On the Verge (2 page)

Stealing another glance at the woman as she stood at the counter, Freya noticed that Travis, the usually churlish barista, actually asked what the lady wanted. Whenever Freya gave him her espresso order she was always met with a truculent stare, as though it was a great imposition for him to pull a shot. Freya smirked and then noted with amusement that he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the bombshell in their midst. Men and women alike stole looks over thick textbooks or stared openly in a range of attitudes that ranged from lasciviousness to pure envy.

Trying not to appear like too much of a stalker, Freya determined to take her eyes off the strangely magnetic visitor and returned to her magazine and lukewarm latte. She’d only turned a couple of pages when the shadow of someone blocked the light from the glossy page. Freya knew it was the woman without even looking up.

“So this is Parnassus.” Her voice was low and resonant, with just a hint of something far away and exotic in the slight softening of the vowels.

“The one and only,” Freya nodded, not exactly sure how to reply.

The woman set her coffee cup on the low table in front of the couch and took a seat uncomfortably near Freya, crossing her legs elegantly as she did so. Freya, desperate to look anywhere but directly at the mesmeric stranger, couldn’t help but notice the little heart design Travis had worked into the foam of her latte. She’d never seen him do more than glare balefully at the foam in her drink.

“Oh, but it’s not, of course,” the beauty chided.

“What do you mean?” Freya asked.

“It’s not the only Parnassus, is it?” she replied. “Are you forgetting that rugged limestone mount that looms like a slumbering god over the city of Delphi in Greece?”

“Uh, yes, of course, there’s that one too,” Freya said, feeling nonplussed.

“If they were ever to come here the muses would surely die of neglect if not from asbestos poisoning,” the woman said eyeing the crumbling plaster and exposed pipes. “I’m Ophidia, by the way.”

“Freya,” the student replied, “Nice to meet you.”

The woman named Ophidia smiled, almost imperceptibly. “Nice might not be quite the word for it, but you can decide for yourself later.”

Freya had her defenses up. She was naturally reserved, and this lady was making her nervous. The university was bordered on its west side by a seedy district, populated by vagrants, homeless youth and drunken frat boys most days of the week. Occasionally one of the more daring transients would show up on campus, and Freya was wondering if somehow this Ophidia woman was one of them. But she was far too clean and well dressed for that. Freya eyed her warily before turning her attention back to the magazine she held while attempting to surreptitiously monitor the stranger beside her, ready to pick up and leave if the situation required.

“You can stop pretending to read. I’m not here to make small talk, and I’m not that dangerous.”

She punctuated the last part with a wink that did nothing to ease Freya’s apprehensions.

“I’m here as more of a recruiter, a talent scout so to speak. I work at Constellation Art and Antiques. I assume you’ve heard of it.”

Of course Freya had. Everyone knew about Constellation and the infamous collector behind it, Imogen Beldame. She was from a family with deep roots in the Seattle area. Her father’s grandfather, Jebediah, had made his fortune in logging the seemingly endless blanket of evergreens that covered the entire western half of the state in the mid-nineteenth century. His heirs had followed in his industrious footsteps and, unlike some families whose forebears had accumulated great wealth, Old Man Jeb’s successors proved to be just as assiduous and avaricious as their revered ancestor.

By the time Beldame inherited her father’s estate, the fortune was massive. But rather than rest on her old money laurels, she’d chosen to put her congenital perspicacity and considerable resources toward the accumulation of a world-class collection of art and antiquities. Just what was included on her register was a mystery; she was known as much for her stockpiling of rarities and paintings as she was for her solitary and secretive nature. Some items were inferred based on winning bids placed by her known associates at public auctions. Others could only be guessed at as her black market transactions were widely surmised but never confirmed.

She spent the majority of her time ensconced in her immense and beautiful Madrona mansion. The few times she had been sighted outside of the confines of the 150-year-old French chateau-style enclave, she surprised people not with her eccentricity or avant-garde approach, but with her relative normalcy. The papers and news outlets described her as the archetypal grandmotherly figure, with bright white hair drawn up in a simple bun, a round face characterized by rosy cheeks and kind eyes. She dressed sensibly, usually in black, and looked for all intents and purposes the exact opposite of what one might imagine when conjuring up images of an acquisitive, reclusive heiress with a taste for the unusual and the antique.

All this ran through Freya’s mind when the mysterious brunette asked about her familiarity with the near-mythic Seattle collector, but she only nodded her head slightly in acknowledgement.

“You’re a woman of few words, I see. Well, all the better for me as I have only a little time to state my case before my services are needed elsewhere.”

She glanced toward the door when she said this as if to underscore her point.

“Ms. Beldame has realized for many years that her reputation around town leaves something to be desired. She’s always hoped to remedy the public’s poor perception of her, but as a scrupulous businesswoman and a bastion of the introverted and circumspect, she has neither found the necessary leeway within her schedule nor is it in her temperament to address her problematic image. Perhaps sensing the passage of time more keenly now that she is squarely within her eighth decade, Ms. Beldame has decided to mount an exhibition of her favorite artist, the Symbolist Franz von Stuck, at the Frye Art Museum, in an effort to improve her public persona.”

Ophidia paused for a moment to take a sip of her latte. The woman even managed to make that small action look ridiculously appealing. Freya swallowed hard and tried not to stare.

“The show will feature many of the German artist’s best works,” Ophidia continued, "including his two great masterpieces, one that Beldame has had in her collection for some time now, and another on loan from abroad.”

Freya nodded enthusiastically, wondering where the conversation was going. She thought about asking the exotic beauty, but she could feel that something good was coming and she didn’t want to ruin it with an ill-timed interruption.

Ophidia hesitated once again, eyeing Freya with the practiced evaluation of someone used to appraising the value of an object, and then began again.

