St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

not being disturbed. Why don’t I get Mr. Cahill, the manager?”
    “Why don’t you get Worthington,” Zach said without looking at the woman. “We’ve got a plane standing by to take us to Telluride. If the big man is too busy to sell us his goods, we’ll find another gallery.”
    “Um, well, yes, of course,” the woman said. “Excuse me while I conference with Mr. Worthington. It may take some time, especially if he is talking to one of his collectors about the upcoming auction.”
    “We’ll either be here when he comes out or we won’t,” Zach said. His voice said that he didn’t care much either way.
    The young woman hurried off.
    Jill glanced around, taking in the guard at a console. He was dividing his attention between Zach and the five closed-circuit TVs that displayed whatever was in view of the cameras scanning every inch of the gallery.
    Just as saleswoman opened the door marked private, Zach said in a carrying voice, “Tell him it’s the owner of the newly discovered Dunstan that was sent to him for an opinion.”
    Moore froze, then shot through the door like a housecat with a coyote on its heels.
    “At least she knew what painting you were talking about,” Jill said in a low voice.
    “Yeah.”
    Finally.
    Now all he had to do was pray that Ramsey Worthington took the bait.

34
    SNOWBIRD
SEPTEMBER 15
11:22 A.M.
    A t least this won’t be a total waste of time,” Zach said, glancing at his watch.
    “Why?”
    “Take a look behind you.” He gestured toward a long wall hung with the kind of Western art that gave meaning to the word fine.
    Jill turned, drew in a quick breath, and headed toward the wall without a backward look.
    Zach enjoyed the view. Eagerness and impatience with all the game playing put something special in her walk.
    Even the guard noticed.
    Zach followed her toward the wall of art. Along the way, he picked a catalogue off the top of a stack. The pages of the catalogue, like the long wall, featured art from the upcoming auction in Las Vegas. Nearly all the paintings had traditional or modern gilt frames. Many of the canvases were big enough to fill the wall above the mantel of a trophy mansion in Vail or Telluride, Aspen or Taos.
    Or a museum.
    Jill did a quick turn down the long wall, then a much slower one. Either way, the results were the same.
    “Incredible,” Jill said when Zach came to stand beside her.
    “No argument from me,” he said. “There are some truly fine paintings here.”
    “Yet…”
    Zach waited.
    “I can’t help thinking that Modesty’s paintings are strong enough to hang here and not be put in the shade,” Jill said. “Except for size. None of the paintings in the trunk are more than forty inches on a side.”
    “Dunstan didn’t do a lot of big canvases,” Zach said. “He wasn’t painting for the museum trade. He didn’t even keep a full-time studio at his home. He was truly a plein air painter. The great outdoors was his workplace.”
    She thought of the near-constant, always unpredictable wind of the Basin and Range country. “Out in the open, big canvases would be nearly impossible to paint. Especially in the wind. Like kites without tails.”
    “Most of the time, Dunstan got around on horseback or in an open wagon,” Zach said, remembering what Garland Frost had told him. “Anything much bigger than forty inches on a side was too big to drag through the wilderness.”
    “Whoever painted Modesty’s legacy didn’t need a huge canvas to evoke a huge land,” Jill said.
    “That’s part of their brilliance. Small paintings that expand your soul in a big way.”
    She glanced at him and saw that he was intent on the art in front of him. “You are the unlikeliest connoisseur of fine arts I’ve ever met.”
    “It’s the beard stubble.”
    “It’s the whole package. You look like an entirely physical man.”
    He gave her an entirely male look. “Any time you doubt it, I’ll be glad to demonstrate.”
    “I don’t think Ramsey Worthington would appreciate a live sex show,” she said. “But thanks for the thought.”
    His smile flashed and vanished like lightning against a storm. He walked slowly along the wall.
    “Any favorites?” she asked after a time.
    “Albert Bierstadt and Thomas Moran are always worth spending time with,” Zach said, pointing toward two of the biggest canvases. “Moran, especially. But I prefer his smaller canvases. Less theatrical, more real.” He shrugged. “I’m in a