Free Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) by Larissa Reinhart Page B

day-glow puff paint. An oversized neon paintbrush, of course. My wispy, blond hair never had a day of good behavior in my life. Luckily, my dress distracted her attention from my hair.
    “I’m Cherry Tucker, the portrait artist, come to see Mr. Agadzinoff.” I held out a hand she shook with an alarmingly strong grip. I pulled my hand away and slipped it behind my back to wiggle the blood back into my digits.
    “Come,” she said and held the door open wide.
    I entered into a parquet foyer with a blend of wood forming a giant script A in the middle of the floor. Whereas Max’s foyer glittered with sunlight and marble, Agadzinoff’s was a study of mahogany and teak.
    I slid my portfolio case off my back and into my hand, afraid a sudden swing would knock over the fancy vases filled with professional arrangements.
    A wide staircase of more polished wood anchored one end of the foyer. On the staircase landing, an older, balding man with a heavy, dark mustache paused his descent to wave at me. For his casual Wednesday, he wore khakis and a polo with an oversized insignia on his left breast. Perhaps so the nearsighted could easily calculate the cost of his wardrobe.
    “Miss Cherry Tucker,” he called. “I am Rupert Agadzinoff. Please call me Rupert.”
    “Hey Rupert,” I slipped past Miss Monochrome to the staircase. “Nice to meet you. Beautiful digs you’ve got here.”
    “Thank you.” Rupert stopped on the last stair, making me look up to eyeball him. His brown eyes lighted on my puffy paintbrush. “Ha, ha. You with the sense of humor.”
    As I did not intend my contract dress to be humorous, I ignored my hurt feelings and braved my best customer service smile. “I brought my portfolio.”
    “First, let me show you my recent acquisition.” He snapped his fingers. “Miss David.”
    At the snap, Miss David whipped her chromatic self to a set of gilded French doors to the left side of the foyer. She opened the door and held it with her back. I followed, careful with my portfolio case, and wondered how much Miss David was paid to answer to snaps.
    As I reached the entrance, our blue eyes met. No friendly, woman-to-woman, “hey, my boss may snap at me, but you’ll do fine” passed between us. In fact, her look said, “I can disembowel you with a bobby pin.” I fought off a shiver and scooted through the door, then stumble-halted in the entrance.
    I had thought no one could surpass Max Avtaikin’s love for red and gold accents, but I was sincerely mistaken. This sitting room’s decorator had harbored murderous intent by way of stroke-inducing design and color choice.
    The blood red walls sported gold molding of every kind, from rosettes to panel molding, chair rails to crown. Delicate Louis XIV furniture in more gilt and red sat in clusters on a richly vibrant oriental rug. Several gold chandeliers and electric candelabras as well as gilt angels and cupids completed the look. A Victorian-Baroque decorating mashup.
    My classical triptych had been hung on the wall directly opposite the tall southern exposure windows, shedding angled light over the three paintings.
    “You put my Greek Todds in here?” The words left my mouth before I could soften them. “I mean, that sunlight is going to fade those paintings. You’ve hung the bare canvas. You need to put them under glass to preserve them.”
    I glanced around the room again and received a Tilt-A-Whirl feeling for my effort. My poor Greek Todd s. This was the problem of visiting the resting place of your creative ingenuity. Sometimes it was better not to know. “I’m sure you’ve got some ornate gold frames laying around this house somewhere. Stick the paintings in those and they’ll match the rest of the decor.”
    “I see,” said Rupert, striding into the room. His white polo glowed amongst the violent reds. “Miss David, take care of this problem.”
    Miss David’s thick lashes flashed in compliance and she exited the room on long, nimble legs. A