If It Bleeds by Linda L. Richards

different way.
    When I was a kid, I used to wish that Granny’s talent or gift would somehow rub off on me. But though I gave it serious thought and even a bit of practice, none of Granny Auden’s witchiness was ever mine. I was ordinary. Average even then.
    My mother though. That was a different story. She was not wildly psychic. Mom’s was a more gentle gift. She got feelings. Hunches. Like just now, when she’d looked into my eyes and told me to be careful. It wasn’t like the warning another mother might give—a general warning against life’s hidden dangers. Experience told me it was best to pay attention.
    I found myself heading for the gallery. It was unlikely I’d find anything there, but I needed a starting point. And I couldn’t think of a better place than at the beginning.
    When he saw me, Sam’s face lit up. “Why, if it isn’t Nicole at Night! In the day, no less.” He ushered me in. “What brings you to my humble place of business?”
    The gallery looked different in the daylight. Smaller, somehow, without a crush of people filling it. Steve Marsh’s show was still hung. As I looked around, I saw a lot of red dots.
    â€œEverything is sold?” I said.
    â€œIt’s sad, but yes, death will do that for an artist. The phone has been ringing off the hook all day. Suddenly everyone wants to get in.” His hands fluttered helplessly. “And in this case, even more so, I think. It was so… dramatic , wasn’t it? Him dying in the alley like that. It will be the talk of the town all month.”
    I made a mental note. As his dealer, Sam would have had something to gain from Marsh’s death. Something financial. I looked the small man over carefully and decided that as far as suspects went, Sam wasn’t much of one.
    â€œBut you haven’t told me,” he continued, “what brings you here today.”
    â€œI’m investigating the story,” I said, trying to convince even myself. “The story of Steve Marsh’s death.”
    â€œOh.” That hand again. “Oh, I see. I thought…that is to say…”
    â€œYou thought I only did the society pages.”
    â€œWell, I guess. But also, a reporter from your paper was here first thing this morning. He gave me the impression he was covering the story.”
    â€œWe both kind of are.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, yet it was. I was covering the story. Brent just didn’t know it yet. Nor did the city editor. But don’t bother me with details. “We have…different perspectives.”
    I could see that Sam bought this. The inner workings of a newspaper are mysterious enough to most people that I didn’t expect a lot of questions.
    â€œIn that case, I’ll do everything I can to help. Of course. Steve Marsh was a very special client of mine. I just don’t know what I can tell you that I didn’t already tell Mr. Hartigan.”
    â€œThat’s okay. You can tell me the same stuff you told him. Sometimes, in the retelling, new details come to light. You said Steve was a special client. Let’s start with that.”
    â€œWell, I discovered him.” Sam thought for a second before continuing. “That’s saying too much. He’d been painting for years before he tried to get representation. But when he showed me his work”—Sam put a hand to his collarbone, made that fluttering motion—“I just swooned .” He led me over to the largest painting in the gallery. It was hung right in the center of the big space, on a wall suspended from the ceiling. Even last night, amid the crowd, I’d noticed both the piece and the pride of place.
    The painting was huge. The background was bold, all angry reds and glaring greens. Slightly to the left of center was a young man, painted as though by a classical master. Dressed in torn jeans, a bandanna wrapped around his head. Unposed. He