Fenella Penfield gazed at the two prints for a long time before she raised her head. Vivian braced herself for another rejection.
They were in Fenella’s back room facing each other across a long workbench that was littered with framing tools and materials. They were the only people in the gallery. The shop had been in the process of closing just as Vivian parked Lyra’s racy little speedster at the far end of the block. She had arrived in time to see the salesclerks leaving and was sure her brief moment of opportunity had closed.
But Fenella had stayed behind to view the pictures. It was obvious she was irritated and, evidently, rather desperate. One of her artists was not going to be able to deliver two pictures that had been promised for an upcoming show. Fenella needed something to go on the walls.
“I’ve changed my mind about the landscapes,” Fenella said. “And also your Finding California. Your pictures are certainly not fine art but I do have a few clients with less cultivated tastes who might like them. There are always a few unsophisticated types, the nouveau riche, at my shows. They’ll buy whatever I tell them to buy. I’m sure I can unload these.”
Talk about damning with faint praise, Vivian thought.
A tide of anger rose up, threatening to choke her. She went hot and cold all over. It was too much. On top of everything else that had happened in the past several days, the rude dismissal of her art was just too much.
She gave Fenella her most dazzling smile.
“Thank you, but I’ve changed my mind,” she said. She gathered up the prints and slipped them into the portfolio. “I’m afraid I won’t have time to develop any pictures for you.”
Fenella looked shocked. “What are you talking about? Last week you were begging me to hang those landscapes.”
“I did not beg you. I offered them to you. You rejected them.”
Fenella watched angrily as Vivian closed the portfolio. “Hold on. I need those pictures for my next exhibition.”
“Too bad. You can’t have them. By the way, I recently spent a few days in Burning Cove. I spoke to the proprietor of the Ashwood Gallery. I believe you know her?”
“Joan Ashwood?” Fenella appeared wary now. “Yes, I know her in a professional capacity. She has attended some of my exhibitions. Occasionally we compete for the same artists and photographers. Winston Bancroft, for example.”
“Yes, I know.”
Fenella frowned. “Why did you ask me if I knew Joan?”
Vivian flashed another bright smile. “Miss Ashwood was gracious enough to accept a couple of pictures from my Men series for her gallery.”
Fenella stiffened. “Is that right? Well, it’s no secret that Joan Ashwood caters to a much different clientele. Mobsters, celebrities, rich people with too much money and no taste.” She paused for emphasis. “And now, apparently, clients with prurient interests. Pay attention, Miss Brazier. If you don’t let me have those images for my show, you will never hang another picture in a respectable gallery anywhere in L.A. Your career as an artist will be ruined.”
“Face it, you’ve already done your best to destroy my career. I really don’t think there’s anything else you can do to ruin me.”
Fenella stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
Vivian hoisted the portfolio case off the workbench. “In the course of our conversation Miss Ashwood informed me that the reason I have run into so much trouble trying to persuade galleries around here to hang my work isn’t because my pictures aren’t good but because of certain rumors about me.”
Fenella looked at first as if she was going to deny any knowledge of the gossip but whatever she saw in Vivian’s expression must have convinced her that it was time for the truth. She looked deeply pained.
“I suppose you are referring to the gossip about your work as a newspaper photographer,” she said.
“Yes. Rumors which you no doubt helped spread. You certainly didn’t do anything to squelch them. I’m starting to wonder if you’re the one who started them. Maybe it wasn’t Kempton, after all.”
Fenella sighed. “The art world can be very harsh on artists who dabble in commercial work.”
“Even when they do it to pay the rent?”
“I’m afraid so. Everyone knows that all successful artists do some commercial work along the way but they are supposed to keep it a secret. Those, such as yourself, who are working in the medium of photography have an especially difficult time. The line between cheap, five-dollar-a-shot crime scene photos and true art is already extremely blurry.”
“In other words, so-called sophisticated gallery owners such as yourself, the people who make the rules, are afraid to trust their own instincts when it comes to judging art photography. Admit it.”
Fenella drew herself up and straightened her sharp shoulders. “Gallery owners must maintain their credibility with their clientele. If it got out that they were marketing photographs that anyone could take with a Brownie, well, you can see the problem.”
“It’s all about maintaining an image of exclusivity.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
“In that case,” Vivian said, “why were you willing to hang my pictures?”
Fenella looked hesitant. Then she sighed. “If you must know, the artist who failed to deliver the pictures for my show was Winston Bancroft. I need to hang a couple of examples of art photography to round out the show. Your work is . . . good enough.”
“No,” Vivian said. She started toward the door between the back room and the sales floor. “My work is too good for your gallery.”
She could feel Fenella’s eyes burning holes between her shoulder blades all the way across the shadowed showroom. She did not take a deep breath until she was outside on the tree-shaded sidewalk. Her anger faded as she walked halfway down the block to where she had parked Lyra’s speedster. She put the portfolio in the trunk and got behind the wheel.
She had just put the last nail in the coffin of her Adelina Beach career, but now that she knew about the rumors, she realized there had never been any hope in the first place. All was not lost. She was going to have two pictures from her Men series in the Ashwood Gallery show. If they got some positive attention and maybe even sold, she would have a chance in the world of fine art.
She was still sitting behind the wheel, trying to get a handle on her plans for the future, when a cab pulled up in front of the gallery. Fenella walked out of the shop and got into the back of the taxi. The vehicle sped off.
Vivian was so preoccupied with her thoughts that it took her a moment to realize she was getting a weird feeling on the back of her neck. A tiny whisper of ghostly energy. It occurred to her that there was something wrong with the street scene in front of her.