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“What are conditions that spike a painting’s value?” I ask.
“A new artist getting huge, which of course is almost impossible to predict. Uh… Discovering that something is actually by a famous artist will rocket the price. But that happens at garage sales and pawn shops. Everything here has a known value.”
I think hard. “What about if an artist dies?” I ask.
Selina’s perfectly manicured brows shoot up. “Great example. If an artist dies the value of their pieces will skyrocket. People want to snatch onto one as a conversation piece and because now there won’t be any more ever made.”
“Okay,” I say. “So who here is going to die?”
“Well that’s your problem. All the paintings here were made by people long since dead.” Selina shakes her head. “No, if Marie has some insight into a piece, it’s for a different reason.”
Colton appears then, tugging at Selina’s arm and shooting me a regretful smile. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need you, babe,” he says. “Please come charm these investors. I’m this close to getting in on a deal.”
“Sorry, Liz,” Selina says. “Duty calls. Wish I could be more help. I’ll keep my ears open.”
I wave as they leave and nod to Rhett over Marmie’s shoulder. Visible relief washes over his face.
We rendezvous by the bathrooms.
“Any luck?” he asks.
“No,” I say. I bite my lip. My instincts are nudging at me. I feel like I’m on the verge of success, that I’m only missing one piece, something I can’t seem to put my finger on.
“Hey,” Rhett says. He puts one hand on each of my shoulders and waits until I lift my chin to meet his eyes. “It’s not over yet,” he says. “You got this.”
His words are encouraging, and I turn so that I’m resting against him. We stand like that for a while, watching the crowd.
I’m overly aware of the clock winding down. It isn’t long before I have an hour before the auction begins, and I’m no closer to accomplishing Marie’s task than I was when she gave it to me.
Maybe there is no right answer. I could bet on a piece, maybe the Degas, and come up with some bullshit reason why it’ll be the most valuable. Maybe that’s the test: confidence. I mean, Marie can’t miraculously bring one of these artists to life only to kill him and jack up the price. She might have insider information, but how could I be expected to find that out?
“It could be anything!” I bemoan. “God, I am so sick and tired of tests.”
Rhett has been quiet, lost in his own thoughts. My words jolt him out of his reflections, and he looks down at me, a frown worrying the corners of his mouth.
“What is this a test of?” he asks.
“If I can manage her money,” I say distractedly. How am I going to tell Sloane that I let the deal slip away at the last second? And Rhett? The thought of him driving away from me on Monday sends a shock through my heart.
“Liz,” Rhett says. He guides my chin up so I’m once again looking him in the eye.
“What?”
“Get more specific. Why here? Why a painting?”
I rest my face against his hand, taking comfort in it as my mind races. More specific? “I guess,” I say finally, “she’s wondering if I’m better than who she’s working with now. If I’m better than Paul.”
“Exactly,” Rhett says. He brushes a strand of hair off my forehead and back into place. “So what is Paul bidding on tonight?”
A bolt of electricity rips through me, a memory odd at the time and now half-forgotten comes to the surface.
“Clark!” I say.
“Clark?”
“That gangly abused assistant of Paul’s. I ran into him the other day, literally. Spilled his folders. He acted really nervous, like there was something there I shouldn’t see.”
Rhett’s face lights up. He grabs my shoulders. “Did you see anything?”
