“Oh, darling, would you look at this one?” Ava said, pointing to a painting mounted on the wall. “Isn’t it just divine? Look at how the colours—”
“Laying it on a little thick there, don’t you think?” Patrick told her in a hushed tone.
“I’m only playing the part,” she whispered back. “Work with me a little, will you?”
“Just relax. We’re trying to blend in, not stand out.”
She sighed. “Fine. Whatever you say.”
They’d been in Jean Claude Michaud’s gallery for about twenty minutes and there’d still been no sign of him.
Where was this guy?
Patrick casually placed a hand on the small of her back and leaned toward her. “Are we sure that we’re in the right spot?”
She cast him a look out of the corner of her eye. “You mean the sign posted outside wasn’t enough for you? What more do you need? Flashing neon lights? Yes, this is the place, Sully.”
He shrugged. “Just making sure.”
He swept the gallery once more while Ava moved on ahead in front of the next painting.
A two-story brick building in the colour of bone, Michaud’s gallery was both generous and prevailing. Rectangular in shape, it sat directly on the corner of King and Prideaux, across the street from Simcoe Park, which took its name after Colonel John Graves Simcoe.
Ava had given him the lowdown on the Colonel as the threesome passed by his bronze statue before crossing the street, saying farewell to Perry, and before entering Michaud’s gallery.
Patrick was floored by its cream-coloured walls, glossy hardwood floors, vast openness, and silver track lighting that outlined each room. It hardly looked like a gallery from the outside with its grey steel roof and white grillwork at its peak like some sort of lookout.
Patrick asked her, “What did this place used to be, anyway?”
She barely paid him any attention, enthralled with the paintings, and a look of wonder in her eyes. “What?”
“Never mind.”
“No, what’d you say?”
“I was just saying from the outside, this place looks ancient. I would have never guessed there was a gallery inside here.”
She thought on it. “Yeah, it’s old. Early 1800s, more than likely. They used it as an army barracks during the War of 1812.”
More links to the past. How many ghosts and spirits did the tourists walk by every day without realizing it?
“I hope this guy makes an appearance soon. I can only fake my enthusiasm in this for so long.”
“He better well show,” she chirped. “I didn’t get all dolled up for nothing, you know.”
“It’s settled then. If he’s not here within the next ten minutes, you and I will go out for a night on the town. After all, we don’t want that dress to go to waste now, do we?”
“Is that so? Well, aren’t you the smooth one? You think you’re just going to sail right into—”
A congregating group caught his eye. “Shh. That’s him, right? That’s got to be him.”
She crooked her head and sought him out. “I think you’re right.”
A man in his late fifties had entered the room. He smiled while he greeted visitors and shook their hands. He’d stop every few seconds, exchange conversation with them, and then move onto the next group of possible buyers. Or, were they merely admirers? Friends, maybe?
How do these things work anyway? Did friends visit you at your gallery? Was that a thing? Or was it strictly speaking, potential buyers and art lovers that frequented galleries? He didn’t know.
Nevertheless, if they had any doubts of whether this man was Michaud, these doubts were soon extinguished as one group closer to them complimented him by name. Patrick listened in on their conversation while continuing to study him.
Jean Claude Michaud had a slender build, unruly shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair, and sunken cheeks. His icy-blue eyes stood out like glimmering glass. He wore a blazer that was a light dusty blue-grey colour over a black ribbed turtleneck. A walking epitome of the cliché artist. Quiet, reserved, and somber-looking. Like he had discovered a secret that no one else knew.
Had they got it wrong? Would Michaud see right through the charade?
“He’s coming over…” Ava gasped.
“Just be cool,” Patrick told her, adjusting the collar on his winter coat. He turned his focus back to a painting on the wall.
“The Silent and the Damned,” Michaud said to them.
Patrick squinted at him. “I’m sorry?”
Michaud gestured at the painting. “That one’s called, ‘The Silent and the Damned.’”
Patrick swiveled back to the painting and simply muttered, “Oh.”
Ava, sensing Patrick’s faltering, supported her elbow with one hand and placed the other under her chin. “I was thinking something like, ‘Decay,’ myself.”
Michaud turned to her, bore into her eyes like he had X-ray vision, and repeat after her. “Decay. I quite like that. Do you mind if I steal that?”
Ava blushed and laughed in a way Patrick had not heard her laugh before. Something pitchy, bubbly. It was so out of character for her that he hoped he’d never have to hear it again. “Oh, you can go right ahead. That would… that would be transcendent.”
