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Shock Point and other books by April Henry are available via the following vendors or your favorite local independent bookseller.
home > books > circles of confusion > chapter oneCIRCLES OF CONFUSION CHAPTER ONE
ew York City, New York, October 3, 1997
Dante Bonner grinned a little in satisfaction as he contemplated the portrait on the easel in front of him. Golden light, curly beard, the left side of the face in shadow. He set down his delicate paintbrush, stood back and looked at the painting critically, one eye half-closed. No one could ever doubt that Rembrandt's hand had painted those lines, that the great master himself had laid those bold brushstrokes. He snapped off the magnifying light and went to lunch.Buenos Aires, Argentina, October 3, 1997 Rudy Miller found the one-inch article buried on the last page of local news, just before the want ads began.
Local Woman Found Dead
September 30 (White City)—Cady Montrose, 80, was found dead in her home in the Tarrymore Trailer Park on Tuesday. Neighbors said they had not seen the woman for several weeks. Ms. Montrose, who never married, retired from the head teller position at the Jackson County Federal Bank in the early 1980s. During World War II, she served as a clerk in the Women's Army Corps, and was stationed in Germany after the war in Europe ended. No funeral is planned.Rudy closed the paper with a satisfied snap. It hadn't been cheap, having the Medford Mail Tribune delivered to Argentina. But as usual, his forethought had been rewarded. If his grandfather and namesake had only put as much care into what he had done, Rudy would never have been forced to go to these ridiculous lengths. He pulled a cellular phone from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and tapped out a number.
“Tell Karl I have a job for him.”
New York City, New York, October 3, 1997
Troy Nowell placed the picture, encircled by a golden frame, on a velvet-covered easel. Fifi regarded the painting with the perpetually surprised look of a too-taut facelift. Her real name was Margeret Montgomery, but Troy privately thought of all well-dressed Park Avenue women as Fifis.“It's beautiful,” he said. “And very rare. No other Pieruccini angel displays such joy at seeing the Christ child.” And until recently, neither had this particular angel, who had actually begun existence as a dour-looking saint. It had been John who had suggested that the addition of a joyful expression and some gold-leaf wings would make this painting fly right out the door.
“That hair. It's the exact same color as my Toby's.”
“Toby?” Troy inquired politely.
“My apricot AKC-registered teacup poodle. He is everything to me. Everything.”
Troy nodded his appreciation of this completely unforeseen selling point. Then, with a few carefully chosen words of praise, he began to reel her in. If he applied just the right amount of pressure, Fifi would prod her husband, a man who had made millions selling low-flow toilets, into buying this painting of a rather insipid-looking angel, his hair not blond exactly, but instead a pale shade of red.
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