A Brilliant Plan

Chapter 5

The pavement in front was cordoned off with police tape, forcing the pedestrians to step on the street to pass the store. Two officers directed the thick traffic of onlookers and Thanksgiving strollers. At the gallery front door, a lone policeman appeared relaxed as he watched the passing crowd.

"No TV around?" I asked.

"Too late for the fifteen minutes of fame," he answered. "They were here in the morning and throughout the day, covered the story for the ten o'clock news and then went to dinner."

Ron explained the setup of the store, which, of course, I already knew inside out. "Altward Gallery is run by Andrew Altward and Paul Faulkner. It was named after a foundation of one of Altward's ancestors. Andrew Altward carries on the family tradition, if you will. Altward is divorced, no kids, 52 years old. Very active in the art world, organizing auctions, exhibitions of all types of fine art, especially jewelry of the 19th and 20th century. Don't look at me as if I am the specialist here, you can read all that stuff on their website. The gallery is well known in your trade."

"Even to me. His name and rep made it up to L.A., too," I smiled.

Ron continued, "The second partner is Paul R. Faulkner, comes from back East, was a curator at the Getty Museum in Malibu at the time when they ramped it up, left to start up a gallery on his own in San Diego, which eventually merged with Altward's. Forty-five years old, no kids, no wife."

"I know them both by reputation. I mean, they are no celebrities but they are doing some serious business. Their auctions host good stuff and they represent some of the finest SoCal artists. Altward is more the 'aficionado' type, for the love of the art. Faulkner always struck me to be more businesslike, but also has a good eye for art. I have never been introduced to either of them in person, though," I added.

"Let's get inside," Ron proposed and led me toward the front door of the gallery.

I gave him a sideways look, "You sure managed to dig up a lot on Altward and Faulkner on short notice."

His face remained impassive. "We had help from the folks at the insurance company. The rep from New York that I told you about in the interview; he's a pain in the butt but a good source."

I wondered what Fowler Wynn had given the police on me.

Ron gave a mock raised salute to the officers, got a quick update and opened the gallery front door. The overhead lights were on, bathing the gallery interior in dramatically effective light, all the high beams pointing on the displays.

"The ground floor hosts paintings and sculptures, all original paintings and drawings. I sneaked a peek at the price tags, nothing below six figures on that floor."

I scanned the paintings, good stuff; some of it was really spectacular. Not my style though. The sculptures all had a Latin American twang, which seemed to be Altward's specialty. Not my favorite region but it was a market.

"Like it? Is it valuable?" Ron inquired.

"Want some advice from the expert?" I asked back.

"Sure, ready to learn," he nodded.

"Want to recognize good art? Trust your intuition."

"Oh, Calendar, I could have gotten that answer from my colleague Juanita."

"But this is it. The only criterion for good or bad art is you and you alone. The eye of the beholder. Which one of the paintings do you like the most?"

"I have no clue."

"Come on, form an opinion. Like you do on people you meet for the first time."