Dying for Monet, book 5 of Riess’s art history mystery series, opens on a gala evening auction at Laszlo’s, an upstart auction house in New York City. After a much sought-after Impressionist still life painting is without notice withdrawn from the auction block, its broker is found dead at the foot of an imposing statue in Laszlo’s courtyard. Amateur sleuths Erika Shawn and Harrison Wheatley are once again drawn into an investigation involving an art-related homicide, this time with one sharing an unnerving coincidence with violent crimes occurring abroad.
“I knew it,” Erika said tonelessly, shoving her phone back into her evening bag; saw the look of horror Greg directed at her, as if she were some devilish prophet; half believed it herself. She gazed back at him, and her numbness suddenly dissolved into tears.
Still, neither of them openly acknowledging whose body lay before them, the blood at the man’s head curling away with the rainwater; Botero’s mighty woman and child, their backs to him, underlying the omission. The figures were dark brown, almost black patinated bronze, and the dead man, in his black suit, seemed part of their tableau, or its discard. One of his arms was jammed against the base of the statue, the other flung to the side, the hand gracefully cupped like a ballet dancer’s—the hand with the ring that had pressed into Erika’s flesh. Looking down at Ivan’s hand, she felt its phantom grip on her wrist; the ring’s forceful dig. Impossible for that hand to have been doomed into stillness.
“I felt for a pulse,” she said, anticipating Greg’s question. “He’s gone.”
She looked away and saw a few people standing behind the glass door at Laszlo’s entrance, waiting to be picked up or for the rain to stop. What must they make of this rain-sodden group, and what did it matter? “The way he reacted to that text or email,” she directed to Greg, down on his knees, checking for a pulse; not taking her word for it; she, grateful to him for sharing the burden of proof. “I could see he was alarmed by the message. I thought he would be coming back after he was done talking or texting, but he never did. I thought it was odd. After all, his client’s lot was coming up for sale.”
Greg rose to his feet, a subtle headshake verifying her medical diagnosis. “And then the lot was removed.”
She nodded. “It was then that I thought the two events—the message on his cell phone and the painting’s unexpected withdrawal—were related. And just now, when I looked out the car window and saw...”
“You had a sense of foreboding—of what you would find. I wish we could cover him, I mean from the rain and all.”
“We can’t disturb the scene.”
“I know. From what I can see, he was shot in the head...” Tentative, as if declaring the words would set them in stone.
“Yes.”
They were silent, standing in the rain that was finally abating, and in that moment the sun completed its descent and darkness fell, a delayed reaction in what seemed an act of respect—or mimicry—of life’s end.
This looks like a very enjoyable read. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Michael!
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ReplyDeleteAbsolutely adore the cover, too!
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing. Sounds good.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Marcy.
ReplyDeleteThis looks like a fantastic read.
ReplyDeleteSounds like a great book! Thank you for the excerpt! :)
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