Paint the Town Red (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book II)

An Offer

He was exceptionally tall, skinny, and pale. All of his attributes seemed to be destined to be expressed in superlative adjectives. He was, indeed, the tallest, the lankiest, and the pastiest man Imogen had ever met. He also wore a slim black three-piece suit, which made him look like an undertaker. His appearance would be almost comical - he looked like a character from a telly series or a comic book, probably named Death or Grim Reaper - if only he wasn't excluding a barmy amount of self confidence. Currently, he was sitting on a chair across from Imogen's desk, one leg elegantly thrown over the other, and was twirling a panatela in his long pale fingers.

"Morning," Imogen said helplessly.

He lifted his eyes at her - and Imogen expected them to be 'bottomless, pitch black, and expressionless.' Instead they were of the brightest blue.

"Ms. Fox! What a pleasure!" he exclaimed and jumped to his feet.

He grinned, all his white teeth gleaming. He had a strong Scottish accent and a pleasant low voice.

"I'm Angus Guthrie," the man announced. "Has Sergeant Cooper mentioned me? I'm the reformed criminal, which has had the privilege of having a peek at your glorious art." Mr. Guthrie's r's rolled beautifully. "Unlike our naive badge possessing friend I was certain you wouldn't contact me; so I decided to stop by and introduce myself."

He stepped to her and stretched his hand. Imogen placed her hand on his palm and stared at the top of his head when he kissed it. The hair was black, silky, and stylishly coiffed according to the latest fashion: a perfect soft wave went away from his face, and back, smooth and healthy looking.

"I did speak to Andrew about... your opinion on my art," Imogen choked out.

"Brilliant!" Mr. Guthrie sounded endlessly chuffed. "Your early pieces would make a perfect art book. In all honesty there are almost enough for a small exhibition. And you should consider a large piece, something modern, to complement that large portrait of a male you have. The one with a 'stormy brow,'" he said with a pleasant smoky laugh.

"My Rochester?" Imogen mumbled.

"Oh is that who it is? That's just perfect!" Mr. Guthrie did sound as if Imogen painting of 'strong features, and firm, grim mouth' was indeed the raddest of news. "That links so well with my next thought. You have a knack for illustration, Ms. Fox, trust me on that. The movements, the turns of a head - your sketches are full of treasures! So, you need to use it! Either in urban sketching, or - what I'd suggest strongly - in editorials. Some literary periodical, or something on current politics, or--"

"Mr. Guthrie!"

Imogen's desperate outcry announced to the world that the ginger snapped.

"Yes?" he asked with a benevolent smile.

"Don't you think that your... suggestions are a tad premature?"

"I'd say they are a tad overdue. You drew these pieces years ago." He waved his hand, his panatela still pressed between his fingers. "Have you done much since?"

Imogen decisively rose to her feet.

"I think, Mr. Guthrie, you should go." She felt her statement was rather harsh, so she awkwardly coughed twice and continued, "I will of course consider all your ideas, and--"

"I don't believe you will," Mr. Guthrie interrupted softly. "I believe, you will, for the lack of a better phrase, chicken out."

"Why would I? Some of your ideas were quite... promising," Imogen squeezed the words out of herself. "Now that I'm in possession of my works again, I will definitely put them to good use."

"Brilliant! And I'm offering you the safe and sure ways to do it."

"Are they? Safe?" Imogen asked. "Why do you want to help me? What's it for you, Mr. Guthrie?"

"Hopefully 45% of your earnings. I think we will make an excellent 'agent-artist' pair."

"Oh."

Imogen slowly sat down on her chair.

"Indeed," Mr. Guthrie purred. "You see, Ms. Fox, the life of an honest man and a gallery owner in a God forgotten tiny green corner such as Fleckney Woulds is, to say the least, idle - and hardly lucrative for that matter. I'm fully intending to keep my promise to DI Balinson and lead the life of an exemplary member of society, but I have my sins, and they need funding."

Imogen uncomfortably squirmed on her chair. The mentioning of the 'sins' hadn't been lost on her.

"Will you consider my offer, Ms. Fox?" Mr. Guthrie asked. "And feel free to consult your lawyer on this matter, of course."

The man rose and handed Imogen a few folded pieces of paper, which he'd been holding under his arm the whole time.

"I will obviously send you a digital copy, but perhaps you'd like to look through this early draft of a contract." Mr. Guthrie smiled. "And now I've got to dash. I'm dying for a fag."

He then stretched his palm, and kissed Imogen's hand that she'd given him.

"You have all my contact information on that contract. I'll be waiting for your email, or a ring, even. Good afternoon."

"Afternoon," answered Imogen, and sank into her chair when the door closed behind him.

Imogen put her folded arms on the table and lowered her heavy, pounding head on them. She took a few long breaths in, but it helped nothing: her mind had already started its usual work. And the overthinking began. She honestly didn't want to imagine and fantasise... but here they were, the pictures of her being the aforementioned illustrator, and an artist with her own exhibition, and magazines offering her work. And more, more, even more attractive ones.

Imogen groaned.

"The door was open," the Mayor's voice came from above, and Imogen's head popped up. He studied her for a few seconds. "Are you alright?"

"I... am. And you?" Imogen squeaked and immediately berated herself for the daft remark.

"Quite so. So, what did Angus Guthrie want with you?"