mirth but was instead tempted to laugh along with him. Instead, she ran through the sales pitch she’d developed for the painting. “Well, as you can see, this is a painting of an enchanted forest shrouded in mist,” she concluded and glanced up at Sam.
He was staring at the canvas intently, his brows drawn together, his eyes narrowed. She tried not to feel disconcerted by his proximity.
Finally, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see it at all. This,” he said, pointing, “looks like a sand crab to me, but mostly all I see is spattered paint.”
She was about to point out the key elements of the painting to him, but the absurdity of even trying struck her. “It’s a stylized depiction of the forest,” she conceded.
“Can we at least agree that it’s highly stylized?” he asked.
Now Chelsea did laugh, but quickly clamped one hand over her mouth, her eyes darting around. Satisfied that no one had noticed her outburst, she looked back at Sam.
“Well, am I right? Can you see the crab?” he asked. “I should help you sell paintings here.”
“Don’t quit your day job,” she countered under her breath when two patrons strolled over to admire the Pollock.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” Sam said, as they moved away to give the couple space. “We each have our strengths. Do you have the time—and the patience—to show me around?”
Chelsea heard the humor in his voice again and found herself drawn to him. All their guests seemed to be engaged and enjoying themselves. Mrs. Sinclair and Mr. Hadley were making the rounds, champagne glasses in their hands. Joel, Deborah and Tina were available to address any questions, and it was less than an hour before the auction started.
Happily, she noted that sold signs had been placed under a few more of the pieces. “Sure. I have some time. What interests you the most?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea!” he said with a chuckle. “Surprise me.”
CHELSEA’S MISCHIEVOUS STREAK kicked in. Sam was someone who, by his own admission, knew little about art, and it stood to reason that he had equally limited interest. She’d see what she could do about turning him into an art aficionado.
“Why don’t we start with some baroques,” she suggested. “Are you on duty?” she asked, when she saw a waitress approach with a tray of champagne.
“Not at the moment. Why?”
Chelsea signaled discreetly to the waitress and she veered toward them. “Thank you, Marsha,” she said, taking two flutes from the tray and offering one to Sam. “If you’re not inclined to appreciate art, I thought this might help.”
He accepted the glass and took a sip. “Nice. Hmm...Krug Grande Cuvée, 2013.” When Chelsea raised her brows, he said, “I may not be an expert at art, but...”
“But you’re an expert in fine wines and champagnes?” she guessed.
“No, but I’m a detective and I have well-honed investigative and observation skills,” he said with a smug smile.
She stared at him blankly, not sure what he meant.
“There was an empty carton in the corner of the hall closet when I hung up my coat,” he explained. “It was clearly labeled.”
Chelsea wouldn’t have thought the intense cop had a sense of humor, but it appeared that he did. And when he smiled? He went from seriously good-looking to dangerously handsome.
“Why don’t we start here?” she suggested, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she was blushing again, and led him to a watercolor of a Venetian canal by American artist John Singer Sargent.
“I personally like this painting,” she began. “Sargent was said to be fascinated with Venice, and I think it shows in his work. He’s captured the different shades of the water and the brightness of the light beautifully. It’s interesting that although he turns a commonplace neighborhood into something so romantic, he didn’t use much detail depicting the people on the bridge.” She smiled up at Sam. “Sargent’s passion for the city didn’t seem to extend to its inhabitants.”
Next, she showed Sam a Ralph Curtis painting, also of Venice. “Curtis was the son of Bostonians, who moved to Venice in the late 1870s. He was educated at Harvard, but then studied in Paris. We purposely juxtaposed these two paintings to allow our patrons to compare and contrast the style and emotion of the two. Sargent and Curtis were, in fact, distant cousins. It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it, how Sargent’s work evokes romance and joy while this one...well, is quite bleak.”
“Uh-huh” was Sam’s noncommittal response.
Chelsea guided him to a Childe Hassam winter scene in New York next and continued talking until she could all but see his head spin. Since he’d said he was there for business and pleasure, she assumed the business had to do with the robbery next door, so she made a point of taking him to speak with the Rochesters. She almost laughed at the relief she saw on his face as they approached the elderly couple.
Chelsea introduced Sam to Mrs. Rochester, and he politely asked Mr. Rochester how he was feeling and just as politely answered that they still didn’t have any leads on the robbery. Adam joined them and also expressed an interest in the investigation. Chelsea was aware of how concerned he was about his aunt and uncle. He wanted the matter over with as much as anyone; she presumed that was so he wouldn’t have to worry about their safety, in case the perpetrator decided to return.
Adam questioned Sam until, eventually, Chelsea adeptly steered the detective away.
“The nephew, Adam, seems close to the Rochesters. What’s his story?” Sam asked when they were separated by some distance.
“Oh, yes, they’re close. Adam’s story is a sad one, though. Adam’s father—that’s Mr. Rochester’s considerably younger brother—was in the military and frequently deployed overseas. What I’ve heard is that Mr. Rochester was the principal father figure in Adam’s life as he was growing up. Adam’s mother was already struggling with alcohol and drug abuse by the time her husband was killed in the line of duty. His death pushed her over the edge. The Rochesters tried to get help for her, but it was futile. Although they didn’t have legal custody of Adam, they tried to be positive influences in his life.”
“Where’s the mother now?”
“Excuse me,” Joel interrupted, as he joined them. He glanced at Sam—seemed to size him up, Chelsea thought—before he turned his attention to her. “Mr. Anderson was looking for you. When we saw you were...occupied, he asked my opinion of the Babineux. I didn’t know enough about it, so I steered him to Mr. Hadley.”
Pushing aside her immediate concern that she’d dropped the ball, Chelsea asked, “Did Mr. Anderson buy the Babineux?”
Joel frowned. “No, he didn’t. He left.”
“Without buying anything? Is Mr. Hadley upset with me?”
“I smoothed it over for you. But the auction’s about to start, so I thought you might want to get ready for it.”
Chelsea had been enjoying herself with Sam so much, she’d lost track of time. “Thank you for reminding me,” she said gratefully. “I’ll get to it right away,” she added, but she couldn’t help noticing that Joel kept looking over her shoulder. “Oh, Joel, let me introduce you to Detective Sam Eldridge. Detective Eldridge...uh, Sam is leading the investigation into the robbery next door. Sam, this is Joel Sinclair, grandson of Nadine Sinclair, the owner of the gallery.”
“The last part of the introduction is superfluous, I hope, as I like to think my role at the Sinclair Gallery is earned rather than nepotism,” Joel said stiffly as he shook hands with Sam. “Are you