“Ms. Beldame has been researching these works for quite some time and she’s made some interesting discoveries regarding the methods and materials used in their creation. This is where you come in.”

“I do love Symbolism, but I’m not sure how I can help,” Freya interjected, a confused look suffusing her features.

“Stuck created these particular paintings using unusual pigments,” Ophidia said. “No one’s made the connection before. It will be a big deal for the art world. The job I’m offering is nothing too glamorous, I’m afraid, but Beldame has decided to make the announcement of her discoveries at the gallery opening, and she wants the pigments on hand when she does it. We’ve tracked down the local sources for these rare colors, and she needs your help collecting them.”

“So you want me to pick these colors up?”

“More or less,” Ophidia said. “Beldame will explain it to you further, but we need you to get started immediately. The show opens on October 31
^st
.”

“That’s just a few days away,” said Freya.

“Precisely why we need you to begin right away,” Ophidia replied. “If you’re interested, Ms. Beldame would like to meet with you in person, tomorrow.”

“But why me?”

Ophidia stared at her with cold eyes. “Ms. Beldame does not take her appointments lightly. She asked me to find someone who fit a certain set of requirements: a background in art history, an excellent work ethic, and a low profile. I’ve been searching this art school for a while and I think you’re the one. Plus, this is a paid position. We’ll reward you handsomely and, if I’m not mistaken, that will be welcome news for you.”

Freya shot Ophidia a reproving glance. What did she know about Freya’s finances? Sure, her parents had died young and without a penny to their names. Her aunt had taken her in, but Freya had worked hard from a young age to help pay her way. When her aunt had died last year, she’d left her the apartment they shared, and Freya lived there, surviving off her work-study income and student loans.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ophidia said. “I’m not saying you’re destitute, just that it’s nice to have a little extra cash when you’re trying to work your way through college.”

Ophida reached out an immaculately manicured hand to Freya.

“So, what do you say? Are you in?”

Freya looked down at the hand with its graceful fingers and milky white skin and then back up at the strange woman’s sparkling black eyes. There was a cold feeling in her stomach that told her to be cautious, but it was quiet and easy to ignore compared to the shrill chorus that told her to seize this unusual golden opportunity and run with it.

“Look,” Ophidia said, a note of hardness creeping into the sibilance that ran through the undertones of her odd voice. “There are about a hundred other undergrads that would jump at this opportunity, and I’m on a tight schedule. Are you in or not? Ophidia pressed her hand further in Freya’s direction.

Freya paused a moment more, and then, for the first time, looked Ophidia directly in the eyes. She wasn’t sure what she saw there. Mischief, hauteur and intelligence, certainly, but also something else that was less easy to define. Something old and compelling, entrancing even.

“I’m in,” she said, shaking Ophidia’s hand.

“Excellent,” the cold beauty said through a smile, malice in the corners of her mouth.

She gave Freya’s hand three sharp pumps and then dropped it like it was poison. Freya shuddered without quite knowing why, and the voice she had so easily overridden only moments before shouted at her in alarm. Freya pulled back her hand and clutched it to her chest. She could feel her heart pounding quickly. What had she gotten herself into?

T
he bright light, intensified by the white walls of the downtown gallery, spilled out into the dark, creating watery reflections in the puddles collecting on the cracked pavement. A pair of red stilettos disturbed the ghostly light mirrored in the water. She was walking with purpose, but it wasn’t because of the rain. She was at home in the mists and downpours of a Seattle autumn. No, she moved with such determination because she was filled with a gnawing hunger. She was on the hunt.

Ophidia reached the door, folded up her umbrella, and walked inside. Once within the warm confines of the intimate space, the cheerful conversations and tinkling glasses of the partygoers attending the opening reception of Tobias Hartley’s latest show replaced the hypnotic patter of the rain.

She took off her black belted trench and hung it haphazardly on the rack. She could feel it then, all eyes in the room locked onto her. She was dressed in an expertly cut black dress that fit her like a glove. Its mandarin collar plunged dramatically revealing her shapely collarbone and impressive cleavage. An expertly placed seam defined her waist, while the fine fabric hugged the graceful curve of her hips and showed just enough of her improbably long legs.

The black eyes of the dark beauty gleamed with an irresistible light. She needed these moths to come to her flame. Specifically, one moth in particular and he was standing across the room in front of his latest canvas.

Tobias Hartley was the new toast of the Seattle art scene. In his mid-thirties, he had a handsome, clean-cut face with the hint of laugh lines forming around his big green eyes. He was jovial and good-natured and was new enough to the world of fame that he hadn’t yet developed an insufferable ego. On this particular night he wore a sharp dark gray suit in the slim cut favored by the sartorially inclined. A skinny black silk tie and silver clip added polish; his thick blonde hair was artfully styled. So much better than the slovenly bohemians she’d been inveigling lately, he was decidedly more her type which made her job that much more pleasurable.

She crossed the gallery’s dark wood floor, a pathway opening up for her as she walked. He was at the far end where the white walls gave way to the exposed brick of the large back wall, always reserved for the show’s centerpiece.

This time it was a rectangular painting over six feet tall of a sumptuous, but fragile beauty. Her consumptive face was pale and luminous with vermillion lips, cheeks tinged with a deep blush, and dewy, orb-like eyes that seemed to beckon and repel simultaneously. She stood, clad in a column dress composed of a seemingly numberless array of golden peacock feathers with ruby red ocelli. Her arms were bent at the elbows in front of her body, the palms of her hands extended in a gesture fraught with supplication and desire. Indeed a feeling of ominous entreaty pervaded the work from the curl of her fingertips to the snaking tendrils of ebony hair that gradually faded into the surrounding darkness of the background.