A blood red sun loomed over a dark sky the color of red wine. Black birds circled ominously above a distant, desolate horizon.
I stared at the painting, then looked down to the card hanging beneath it.
Murder of Crows, it read. Acrylic on canvas board. Axel Parris, 2021.
A middle-aged woman walked up next to me. “What does it say to you?”
I shrugged. “Someone had a lot of red paint.”
She laughed, then extended a hand. “Marian Krantz. This is my gallery. You’re Tom Jurgen?”
We shook hands. She had silvery hair pulled back in a thick bun, and blue eyes behind round glasses. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “Let’s talk in my office.”
It was one of the dozens of art galleries in the River North neighborhood. The space was long and bright, with hardwood floors, track lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows in the front looking out on West Superior Street. A sign in the window announced: “AXEL PARRIS Solo Exhibition, opening April 12, 7-9:30.” Today was April 12.
Marian Krantz took me into a small office in the back. “Espresso?”
“Sure.” Never turn down anything a client offers you. Well, mostly. I sat down and she handed me a small cup of deep black liquid, steaming. “What can I do for you?”
She leaned back in her chair. A window looked out at the wall of the building next door. “I’m doing this exhibition for Axel Parris. It’s opening tonight. I’m—I’ve never met him. It’s awkward. He’s shy, or something. We only correspond with email. But he’s a very talented painter. You can see that out front. No matter what color he bought that day.” She smiled again.
Then her face darkened. “I’d like to know more about him. I only know him from what he posts online. He was dating another gallery owner down the street for a while, but I guess she doesn’t talk to him these days.” She shook her head. “I want you to research him for me.”
I could do that. “Will he feel that it’s an invasion of privacy? Have you tried just talking to him?”
She pursed her lips. After a moment she pointed a finger over my shoulder. “Take a look.”
I turned. Behind me, a frame sat on the floor, facing the wall. I picked it up carefully to look at the painting on the other side.
It was Marian Krantz in a black sweater, no glasses, wearing a red necklace in the shape of a scarab. The sky behind her was a shade of gray I’d never seen before. Clouds seemed to drift and change shape in three dimensions, even after I blinked to clear my eyes.
“It’s very nice.” I set the painting down.
“That necklace was a gift from my husband. Before he died. Seven years ago. Axel has never seen it. I haven’t worn it in years.” She leaned across her desk. “How did he know about it?”
“You think he’s spying on you?”
“I don’t know what to think. I’m a little bit scared. I don’t know anything about him, really. This seems like—magic. I don’t know.” She shook her head as if clearing out her thoughts. “I just want you to find out more about him.”
I know about magic—more than I’d like. Maybe that’s why she called me. “Do you know where he lives?”
She shook her head. “I only have a shipping address. It’s here in Chicago. He was renting a studio to paint, but he left it a month ago.” She picked up a pen to write down the addresses.
We discussed fees, and she wrote me a check. At the door I asked, “Will he be at the opening tonight? Or any of his friends?”
“I don’t think he has friends.” She gave a sad smile. “I don’t expect him to make an appearance. But you’re welcome to come. There’ll be wine, hors d'oeuvres.”
“Can I bring a date? My girlfriend is a graphic designer. She knows more about art than me.”
She smiled. “Of course.”
“Want to go to an art show tonight?” I asked Rachel, walking into our office in the apartment we shared. “There’ll be food.”
“Is this just your way out of cooking dinner tonight?” She turned in her chair. Rachel has red hair, hazelnut eyes, long legs, and at least some psychic powers,
I shrugged. “It’s a shot.”
“Is it work?”
I filled her in. She cocked her head. “Could be fun. You never take me anywhere.”
“I take you lots of places.” I turned to my computer.
“Like that greasy spoon in the middle of nowhere after I came to get you out of jail?”
“How about the disappearing house? You liked that.”
“Until I got trapped in another dimension.”
“And I rescued you.”
“Oh, yeah. So, do I have to dress up?”
“I have no idea what to wear to an art gallery exhibition. Maybe that number from the night we went bar hopping looking for that demon? See, I do take you places.”
“Yeah, you’d like that.” I felt a wadded-up ball of paper hit my shoulder. I think she keeps them in a drawer to throw at me when I’m too far away to punch. “One of these nights we’re going out on a date that isn’t work. On a night it’s my turn to cook.”
“Yes, my queen.” I turned to my keyboard and went to work.
