“There’s a leak. Maybe more than one. There are people who seem to know my every move in this matter even before I do. I think they’re getting intel from someone within your building.”
Perrin suddenly stopped walking and leaned back against the wall of the corridor. Her head was bent toward the floor, so I couldn’t see her face, but the sound of her voice told me what I could easily have guessed—this had not been the best week of her life, and it was probably going to get worse.
“I no longer trust the people around me,” she said.
“I can appreciate that. You look up sometimes and discover that life has you surrounded and there’s no way out unless you’re willing to accept casualties.”
Perrin snickered at that. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah. That’s one way of looking at it. McKenzie, I haven’t thanked you for changing your mind about the Lily.”
“Yes, you did.”
Perrin shook her head. “All of my life I wanted to do this, run a truly great art museum,” she said. “City of Lakes isn’t great. Not yet. If you take a small, unknown museum and make it a bigger, better-known museum, though, the biggest, best-known museums take notice and … You know how it works.”
“Sure.”
“I have a master’s degree in art history. I have a bachelor’s degree in museum studies. I’ve studied marketing, public relations, fund-raising, and business administration to get here. I have over a hundred and thirty thousand dollars in student loans to pay off. I don’t care. I make only twelve hundred a week. I don’t care. I don’t care because I love being here. It’s the best job—do you know that the average museum director lasts only four years? The pressure from boards of directors, constant fund-raising, and the demands on their personal life eat them alive. Yet it’s just the opposite with me. I thrive on this. The Derek Andersons of the world, those pompous, self-aggrandizing men who spend the money and put in the time so they can be seen, so they can pretend they’re important, I can play them like a flute. Unfortunately, if the Lily isn’t returned…”
“The theft isn’t your fault.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Fiegen doesn’t see it that way.”
“He seems like a reasonable man.”
Perrin shook her head again. “Fiegen’s not in it for the attention. He’s not pretending to be anything other than what he is. He genuinely wants to build a museum that’s equal to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, that’s equal to the Walker, that’s equal to the Art Institute of Chicago. If he thinks I’m not the woman for the job … You know what my greatest fear is, McKenzie? What keeps me awake at night? That one day I’ll end up being just another art major making mochas in a coffeehouse.”
It was at that moment that I made a somewhat impulsive decision. I decided I liked Perrin, all two hundred pounds of her.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll get it back.”
Perrin smiled. “Please,” she said.
Perrin escorted me through an unmarked door into a storage room the size of a high school cafeteria. It, too, was very brightly lit and consisted of many tables, shelves, racks, and drawers filled with works of art—paintings, sculptures, even furniture—that, for some reason, were not exhibited to the public. There was a woman sitting at a workstation and examining a spinach green brooch through a mounted magnifying glass. She smiled when she saw us coming and stood up. At a distance she looked like the standard movie cliché—the sexy female scientist hiding her beauty behind a white lab coat, black-rimmed glasses, and hair that was worn in a ponytail. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that she needed the glasses, her hair was pulled back because she didn’t have time to wash it that morning, and the lab coat hid a body that looked like it hadn’t consumed a carbohydrate in months. Oh, well.
She and Perrin hugged in a way that was meant to give comfort and not just say hello. While Perrin was large, tall, and fair-skinned, the other woman was thin and short, with a dark complexion. When they hugged they reminded me of a female version of Laurel and Hardy.
“You look like hell, Stewart,” the woman said.
In that moment I knew they were the best of friends, because instead of being insulted, Perrin said, “I feel like hell.”
“Did you get any sleep at all?”
“Not much.”
Perrin directed her friend’s attention toward me.
“This is McKenzie,” she said. “McKenzie, India Cooper.”
We shook hands, and Perrin said, “Cooper is the curator in charge of our Asian Art Collection.”
“Stewart is right,” India said. “You are cute.”
I glanced at Perrin, who quickly turned a light shade of red. She closed her eyes, and I thought I heard her whisper, “C’mon, Cooper, not today.”