St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

worked outside of a studio with its good lighting, controlled weather, and endless supplies.
    The thirty artists were all painting some aspect of the Bertone estate, all within the same two-hour period. They were surrounded by more than three hundred members of Arizona’s movers and shakers. The women wore “resort” clothes, the kind that cost thousands of dollars and were accessorized by sandals, purses, sunglasses, and jewelry from every country that catered to the world of European fashion. French champagne and Phoenix gossip fueled the party.
    Rand scanned the crowds of expensively dressed socialites and wondered how many of them knew the truth of Balzac’s epigram: Behind every great fortune is a crime.
    He sketched in a few lines for the pool, the pool house, and the concrete deck that provided the best view of the Phoenix landscape. For a few more moments he assessed the slanting, golden light. Then he decided it was time to quit sketching and start painting. He set aside the pencil and chose tubes of oil from his small worktable, squeezing and mixing colors quickly on his palette.
    “See Bertone yet?”
    “Shut up, I’m working,” Rand muttered.
    “So am I.”
    He painted quickly. And he hoped his disgust didn’t show behind his ruthlessly trimmed beard and newly collar-length hair. The sage green shirt Grace had presented him with was exactly the color of his eyes—or so she said. The old jeans and boots he wore were splattered with oils.
    Soon the new shirt would be, too.
    “Ah, he’s painting at last,” said a woman, her voice carrying clearly above the party’s chatter.
    Rand ignored the woman, who was wearing black silk jeans and blouse and massive Native American jewelry.
    “I told you so,” another woman said. “Elena assured me that he’s a fine young painter.”
    “R. McCree. Never heard of him.”
    “You don’t do the Pacific Northwest art scene.”
    “Why would I?” the first woman asked. “And why is he painting all alone over here? The others are all over there, with that spectacular view of the valley. Castle of Heaven might be a trite name, but it sure fits the view.”
    Rand hoped the women would leave and plague the other artists. Then he shut out the chatter and concentrated on the piece of the estate he’d chosen to paint. Both the spy and the artist in him was pleased with his choice—a vantage point overlooking Castillo del Cielo’s grounds.
    “One of those women is really rude,” Faroe said.
    “You should know,” Rand muttered.
    Painting in a controlled fury of creation, he ignored Faroe and the sweat that dried on his skin almost as soon as it appeared. Phoenix already had one foot into the searing summer that defined its landscape and the lives of its citizens. The pouring afternoon light picked out every line and curve of the land like “star lighting” in an old black-and-white movie.
    That kind of light was the artist’s best friend.
    And worst enemy.
    Because the desert light itself was so different from the cool, diffuse light of the Pacific Northwest, Rand had decided against doing a pure landscape. It would take time to master the subtleties of desert light. He didn’t have time.
    So he was counting on the vanity of Elena Bertone, who was one of the three judges. According to St. Kilda’s dossier on her, she’d overseen the details of Castillo del Cielo’s design with an intensity that had driven the architect to drink. Literally. Castillo del Cielo was Elena’s, and she loved it like a child.
    So he would paint her baby.
    A smart choice, but not an easy one for him. He’d never before painted a subject he didn’t enjoy. Like the party, to him the estate was…wrong. It had been hammered onto a site blasted from rock and cactus. The gem blue of the pools and the diamond glitter of huge water features fought with the sun-ravaged hills and spare shapes of cactus on the unbuildable ridgelines around the estate. The house itself was in the Tuscan style, calling upon a past that simply didn’t exist on this side of the Atlantic.
    Wrong.
    And very expensive.
    “Why didn’t Bertone just take out a billboard advertising his gross worth?” Faroe asked. “And I mean gross.”
    “Quit reading my mind.” The words didn’t go beyond Rand’s collar, which was far enough.
    “I was eavesdropping on that irritating woman. Wonder if her man of the moment gags her before he screws her.”
    “Go away.”
    “Find Bertone.”
    “Quit chewing on