Jack parked directly in front of Trest Gallery, and I noticed there was a sign on the door that said they were only open by appointments on Monday.
“I’m having trouble placing Trest,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him, but his name is familiar.
Jack nodded. “He donated to the campaign, but he rarely comes to public functions. He’s kind of eccentric. When he shows up it’s usually last minute or unannounced. Sometimes he’ll donate a bunch of money to whatever catches his interest and sometimes he’ll leave a thousand-dollar tip at a restaurant. But he mostly keeps to himself.”
The front of the gallery was a long stretch of glass windows, and local artists’ works were displayed under expensive lighting—everything from more traditional paint on canvas to knitted afghans and sculptures and pieces of furniture. Jack held open the door for me and I was immediately aware of the fact that my casual attire of jeans and sweater did not belong, but I still felt oddly comfortable.
The inside was set up to look more like a house than a gallery, and I found it made me really look at the possibility of each piece instead of trying to figure out some hidden meaning. Though there were some I’d never understand even with a written description.
“Holy Moses,” I whispered. “Do you see the price tags on these things? Where do people get that kind of money?”
“All kinds of places,” Jack said. “Places like these try to appeal to the bigger cities too so they’ll come here to shop.”
“As long as they don’t move here,” I said. “I kind of like that one of the circling fish. Compared to some of the other stuff it seems pretty straightforward.”
“I’m pretty sure those are sperm,” Jack said, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose to keep from laughing.
“How are you getting sperm out of that?” I asked, squinting so I could see better.
“Because it’s titled Sperm Count. And that’s not a boat they’re circling.”
“Huh,” I said. “Good thing I didn’t buy it for your office.”
Heels clicking against the tile interrupted our conversation and we looked around for the source.
“Sheriff Lawson?” a woman asked, her smile polite.
Her skin was the color of dark caramel, and she had stunning pale blue eyes. Her hair was bleached blond and cut close to the scalp and her features were sharp and pixie-like. She wore a black bodysuit with a metallic mesh sarong tied at her waist, and silver stilettos that made my arches ache.
“I’m Lina, Pete’s assistant here at the gallery,” she said, holding out a narrow hand.
“Nice to meet you,” Jack said, shaking her hand. “This is Dr. Graves. We appreciate the time.”
She smiled again and said, “Just let me lock up and I’ll take you to his studio. He’s been up working all night, so he’s a little scattered.”
Lina locked the front door and then led us to a black door marked Staff Only, and then she typed in a code and opened the door. She led us up a set of stairs, and I narrowed my eyes at her perfect behind as we went up because I’d seen the elevator at the end of the hall. I felt Jack’s hand pat my backside, giving me a little push as we went up. I could practically hear his laughter. He knew me well. There were two kinds of women in the world—ones who took the elevator and ones who took the stairs. I fell firmly into the elevator camp.
I’d been blessed by good genetics, a slim build, and good cheekbones—probably due to the fact that my birth mother was French—but I’d never had to be too concerned about my diet. I liked caffeine and pastries and bread and wine, so I figured I’d enjoy them until I couldn’t any longer.
I was happy that I wasn’t winded by the time we reached the landing at the top of the stairs, but I figured that had more to do with Jack getting me out to walk our property along the cliffs when the weather was nice than anything else.
The first thing I noticed was the light. Two sides of the top floor were nothing but windows, and it had a spectacular view of downtown. I could even see part of the theater from here. The second thing I noticed was the smell—turpentine, paint, and sawdust made my eyes water. The wood floors were scarred and paint splattered, and canvases lined the walls. Instead of a desk, there was a long oak table that was covered in papers and blueprints. Books lined the shelves along the back wall and there were weights and a couple of machines in the far corner.
The space said a lot about the man, and what it told me was that Peter Trest seemed to be a Renaissance man of sorts. He was also interesting to look at.
I’d gotten spoiled by Jack. Most men didn’t have his God-given looks, but Jack also had a charisma about him—a quality that drew people to him like bees to honey. I couldn’t remember the last time I was in a room with someone more magnetic than Jack. But Peter Trest ran a close second.
He smiled, wiping his hands on an old towel, obviously having just finished washing them. He wore tattered, paint-spattered jeans, and an old denim shirt rolled up to the elbows, showing muscular forearms. His silver hair came down to the top of his shoulders and his brows were thick and dark.
“Thank you, Lina,” Trest said. “Sheriff, good to see you again. I wasn’t expecting to see you at my door. Lina mentioned a detective.”
“Detective Cole got a call and couldn’t make it, so I told him I’d pinch-hit. This is Dr. Graves,” Jack said, introducing me.
Trest turned his attention toward me, and it felt like he was absorbing all of my features and analyzing them. It was an extremely uncomfortable feeling.
“Fabulous bone structure,” he said. “I’d love to paint you.”
“No thank you,” I said automatically and he laughed out loud.
“She’s blunt,” Trest said, looking at Jack. “I like that.”
“Me too,” Jack said. “That’s why I married her.”
“I apologize,” Trest said, his attention back on me. “It’s the plight of the artist. Everything and everyone we look at is a subject. But you really are strikingly beautiful. I’m Pete. That’s what most everyone calls me.”
I was even more uncomfortable with compliments than I was at being stared at, so I said, “Nice to meet you,” and then let the silence hang awkwardly.
“Thanks, Lina,” Trest said. “We should be good. Could you order lunch for me? I don’t think I’ve eaten since yesterday. Maybe day before that. I get caught up.” He shrugged sheepishly and pointed to a large canvas at the other end of the room. It was a cacophony of color and texture—slashes of red and pink and orange and yellow—and it was highly sexual in nature even though I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking at.
“Do you want any water or coffee?” Lina asked us.
“Oh, I should’ve thought to offer,” Trest said. “My brain tends to leave me when I’ve been in a work fog.”
“We’re fine,” Jack said.
Lina nodded and headed back down the stairs, leaving us alone with Trest.
“You’ve been here the last two days?” Jack asked. “You slept here?”
Trest put his hands on his hips and looked up, trying to recall. “I came in Saturday afternoon to do some paperwork.” He pointed at the table full of papers. “Obviously I didn’t get any work done. Sometimes it hits like that. I took a couple of naps on the couch to recharge, but I haven’t left the building since then. What’s going on? I figured someone was coming to talk to me about fundraising again for the sheriff’s office.”