Tumbling Blocks Read Free Page B

Kathryn even more suspicious of the woman her only son had married.
    “It’s very odd,” Elvia said. “Aren’t Boston terriers called America’s gentlemen?”
    “Yes, they are known for being easygoing and loving. I think Daphne needs some queen-size Prozac pills.”
    “Or you will, if Kathryn brings her,” Elvia said, laughing.
    I was happy to see my small-fry troubles had made my friend temporarily forget her hormonally induced emotions. “My family doctor is on speed dial. How’re things looking at the bookstore?” Elvia owned Blind Harry’s Bookstore, the last independent bookstore between Santa Barbara and San Francisco.
    She picked up a square black leather briefcase. “It looks like it’s going to be a good holiday season. Sales are up from this time last year.”
    “Did my shipment of outsider art books come in yet?” I asked.
    Elvia had ordered some books for the museum’s two gift shops. One was located in the museum’s small lobby and the other, our new shop, called Local Hands, was downtown on Lopez Street, not far from Blind Harry’s. A special exhibit of California outsider art was opening this Wednesday at the museum. I always liked stocking a few books on whatever folk art we were highlighting at the museum.
    “Yes, you can pick them up today. Did the Finch painting finally arrive?”
    The star of our California Outsider Art exhibit was an original painting donated by a popular, fairly new member of San Celina society, Nola Maxwell Finch. She was the great-niece of the famous and reclusive Nevada outsider artist, Abe Adam Finch, whose arresting and original paintings captivated the art scene ten years ago. Some of his original paintings now sold for close to thirty thousand dollars.
    “I signed for it this morning,” I said, sitting down on a silk-covered dressing stool and retying the laces of my New Balance tennis shoes. No flat-heeled Justin boots for me today. I had a dozen places to go in less than eight hours, and my arches would need some major support. “It’s incredible. The details are amazing.”
    The painting, called Abraham’s Tree of Life Equal and Everlasting Amen , was an eleven-by-fourteen depiction of a fantasy tree, part oak, part pine. It had the thick, swirly trunk of an oak and dark green leaves that appeared to have pine needles poking out from them. A riotous combination of unlikely fruits, birds and animals lived in the tree—zebras, dogs, cats, rabbits, moles, bears, blue jays, magpies—animals and birds from all over the world and some, it appeared, not even of this planet. The colors were both bold and muted, the background a soft golden glow, like the sun setting or rising. It was an odd combination of naive and sophisticated, which made the viewer wonder about the artist. Was he a visionary, a true genius, or was this the art of the insane? So little was known about Abe Adam Finch that it was speculated that he was a painting savant, locked away somewhere painting his colorful, haunting paintings that were promoted tirelessly by his great-niece, Nola Finch. He was not represented by any art gallery, something Nola said he insisted on, which only added to the speculation of who he was. His signature was small, almost childlike, printed as if with great care. All the letters were of the same small case size.
    “Right now,” I told Elvia, “it’s locked in my bedroom closet being watched over by the best four-legged security system in San Celina. But Gabe’s probably picked it up by now. We’ll keep it in his office until D-Daddy checks the museum’s security system one more time.”
    “Is Scout feeling better?” she asked, snapping her purse closed.
    I followed her out the bedroom door and down the long staircase. My chocolate-colored, half-Lab, half-German shepherd dog had jumped a little too enthusiastically for a Frisbee last week at the dog park. “The vet said it was just a strain. No rough play for a couple of weeks and some