"Me? You saw my face in the skull?" A wild realization suddenly swept over me. "Oh my god. I'm dead. I'm a ghost. This is the part in the story where the main character figures out they've been dead the whole time."
Desirae's brows scrunched. "I don't think it's that kind of story, Kirby." Pinching the bridge of her nose, she mumbled something in Igbo before looking back up at me. "Obviously, it can't be you. Or your face. So I'm mad at myself for letting you mess with my head. I don't do mess. I can't do mess. And you're..."
"I'm what?" I asked, slapping at my cheek. Definitely still alive, for one.
"Messy."
"I'm not that messy."
"You literally fucked a suspect just an hour ago."
"Miles?" I snorted. "You think Miles is a suspect?"
"Oh my god." Cora popped around the doorway, nearly startling me out of my skin. "Did you hear what happened? I've been freaking out since last night. Couldn't sleep a wink and now this? There are cops lining the whole block. They've indefinitely shut the museum down. They're not telling me anything. I think I have a right to know what's going on, right?" She stood with her hands on the hips of her high waisted slacks, a tight solid black sweater tucked into them, platinum silvery hair sleeked back in a tidy bun. The very opposite of mess. "How did you get in?"
Desirae took a deep breath and buried any sign of emotional turmoil. "The detective called me to take a look at a skull. I just came in here to grab a sketchbook."
Cora's face twisted with a grimace. "Tell me it's not another one of Artie's paintings?"
"We're not really sure," Desirae replied. "Actually, maybe you'd know. Did Artemisia ever paint anyone submerged?"
"Submerged? Well, yes..." As Cora looked from Desirae to me, confusion furrowed her slender brows. She crossed her arms against her black sweater. "Kirby modeled for her Ophelia pieces."
Her confident response threw me and I wasn't sure how to react. There was no way Artie could've painted a whole series from those reference photos we took in Favignana before she died. Especially without me seeing them. But the more I thought about it, the more I began to question my own memory. Enough that I didn't try to argue.
"We have a couple from the series here, but the police still have the collection room and the stage taped off." Cora swiped open her phone and began to scroll. "I have digital copies stored somewhere though."
"Email them to me if you get a chance," Desirae said, avoiding my eyes.
My silence only aided the strained distance between us. But I couldn't say anything in front of Cora. She wouldn't hesitate to run to Rafael and tell him I lied about being with Artie. If she knew where he was, of course.
"Cora, did Rafael leave with you last night?" I asked.
"Raf?" She seemed surprised I knew. "No, why would you think that?"
"He mentioned you were sorta seeing each other," I lied.
"Oh, well, not quite. But I lost him right before the police showed up. Landon disappeared with that new chick who runs the Deluca Gallery so I was stuck talking to the detectives til midnight. I was sick to my stomach after they told me what they found on stage. Poor Gabe, I couldn't believe it. And to think, Desirae, you were so close to figuring out who he was before all that. If you'd have let me see your sketches, I could've saved you the trouble."
"And you haven't heard from him?" I pressed.
"Gabe?"
"No, Rafael."
She shook her head slowly, almost with a suspicion that felt aimed at me. "I knew he shouldn't have went last night. I told him not to. It's too much for him, especially when he's drinking. He wouldn't shut up about Artie so I kinda ditched him. I felt bad, but I'm still heartbroken too, you know? Shit..." She tapped at her phone then brought it to her ear. But as it rang unanswered, she again shook her head, this time with a growing concern.
"Typical Rafaello," I tried to tell her. And myself. "I'm sure he's fine. It's like, only a quarter after three anyway. He's probably just getting up now. But let me know if you hear from him."
"You can just text me," Desirae added. "Kirby lost her phone last night."
"Oh, are you two a thing now?" She wagged her finger between us. "I didn't realize you... you know what, nevermind. I know better than to ask you about your flavor of the week. Good luck, Desirae. With the skull, I mean. I'm going to see if the detective will talk to me now."
As Cora turned back towards the hall, a white powdery handprint remained on her sweater. Knowing her, it was either chalk, clay, or coke. People were never as tidy as they'd let you believe.
"I might be messy," I said softly, listening to the clip of her heels trail down the back hall, "but at least I'm not that."
Desirae was quiet again, flipping through drawings at her desk.
"Listen, Des-"
"Are you threatened by that woman?" she asked without looking up.
"Who, Cora? Pfft. God no."
"But I'm guessing she's the reason you know exactly how far away the Shirazi Nursery is in Fleetwood Mac songs?"
