The 29 Customers and 1 Murdered Masterpiece

The champagne cork popped like a pistol, shooting up into the metal ceiling before recoiling, slapping straight through the center of a twelve-thousand-dollar canvas. The crack still rang in the air as Ivy gaped at the perfectly round hole, obscenely pierced through the forehead of “The Woman in the Garden”.

Pierre—forever known to Ivy as the masterpiece murderer after tonight—stood frozen, fingers secured around the guilty champagne bottle, and his other hand tightly over his gaping mouth. Was that a snicker? Ivy glared. Any chance of making a profit tonight just went out the door.

Damn, his aim is good.

If it hadn’t been for the crowd around them, Ivy would have tackled him to the ground. It may do some good to let out some of her built-up tension, but instead, she took a long breath, deciding not to kill the young artist at his debut show. Her desperation to draw visitors to the gallery was the only reason she allowed his sinister pieces to share a room with the masterpiece he had just ruined.

The sun sank behind the tall red brick buildings of downtown Beacon’s Fork, casting a warm amber glow through the gallery windows, a tiny beam angled from the punctured oil to a spot in the floor that Ivy couldn’t look away from.

She couldn’t focus on her customers. Not with a bullet hole right through the beautiful woman’s head. The painting was on loan and had two out-of-town buyers bidding for it on eBay. But, she would have to take that loss. She couldn't afford to take that loss.

Each soft chime of the doorbell is a new possibility to pay a bill.

Bing. Sixteen. Seventeen

Guests drifted in, eyes uncertain what to make of the tension or the maze of unnerving art before them. Traveling through the small space, most heads nodded respectfully, offering polite compliments; others scrunched their nose when the artist wasn't looking.

Pierre’s canvases encircled one half of Ivy’s gallery, giving a much darker aura than the usual shows. The other half of the gallery was for pieces on hold, ready for shipment, and priceless paintings that were only for eyes and never fingers.

And especially not for champagne corks.

To Ivy, the night felt ruined.

Still, she put on a smile, hoping for the best, then remembered Pierre had brought endless pastries, wine, and champagne. A mild promise that the night wouldn’t be a complete loss.

Bing. Eighteen and nineteen.

Ah, the Buchanan couple. Always guaranteed to show for anything even remotely artistic. Mrs. Buchanan’s white gloves slapped softly together as she inspected a painting with proficient taste, her husband stiffly beside her in a suit that hinted he’d never experienced the peacefulness of a weekend.

Pierre floated from guest to guest like a balloon attached to an unruly child’s wrist, puffing up with an unwarranted pride for his work. Fresh out of college, entitled, and desperate for approval. Praise above money, that was his focus. So obvious that it bordered on painful to watch.

Bing. Twenty.

A single woman stumbled in, trying to escape the biting cold outside, no doubt. Frozen at the entrance, she rubbed her hands together and inhaled the warm gallery air. Ivy immediately welcomed her, offering a glass of wine and pointed her in the direction of the pastries rather than the art.

Making her way back through the room, Ivy inhaled the blend of harsh floral perfumes and stale cigarettes that lingered in her freshly cleaned gallery.

Hours. That’s how long she prepared the building, but the night was only beginning to show its wear. A child stared at the overflowing trays of pastries, hand hovering above in a thoughtful selection, touching more than a few in the process of his decision. Ivy simply rolled her eyes and giggled, pretending not to notice.

Bing. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

More unfamiliar faces, tourists maybe, lured by an ad in the Statesman Journal.

Mental note made. Double down on marketing; it was working. Especially since she was down twelve thousand dollars to start the night. Just thinking of it again brought pain to her chest. She considered charging him, but she knew he couldn't afford it any more than she could.

The couple that shuffled in pressed their hands to their children’s backs, moving them forward. The little girl rubbed her red, puffy eyes before crossing her arms in a huff, and her sour-faced brother hung his chin while his eyes scorned at the walls. The mother bent over, whispering something into their ears. Immediately, their arms fell to their sides, and their chins popped up.

As the evening unfolded, Ivy danced between her guests and refilled drinks.

Bing. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven

A few more locals trickled in. Beacon’s Fork regulars, their laughter echoing as the champagne began to work its magic, but not for Ivy, who grimaced every time the champagne bit her tongue. Not her cup-of-tea. So much in fact that after her final attempt of a sip, she excused herself with a tight smile, hurrying to the back office where she spit it into the trash can before trading it for a Pinot Grigio.

Bing. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine.

There they were. Matthew and Nicole, her best friends since first grade. Matthew, the brother she never had, polished and somehow professional, fresh from his downtown law office. It’s an odd thing to grow up tossing bugs at each other and now see him in a suit, a successful family lawyer, no doubt hoping to be Nicole’s divorce lawyer one day. Also, no doubt he staked out the parking lot, waiting for her so she didn’t have to walk in alone.

Nicole, the stay-at-home mom desperate to get out of the house, wore a knee-length dress that had probably been too expensive, a long coat perfectly draped yet still amplifying her curves, and heels. The sort of heels made for women who wanted to feel sexy again after cleaning up after two little girls all day. She never purchased from Ivy’s gallery shows; her house was a shrine to perfect family photos.

