There was no one in evidence, haughty or otherwise, when I entered The Artful Vision. But a bell tinkled over the door, so somebody was bound to appear pretty soon. While I waited I looked around at the smallish number of artworks on display — a dozen or so paintings, mostly oils and water-colors of various sizes and subject matters, a few ceramic jars and urns and some metal, stone, and marble sculptures on pedestals. The largest of the sculptures, free-standing, looked to my untrained eye like a go-cart that had hit a wall at forty miles an hour. A brass plate on its base said Divinity, which would be enough to scare hell out of you if you thought about it very long. The price, no doubt, would scare hell out of me immediately, though I didn’t need to worry about that; The Artful Vision’s artful vision was such that it did not insult its clientele by the gauche display of a price tag.
I was peering up at a ten-foot-wide canvas composed of asymmetrical triangles interspersed with blobs, smears, and streaks of off-yellow and pale green, trying to decide if I were just a lowbrow or if it really did look as though the artist had upchucked a plate of succotash, when the woman bustled into view from somewhere at the rear. She was in her forties, stylishly dressed and coiffed, wearing a bright professional smile and a hopeful glint in her eye. The smile slipped a little when she got a good look at me, but she didn’t lose it or shift it into a sneer; and the glint also stayed put. I could almost read her mind: I didn’t look like a patron of the arts, but you couldn’t always tell and I might just be one of those eccentric millionaires who take pride in dressing like the common man. You had to keep the faith, after all.
She said, “Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Ms. Weissman. That’s lovely, isn’t it?”
“What is? Oh, the painting.”
“Perrault’s most impressive work, a genuine triumph.”
“Very nice.” If you liked secondhand succotash.
“Does it interest you?”
“Actually, I’m not here as a prospective customer.”
Her smile slipped a little more at that, and all but vanished when I showed her the photostat of my investigator’s license and explained that I was trying to locate a missing woman who had once been a successful artist. The glint dulled and finally winked out. What replaced it was neither coldness nor aloofness, but a kind of resigned neutrality. The kind that permits cooperation, but only up to a point.
“If I can help,” she said. “The woman’s name?”
“Janice Durian Erskine.” I let her have the now well-thumbed set of four photos. “The first two are of her, the last two of her work.”
“Her face isn’t familiar.” Then Ms. Weissman frowned and said, “Erskine, did you say?”
“Janice Durian Erskine.”
“You know, that name is familiar...” She shuffled the snaps and studied the likenesses of the old church and the wrinkled Native American patriarch. “Of course. Silver, black, and white. Southwestern subjects. Janice Erskine.”
“You know her?”
“Not her, no. Her work.”
“From where?”
“The Salishan Gallery in Santa Fe. As it happens, I was employed there for several months before I moved to San Francisco.”
“When was that?”
“Almost two years ago. Twenty-two months, to be exact. I sold one of her paintings while I was at the Salishan — a small acrylic of an Indian pueblo in a rainstorm, if I remember correctly. She had such a wonderfully original style. Utter absence of color, you know, in all of her work.”
“So I understand. Were you aware that she dropped out of sight about three years ago?”
“Well, yes, it seems to me I heard something about that. But I don’t recall the details.”
“They’re not important. What is important is that her former husband is eager to locate her because of their young son. The boy is gravely ill.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. But I really haven’t any idea where she is now.”
“There’s a chance it may be the Bay Area, which is why I was hired. Tell me this, Ms. Weissman. Have you seen any of her work since you’ve been out here?”
“Her oils and acrylics? No. No, the only place I’ve ever seen them is at the Salishan.”
The way she phrased that, the question and her inflection, prompted me to ask, “If not oils and acrylics, some other kind of painting that might be hers? Or one that reminded you of her work?”
“Well... yes, as a matter of fact. But not a painting. Not art at all, really.”
“What, then?”
“A wine label.”
“...You said wine label?”
“That’s correct. I know it sounds odd, but my husband and I were at a dinner party several weeks ago and one of the premium wines the hostess served... well, the style of the label reminded me of Janice Erskine’s work. At the time, and even more so now that I’ve looked at these photos.”
“A strong similarity?”
“Yes and no. The label was done in silver, black, and white, with lines and angles sharply defined, as in her oils and acrylics. But there was color in the design as well as in the lettering. Vivid blues and greens.”
“Even so, in your judgment it could’ve been done by Janice Erskine. Is that right?”
“I won’t swear to it, of course, but yes... yes, it could have been.”
“What was the name of the winery?”
“Oh, Lord, I don’t remember.”
“Please try, Ms. Weissman.”
She tried. And, “I’m sorry, I simply can’t remember. Wines... well, I don’t know much about them, I’m afraid. All I can tell you is that it was local.”
“Local? You mean a California wine?”
“Yes. Napa Valley? That may be it. The woman who hosted the dinner party makes a point of never serving any but local wines. Nothing foreign, you know.”
“Would you mind calling her, asking if she can identify the winery?”
She said she wouldn’t mind but she couldn’t; the woman and her husband were away on a Caribbean cruise.
Minor setback. I thanked her for her help and went out with more energy than I’d had when I walked in.
One of the city’s oldest and most exclusive wine shops, the kind that doesn’t just sell vineyard produce but offers such other services to the connoisseur as cellar appraisals and wine storage, was a few blocks from The Artful Vision on Sutter Street. A white-haired clerk who might have been a retired sommelier listened to my general description of the label in question, nodded his head judicially, and said, “Silver Creek Cellars. Quite a striking label. Several of our customers have commented on it.”
“ ‘Silver Creek Cellars’. That’s the name of the winery?”
“Yes. Rather new, three years or so, but already beginning to make a name for itself.”
“Napa Valley?”
“No, no. Alexander Valley. Their estate-bottled cabernet sauvignon and zinfandel are excellent, as robust as any premium reds from that region. The ‘94 cab should be superb when it fully matures in six to eight years. Aged thirty months in sixty-gallon French oak barrels. Elegant balance, and firm tannic structures in perfect counterpoint to the richness of the oak. The ‘95 century vines zinfandel is quite good and moderately priced, if that is a consideration.” His tone indicated he thought it might well be in my case. “The zin was Gourmet Magazine’s pick-of-the-month not long ago. Supple, texturally distinctive, assertive.”