afraid I can’t disclose any of their names.”
“And they all came through at the same time? I was here yesterday and there were only two paintings sold.”
“Yes, just the two.”
“And today they’re all gone.”
“Ah. Well, I had a private showing last night, after we’d officially closed. And, as a matter of fact, some of the work was already sold when you saw it yesterday. The red dots weren’t in place yet, but several paintings had in fact been spoken for.” He smiled winningly. “I don’t believe Jenna told me your name.”
“I never gave it to her,” Keller said. “It’s Forrest.”
Buell smiled prettily, and Keller immediately regretted the name. “Mr. Forrest,” Buell said. “No wonder you respond to trees.”
“Well,” Keller said.
“You know, there’s always the chance a purchaser will change his mind.”
“And back out of the deal?”
“Or consent to an immediate resale, especially if he’s offered an incentive.”
“You mean if he can make a profit?”
“It happens all the time. If you wanted to make an offer, on the horse chestnut or indeed any of the works, I could relay it and see what response it receives.” And how much of an incentive would it take? Buell thought it would have to be substantial. “The man’s a private buyer, not a dealer, so he wasn’t planning on this, but who doesn’t like to turn a quick profit? The prospect of a ten percent gain wouldn’t move him, but if he could double his money, well, that might be a difficult temptation to resist.”
“In other words, offer him twenty-four thousand?”
Buell gnawed on a fingernail. “May I make a suggestion? Round it up to twenty-five. It’s a far more impressive number.”
“It’s impressive,” Keller allowed.
“And I daresay you’re impressed with it yourself, having expected to take home the painting for twelve. Still, you could pay twenty-five or even thirty-five thousand for that painting and still come out well ahead.”
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely.” Regis Buell leaned in close, let his voice drop. “Look how rapidly the entire show sold out. Declan Niswander’s price is about to shoot through the roof. If you were to ask my advice, I’d tell you to offer the twenty-five and go higher if you have to. And, if the buyer were to ask my advice, I’d have to tell him not to sell.” He smiled conspiratorially. “But he may not ask. Would you like me to sound him out?”
Keller said he’d have to think about it.
“First I had to reach the guy,” Dot said, “and then he had to reach his guy, and then he had to get back to me.”
“It’s always something,” Keller said.
“The questions surprised him, but he came back with answers. The client thinks Williamsburg ’s perfect, and he doesn’t care how many people come to the party. If you want to make an omelet you’ve got to break some eggs, and you might as well cap a few mushrooms while you’re at it.”
“And if the wife’s around-“
“Fine with him. Remember how he wanted it dramatic? I guess that comes under the heading of drama.” She cleared her throat. “Other hand, Keller, it doesn’t sound much like your kind of thing.”
“No, it doesn’t. What about the gallery? He have anything to say about that?”
“He didn’t like the idea.”
“What didn’t he like about it? Never mind, I don’t want an answer.”