Matthew, ever the dutiful friend, had purchased a few pieces to decorate his office, likely because his best friend had twisted his arm, or to impress Nicole, trying to prove he was no longer the irresponsible teenage boy she grew up knowing.

Nicole breezed right past the eager artist, not sparing a glance, but Matthew was roadblocked, immediately swept up in conversation, dragged to a painting, and forced to listen to its birth story, which, to Matthew, probably felt more like an afterbirth story.

With a skeptical tilt of her head, Nicole said, “Uh. What happened?” She pointed.

Ivy didn’t have to look. “Don’t ask. Please,” she said, rubbing her head.

Nicole nodded. “These pieces…super creepy.”

Ivy chuckled, giving a slow nod, speaking through her toothy grin. “Tell me about it. That piece,” She jabbed a finger toward the dark, purplish silhouette of something vaguely alien, set against an unsettlingly spiky landscape. “Will be the cause of my therapy.”

The artist slipped Matthew a business card and looked him up and down as he walked toward the girls.

Nicole turned, catching a fit of silent laughter, and squeezed Ivy’s shoulder.

“You two are so embarrassing,” Matthew muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ivy just shrugged. “I’ve got to go sell some of these paintings.” And with a playful grin, she said, “Help yourself to the delicious champagne.”

As she weaved through the crowd, her eyes searched for the customers with the right look. You know, the ones who might actually buy. It wasn’t in the way they dressed. No. It was in their eyes. There was always a sparkle that buyers got before they found a piece of art they didn’t want anyone else to have. Ivy was a master at finding and narrating beauty in every painting. But tonight, it was a challenge.

Her tongue stumbled to find convincing words. “My favorite thing about his work,” she said to one guest, “is the extraordinary distribution of light. He truly knows how to manipulate opposing colors to challenge the mind, doesn’t he? You can almost hear the painting.”

Her own pretentiousness made her burp up a bit of pastry, but it was honest. These paintings felt alive, almost as if they were saying something. Help, maybe?

By the time an hour had passed, most of the guests were ready to head out, conversation dying down as the alcohol had already taken its effect.

Bing. Seventeen, sixteen, and fifteen.

Surprisingly, the artist had sold four pieces. Four more than Ivy had expected. Still not enough to pay her new debt.

Bing. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven.

Matthew checked his watch and gave a forfeiting sigh. “I’ve got to go back to the office. I’m trying to get caught up.” He wrapped one arm around her and kissed Ivy on the forehead; a swift, familiar gesture. He did the same to Nicole, minus the kiss, because it wasn’t her forehead he wanted.

He was gone.

Bing. Ten.

Nicole watched him until he was across the street, coat folded over one arm. Then she seemed rushed. She gave Ivy a tight hug. “I’ve got to go too. Josh will have dinner on the table soon.” But she kept looking toward the street.

Ivy smirked. “Maybe you should make sure Matthew made it safely to his office.”

Nicole’s eyes narrowed. “I hate you,” she teased before rushing out the door.

Bing. Nine. Eight. Seven.

As the last few guests lingered, Ivy turned her attention to the artist, eyeing the remaining pieces on the walls. He asked if he could leave them for a couple of days, his hands pressed together in prayer.

Ivy hesitated for only a moment, calculating all he had cost her so far. An old rule of her predecessor echoed in her head. But then, she waved him off. “Sure,” she said with a smile, her heart softening at his unbridled enthusiasm.

Bing. Three. Two.

“You should let me paint you! You have the facial symmetry of a goddess, and your hair being long enough to cover your breasts, I believe a nude would—”

“I’m gonna stop you there, Pierre. Thanks for the offer, but...”

“A sheet to cover, maybe? I’ll pay my models well.”

Ivy tightened her gaze. Almost considering. “No,” she said with a palm toward him. “I’ll stick to selling art.”

She helped Pierre pack up the rest of his things, walking him to the door with a friendly smile.

Bing. One.

Locking, then leaning against the door with a heavy sigh, she admired her quiet gallery. In the back, she pressed the large black button on her favorite machine as it sputtered on, brewing a cup of coffee from the old, groaning machine circa 1971, and grabbed a raspberry tart. It was a small indulgence after a long night.

As Luciano Pavarotti sang through the speakers, Ivy swept sweet crumbs into piles, humming along. The words? She understood none, but she knew the notes like they were her own heartbeat.

The old vintage clock ticked one beat too far, stopping her mid-sweep. Her breath caught. She hurried toward the back, scraping her hip on the bulky marble display table she’d meant to move for months.

Pressing a hand to the ache, she hobbled into her office for her keys. On the way out, she swept her empty paper plate and half-drained plastic flute of champagne into the trash.

Something familiar gleamed up at her.

“No.” She reached in, pinched the photograph between her fingers, and waved it in the air before patting the man's face dry with a napkin.

His smile looked exactly the same as the day she lost him.