Page 9

Finn stepped through the heavy glass doors of the Blackthorn Gallery, the faint smell of fresh paint and lemon polish drifting into his nose. The space looked deceptively calm under high recessed lighting—white walls, smooth floors, and the echoing hush that came with high-end art exhibitions. Yet Finn felt tension bristling in the air, an undercurrent he recognized from countless investigations. He was here to uncover more about the killer who’d staged two murders like famous paintings, and, so far, the trail had led right back to this gallery, twice.

Beside him, Eleanor walked with her usual poised step. She glanced around, eyes skimming over the minimalist sculptures placed at intervals. Finn had come to appreciate her calm intellect, even if they didn't rub along too well together. She seemed equally determined to figure out how this gallery’s recent exhibition connected to the violent poses that had claimed both Victoria Palmer and Edmund Garner in such brutal fashion.

“This place is busier than last time,” Finn observed quietly. He noted a handful of staff scurrying about, moving crates and adjusting lighting fixtures. “They must be preparing for tonight’s event.”

Eleanor nodded. “Yes, they’re opening a new show. It's always a stress for the artists. Looks to be more postmodern pieces. Quite a departure from the Shared Views: Four Centuries of English, Dutch, and Flemish Painting exhibit they hosted a few weeks ago—where they featured references to The Cornfield and The Blue Boy. ”

Finn wanted to joke that Eleanor sounded at times like a robot, but he kept that thought to himself. Amelia would have joked back in the blink of an eye, but Finn's new temporary partner didn't rise to the banter Finn used to get through jobs like this one.

Finn nodded. “I wonder where the owner is,” he said, scanning the space for the gallery’s owner, Harrison Blackthorn. “We need to see if there’s a pattern in the rest of the pieces from that exhibit. If we can figure out the pattern and how the killer is identifying victims through these paintings, we might be able to protect the next person in line.”

A flash of movement caught his eye: Mary, Harrison's assistant, hurried down a corridor, clipboard in hand. She looked up and recognized them with a startled expression. "Oh… Mr. Wright, Doctor Matthews," she greeted, seemingly trying to keep a polite tone. "You're back again. Is there something new I can help you with? As you can see, we're very busy."

Eleanor answered calmly, “We need more information. Specifically a list of every painting or item from a recent exhibit—the one that included references to The Cornfield and The Blue Boy. ”

Mary tucked the clipboard under her arm, biting her lower lip nervously. “I see. Well, Mr. Blackthorn’s in the middle of last-minute arrangements for tonight’s opening. He… he might not be thrilled to see you again.” Her voice lowered. “He’s already been… tense.”

Finn shared a look with Eleanor. “We’ll have to talk to him,” Finn said. “We’ll try not to hold him up.”

Mary nodded, seeming to gather herself. “All right. Let me see if he’s available. Wait here, please.”

The gallery’s main hall buzzed with staff members adjusting artworks on stands, some tapping at laptops to verify inventory. Finn noticed that most of the pieces displayed were modern: abstract paintings with bold swaths of color, edgy sculptures in steel and glass. None of them resembled the classic works the killer was referencing.

Eleanor leaned in, voice low. “Do you think someone like Harrison might be involved?”

Finn shrugged, scanning a series of plinths lined up against one wall. “I’m not ruling him out. He had a major disagreement with Victoria Palmer over a painting, and he was seemingly furious about the possibility of a forgery tarnishing the gallery’s reputation. Then Edmund Garner is connected to another painting that was just displayed here. Seems too coincidental to ignore.”

Before Eleanor could respond, Harrison Blackthorn strode into view, and the tension in his posture was instantly palpable. “You again?” he snapped, approaching with a forced, narrow-eyed smile. Dressed in a sleek black suit, he exuded the polished persona of a gallery owner but radiated an undercurrent of hostility. “I’m about to open a show in less than six hours. What do you want?”

Finn met his gaze, keeping his voice measured. “We have reason to believe the same killer who murdered Victoria Palmer has struck again. In both instances, the victims were posed to resemble paintings you featured in your previous exhibition. We need details about every piece in that show.”

Harrison’s face darkened. “This again? You come in here, making thinly veiled accusations. I’ve answered your questions. And now you want an entire list. Do you have a warrant?”

Eleanor arched a brow. “We can get one, if that’s simpler. But that would mean bringing uniformed officers here en masse. It won’t be great for the gallery’s image, would it? I certainly know it would put off patrons.”

Harrison bristled, cheeks flushing. “Are you threatening me?”

“It’s not a threat,” Finn said evenly. “We’re just trying to prevent another murder. If the reputation of your gallery has to be a casualty in that pursuit, so be it.”

