Page 100 of Family Affair

Chapter 22

Coco hadn't heard again from Detective Smirnoff, and neither had Detective Willis invited her for another one of his cute interviews. Driving toward La Vedova, she wondered how the investigation was progressing and whether Cade should still be worried about its direction. Ward Williamson had been laid to rest with a pomp befitting his prominent status in the community, but the media remained silent on the topic, and it could only mean that no arrest was made for the crime.

Arriving on time, Coco had to wait before Rosa finished with a client. Finally, Rosa deigned to notice her and motioned for her to go backstage.

“How’re you doing, Coco?” the gallery owner threw over her shoulder without bothering to turn her head.

Coco smiled brightly at Rosa’s pudgy square back. “Very well, thank you. How’s business?”

“Average. Quite a lot of tourists, but everybody’s stingy nowadays. The sales aren’t quite what they used to be.” Rosa shrugged with an apparent lack of concern. “We’ll turn out fine. We always do.”

And wasn’t that the truth. Rosa had been in this business for over forty years, and weathered through quite a number of bad deals, shady clients, and crappy economic conditions. Coco could only wish for the core of steel that woman had.

“What do you need my help with?” she politely asked the square back.

“I don’t need your help. I’ve got all the help I know what to do with. But thank you for your willingness to assist.”

Rosa unlocked the storage room.

“I asked Leisha, my assistant, to pack everything carefully, and she did. We pride ourselves on treating all works like they are precious. However, Leisha is busy at the moment, and I have a bad back. You may want to bring your car around to make it easier.”

Coco stared at Rosa not comprehending what she was talking about. “What do you want me to load up?”

“Your stuff, dear. I took your works off the display. You’re here to pick them up.”

Comprehension dawned, and it wasn’t pleasant.

“But why?”

“Consider it a business decision. My gallery isn’t that large. I simply have too manygreatartists to waste my valuable space on theaverageones.”

Coco felt the blow all the way to her bones. “Only recently you said that my oils were fresh and quality works. What changed?”

Rosa’s small black eyes revealed nothing. “Another client is waiting for me, so I don’t have time to debate this issue with you. Neither do I want to. I’m sure you understand.”

Bitter taste of resentment filled her mouth.

“No, I don’t understand,” goaded beyond endurance by Rosa’s blatant disregard of her skill, she went on the offensive. “Just because I haven’t yet made a name for myself doesn’t mean my works won’t sell. If only you didn’t tuck them in the niche by the back door, people would have had a chance to actually notice them.”

Rosa smiled thinly. “The placement makes no difference. As for your name, I wouldn’t throw it around, dear. A little bird tweeted in my ear that APD is well familiar with it, in regards to a murder investigation.” The gallery owner’s penciled brows rose as high as her facelift would allow. “With connections like these, who needs your name in their gallery?”

Coco’s mouth snapped shut.

“I see you’ve got nothing else to say.” Rosa’s button eyes turned toward the door indicating that the audience was over. “Good luck to you, Coco. It seems like you need it.”

Without uttering a word, Coco picked up her packaged canvases, and, holding them in front of her body like a shield against all injustice, marched through the main gallery, past Leisha-the-assistant, past two bejeweled female customers, and out of the front door.

The association with the Sheffields had opened La Vedova’s doors to Coco, and now her connection to the same Sheffield name got her booted out of the door. A mere breath of scandal had been enough to label her a bad nut and set her out at the curb like so much garbage. Expendable.

A car was parked next to her mother’s Toyota when Coco came home. Lucy hadn’t mentioned anyone coming over tonight, but having a visitor drop by wasn’t altogether uncommon for her mother.

But a matte black sports car with black wheel rims?

Coco reached to unlock the door and paused, listening.

An energizing beat of rumba reverberated from the house, the music too loud and upbeat for a knitting club session.

She opened the door and walked inside.