Chapter 7Alexander Bencliffe, Jr., looked down at the two young curators with cool arrogance from the security of a massive gilt frame. Tall and trim, in evening dress, his still-handsome face and high forehead showed lines of age—or weariness. The full dark hair on top of his head contrasted with the silver at his temples, and in his closely trimmed beard and mustache.
To Alex, the dark eyes, large and limpid as rendered by Sargent’s hand, glimmered eerily, as if with unshed tears. His left elbow was akimbo, the long-fingered hand posed jauntily on his hip. The fingertips of his right hand rested lightly on the surface of a shiny table, and next to it, partly cut off by the picture frame, sat a low silver bowl resting on a flat dish.
“Holy crap,” whispered Xander.
“Yeah,” echoed Alex.
