GALLERY GIRL
Thursday afternoon, Aria pulled into Old Hollis and found a space on the street. Then she got out, retrieved her portfolio from the backseat, and stood in front of her mother’s gallery. It was in a large Victorian with bay windows and a big front porch. There was a sun catcher in the front window, and bronze wind chimes hung from the eaves. Tulips sprung from the flower beds in the front lawn. Today was her first day of work, and she was trying to feel excited, but she just felt numb. Her portfolio felt heavy in her hands. She doubted that Jim, the gallery owner, would actually sell her stuff, but her mother had insisted she bring everything she was working on.
Squaring her shoulders, she started up the front walk, careful not to trip in her brand-new, hot-pink kitten heels. As she passed a large maple with a tire swing and a bird’s nest in one of the low branches, her phone bleated in her bag. She reached for it. AGENT FUJI, said the caller ID. Aria’s heart flipped. Had there been a break in the case?
“Hi, Aria, it’s Jasmine Fuji,” came the agent’s smooth, professional tone. “I have Spencer on the line, too. Do you have a sec?”
“Sure.” A shifting shadow across the street caught her eye, but when Aria looked over, whatever it was had disappeared. She didn’t see her security guy anywhere.
Fuji cleared her throat. “First of all, I appreciate you girls forwarding your notes from A to me. It’s been very helpful.”
“I got one last night, Aria,” Spencer’s gravelly voice broke in. “Have you gotten any?”
“Nope,” Aria said. “What did yours say?”
“It was threatening a friend of mine, Chase—the guy who runs the conspiracy website. I’m afraid he might be in danger. You may want to look into security for him, too.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Fuji said. “But actually, I was calling because I want to clarify something with you girls about Graham Pratt. Aria, you sought out Graham, correct?”
Aria leaned her portfolio against the lamppost. “Not at all. We ended up in the same group on the cruise.”
“Hmm,” Fuji said. “So you didn’t realize until later that Graham was Tabitha Clark’s ex?”
“That’s right,” Aria said, turning away as a girl on a bike passed on the street. “Then I got a text from A almost the moment I found out, like A was watching.”
“Okay.” Fuji sighed. “I wish we could have spoken to Graham before he died.”
“Before he was killed,” Spencer corrected her. “By the way, have you looked into the N clue he gave Hanna at the burn clinic?”
Fuji chuckled softly. “We’re following up on everything, don’t worry.”
“What about a Preserve patient list from the time Ali was there?” Spencer goaded. “That would go a long way.”
“We’re on it.” Fuji sounded a little impatient. There was another muffled voice in the background on Fuji’s end. “Okay, girls, I gotta go,” she said. “Thanks for your time.”
“Wait!” Spencer said, but Fuji had already hung up.
Aria hung up, too, rolling her eyes. Spencer was type A to a fault.
“Aria! Thank goodness you’re here.”
The door to the Victorian had opened, and Ella stood just inside. Her mother was in her “gallery uniform”—a long patchwork skirt, a white peasant blouse, and a pair of blue suede Birkenstocks. She ushered Aria inside the house, which had been gutted into one large room that displayed countless paintings of Pennsylvania barns and wildlife on the walls. “A new artist is coming in a few minutes. We’re going to debut his work in a private show. It’s very exciting.”
Aria touched the top of an old spinning wheel that had sat in the corner of the gallery as long as she could remember—kind of like a lot of the artwork here. “What’s his name?” she asked.
Ella peeked out the front window. “Asher Trethewey.”
Asher Trethewey. Aria couldn’t have made up a more appropriate name for a retired lawyer-turned-artist if she tried. She could just picture him with a box of pastels, dithering over a pastoral scene of the Brandywine Water Gap. “Do you need my help?” she asked.
“Actually, I do.” Ella checked her watch. “I’m scheduled to meet another artist for lunch in fifteen minutes—so I have to go. I’m wondering if you’ll talk to Mr. Trethewey in my place.”
“Me?” Aria thumbed her chest. It seemed like a big responsibility.