Vanished into Plein Air Read online

  Books by Paula Darnell

  DIY Diva Mystery Series

  Death by Association

  Death by Design

  Death by Proxy

  A Fine Art Mystery Series

  Artistic License to Kill

  Vanished into Plein Air

  Hemlock for the Holidays

  Historical Mystery

  The Six-Week Solution

  Paula Darnell

  Campbell and Rogers Press

  Las Vegas

  Campbell and Rogers Press

  Copyright © 2021 by Paula Darnell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews. For permission to use material from the book, other than for reviews, please contact [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, events, places, incidents, business establishments, and organizations portrayed in this novel are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020920353

  ISBN: 978-1-887402-19-4

  Publisher's Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  provided by Five Rainbows Cataloging Services

  Names: Darnell, Paula, author.

  Title: Vanished into plein air / Paula Darnell.

  Description: Las Vegas : Campbell and Rogers Press, 2021. | Series: A fine art mystery, bk. 2.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020920353 (print) | ISBN 978-1-887402-20-0 (paperback) | ISBN 978-1-887402-21-7 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-887402-19-4 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Fiction. | Artists—Fiction. | Art—Fiction. | Women—Fiction. | Arizona—Fiction. | Mystery fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Amateur Sleuth. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Cozy / Crafts. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Cozy / Cats & Dogs. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3604.A7478 V36 2021 (print) | LCC PS3604.A7478 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23.

  Cover design by Nicole Hutton of Cover Shot Creations

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  First Edition

  Published by Campbell and Rogers Press

  www.campbellandrogerspress.com

  Dedicated, with appreciation, to cozy mystery readers everywhere

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Recipes

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  “Look at the crowd, Emma! Brooks made such a big deal that he was inviting only a few people to the private pre-opening of his new gallery, but it seems like half the town is here.”

  “Sure does,” my daughter agreed. “Do you think they'll serve champagne?”

  “I'm sure there'll be plenty. Now that you're twenty-one, you're entitled,” I said. with a wan smile.

  My daughter and I had celebrated our respective birthdays a couple of weeks earlier, just days apart. Unfortunately, I'd now hit the mid-century mark, and I wasn't too thrilled about it.

  “Are you OK, Mom?”

  “Oh, sure. Just thinking about that zero in my age now. It makes me feel so old.”

  “Honestly, Mom, you look way younger than fifty. You look like you're forty—really you do.”

  “That's always good to hear.”

  A year ago, my daughter wouldn't have been able to say the same. I'd still been in shock after my husband unexpectedly divorced me and married his twenty-five-year-old assistant, who was only a few years older than Emma.

  What a difference a year made. I'd moved to a new town in a new state, turned my part-time art hobby into a full-time business, and bought the house, with its own attached art studio, that I'd rented when I'd first moved to Lonesome Valley, Arizona, from Kansas City.

  “Hey, beautiful! You didn't tell me you were coming to the opening.”

  I turned to see Chip, a young artist who flirted with me every time he saw me, although he was only a few years older than Emma.

  “Hi, Chip,” I said, ignoring the compliment. I'd learned that it was best not to take his flirtatious ways too seriously. “Did Susan come with you?”

  “She's right over there.” He pointed to a boutique a few doors down from the gallery.

  I spotted her checking out the shop's window display. When she looked our way, she waved and hurried over.

  “Lonesome Valley Resort's mall is really something,” she said after we exchanged a hug. “I don't know why I've never shopped here before. I'm surprised Brooks didn't move his gallery sooner.”

  “I guess he's turning over a whole new leaf. He has a year's worth of shows by other artists already scheduled, from what I understand, but none for himself.”

  “Sounds like a smart move to me. His artwork's not very good, to put it kindly.”

  “What a crush,” I said as we slowly made our way toward the door of the new Brooks Miller Gallery.

  “Mom, they're having people show their invitations at the door to get in.”

  “I have mine in my bag. Good thing I remembered to bring it,” I said, pulling the elegant, gold-trimmed card from my purse.

  “Aunt Susan?” Chip asked.

  “I have mine, too.”

  “Well, I didn't bring my invitation, but I can be your plus one, I suppose,” Chip said.

  “Sure, that'll work. It looks like most of the crowd is here to listen to the string quartet,” Susan observed, pointing to a group of musicians who were setting up in front of the gallery.

  Susan and I handed our invitations to the young woman who greeted us at the door, and we filed in. We'd been invited to a “private pre-opening showing of paintings by world-renown artist Ulysses Durand,” and, evidently “private” meant just that.

  Although we'd left the crowd behind outside, we could hear the quartet tuning up before they began playing a sprightly number. Brooks, who managed the Lonesome Valley Resort, owned by his family trust, had undoubtedly arranged for the musicians.

