“The day slipped slowly by-in a soothing kind of way. She missed her bus to Porter and Helms Way on the route home: But it was Friday and there was no particular hurry to get back.
Shifting sideways on the bus bench, curling her knees up to her chest, she settled into the wood slats-still warm from the afternoon sun. The next ride would be along in a half an hour, so there was enough time to finish the chapter.
She pulled the half read book from her bag. Thumbing for the dog-eared page where she left off – she was drawn in once more.
“The gallery halls were painfully bright red, giving bold reverence to the articulate gold-framed art that adorned the spacious rooms.
He knew the Scottish National by heart. As a former employee of the Edinburg Gallery, Mark Branson was a highly respected appraiser of Renaissance and International Art. He stood quietly analyzing a brilliant depiction of Mrs. Moncrieff by Sir Henry Raeburn; which bore an extreme likeness to his own present business partner.
A shadow on the wall in front of him dimmed the painting, and he turned to watch her walk through the open doorway. Her full hips swayed with the shifting breeze like a slow samba. She approached him slowly as if a stranger. “An uncanny resemblance, don’t you think?” She whispered. He glanced at her profile next to his and gave a slight wink. “You have it!” Her excitable whisper turned into a somber tone. “You have the original?” “The heist went better than planned. I had two minutes left to replace it with this one.” He gave a slight nod at the portrait. “What do you have?” She asked him anxiously. “A Renoir, Vermeer, Monet and this one.” “Mark, you are brilliant, darling! What were you this time?” Burying his hand deeper in his pockets, he replied. “Cops investigating a disturbance.” She glanced around, noticing a security guard by the door. “So, the fire at midnight was your decoy?” He nodded.
“Excuse me Sir.” A deep voice approached. “You look familiar…have we met?””
Brakes shrieked, inching to a stop in front of her. She sat up, flipping her feet to the ground.”
~ Joann J Clark