Mary hovered behind Harrison, touching his sleeve gently. “Mr. Blackthorn, please… They’re only trying to help. It will be much worse if we have to close the exhibition due to a police raid. The newspapers would have a field day.”

Harrison pulled away with an irritated jerk. “Fine.” He glared at Finn and Eleanor. “But this is the last time I indulge these… intrusive demands. Mary—get them whatever they need.”

“We might need to ask where you were last night and the night Victoria Palmer died,” Finn added.

“An alibi?” he scoffed. “Am I under arrest? If so, I'll get my solicitor.”

“You're not under arrest,” Finn said. “But we just want to ask...”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and stalked off, muttering about incompetent police and how the gallery was no place for a “circus.” Finn watched him vanish around a corner, feeling a familiar prickle of suspicion. The man wore arrogance like a second skin.

Mary, cheeks warm with embarrassment, sighed. “He’s under a lot of pressure. Tonight’s event is crucial, especially after the rumors of forged paintings. Donations and endorsements are on the line.” She forced a polite smile. “Let’s go to the back office. We keep archives and lists there.”

Finn gave her a mild nod. “Sure.”

She led them down a hallway past a row of offices, each door bearing a nameplate. At the third door, the plaque read “Archival Records.” Inside was a compact space lined with filing cabinets and a pair of desks. A single overhead light buzzed faintly. David Smythe—the name printed on a small sign at one of the desks—glanced up from a laptop, startled at the visitors.

He was in his early forties, short hair combed neatly to one side, dressed in business-casual attire. A friendly smile crossed his face. “Oh, hi, Mary. Everything all right?”

Mary nodded quickly. “David, these are the police consultants I mentioned this morning. Mr. Finn Wright and Dr. Matthews. They need the old exhibit list—the one from a few weeks ago that featured The Cornfield.”

David stood, offering a warm handshake to Finn, then Eleanor. “Pleased to meet you. I’m David Smythe, one of the gallery's administrative staff. Heard about the dreadful murder…” He trailed off with a note of concern in his voice. “I... I really liked Victoria.”

Finn thought David's manner seemed pleasant, maybe a bit shy. "Nice to meet you, David," he said. "We appreciate the help. Unfortunately, there has been another death. An Edmund Garner."

“My God...” David said quietly.

“Did you know him?” Finn asked.

"Not to talk to," he answered. "But he was a well-known collector in the community."

Mary opened a filing cabinet, rifling through folders. “I’ll find the relevant paperwork. Might also have digital copies, David?”

David nodded. “Yes, they’re on the server. Let me pull them up.” He tapped at the laptop’s keyboard, face illuminated by the screen. “Harrison was big on that Shared Views exhibit, insisted we highlight iconic works from multiple eras. We had curated prints, historical notes, and a few actual smaller pieces on loan. It was quite a show.” His eyes flicked to Finn, sincerity coloring his expression. “I do hope you find whoever’s doing this.”

“The truth will out,” Eleanor said softly.

Mary handed a thin stack of papers to Finn. “Here you go. This is the official list of items showcased. As you’ll see, we had a few items on loan from the Rijksmuseum and the Guggenheim, but most were sale items: paintings, sketches, unfinished works. We had a lot of interest, both at the gallery and from overseas buyers.”

Finn scanned the paper, noting familiar titles: The Cornfield , The Blue Boy , and a dozen or more from various centuries—Constable, Gainsborough, Turner, Millais, Rossetti… “This is helpful,” he said. “Thank you. We might need to follow up if anything else stands out.”

Mary managed a small smile. “Of course.”

Eleanor shifted, turning to Mary and David both. “We appreciate the cooperation. By the way, we saw Harrison storm off earlier. He seems… under a lot of strain. Has he been under a lot of stress lately?” She tried to keep her tone neutral, but curiosity laced her words. “Has he been erratic?”

Mary hesitated, glancing at David. “He’s just anxious about the opening, that’s all. Everything’s behind schedule.”

Finn caught the subtle concern in her eyes. It was time to push a little and see if they would say something useful. “He’s looking pretty suspicious, you know. Anger issues, connections to both victims. If we find more evidence of him threatening people—”

Mary’s cheeks reddened. “I… I don’t believe he’d ever do something violent. I think he just doesn’t handle stress well.”

Before Finn could press further, Mary’s phone chimed. She glanced at the screen and pursed her lips. “Excuse me. One of the caterers needs me.” She turned to David. “Will you show them out if there's nothing else?”

David offered a quick nod. “I’ll walk them back.”

Mary gave Finn and Eleanor a brief goodbye, hurrying out. The office door drifted shut behind her. For a second, they all stood in awkward silence. David tapped a pen on his desk.

“Well,” he said, forcing a smile, “I hope that list helps. If you have any other questions, let me know.”