  Ulysses Durand's paintings reminded me of Ralph Anderson's, with their precise details and sweeping views of Western landscapes. Ralph, now in his mid-eighties, had been one of the founders of the Roadrunner Gallery, an artists' cooperative on Main Street I'd joined a few months after my arrival in town. That's where I'd met Susan, Chip, Ralph, and lots of other members artists, and the gallery had become my home away from home.

  “How about some champagne, Auntie?” Chip offered.

  “Don't call me Auntie,” Susan said automatically, for all the good it would do her to object, since Chip never tired of teasing her. “And, yes, I'd love some.”

  “Amanda?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Chip.”


  Chip was about to head toward the bar set up in a corner of the gallery when Emma asked, “Aren't you going to offer to bring me champagne?”

  “Sorry, Emma. Are you sure you're old enough to handle it?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Don't mind Chip, Emma,” Susan advised. “He's always kidding around.”

  “I noticed.”

  Just then, a distinguished-looking man, impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, entered the gallery, and Brooks, looking equally distinguished in his own bespoke attire, rushed over to greet him. When I heard Brooks call the man “senator,” I nudged Susan. “Isn't that Senator Hastings?” I asked her.

  “It sure is,” she confirmed. “I guess we're in good company.”

  We gathered in front of a large oil painting of the Grand Canyon, so that we'd be out of the way. While Susan and I examined the brushwork, Emma surveyed the guests.

  “Mom, Anne Robinson and Terry Snyder are here,” she said excitedly.

  “Who?”

  “You really don't know?”

  “No clue.”

  “They're only the hottest new Hollywood power couple ever. Oh, I can't believe it!”

  “Believe what, Emma?” Chip asked as he returned with four glasses of champagne neatly arranged on a silver tray.

  When Emma told him, his eyes widened.

  “I'm impressed,” he muttered as he stared at the movie stars. “Looks like Brooks pulled out all the stops.”

  Chip held out the tray, and after we'd each taken a glass, he offered a toast to the Roadrunner.

  “To the Roadrunner!” we said in unison as we clinked glasses.

  “Another celebrity,” Chip said, motioning toward the door where Brooks was greeting a lanky man who towered over his petite wife. In her sparkling red, sequined cocktail dress, she was garnering as much attention as her husband.

  “Is he a basketball player?” Susan asked Chip.

  “Is he! He's the star of the Phoenix Suns.”

  “I wonder how Brooks was able to entice the celebrities to attend,” Susan said, “but, I guess if you have enough money, anything's possible.”

  “He probably comped them suites for the weekend here at the resort,” Chip guessed. “But where's the star of the show? We haven't seen Ulysses Durand yet.”

  “Probably around the corner in the back room,” I surmised.

  Like the Roadrunner, Brooks's new gallery had a free-standing wall in the center, which partially divided the space, providing more display areas for paintings.

  “Shall we?” Chip asked. “I'd like to meet him.”

  Susan and I agreed, but Emma hung back.

  “Later, Mom? I'm going to try to talk to Anne and Terry. Maybe I can take a selfie with them.”

  “OK, Emma. Good luck!”

  Chip, Susan, and I rounded the corner into the back room of the gallery, where several people had gathered around the famous artist. There didn't appear to be an opening to join the group, so we bided our time by looking at the paintings until Ulysses Durand left his admirers and began making his way around the room, greeting guests as he went. We held our ground and as soon as he came to us, we quickly introduced ourselves and let him know how much we enjoyed his artwork.

  “It's great to have some other artists here,” Ulysses said genially. He was a short man of about sixty with gray hair who wouldn't normally stand out in a crowd. “I know a couple of local artists. I hope they'll be here tonight.”

  He looked past us and broke into a smile.

  “Here's one of them now. Please excuse me.”

  We turned to see our friend Ralph leaning heavily on a cane.

  “His arthritis must really be bothering him,” Susan said. “I've never seen him use a cane before.”

  We were surprised when Ulysses embraced the old man. Ralph didn't seem quite as enthusiastic in his greeting as Ulysses had been, but that wasn't unusual since Ralph tended to be reserved.

  The two stood in front of the largest painting in the room, discussing it, until a new group of guests came into the back space, and Ulysses moved on to talk to them.

  Ralph spotted us and motioned us to come over

  “Sorry. I don't mean to be rude,” he apologized, “but my knee's killing me today.”

  “Let me find you a chair,” Chip offered. “There must be one around here somewhere.”

  “No, no,” Ralph protested. “I don't want to be a nuisance. I'm all right standing here. Funny thing is the knee wasn't even bothering me yesterday. Unfortunately, it would have to kick up a storm today.”

