Find Me Alastar

“Yes,” he replies in a toffee voice. “Excellent service.”

I smile in relief. I can imagine I’m going to come across real whiners doing this.

“I see that you bought the two paintings and the sculpture?”

“That’s right.” “I was wondering if it would be okay if we came out to do a small interview with you

and take some photos of the art.”

He hesitates. “What for?”

Oh shit, I’m losing him. “We are putting together a book of our happy clients and I thought you may be

interested in participating.” I screw up my face. Shit, please say yes. I need to get this stuff right for Mark.

He stays silent as he thinks. “You can come out and take the photos, although I only have two of the

pieces now.”

“Oh, you sold one?” I ask.

“No. One of the paintings was stolen from my house three nights after I brought it home.”

“Oh no, how terrible,” I gasp. “Which one?”

“It was called…” He thinks. “It was titled My Love. It was an oil painting of a woman.” I scribble theNôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

name down into my diary. “I’m sorry to hear that got taken from you., Are you sure it’s alright if I arrange

a photographer to come and see the other two pieces.” “Of course.”

I smile gratefully. “I will come, too, if that’s okay? It would be lovely to meet you in person.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Bye, Mr. Anslow.”

“Goodbye Dear.”

I hang the phone up excitedly. That wasn’t too hard. I think I can do this job. I write down his notes

and fill out a job card for the photographer and move onto the next customer on my list.

I frown at the notepad on my desk as I add the sixteenth name to the stolen art piece list. What the hell is

going on? It’s Thursday, I have been ringing clients all day, and I have noticed a disturbing trend. Sixteen

of our clients have had artwork stolen from their homes in the first week after the auction. Sixteen of those

drawings and paintings were of naked women, all ranging from last century back to several centuries

prior to that. Sixteen of those people all had their homes broken into and reported it to the police, yet none

of them reported it back to us? What does this mean? I tap my pen on my desk as I think. Should I take this

to management? My eyes flick around at the people busy working around me. Are any of them criminals,

scamming people and stealing the art back just to resell it and make more money? My eyes widen. What if

management is doing this? Is this an inside job?

I pack my folder of clients up and turn off my computer. I will think on it over the weekend. I’m really

not sure what to make of this, and the fact that I haven’t even been here for a week yet may make me look

like a drama queen if I bring it up this early.

For once, I am going to really think this one through before I jump to conclusions.

Alastar.

My eyes scan the travel catalogues as I sip my beer. We are at the pub and it’s a normal, noisy

Friday night.

Thomas, my brother, is trying to convince me to go to Canada and the US for an extended

holiday. He points to the highway on the map. “And then we could finish in Vegas,” he murmurs

around his burger.

“Hmm.” I sigh, not convinced that running away is the answer.

He looks at me without expression. “You have done what you said you were going to do.” I nod

as my eyes drop to the floor.

“Now let’s leave before you do something you know you’ll regret.”

“I’ve got two more paintings to get.”

He rolls his eyes in disgust. “Fuck the paintings. It isn’t worth it, Star. What if you get caught?”

I glare at him. “It isn’t worth it to you. It is important to me.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t get the ring. We need to get out of here and you damn well

know it. You are going to fuck up this whole plan.”

My elbows rest on the table and I rub my face in my hands. I retrieve the brochure and flick

through it again. Maybe he’s right.

“Who is paying for this trip?” I sigh.

“You, of course.”

I roll my eyes.