Retribution by Elizabeth Forrest

wind off the ocean carried a chill touch to it, and he faced into it with enjoyment. Someone had mowed the grounds in diamond patterns, the grass as thick and lush as a baseball park or golf course. The actual mansion was much farther up the hill, almost completely hidden by huge trees which had probably stood there even before the hundred-and-some-year-old house had been built by one of those sailing merchants who had harbored at Dana Point.

    The gallery, set just inside the sweeping driveway and gates, had probably been a carriage house and stables once, converted several times over to other structures, and it now looked as if it had never been anything else than what it was that evening: a wood-and-glass gallery poised among the pepper trees. John found a side entrance open and took it, while cars still edged forward slowly onto the grounds, being parked in the lot behind the gallery and, in some cases, along the long circular drive and back down again. He wondered if the lower lawns would be utilized as well before the evening was out. The upper lawns between the gallery and mansion were filled with three large white tents, and he could hear music already.

    John put his hand to his pocket to check his ticket. The $100 donation entitled him to a buffet dinner, two champagne or wine drinks, unlimited soft drinks, and an invitation to bid at the silent auction. Everything else would no doubt be an additional charge. The ticket also listed several nonprofit organizations to be benefited, most of them art community oriented, several of them children's art projects. He slipped it back in the breast pocket of the tux. One of the parking valets eyed him as he sauntered along the driveway, then lifted an eyebrow and turned away to accept the keys to a white BMW.

    As he neared the gallery, he could see the canvases on the walls and people milling around inside. Along the tents, there were a number of temporary peg-board walls set up, with numerous artworks hung from them. He wondered if this was an annual event and suspected it was, judging by the groups of people who greeted one another with familiarity. He sensed an ulterior motive in Julie's telling him about the event: Get him there to see the dog, and while he was there, perhaps a little elbow rubbing with the well-to-do might help with his networking skills. Surely among all these people, there would be one or two potential clients who needed to augment their security system with a well-trained animal. Or maybe it was just her way of pounding into his head again just how unsuccessful he was.

    He snagged a plastic champagne flute as he entered the gallery; no one asked him for a ticket as he joined the crowd inside. He saw a lot of seascapes, from one end of the California coast to the other, including two of the famous Laguna Beach cove, one of which he liked and one of which he didn't. A discreet look showed him that the one he liked was listed at $12,500 and the one he didn't at $27,000. He took a sip of his drink, found the champagne cold, dry, slightly sweet, and incredibly bubbly, and weighed the differences in his mind between the paintings. Finally, with a shrug, he left the gallery and meandered up the hill toward the tents and the open air art gathering which seemed a little less pretentious even if the attendees did not.

    The sea breeze was brisker out on the lawns, and the tents billowed a little, but their cloudlike enclosures seemed anchored securely to the dark green grass, and he wondered where the dog was and whether he would even be able to find him among the crowd.

    As he entered the first corridor of exhibits, a loud woof caught his attention, and he turned, looking uphill, to see the golden retriever not straining in his harness, but at full attention, his jaws agape in dog greeting, his tail bannering the air. John grinned in spite of himself, then followed the dog's body to the slim yet determined arm keeping him at bay, and saw… not a girl,