My mouth opened to deny it, but only a sigh came out. Desirae already knew she was right. No point trying to argue. "There were many reasons. But yes, Cora was often one of them. Why?"
"I'm just trying to get my histories straight." She tucked her sketchbook beneath her arm and started walking towards the door, but she paused at one of the facial renderings she had drawn from a skull found at a dig site in France. "You know, I'm actually a little disappointed my show got canceled."
"That's understandable."
"I know Landon only gave me the residency so he could keep an eye on me, but I enjoyed getting to work from inside a museum for once. I was looking forward to sharing my work with the public in a new way. Not slapped on the news, searching for contacts."
"Maybe you still can?" I slinked over to her, trying to look past the blonde tipped locs that hid her face. "I've got connections all over. You can do way better than this little rinky dink museum."
Desirae turned to me. Her head tilted with doubt, eyes sharp. "An art thief with a gallery plug, huh?"
"Reformed art thief," I assured her.
"And you don't miss it?"
My lips pressed tight together, teeth chewing on the inside of the swollen cut. She already knew the answer to that one too. "I miss the adrenaline. Not much else comes close, well, other than..." I chuckled softly and shook my head.
"What?"
"Sex. Usually."
Desirae held back a smile, but I could see it in her eyes as they fell over me. "Maybe you should try exercising." She slipped past me and headed towards the hall.
"Does that work for you?"
Her long locs flicked over her shoulder as she glanced behind, but she disappeared around the corner.
"Yeah, didn't think so," I muttered to myself.
Like last night, the museum's hall remained dimly lit. The only bright lights focused on the artwork in the gallery wings. It was eerie to see the place so empty. Silent. But the stillness of everything was anything but quiet in my head. As I turned my back to Artie's paintings, a shiver raced down my spine. I could feel her watching me through her work. Hurrying down the back hall, I caught up with Desirae outside of Cora's office.
Her door was left open, but Desirae's attention was on the one next to it. Shut. Likely locked. But easy to pick.
"I still don't understand his motive," Desirae barely uttered a whisper. "And now this other victim?"
"Just say the word, Des. I can get you inside in under a minute."
Temptation tugged at her as her eyes roamed the glass paneled door. Excitement started to swell in my chest. Her lips began to part, but she turned away. "No."
I exhaled my disappointment and followed her into Cora's office. A small painting hung on the wall near the desk. The figures' faces were out of frame, but I recognized Artie's early undergrad work well enough to know it was likely her and Cora, entangled in white sheets. Other contemporary pieces hung on the walls, most of which I didn't recognize. I had at least seven years of catching up to do within the art world.
Desirae stood at the glass door, observing the courtyard. Beyond the white marble columns of the portico, the detective nodded earnestly at a silvery platinum bun. The rest of her was hidden behind a pink rose bush. "Looks like Cora got what she wanted."
"She always does," I mumbled.
As I walked past Cora's desk, my dress caught on the elongated arm of a metal sculpture. Before I could spin to grab it, the figure wobbled off the desk and fell to the floor, breaking at three of its welded joints.
"Fuck." I fell to my knees and scrambled to grab the pieces.
"Please tell me that wasn't a Giacometti."
I glared up at her. "It's poorly welded, steel pencil-rod-not bronze. So no, definitely not Giacometti." Standing up, I stared down at the pieces in my hands with dismay. "It was one of Cora's that she fabricated during undergrad. And this is the second time I've broken it. Fuck, she's going to kill me."
"Just leave it," Desirae murmured, looking out beyond the door again. "A dozen people have gone in and out through here, someone else could've-Kirby, no-"
As I shoved two of the pieces into her purse, she pulled back.
"Please," I begged. "I'll fix it tonight. She'll never know."
I tried to wrestle her purse from her, but her hand caught my arm, twisting it out as she shoved me against the wall next to a Kiki Smith print. She pinned my shoulders flat, her leg in between mine, hips touching. A smug grin slipped across her face, her lips barely an inch away. Adrenaline coursed between us and I could see she was a junkie just like me. She craved it. I feigned a struggle just to feel her body tighten against mine, her breath on my skin.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about," she whispered hot into my ear. "Mess."
"Maybe so." I tilted my chin to meet her gaze, her brown eyes drawing me in. "But I'm just trying to give you what you want."
Her fingers tightened around my wrists before letting go. She remained pressed against me, her stare fixed as she reluctantly opened her purse. With a smile, I dropped the last broken piece into her bag.
Something in her dark eyes changed as they searched mine. "God, you remind me so much of him," she murmured, stepping away from me. I didn't need to ask who, but I was surprised to hear it. Her hand quickly found the handle on the door and she slipped out under the portico, into the courtyard.
