“I appreciate the positive response. Not that I expected anything else from the best landlord in Portland. Please come in for dinner soon. If you give me some advance notice, I’ll even join you, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“You don’t have to go to all that trouble, Drake.”
“It’s no trouble. You’re not only the best landlord but the most beautiful one. It would be my pleasure.” He kissed her on the cheek again, this time lingering a bit longer.
• • •
In spite of the wine and gourmet lunch, Amanda’s afternoon was productive. That is, until she got one last phone call. It was from Margo Keyes.
“Amanda, have you hired a lawyer yet?” she asked.
“I have but I don’t think he’s heard anything back from Kane’s attorney.”
“Well, you might want to tell him Kane’s been trolling the DA’s office trying to get one of us to bite on his claim there’s intellectual property theft going on under our noses. He says we’re not doing anything about it because the thief is a prominent artist who’s being protected. It doesn’t take a mental giant to figure out who he’s referring to.”
“Oh, dear God. The point of hiring an attorney was to keep this under control. It’s not working. What am I going to do? My reputation can’t take too many hits like this. This will ruin me.”
“Kane’s reputation is the one at risk here. Call your lawyer. He’ll tell Kane’s lawyer to get his client under control.”
“I’m not so sure Mr. Kane has anything to lose here. But I’ll call my attorney. Thanks, Margo. I appreciate the heads up.”
“And don’t worry about this. Let the lawyers work it out.”
Yeah, let the lawyers work it out, Amanda thought as she punched in the number for her attorney. But if they can’t, I’m going to solve my problem myself. Whatever that takes.
• • •
Like most art venues, The Fairchild Gallery was closed Mondays. But on this particular Monday, Liz Fairchild was at the gallery hanging a new show. She could have tried to hide but it was hard to conceal an almost six-foot tall body topped by a mane of dark brown, henna-highlighted hair. Particularly when the body, dressed in an oversize white shirt and black leggings, was atop a ladder in front of a floor-to-ceiling display window. Eubie Kane found her by merely looking in from the street.
Liz wasn’t particularly happy to see him. She sold his work in her gallery but he was a pain-in-the-ass to deal with. He was probably there to complain about something — again — or maybe to confirm the rumor she’d heard about him approaching another gallery to represent him. Whatever his reason for being there, Liz knew him well enough to know it would take him forever to get to the point.
As she feared, once Kane was admitted to the gallery, he wandered around, stretching his long legs and arms like a runner after a jog, rambling on about art, artists and galleries and the need for artists to be free to take advantage of the few opportunities offered them.
Liz listened for a while and then lost patience. “Look, Eubie, I have a show to hang. Let’s cut to the chase. What is it you want?”
“Okay, okay. I want you to release me from my contract.”
“So, you’re giving me the required two months notice?”