The Gallery Assistant: A Novel - Hardcover

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Kate Belli is the author of The Gallery Assistant and the widely praised Gilded Gotham historical mystery series. She holds a doctorate in art history and has variously worked as an antiques appraiser, a museum curator, and a college professor. Kate is currently a gallery director at a Pennsylvania college. Find out more at KateBelli.com.

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Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Mid-November, 2001

How did I get home last night?

The thought hit, abrupt and bracing, along with the near-firehose pressure stream of scalding water from the showerhead above. I jumped out of the way, reaching to adjust the temperature, though it didn’t do much good. The pipes were as old as the rest of the building, and finicky; the water was either near boiling or icy cold.

I managed to find a tolerable warmth and quickly scrubbed myself, trying to avoid the messy mound of hair piled on the top of my head. I was already so late for work, there was no time to wash and dry it, and it was too cold out to let it air-dry. The foul scent of cigarette smoke mixed with the steam from the shower, intensifying it. Funny how I loved the taste of cigarettes so much, but the later smell on my clothes and in my hair was disgusting.

How did I get home?

I paused, taking an extra moment I didn’t have to let the water blast my shoulders, and gingerly pressed my lips with damp fingertips.

They stung slightly.

The rest of me seemed fine, other than the usual symptoms of a raging hangover. My stomach roiled slightly at every movement and my head pounded in a steady, sickening rhythm.

I placed my hands against the slick tile wall and rested my forehead between them for a beat, mentally scanning the rest of my body, feeling if the water stung anywhere in particular, if I had any unusual aches or pains.

Nothing.

“Chloe.”

I started at the unexpected voice, then poked my head out from the shower curtain. My roommate, Vik, was barely visible in the steam, but I could still make out his frown.

“You said to make sure you were out after five minutes. It’s been seven.” He took a deep drink from the chipped “I HEART NY” mug we fought over. “It’s already nine o’clock.”

“Is that coffee?” I was pretty sure it wasn’t, but hope sprung eternal.

“Chai. You were going to get coffee yesterday, remember? You forgot, I guess.”

Right. I had planned to pick up a can of Bustelo after work on my way to Inga’s party but had stopped at Rosemary’s Tavern for a beer instead. One beer had turned into a few, and I’d wound up arriving at the party close to ten. An image emerged: Vik with his arm slung around Ben in a haze of smoke, his head thrown back and laughing.

Poof. There and gone.

“How late did we stay? I can’t remember.” I injected a little laugh into the question. Silly Chloe, drank so much she can’t remember getting home!

I turned the water off and stuck my arm around the curtain.

I waited for a response, which was slow in coming.

A towel arrived before an answer.

“Benny and I left around one,” he said cautiously. Ben was Vik’s boyfriend. I dried myself with the towel. It was one of a set of two I’d had since my freshman year of college, a pale-green-and-white-striped Laura Ashley that was pretty threadbare now.

“I don’t know what time you got back,” Vik continued.

“Well, I made it home somehow.” I infused as much nonchalance into the statement as I could. Vik stepped out of the bathroom as I swept the curtain back, towel wrapped around me. He stayed in the hallway, sipping his chai and studying me over the rim of the mug. “What is it?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. You’re going to be so late.”

“The price we pay,” I said. “What a party, huh?”

“Yeah, what a party. You were getting awfully friendly with some guy when we left,” he said with a shrug. I froze for a second, then reached for my body lotion. “We offered you a ride, but you didn’t want to leave. I don’t blame you; he was cute.”

Some guy? What guy?

I tried to remember but came up blank. I’d woken up naked, but that was indicative of nothing. I usually slept naked.

“Is Benny still here?”

“He’s been at work for an hour already. Okay, it’s 9:10 now.” Vik turned, businesslike, toward the kitchen. “Want some chai?”

“Nope. Thanks, though.” The smell of the spices coming from Vik’s mug was making my stomach turn even more. What I really needed was a giant, icy fountain Coke and a greasy bodega egg sandwich. I headed off to get dressed, lotion in hand, and tried to calculate if I’d have enough time to pick up breakfast. It wasn’t looking good.

I closed the door and paused, surveying my room. Everything seemed in its usual place: The salvaged kitchen chair piled high with clothes, the old dining table I’d borrowed from an ex and never given back that I used as a desk. My ancient Mac sat atop it, surrounded by coffee cups rimmed with dried residue, prompting the immediate thought, I need to soak those, even though I knew I wouldn’t. My bed was so rumpled it was impossible to tell if I’d had a guest or not. Our tabby, Groucho, was curled up in the middle of it, right in the warm spot where my sleeping body had been less than thirty minutes ago. The stack of books off to the side wasn’t disturbed, nor was my dresser top full of knickknacks: The fading half stubs of concert tickets, one rainbow-striped glove missing its mate, the bottle of Chanel No. 5 I hoarded and only wore on special occasions.

Nothing was different from the day before.

So why did everything feel off?

I pushed open the cheap folding closet door. Shoved in the back behind a tangle of summer shoes, I could just make out one corner of the blue-gray archival box. It looked undisturbed, resting, as always, under a wrinkled plastic bag containing what had once been my best dress.

I swallowed hard and pulled the towel tighter around myself.

“Nine-sixteen.” Vik’s voice floated through the door, full of disapproval.

Shit.

I dropped my towel to the floor and rummaged through the clothes pile on the chair until I found a dark denim skirt and a red, collared jersey top that didn’t reek too badly of a bar and wasn’t coated in cat hair. The top was a little more fitted than I liked to wear to work—I’d developed a decent-sized bust good and early and had been self-conscious of it since middle school—but beggars couldn’t be choosers. I pulled them on, unwound my hair from its knot, and spritzed it with a spray that was supposed to neutralize the smoke scent. It did a decent job, though I kind of smelled like a car air freshener. I shoved aside the mystery of how I got home as I lost myself in the minutiae of getting out the door: quick tooth brush, bag, boots, coat.

Four blocks later, I stopped to take one more drag and then stomped out my half-finished cigarette before entering the subway. The cigarette had calmed my stomach a little but my head was still pounding, desperate for caffeine. The whole world seemed muted today. The sky was a heavy, leaden gray, the sort that threatened sleet. The buildings that lined Bedford Avenue were shades of tan and light ochre, washed out and dull. I closed my eyes, steeling myself for the onslaught of noise and smells and motion that awaited me down the subway steps.

“Chloe.”

I turned, opening my eyes and blowing the smoke from my...