I followed slowly as she rejoined Greg at the pond. The forensics team had laid the body out, aquatic roots and flowers still attached. Desirae flipped her sketchbook open, jotting down notes.
I was as close as I wanted to be standing beneath an archway. Off to my side, the detective who Cora had been speaking to was now talking to his partner. Cora was nowhere to be seen.
"Desirae seems a little flustered," a low, glassy voice whispered from behind me.
Pushing off of the column, I whipped around to face Landon's plastic grin in a slick navy Tom Ford suit.
"Is she having trouble separating you from this one?"
"Cut the shit, Landon. What do you know?"
"So demanding for someone who owes me." He leaned his arm against the column, trying to box me in. "I heard Calo got a little heavy handed with you last night so I wanted to apologize, but looking at you now, it seems you fared far better than he did."
I tucked my hand around my ribs, but didn't back away.
"Funny, you outran your own death last night, but here you are faced with it again this morning." He leaned close to whisper. "That body over there may not be yours, but it was always meant to be. I'd take that as a sign."
"You know who the victim is," I stated, carefully watching the flash of his green eyes.
"Just one of those pretty little charity projects I mentioned last night, but again, it was never really about her." He straightened himself upright, adjusting his jacket, then slid his hand through his blonde hair. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to speak to the detective before they start plastering that street walker's face all over the news in connection with my wife. We're already hemorrhaging donors. Watch your back, Kirby."
At first I took his parting words as a threat, but as I watched him stroll over to the detectives, it felt more like a warning. Like Desirae, I couldn't figure out his motive either. He was obviously driven by money, but these tableaus seemed to conflict with that.
As Desirae spotted Landon, she panned back to find me. I met her in the middle of the courtyard at the fountain.
"I can't believe he showed up," Desirae said softly, closing her sketchbook.
"He knows who the woman is."
"What? Did he tell you that?" Her head twisted from me to Landon. "What did he say to you?"
"She was a sex worker." I wasn't sure what else to tell her. Instead, I wandered over to the hedge of roses to put us within earshot of them.
"And you're saying that's your late wife's wedding veil," one of the detectives said to Landon.
"Artemisia had it customized, all made by hand in Italy," he answered. "I'd recognize that lace anywhere."
"And how do you suppose your wife's veil ended up wrapped around a prostitute's dead body in this pond?"
"She likely stole it. After posing for the painting I mentioned. My wife's models weren't exactly upstanding citizens." Landon caught my eye across the rose bushes. "She had a tendency to attract thieves."
The detective mumbled something and Landon nodded.
"I'm sure you can understand my desire for discretion to protect the museum," he continued. "And for the family's sake, of course."
"Sounds like he doesn't want your sketch made public," I whispered to Desirae. "Not exactly the reaction we had expected from him."
Desirae leaned into my shoulder. "No, but he's definitely hiding something."
A hand reached between us from behind, startling us both. Greg grabbed her arm to pull her far off to the side. Apparently, I wasn't privy to whatever he needed to discuss.
I looked down at the showcard that was still in my hand. Out of the five paintings advertised, only Artemisia's face was shown. The rest of us were cropped, maimed, and decapitated like the banners out front of the museum. I hadn't paid much attention to the other paintings besides Sunday Morning, but as I reviewed the card, the watery grave was right there.
Right next to the painting of Gabriel that had been set up last night with his body.
It seemed too far of a coincidence that both paintings were used on the showcard and banners.
As I studied the paintings more closely, I could see chest scars on a masculine torso that I was now sure belonged to Miles. The other painting showed the back of a man gazing at a woman whose body was barely penciled in. Even from the back, I could recognize those shaggy dark curls anywhere.
If this killer was using the paintings that were advertised for the retrospective as inspiration, that meant Miles or Rafael could be next.
I needed to warn them.
Problem was, Desirae considered them both suspects.
Which meant I'd have to do it on my own.
Dipping my head behind the hedge rose, I snuck past Poseidon and down the sidewalk back towards the gate. Ferrante continued to guard it solo, but I ignored his leering eyes as I ducked under the yellow crime tape.
I hurried down the street's pitted sidewalk to where we had parked and then climbed into the truck. But before I could slip the key into the ignition, the shine of a rose gold tennis bracelet laying on the passenger's seat made my heart stop.
I knew that bracelet.
My wrist knew the weight of that bracelet.
All eight carats of glittering diamonds.
It was a bracelet I had intentionally left behind in Favignana.
Along with Artemisia.