Transcendent? What was she going on about now?
“I’ve always wondered…” Ava spoke again.
Michaud shifted next to her, positioning in between Patrick and Ava, his hands in his pockets. “Hmm?”
“When you paint something like this,” she asked, “do you have an idea in mind? Do you begin with a purpose or intention?”
Michaud looked pleased with her question, edging closer still. “It’s hard to explain. There are times that, yes, I do begin a piece with purpose. Or, what you refer to as intent. I’ll have a story in mind. A feeling that I want to express. Although, not every piece is started the same way. Some days I simply let my brush take me wherever it spurs the need to go. Those days can be very challenging, but also extremely rewarding. Over the years, I’ve learned to trust myself and let the colours guide me through the dark.”
Patrick stifled a laugh and played it off like a sudden cough had overcome him. “What’s the story with this one? That’s quite the title you picked for it.”
Michaud looked over at him for the first time. “Ah yes, the title. Somewhat haunting, I suppose, but it goes back to trusting one’s self.”
“Does it have a story?” Patrick asked.
Michaud rolled his shoulders. “It does. Unfortunately, I found out somewhat recently that someone very close to me had violated my trust. This was my way of dealing through that pain. That utter betrayal.”
Ava shook her head. “That must have been hard for you.”
“It was,” Michaud said. “It is.”
Ava and Michaud continued staring at the painting, which left Patrick wondering how long it was socially acceptable to sit through the excruciating awkward silence.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Michaud said, turning to Ava. “I should probably get back to making my rounds. A simple hello could lead to a million things. Or, at least a few thousand in my case.” He winked at her.
“Absolutely, Mr. Michaud,” Ava said. “Thank you for your time.”
“Jean Claude is fine, my dear. I hope you enjoy your time here today and thank you for coming. Take as long as you like.”
“Thank you, we will.”
They watched him depart and greet the next couple a few feet away from them in the exact same way. He huddled behind them, eavesdropping on their conversation, and then sprang into action with some kind of witty remark.
Patrick shielded his mouth with a hand, making sure to keep his voice low, and said, “Can’t help but notice that he basically just gave us the cold shoulder.”
“What do you mean?”
“He basically suggested that we weren’t worth the trouble, Ava.”
“Nonsense. He’s just schmoozing. Working the crowd.”
Patrick watched him, skeptical of his intentions. “I guess.”
“We didn’t screw it up, did we?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We should have tried to push him. He was obviously talking about Marc Wagner.”
“Gosh, we’re awful at this, aren’t we?”
Patrick laughed. “Yeah, I think it’s safe to say we’re starting to take on water.”
“Well, someone better give us a life preserver ‘cuz we’re sinking.”
Michaud chatted with the guests and Patrick couldn’t help but inspect his mannerisms and his body language. He certainly didn’t seem upset or distraught that his ex-best friend had recently been found murdered. Had he not heard the news? Or was he merely apathetic about the whole thing?
He gently nudged her elbow. “Does that look like a guy who’s in mourning to you?”
Ava took a look for herself. “Eh. Maybe he’s just putting on a brave face. He is at work so, one would think he’d want to act professionally. Besides, aren’t most artists… I don’t know, strange? Enigmatic?”
He circled back to the painting, thinking about what she had said. Enigmatic was a good word for it. There was something about him that made his skin crawl, but what was it? For lack of a better word, it felt like spidey-sense was tingling.
He tried inspecting the painting further, hoping to find the answer lurking somewhere deep within its layers of dried paint. A horizontal line painted through the center and another line to the left that ran up and down, the painting was set against a sepia-coloured background. It divided further into two mini quadrants on the left, and two larger ones on the right, offset by various tints of light and dark browns. On the horizon, the colours danced and exploded in an array of vibrant reds and sizzling oranges in circular swooshes. The top half resembled more of a calming tidal wave whereas the bottom half was chaotic and took on this rough spatter effect. Creases and splotches throughout made it look like veins or something old and dying.
He could now see where Ava got the idea that the painting should have been called ‘Decay.’ The canvas took on this ghostly effect on the bottom half, smothered in somber blues, wistful purples, and harsh reds.
As a matter of fact, the style was similar to the one Jeff Rayner had posted on his wall back at the B&B. Had Michaud painted both paintings?
“What do you think of it, anyway?” Ava asked.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “you don’t want to know what I think.”
Ava shook her head. “Such the critic.”
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