Axel Parris, 32 years old, had studied at the University of Michigan and then at the School of the Art Institute in Chicago, with a few years unaccounted for in between. His social media footprint was shallow: a web page of his own displaying a dozen or so paintings, along with contact information for Marian Krantz; a few mentions on Facebook and other sites discussing his work; his name on the site of a different gallery from a few years ago; and a handful of articles mentioning him posted by various online art magazines.
I couldn’t find any pictures of him. Camera shy? Paranoid? Well, he was an artist. Not all of them have reputations for emotional stability—just ask Vincent van Gogh.
So Rachel and I went to the opening.
We arrived at the gallery at 7:30. People strolled up and down and around corners, holding glasses of wine or bottles of beer or cups of espresso, chatting and looking over the paintings. The gallery was small and crowded. The people were younger than me and older too, Gen Z-ers and post-retirement age.
Rachel wore a short black skirt and a sheer white blouse, a purse slung over her shoulder. I wore a jacket and one of my handful of neckties. Rachel attracted glances, but everyone ignored me, except for one or two puzzled “What’s a girl like her doing with a guy like him?” expressions.
“Lot of people,” she murmured to me.
“Some people like art.” I spotted Marian Krantz talking to a short, rotund man in a long gray coat and shiny dress shoes. She nodded, shook the man’s hand, and walked over to us.
“I’m so glad you came.” She smiled. “I haven’t seen anyone here who knows Axel personally, but maybe someone will show up. Let me get you a glass of wine.”
We ate some hors d'oeuvres and looked at paintings, because that seemed to be the thing to do. Rachel stared at one that looked like a screaming face, half its head torn off, with a nest of rats writhing inside an empty skull. Half and Half, read the card underneath. Oil on canvas. Axel Parris, 2021. Rachel cocked her head, peering at it. She shivered.
“What?”
“Emotion. It’s strong.” She glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then leaned forward to lightly slide a finger across the canvas. She jerked it back. “Wow.”
“What?”
Her nose wrinkled, as if she smelled something foul. “Disgust. Like it’s baked into the paint.” She looked around.
None of the other art lovers seemed to have the same intense reaction to any of Axel’s paintings. “So, magic?” I asked.
“I guess. It’s weird.” She took my hand and dragged me to the other side of the room. She stood in front of the Murder of Crows painting I’d seen this afternoon. She stared at it, her arms folded.
“Anger.” She closed her eyes. “I can feel it inside. Fury. Rage.”
What does it say to you? Marian Krantz had asked me. I guess Rachel could answer that better than me. “So what’s going on? Magic?”
Rachel shrugged. “Or just—feelings so powerful they transfer from him to the painting. I’m a psychic, not an art critic.”
Marian Krantz came up, holding two glasses of wine. “I’m sorry, I got waylaid by an artist. What do you think?”
“Does anyone here know Axel personally?” I took the wine and handed one to Rachel.
She looked around. “I don’t think so. Wait—there’s Pablo. I think they were in art school together.”
Pablo Laurence, in his late 20s, had a thin beard and a black turtleneck under a corduroy jacket. “Yeah, we were at SAIC. We just had one class together, but I saw him around. Strange guy.” He glanced at Rachel, checking her out. She smiled. I was used to it.
“Strange how?” I asked.
He shifted his feet. “I don’t want to say—I mean, he just didn’t talk much. Mostly about the instructors. He didn’t like most of them, but he stuck around for about, uh, two years, I think.”
“Have you seen him lately?”
Pablo shook his head. “Not since—wait, yeah, once. The Jasper Johns exhibition, at UIC. Maybe six months ago? He was with a girl, and they were arguing. I didn’t talk to him. Oh, wait—I did run into him in the bathroom. I asked him how he was doing. He just looked at me like some kind of warthog had just wandered up to the sink.” He rolled his eyes. “I guess he was kind of an asshole.”
I was going to ask him another question when someone shouted behind me. The shout became a scream. Rachel grabbed my arm.
A man was waving his arms, staggering back from the Murder of Crows painting. He was the short, chubby man in the long gray coat talking to Marian Krantz earlier. He stumbled, and one of his knees bent awkwardly, and he collapsed on the floor.
A woman next to him was the one doing the screaming as she backed away, dropping her wine glass and tripping into a friend’s arms. The man on the floor was shuddering. His head rolled to one side. His eyes were wide, twitching wildly as he gasped for air. Spreading blood stained his shirt.
A long knife was sticking from his chest.
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