There’s a strange current in the air that I pick up on even before I step off the stairs. People are huddled in the hall outside our classroom with their phones out, comparing screens.
David Tito waves at me to join him and Bryian, and their faces are tense. “What’s going on?” I ask, leaning my portfolio against my leg.
“There was a fire last night at Art Basel,” David says.
“Oh my God, was anyone hurt?”
“They reported that about twenty people were treated for smoke inhalation. Here’s a video,” David says, and hands me his phone.
I tap play, and the video pans across an exhibition booth filled with paintings and sculptures as smoke pours toward the ceiling. People are screaming and shouting, and the image jumps around as the person holding the camera runs for the exit. I play it again, trying to spot Krell or his wife or get a glimpse of Barry Ankarian or his booth, but the image is way too jumbled and blurry.
I hand David back his phone. “Does anyone know if Krell and his wife are okay?”
“Taysha’s talking to Mona right now,” Bryian answers, his thumbs flying over his screen.
I crane my neck to see down to the admin office. Taysha’s leaning over Mona’s desk, and it seems as if they can’t get out a sentence or two before Mona’s forced to pick up the phone again.
This can’t be good.
Bryian nudges me to get my attention. “Here’s a shot from outside the exhibition hall.” Smoke pours out the doors onto a crowd of people dancing among palm trees and huge spotlit sculptures. The music cuts off, and people run down the steps into the park below as sirens begin to wail.
A reporter comes on, saying, “Despite the highly flammable artwork on exhibit, and toxic smoke produced by burning acrylic and fiberglass, the swift response from Miami firefighters last night ensured that there were no casualties and property losses were limited to a handful of works. The show will be closed today for cleanup and reopen on Wednesday.”
“This is good news, right?”
Bryian winces. “Yeah, try telling that to the artist who just lost a year’s work.”
Taysha scurries out of the office and is still crossing the lobby when she calls up, “Krell and his wife are fine. They were at the party on the patio when the fire started.”
All around us people look up, relieved.
Taysha hoofs it up the stairs, so she’s breathing hard when she reaches us. “Mona said the only person she knows who was injured was Barry Ankarian.”
“Is it bad?” Bryian asks. The concern in his voice is genuine, and even though I’m not used to seeing this side of him, I’m not surprised. Barry’s his dealer now, too.
“No, Ankarian will be fine. He suffered a broken wrist, that’s all. There was a rush for the exits and he tripped.”
“He’s lucky he wasn’t trampled,” Bryian says.
“Yeah, it could have been a lot worse.” Taysha scrunches her mouth as if she can’t decide whether to confide in us, and I realize that something must have happened to Ankarian’s booth.
The weight I’ve been carrying for days lifts and I instantly feel ashamed, but that doesn’t stop me from blurting, “What aren’t you telling us? Did Ankarian’s booth burn down?” I hold my breath, hoping Taysha will say the booth and Krell’s painting are ashes.
She shakes her head. “No, his booth didn’t burn, but there was ‘an incident,’ and Mona refuses to give me any details.”
The weight settles back down on my shoulders. An incident, whatever that means. I’m not safe, but the exhibition hall in Miami is closed today, which means one less day to worry my fake will be exposed.
“You think the fire was an accident?” Bryian says. “Like a neon piece blew?”
“Doubtful,” David answers. “Neon’s inert. It’s more likely someone wired something wrong and caused an electrical fire.”
“Maybe it was deliberate.” Taysha sounds so certain, all of us turn to her. “An act of terror? Miami’s been hit before.”
She and I stare at each other, sick at the thought, but David disagrees. “Nah. A terrorist would have taken credit for it. I think arson’s more likely,” he argues. “There’s got to be a hundred million in art in that building, and it’s all insured.”
“That would make sense,” Bryian says. “If a dealer had a painting that wouldn’t sell or he knew was fake, he could take out insurance on it, hire someone to set a fire, and problem solved.”
My neck pinches as he says “fake,” but this can’t have anything to do with Adam. Ankarian’s booth didn’t burn.
“What the hell!” Bryian holds up his phone. “Krell’s painting was tagged!”
I gasp, taking in the just-released photo. Red spray-painted letters shriek MURDERER across Duncan’s face.
Murderer. My pulse quickens as my eyes trace the bloodred letters. Duncan’s features are almost obliterated by the vandal’s work. “You can’t fix this. The solvent an art restorer would have to use…it would destroy Krell’s painting.”
“This—a normal person would not do this,” Taysha says. “No wonder Mona’s keeping her mouth shut.”
“Were any other paintings hit?” Birch asks Bryian.
“Not in Ankarian’s booth.”
I press on a spot between my eyes, trying to counter the pressure building in my skull. There’s got to be a rational explanation. “Why? Why would someone choose Krell’s painting out of all the art in Ankarian’s booth to tag?”
“Envy?” Bryian suggests. “Everyone’s calling Duncan a masterpiece. Maybe Krell has a rival out there we don’t know about.”
Birch frowns. “Nah. My guess: a commentary on Duncan Pyne.”
“Wait, who’s Pyne?” I knew Duncan was a real person, but I didn’t realize he was somebody.
“He’s a UCLA researcher who manipulates GMO grain. He tries to spin it that his goal is to relieve hunger in developing nations, but his mutant grain is actually murdering the earth.”
David looks slightly annoyed. “Technically, all grain other than ancient grain has been genetically modified by man.”
“Whatever, science guy,” Birch mutters.
Nausea wedges at the back of my throat. I’d love to believe the attack on Duncan is about Pyne and that the tagger’s an eco-activist trying to bring attention to the cause, but a fake was vandalized? Coincidence? I don’t think so.
This has to be Adam or whoever Adam paid or tricked into doing it.
Bernadette’s been on the fringes of the conversation, but she picks this moment to jump in. “This spray-paint thing is so Banksy, I wouldn’t be surprised if Krell and Ankarian planned it to up the prices of Krell’s work.”
She’s referring to the artist Banksy shredding his Girl with Balloon the minute it sold at auction for a million four. Supposedly the painting’s now worth even more half-destroyed.
Bryian glares at her, his eyes filled with disgust. “That’s so messed up, Bernadette. Only you would think like that.”
Bernadette glances around, hoping one of us will back her up, but none of us do. She huffs away and joins another group outside the classroom door.