Setting the stage, as the stage must be set – it was a winter evening. Blissfully quiet in the studio, the Fluff was elsewhere doing whatever a person like her does with her non-working time. (Despite the myth, the Fluff and I do not spend all our time together. Only the occasional case and a few “P.I. BYO Sidekick” conventions bring us together. She’s all about red after all, and I’m more into your cool colors.) I was gazing at the winter stars, noticing the way they wink at you like sparks off an angle grinder, when the dog started yelling “intruder alert.” With my dog, that could mean anything from imminent home invasion to the dreaded squirrel disaster he seemed created to prevent. His 19 hollering pounds of terrierage were all steamed up, so I took a peek out the door. In the darkness I could barely make out the silhouette of some guy faintly reminiscent of a Muppet. It was the beret he was wearing that convinced me it was safe to call him out of the shadows. (No self-respecting thug wears a beret. After all, prison time begun in French millinery can’t be pleasant.)

 

He was dressed head to pied in black, the dress uniform of a self-proclaimed “damn good” artist. In this business I see two types: those who need constant affirmation and those I call “Ego-Run-Amucks.” The ensemble, cocky smirk and fear of my dog, all gave his status away. Good dogs and big egos just don’t mix.

 

I coaxed him in, got his inevitable card and found out who’d sent him. A few cold stares at my carving in progress and after what seemed like hours of showing me his portfolio, he finally got down to why he needed to visit the Trix in the middle of the night. Seems that he had a case that needed solving but didn’t want anyone to know he needed help. As “gifted” as he was, even after dropping his prices, he still wasn’t selling. He knew it had to be “stupid Seattle buyers,” but before he moved the family to Wichita where “they really appreciated good art” his wife begged him to give the Trix a go. With a promise from me to visit his studio the next day, he left to lint roll the dog hair off his being.

 

At 0800 sharp the Fluff and her hot red car were at my door ready to roll on our new case. We pulled up to his studio an hour later. The “creative center” was far better than the house, so I could see why he was desperate to make a few sales and justify its opulence. Today he was a vision in beige, sporting a straw fedora. With Pollack-like flourish he flung open the door. Hundreds of sculptures stood waiting. This gig was suddenly as overwhelming as tackling an 800-pound piece of marble with only a bush hammer. I really needed to look at some of his work unobserved, so I told the Fluff that the guy had a problem and could she handle it? It always worked. You see, she’d hark back to her proctology days and suggest the guy drop his pants so she could take a look. It never failed to buy me five good minutes no matter what the guy’s reaction was. React they would.

 

With them engaged, I began my quest. He really wasn’t bad and was very versatile. The pieces all had one thing in common though, their bases. Most had flat bottoms and he chose to mount many of them on flat surfaces. It worked for his style, so what was the problem? Why was it bothering me?

 

At that moment the Fluff smacked the guy, sending his hat flying onto the light switch. With the overheads doused, the only light was sun streaming in from a back window. That’s when I saw it. Spots of light beaming out between the sculpture and their bases. Another case of lousy bottoms. He was tall, see, and looking down, never noticed that he’d been sloppy with the way his work rested. He never noticed that the eye went directly to the problem not the design. A few were so bad they were unstable. He was so smitten with his art he completely forgot his craft.