  “Aren't you scheduled to work in the gallery tomorrow?” Susan asked. “I can fill in for you, if you like.”

  “I just may take you up on that. Can I let you know in the morning?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  I was glad that Susan had volunteered because I couldn't. Tomorrow Emma would be returning to college in Southern California, and we were planning on leaving for Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix at nine in the morning, the same time the gallery would be opening for the day.

  “I take it you know Ulysses Durand,” Chip said to Ralph.

  “Yes. I do. Thirty years ago, he was my star student.”

  Chapter 2

  No wonder their artwork looks so similar, I thought. I could see Ralph's influence in every brushstroke on Ulysses's painting. Yet, fame-wise, the student had surpassed his teacher. Durand's work routinely sold for five times the prices of Ralph's paintings.

  “Really? I didn't realize you used to teach,” Susan said.

  “Ralph was far and away the best instructor I ever had.”

  Pamela, the director of the Roadrunner, had come up behind us while we were talking to Ralph. As usual, the tiny woman wore beige. Although Pamela's fashion choices were never colorful, the same couldn't be said about her vibrant paintings, depicting exotic animals and lush scenery.

  “That includes every professor I had in art school,” she declared.

  “Thanks, Pamela,” Ralph mumbled, looking a bit uncomfortable at the effusive compliment.

  “I've just been talking to Brooks, and he's organizing some kind of plein air art event with Ulysses. He promised to get the details to me tomorrow. Believe it or not, he's inviting all our members to participate.

  “Brooks has certainly done an about-face,” I said. “Remember when he'd come into the Roadrunner and criticize everybody's work?”

  Pamela nodded. “I think he's trying to re-invent himself as an influential figure in the art world. He couldn't succeed as an artist, but he certainly has the contacts and the money to make a name for himself as a gallery owner.”

  “It doesn't hurt that his wife's managing his gallery, either,” I said, nodding toward the thirtyish blonde in a figure-hugging black dress and six-inch Louboutin heels, who was talking animatedly with the Suns' star. The player's wife stood by, fuming, while her husband looked at Brooks's wife with unabashed fascination.

  It was the same look I'd seen on my son Dustin's face when we'd visited Brooks's former gallery in downtown Lonesome Valley one spring day when Dustin was visiting me. I hadn't seen her since that day when she'd totally ignored me and tried to high-pressure my son into buying one of her husband's awful paintings. At least, now she had some real artwork to sell.

  Pamela, Ralph, Susan, Chip, and I chatted for several more minutes before we went our separate ways. I circled the gallery to look at the rest of Ulysses's paintings.

  One, a mountain scene at twilight, particularly caught my attention. It looked familiar. I tried to remember where I'd seen it before. Most likely, the picture had been featured in an art magazine I'd read. I made it a point to check out every art magazine that the Lonesome Valley Library got in, just as I had when I lived in Kansas City.

  “Mom, look at this!” My daughter handed me her cell phone. “Here's my selfie with Anne and Terry on Instagram.”

  “Great picture, Emma. The three of you look like lifelong friends. You'd never kn
ow you'd just met them a few minutes ago.”

  “They're super nice. Look at the rest of the pictures,” she said, as she scrolled through several more shots.

  Later, as we drove home, Emma kept herself busy, constantly sending text messages and replying to messages from her friends about her unexpected encounter with the famous Hollywood couple. I wondered if the meeting had been the highlight of her summer, since our day-to-day schedule had been fairly routine.

  The divorce had hit both my children hard; they'd been just as shocked as I had when Ned announced he planned to divorce me. Although Emma had spent the first week of her summer vacation with her father, his new wife, and their baby, she hadn't been happy about it. Her room had been transformed into a playroom for the baby, but he wasn't old enough to use it yet, and Emma had felt that she didn't belong in the home where she'd grown up.

  “Has your summer been OK, Emma?” I asked somewhat hesitantly. “You haven't even had your own bed, my house is so small.”

  “Sure, Mom. I like your house. It's cute and cozy. You know I'd way rather sleep on the hide-a-bed than in your room so I can stay up late and watch TV or surf the net.”

  “And you didn't mind working at the feed store? I know it wasn't the most glamorous job.”

  “It was fine. Dennis is a cool boss, and the pay wasn't bad.”

  Before her break started, Emma had asked me if I knew of any summer jobs in Lonesome Valley, and I'd checked with my next-door neighbor, who managed a local feed store to find out if he needed any extra help. He assured me he did, and Emma had a summer job without ever having to interview.

  “Dennis said to let him know if I wanted to work at the feed store again next summer, and I told him I do.”