Penfield was in her mid-thirties, a tall, thin, angular woman with a razor-sharp profile and the tight face of a dedicated smoker. She wore her dark hair in a severe chignon that emphasized her dramatically made-up eyes. She clearly relished the process of savaging the delicate feelings of vulnerable artists. She was well aware that she could make or break a career and seemed to believe that she had a divinely inspired mission to purify the art world.
The Penfield Gallery was located in a fashionable shopping district. The area had once been an exclusive neighborhood of large, two-story homes built in the Spanish colonial style. Fenella knew how to cater to her wealthy clientele. She always took care to park her elegant red Duesenberg directly in front of the entrance. The expensive vehicle, with its long lines and miles of gleaming chrome, was a visible symbol of class and luxury. It might as well have spelled out the messageDon’t Even Think of Entering This Gallery Unless You Are Richin neon letters. The upscale tone was carried through to the grand entrance and the stark white-walled showroom.
The back room of the gallery looked as if it had once been part of a grand reception hall designed to host large parties and social gatherings. Unlike the showroom in front, however, it was a typical gallery back room. Vivian had seen enough of them in the course of showing her portfolio to know. Framed and unframed paintings were stacked against the walls. Cartons and crates were piled on the floor. Large sculptures loomed in the shadows. The workbenches were littered with framing tools and materials.
At the rear of the shop a handsome staircase led upstairs to a balcony that ran the width of the room. There were more pictures and boxes stacked on that level.
Vivian understood why clients were impressed with the Penfield Gallery and she could certainly appreciate the smart marketing. Butshe had been raised in a wealthy household, a home filled with genuine Old World antiques, fine carpets, and beautifully polished furniture. It took a lot more than a handsome car out front and the severe, ultramodern décor of the showroom to impress her.
Fenella contemplated the image of the Adelina Beach pier in the morning light. An aging, dust-coated Ford was parked near the beach. A man and a woman stood next to the vehicle, gripping the hands of their two small, barefoot children. Everything about the couple radiated a mix of exhaustion and resolute determination. The children were wide-eyed and excited by the sight of the ocean.
It was clear that the family had not come to California on a vacation. They were there for the same reasons so many others had made the journey. Whatever lay behind them was worse than the uncertainty of their future in the West. They had come to find a new start; a new life.
“I call itFinding California,” Vivian said.
The photo had been entirely unscripted. She had come across the family on her way home after selling a late-night murder scene to Eddy at theAdelinaBeach Courier. The sight of the weary family gazing out at the pier and the horizon beyond had made her pull over to the curb. The couple had agreed to let her take the picture. Afterward she had given them the twenty dollars she had just collected for the crime scene shots. They had acted as if it was a small fortune.
“I’m not the Farm Security Administration,” Fenella announced. “I have no interest in hanging pictures designed to promote Mr. Roosevelt’s New Deal.” She tossed the photo aside. “Besides, everyone who arrives in California on Route Sixty-Six takes a picture of the beach and the pier. I was hoping you would have something more interesting to show me.”
Vivian braced herself and reached into her portfolio. She took out the last picture and put it on the table. It was the first in her new series of experimental photographs.
Fenella’s face tightened. Her bony shoulders tensed. Her eyes narrowed. For a long moment she stared at the picture. Vivian told herself that might be a good sign.
“It’s the first in a series of limited editions,” she ventured. “I’m calling it Men.”
When Fenella did not reply, just continued to gaze, transfixed, at the picture, Vivian took the risk of opening her inner vision a little, just enough to get some notion of what to expect.
The back room of the gallery and everything in it blurred as she focused on Fenella. She caught a fleeting glimpse of energy shivering around the other woman. It was the color of a hot sunset on the eve of a violent storm. Rage.
Stunned, Vivian hastily shut down her sixth sense and gripped the edge of the table for support. Her pulse was skittering and she was breathing too quickly. She had been braced for a dismissive rejection but not for red-hot anger.
This was the problem with using her other vision outside the controlled environment of her studio. Glimpsing the raw energy of someone else’s emotions was always unnerving.
Well, at least she now knew for certain that she would not be launching a career in art photography at the Penfield Gallery.
“You can’t be serious,” Fenella said at last. Anger and disgust etched each word. She flipped the picture of a nude male figure aside. “This is nothing short of pornography. They sell pictures like this from behind the counter in cheap magazine shops. Really, I am extremely disappointed, Miss Brazier. I have an opening in my upcoming exhibition. I thought I might be able to fit in one of your photographs but obviously that’s not possible.”
“Sorry to waste your time,” Vivian said.
She started to gather up the prints.
A salesclerk appeared in the doorway. She was elegant and refined in a prim black suit. As far as Vivian had been able to determine, everymember of Fenella’s staff came from the same mold. Male or female, they were all elegant and refined. They all wore formal black suits.
“Yes, Miss Curry,” Fenella said. “What is it?”
“I apologize for interrupting you, Miss Penfield, but Mr. Deverell is here.”
Fenella frowned. “He doesn’t have an appointment.”
“No,” Miss Curry said. “But he insists upon seeing you. He says it’s about the Winston Bancroft photograph, the one from Bancroft’s Woman in the Window series.He’s decided that he wants to acquire it for his collection, after all.”
Fenella shook her head. “Collectors. They can be so difficult. Very well, Miss Curry. Ask him to wait in my office. I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The clerk vanished.
Fenella looked at Vivian. “Morris Deverell is one of my best clients. He is obsessed with art photography.”
