Page 103 of The Grave Artist

But still the guy was breaking the rules, if not the law.

And pissing him off in the process.

Ah, but now the owner of the building had arrived. Ramirez had friends in high places, and he wasn’t going to let a suspicious character like this jerk just sit in a no-parking zone.

Not inhiskingdom.

Ramirez waited for the owner to park his Mercedes before approaching him. He stopped short, however, when the owner got out and headed straight toward the rule-breaking asshole.

Good. Kick the prick off the property.

But wait, what was going on?

The door of the SUV was opening and the driver—a huge man in a black leather jacket—got out. The two shook hands and the building owner handed him a thick white envelope as they exchanged a few words.

The owner nodded goodbye, and the driver got back behind the wheel and piloted the black Ford Edge out of the lot, leaving Hector Ramirez very grateful he hadn’t made a stink about anything.

The owner of the complex, Mr. Carl Overton, could have one hell of a temper.

Chapter 51

“Who is it?” Maddie whispered, looking down.

“It’s Her. With a capitalH.”

They were standing in the workshop area of his den, over a large art table. Sitting in the middle was one of his most precious recent acquisitions.

He continued, “Demeter, Greek goddess of agriculture.”

It was an original drawing, 120 years old, in chalk and pencil on gray paper, by the famed British artist Evelyn De Morgan. She had created the piece as a study of what would become her most famous oil:Demeter Mourning for Persephone.

It depicted the goddess, racked with misery at the absence of her daughter, who had been seized by Hades and taken to the underworld, where she would remain for six months each year. That original painting, the embodiment of bereavement, was on display at Wightwick Manor and Gardens in Wolverhampton, part of the British National Trust and, sadly, not for sale.

He explained to Maddie that the painting was his favorite piece of all time, and the study was a recent discovery. Damon had used an anonymous broker to buy the work instantly.

He set the box of blades on the table, opened it and mounted one in a matte cutter.

Damon did not trust a commercial outfit to frame the piece. He would do so himself and had ordered special matte boards and these particular razor blades, which were oil-free, to do the job. In addition to his talent as an art lecturer, and as a murderer, Damon Garr was a skilled framer.

He asked Maddie, “Which color matte?” He pointed to the shelves where they sat.

“Me?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t know. Wait. This one!”

She chose taupe. It was, not surprisingly, his first choice. The color that would complement the gray paper of the De Morgan study. He pulled on cloth gloves and handed her a pair. He nodded to the board and, after donning the accessory, she gave it to him.

He arranged the board on the table and set the cutter to a forty-five-degree angle. Then pressed it down, piercing the cardboard.

“Put your hand on mine.”

She hesitated.

“Go on. You’re safe. I’m not wearing high heels.”

A brief laugh. And she did as he’d instructed.