People were in and out of the gallery all day. The sun was so bright against the mounds of new snow that we were constantly squinting and moving paintings around. Often I noticed that orange-ish flash outside, one I’d noticed when I first started working.We moved a sculpture that Madeline was concerned would not fare well with any sunlight into the back room. After we’d carried it together and put it next to the file cabinet, the ding of the front door sounded.“I’ll get it,” I said to Madeline. Over the past few weeks, I’d been trying, whenever possible, to do the things a real gallery assistant would do. And now that Madeline had just tipped off one of our biggest suspects, I needed to understand the art world even more.Stepping through the front door was a woman—petite, with lustrous, brown hair to her shoulders, wearing fabulous boots and a long ivory coat. In short, she was gorgeous.She stopped walking when she saw me.“Ah,” she said. “You must be Izzy Smith.”I crossed the room, and I held out my hand.
