Iris Johansen - Eight Days To Live

What was she doing? she thought with sudden self-disgust. Next she’d be covering her head with the covers. She had lost a friend, but Celine had lost her life. She wiped her eyes and struggled to sit up in bed. Okay, stop whimpering and start thinking. Figure it out. She wasn’t going to be sleeping anyway.

First step.

Find out why she had been targeted.

Blasphemer. Very flimsy. But, if it had meaning at all, what sacrilege had she supposedly committed?

She shook her head in frustration. Who knew what small infraction might be interpreted as sacrilege to a fanatic?

All right, then go to step two.

The newspaper story that Venable had gotten from his informant and the identical copies that Jock had said other members of the Sang Noir been given. Since Jane had no previous contact with the group, was there something in the article that might have triggered that crazy act? What had she said to the reporter? Was there some quote from her that had started the nightmare? She couldn’t even remember any of the questions the journalist had asked her. She was never very patient with interviews. She knew that publicity was necessary, but she always thought that her work should speak for itself. There was no telling if that impatience might have translated into a less-than-diplomatic answer.

She turned on the light and threw the covers aside. There was no use wondering when she had the article itself. She had tossed the newspaper on the chest by the door when she had come into the bedroom.

Her own photo smiled up at her from the page. She actually looked friendly and approachable. She vaguely remembered Celine’s joking with the photographer and making faces at Jane.

Celine, again.

She drew a shaky breath and started scanning the text. Nothing controversial, actually pretty boring. How long had she been painting? She had a mixture of portraits and landscapes in the show. Which did she prefer doing? Why had she painted MacDuff’s Run? Did she have an intimate relationship with the earl? That one had almost made her lose her temper. She was always getting that question, and she’d almost stopped putting the painting on exhibit to avoid it. But Celine had begged her to bring the painting to Paris because the speculation alone would help the show. Good business, she had said. It had been Celine’s wheedling that had made MacDuff’s Run a part of the twenty paintings in the gallery downstairs.

No, there was nothing that she could see in the article itself that would offend anyone. She glanced at the photos of the paintings that marched vertically down the page. That was the only part of the article she’d been happy with. All in color, all a decent-enough size to show detail. Storm Morning . A landscape she’d done in southern France. MacDuff’s Run .

Silhouette at the Lake . A shadow picture of Eve framed against a blazing sunset on the lake. Child at the Circus . A little boy with cotton candy and huge dark eyes wide with wonder. Guilt , the portrait that Celine had tried to persuade her to-

Guilt .

She stiffened. She was looking for unusual, and the offer tonight had definitely been out of the ordinary. Even Celine had thought that the amount of money the computer executive had offered was mind-blowing.

What had he seen in the painting that had made him so determined to have it?

She grabbed her robe and headed for the door. She turned on the gallery lights as she got out of the elevator. The first thing that jumped out at her was the oak door, now taken from its hinges and propped against the wall. They’d had to take the door down to remove Celine, and the opening was now only veiled in plastic. The police forensic team had taken the actual cross on which Celine had been nailed with them and said they’d pick up the heavy door on the next trip to check it for any additional evidence.

She found herself looking to see if she could see traces of blood on the wood.

She quickly averted her eyes and moved past the velvet ropes toward the painting.

Guilt .

Burning dark eyes, a bearded face twisted with torment. A painting of which she was very proud, but perhaps not one for which an art collector might pay an exorbitant sum.

“What are you doing down here?”

She turned to see MacDuff coming toward her. “I could ask the same of you. Where did you come from?”

“I was outside with Jock. I saw the lights go on.” He glanced beyond her at the painting. “It’s very good. Powerful.” He smiled. “But I prefer the one of MacDuff’s Run. You’re sure you won’t sell it to me?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She took a step closer to the painting. “Now that you’re here, you might as well help me. That frame is heavy. Will you take the painting down for me?”

“It would be my pleasure.” He lifted the painting off the wall. “May I ask why?”

“I want to look at the frame and see if it’s been tampered with. Set it against the wall.” She knelt to examine it. “Someone offered Celine much too much money for Guilt this evening. Some computer billionaire. She said he was very persistent. I’m wondering why.”

“Tastes in art can become obsessive. Maybe he thought it was worth it to him.”

“Or maybe someone managed to insert something into the frame that he wanted to retrieve. It seems more likely.”

MacDuff knelt beside her. “Where was the painting framed?”

“New York. I chose the frame.” She was running her hand over the decorative scrollwork. “But that doesn’t mean that after I got here it might not have been tampered with. You look at the other side.”

“I’m flattered you trust me.”

She didn’t answer. Everything seemed okay, but what did she know? Maybe she’d get lucky. She went carefully over the other sides of the frame.

“Nothing,” MacDuff said.

She sat back on her heels. “Call Venable. We need an expert to go over the painting and frame. In this world of microdots and all that other technical crap, nothing is what it seems.”

“You’re thinking that the attack had something to do with this painting?”

“How do I know? I’m grabbing at straws. There are holes in every theory I come up with. They had the keys to the gallery. Why not just come in and steal the painting if they wanted it? Or maybe those scumbags were going to take the painting after they killed me. All I know is that they had no reason to murder me so I have to search for some other cause. This is the only common thread I can find. The painting was in the article. And even Celine didn’t think that the offer for the painting was reasonable.” She determinedly blinked back sudden tears. “She didn’t care. She was just happy. Will you call Venable or shall I?”

“I’ll do it.” He reached for his phone. “And while I’m at it, I should probably probe a little into the man who offered for the painting. What was his name?”

“Donald Sarnoff. San Francisco.”

“Right.” He glanced down at her feet as he dialed the number. “You’re barefoot. Go get on some slippers.” Before she could tell him to mind his own business, he turned away and was talking on the phone to Venable.

Later.

She dropped down on the granite bench a few feet away. The stone was cold against her bare thighs. She was suddenly cold all over. The lights seemed glaringly bright, and the face of the man in the portrait of Guilt appeared threatening.

Crazy. She had painted that face. She had not used a model, and the creation had been born entirely from her imagination.

No, not entirely imagination.

There had been the dreams.

Dreams that had come every night. Dreams that would not go away until she had finished the painting.