“Thanks,” Finn replied, folding the papers. “We might. For now, we’ll be going.”

He and Eleanor headed to the corridor with David trailing behind. As they stepped back into the main gallery space, the buzz of last-minute preparations resumed. A couple of staff members wrestled a tall sculpture onto a plinth. Finn prepared to say a polite goodbye, but David abruptly cleared his throat.

“Can I talk?” David’s voice sounded unexpectedly urgent and hushed. “Not here.”

Finn nodded.

They headed outside the gallery’s doors to the sidewalk. The sky overhead was dull, threatening rain. Finn turned, brows lifted in question.

David glanced around, as if checking who might overhear, then spoke in a low tone. “I—I don’t want to cause trouble. But you were right... Harrison’s been acting strange. More than usual.”

Eleanor exchanged a sharp glance with Finn, then asked, “Strange in what way?”

David ran a hand through his hair. “He’s always been temperamental. But since that fiasco with Victoria Palmer—when she suggested a painting was a forgery—he’s been erratic, angry. That day, he practically shouted her out of the gallery. I overheard bits… it sounded borderline threatening. Mary doesn’t see how bad it’s gotten. She has a blind spot for him.”

Finn’s suspicion about Harrison only deepened. “You think Mary’s too close to see any of this?”

“Yeah,” David whispered, sounding worried. “Harrison can be charming to her. But behind closed doors… he can blow up. I’m concerned. And with these murders connected to the gallery, I can't say I haven't considered that it could be connected to him or someone else here.”

Eleanor nodded sympathetically. “We appreciate the warning. If you see or hear anything that suggests Harrison might be… beyond just temperamental, please call us.” She rummaged for one of Finn’s business cards and handed it to David, who accepted it with shaky fingers.

Finn offered a reassuring look. “We’ll keep an eye on him. Don’t lose sleep over it.”

David nodded, then turned to go, but Finn stopped him with one more question. “David—did Harrison have arguments with anyone else, aside from Victoria?”

David hesitated, swallowing. “Yes. I heard raised voices from his office a few times. One was definitely with Edmund Garner... That's why I was shocked when you said he'd been killed. I didn’t catch details, but Garner left swearing under his breath. That was about a week ago.”

Finn frowned. “So that’s two suspicious rows—Victoria and Edmund. Both victims now.”

Eleanor shared a grim look with him. Finn cleared his throat. “You said there were at least two. Who else?”

“Right, sorry.” David took a breath, gaze flicking to the gallery doors. “Just three nights ago, a professor named Daniel Townsend came in after hours. He’s an art professor who sometimes helps Harrison authenticate pieces. I overheard a commotion—sound of things being knocked over—and then Townsend stormed out. It was late, maybe 10 PM. Harrison looked furious.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have Townsend’s address or contact info? We should check on him.”

David glanced at Finn, anxiety etched in his features. “Yes, but I’m sure you could find him at the Wilhelm Institute where he often teaches, though I should have his home address. Why? You think he’s in danger?”

“Possibly,” Finn said. “We have to consider he might be the next target. Or at least might have a clue we need.”

A flicker of alarm crossed David’s face. “All right, I’ll do it. I’ll call or email you once I have the details. But please… keep me out of trouble.”

Finn offered a half-smile. “We’ll be discreet.” He patted David on the shoulder. “Thanks, David. We appreciate the cooperation. But you mustn't tell anyone about this conversation. I don't want it getting back to Harrison.”

The man nodded, then hurried back inside, shooting a final worried look over his shoulder. Finn and Eleanor stepped away from the gallery entrance, the bustle behind them fading into the muted city sounds.

“Looks like Harrison is knee-deep in conflict with multiple people,” Finn muttered, glancing at the folded list of paintings in his hand. “Victoria, Edmund, Townsend. All potentially threatened by him.”

Eleanor sighed. “Yes. Meanwhile, we still don’t have any definitive proof linking him to the actual murders. But this is a disturbing connection.”

Finn stared up at the gray sky. “We’d better track down Daniel Townsend quickly. If Harrison was furious with him, Townsend might be a prime candidate for the killer’s next pose.”

Eleanor nodded, checking her phone. “Agreed.” She caught Finn’s eye. “And if Harrison is innocent, he’s certainly bad at appearing so.”

Finn gave a rueful snort. “He sure is. Either he’s guilty, or he’s just an arrogant ass with terrible timing.”

They shared a tense smile as they walked away from the gallery, stepping into the drizzle that had begun to fall. Finn’s mind churned through the new leads: more reasons to suspect Harrison, a new name—Daniel Townsend—likely in the killer’s cross-hairs, and the puzzle of which painting the murderer might re-enact next.