The Museum of Desire

Chapter 55

Equally cavernous space on the other side of the partition.

This lighting different, miserly, courtesy of a single track running down the center.

Warmer bulbs, though. Calculated focus.

The objects of illumination: two easels. Heavy-duty, solid oak professional artist models, both positioned along the room’s central spine, separated by twenty feet of open flooring.

The word “curation” has become a well-abused cliché. But it applied here.

An exhibit.

Perched on the nearer easel was a painting cased in glimmering gold leaf.

Hand-carved frame festooned with miniature gargoyle heads.

I knew the dimensions. But still, The Museum of Desire was surprisingly small.

Vivid colors unsuggested by Suzanne Hirto’s muddy file photo spoke to recent restoration.

Beautifully, horribly done.

The painting the product of a gifted hand but failing to rise above cartoon.

Because the intention had been nothing but shock value.

The four of us stared, stunned into silence. I was still staring as Milo and Reed and Coolidge moved on to the second easel.

Coolidge gasped. Reed’s hand shot to his mouth.

Milo stood there. I caught up.

An even smaller painting, maybe ten inches square.

Similar hues, similar style.

A tag affixed to the easel. Loopy handwriting in fountain pen.

Cherry-sized lumps began coursing up and down Milo’s jawline. The muscular tic that afflicts him when he fights internal combustion.

I braced myself and looked at the painting.

Black background, chiaroscuro lighting directing the eyes toward a triad of images.

Three gleaming silver salvers on a table draped in whiskey-colored velvet.

In the left-hand tray, a severed hand. On the right, a foot.

Filling the center tray was a woman’s head, dark ringlets streaming over a fluted edge. Eyes wide open but vacant. Mouth formed in a final oval. The skin, chalky gray accented in mauve and sea green and in strategic spots, red.

Marc Coolidge said, “Oh, God.” His eyes trailed to the far end of the room.

Something in a corner the track lighting neglected. Barely visible in the sooty gloom.

The four of us got closer. Details materialized.

Six-foot white rectangle.

A deep freeze.

Again, Milo held us back and walked toward it. Lifting the lid, he peered inside and stumbled back involuntarily.

Reed, unused to seeing his boss off balance, managed a single croaked word. “Her.”

Milo said, “Blue hair,” and began lowering the lid.

His hand slipped.

It slammed.