97. Interview with Felicia Veicht: Part 3

25 June 2011

– Fine for the most part. Catherine is an amazing woman, love to have around the gallery. Always so polite, and she genuinely adores the offerings. Honestly, she reminds me so much of myself at her age.

– But the moment she began running around with Les Palmer, I began having this inkling of a feeling—this little pinprick of a thought in my head—that there were things going on that were being kept from me. Things that could affect how I perceived my niece and Mr. Palmer and his beautiful art. And you know my policy on secrets.

– One particular incident comes to mind. About a week before the night of Les Palmer’s showing, I began to notice a peculiar occurrence. Every day, around noon, I’d glance outside the gallery and, standing across the street, right there [Ms. Veicht turns and nods towards the large window behind her desk, where tourists are walking by in scattered groups] would be a man just standing there. He wore sunglasses, very large sunglasses, and a hat, jeans and a jacket. Every time I saw him, he wore that same outit.

– At first he wasn’t a bit suspicious. We’re located in the center of a premier art district; the crowd is constant during the daytime. But most people glance in the many shop windows and keep moving. All except this man. After a while it became a bit more noticeable due to his static stance across the street and his ridiculous outfit. The entire getup stood out, not just his unusually large sunglasses. The oddest things about him, by far, were the jacket and cap. He wore the same brown sports jacket and New York Yankee’s cap everyday for the period of time that I saw him out there. An outfit such as that in ninety degree weather would make anybody quite conspicuous.

– No. No clue.

– Almost a week. After the third time I saw him, I began to wonder if he was maybe scoping out the gallery. As in, maybe he was planning a theft.

– So one day—the day before Les’s showing actually—I went outside to speak with him, or at least get a closer look at his face. I thought, hopefully, if I spoke to him I could scare him enough to get him off the thought of robbing my gallery.

– I was crossing the street, staring right at him, when a car passed in front of my view and then he was gone. Just disappeared. Never saw him again.

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