Kisser (2010)

color.”
    “You’re very right,” she replied.
    “Call me tomorrow, when you get a break,” Stone said.
    “Wilco,” she replied, then hung up.
     
     
     
    STONE WALKED into the Parsons Gallery half an hour after the time on the invitation and joined the crowd walking up the stairs to the second floor. He lifted a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and was surprised at how good it was.
    “We don’t serve the cheap stuff at openings,” said a female voice at his elbow.
    He turned to find Rita Gammage standing there. She was really lovely, he thought. Tall, slim without being skinny, with long, dark hair, and breasts that looked real in spite of her slimness. “You certainly do serve the good stuff,” he said. “What is it?”
    “Schramsberg. Philip feels it’s the best California stuff and the patriotic thing to serve.”
    “The man is truly a patriot,” Stone said. “Can I fetch you a glass?”
    “No, thanks; I’ve already had my single allowable glass at an opening. Come let me show you Squire’s work.”
    “What’s his first name?” Stone asked.
    “He doesn’t use one, just Squire.”
    “Easier to remember that way, I guess.” Stone walked slowly along a wall, taking in the work. “An American impressionist,” he said. “I like that.”
    “So does the market,” Rita said. “We sold half the stuff before tonight, and we’ve already sold half a dozen. There won’t be anything left at the end of the evening.”
    “It’s a big show,” Stone said, “and I’m glad to hear of an artist getting a big paycheck. What’s the price range?”
    “Thirty to eighty thousand,” Rita replied.
    “That makes for a very nice paycheck indeed, even after the gallery’s cut.”
    “A good paycheck for us, too, especially in this economy.”
    “A lot of people in this city don’t have to cut back when the economy goes sour and the market is down.”
    “I guess half of a hundred-million-dollar portfolio is still fifty million,” she said. “A person could scrape by on that.”
    “Indeed,” Stone said, looking around. “Is Hildy Parsons here?”
    “Behind you, just getting off the elevator,” Rita replied.
    Stone turned and looked. Hildy Parsons was an attractive young woman, blond and athletic-looking. The man with her was a different thing entirely.
    “Is that Derek Sharpe?” he asked Rita.
    “I’m afraid so,” she said.
    Sharpe was wearing a white suit a size too small for him, white shoes, no socks, and a black T-shirt. His hair was graying, greasy, and down to his shoulders.
    “Good God,” Stone said.
    “My sentiments exactly.”
    “Grotesque,” he said.
    “I’m afraid that, in the art world, not everyone dresses as immaculately as you do,” Rita said.
    “Or gets a haircut,” Stone added. “Would you introduce me to them?”
    “I will, if you’ll take me to dinner when I’m done here,” she said.
    “You’ve got a deal.”
    The couple moved into the room, and Stone followed Rita toward them.
    “Hello, Hildy,” Rita said, and the two women exchanged air kisses.”
    “Hi, Rita. You know Derek, don’t you?”
    “Of course,” Hildy said without acknowledging the man. “And this is Stone Barrington.”
    Stone shook Hildy’s hand and looked into her eyes. She seemed smarter than her choice of companion would indicate. “How do you do?” he said.
    “This is Derek Sharpe, the painter,” Hildy said.
    Stone shook his hand and found it soft and damp. “How do you do?”
    “I do very well,” Sharpe replied.
    “I’ll bet you do,” Stone said tonelessly. He turned back to Hildy. “You’re Philip’s daughter?”
    “Sometimes,” she said.
    “He speaks fondly of you.”
    She looked at him in surprise. “When?”
    “As recently as this morning.”
    “Well!” she breathed.
    Rita jumped into the conversation. “Stone is a prospective client,” she said. “Philip especially wanted him to see Squire’s work.”
    “Oh, you must come downtown and see Derek’s paintings,” Hildy said.
    “I’d like that.”
    She took a card from her purse and handed it to Stone. “Be sure and call first; he doesn’t like to show people around when he’s working.”
    “I’ll certainly do that. Will you excuse me, please? I want to see the rest of Squire’s pictures.”
    “Of course,” Hildy said.
    Stone nodded at Sharpe and peeled off toward another wall of paintings, glad to be increasing his distance from Sharpe. Rita went to greet some