Okay, I'm sure many of you prefer being entertained to reading my thoughts so this week I'm putting up a piece of fiction and, as it's nearly Halloween, it has a loose connection with the season - enjoy.

Trick or Treat?

There was no getting away from it; Stu Evans was a mean man. Not physically mean, he didn’t physically hurt anyone, he was too chicken for that. He was tight-fisted mean. He wouldn’t spend a dime if a penny would do. He was also very wealthy. That was why, on Halloween, his long-suffering wife Margie expected a fight when she told him that she wanted to give candy away to the local kids.  

She didn’t get one. Stu merely grunted that he didn’t believe in Halloween and that the kids should be locked up for extortion. Margie was surprised at his reaction; she expected to hear far more venom. She asked him if he was okay but he just shrugged and said he was fine. He didn’t care what she did because he had a business meeting and would be out anyway.

What he neglected to say was his meeting involved a brief visit to an amateur art exhibition with his long-legged secretary followed by an intimate dinner for two. Stu was confident that he would not be back till morning but he did not tell Margie that.

When it came to art, Stuart knew what he was talking about. He owned his own gallery and had a reputation as a hard dealer who could spot new talent that others might miss. He never kept his artists long, he screwed too much out of them for them to stay, but he could find them.

Tonight’s soiree was put on by the instructor of a local night class and was being held in a couple of rooms adjacent to the town library. The moment he walked in Stuart’s heart sank. He had been hoping to find someone with a little promise here but one look around at the daubs adorning the walls showed him that these really were amateurs. Even the free glass of wine lacked any finesse and he wrinkled his nose in disgust after the first sip.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get out of here.’

‘Oh,’ Lynette, his secretary pouted. ‘Some of these look real pretty. Can’t I just have one tiny look around in case there’s something I like?’

Stuart grimaced, Lynette’s idea of ‘real pretty’ meant that he was expected to buy her some awful canvas that should be consigned to the garbage can. It would be a waste of money but one look at those sexy green eyes was enough to tell him that it was going to be worth every dime.

‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘But don’t expect me to come round with you, just pick the one you want and let’s get it over with.’ Lynette beamed and kissed his cheek.

‘Thanks, Stu,’ she said.

‘And take this crap with you,’ Stuart told her, handing her his glass of wine.

Lynette wandered off and after admiring the sway of her hips as she walked away, he turned back to the monstrosities hanging on the wall. They really were bad; some of the artists could barely draw. Shaking his head, he wandered into the second room and gave the paintings there a cursory glance. He was about to turn away and dismiss them when one caught his eye.

It was not a spectacular subject, just a country scene. It showed an old cabin with log walls and shingle roof sitting alongside a track lined by ancient oak trees. It was not even a very big picture but among such garbage, it shone out with a depth and vibrancy that grabbed his attention and held it.

Striding over Stu looked at it closely. The detail was amazing and just for a second he wondered if he was looking at a photograph, but then he saw the delicate brushwork. It was superb, worthy of any of the masters. The colours held a warmth and a depth that truly reflected nature. Stu knew instantly that he had found his next great talent.

Pinned alongside each painting was a small card bearing the title of the picture, the artist’s details and a price. This one was called ‘The Witch’s Place’. Instead of details though it just bore the name ‘Annie’ and a note saying that it was not for sale.

Stu grimaced. Most of the paintings were priced between fifty and a hundred dollars and he knew that he could get at least fifty times that for this one. He looked around, there was only one other person in the room. She was a short, pretty, blonde woman of about thirty-five.

‘Hey,’ Stu called to her, ‘are you anything to do with the people who did these?’ 

The girl frowned. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I’m a member of the group. Is there something I can help you with?’

‘I want to buy this picture,’ Stu told her, gesturing at the painting. The girl leaned forward to look at it, frowned again and shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, that’s Annie’s,’ she told him. ‘She’s very old and she never sells her stuff.’

‘Aw come on,’ Stu protested. ‘Let me talk to her, I’ll treat the old girl, give her two hundred bucks for it.’ He reached for his wallet but the girl was shaking her head again.

‘Sorry, she’s not here,’ she said and then smiled. ‘She told us an old witch like her had better things to do on Halloween.’

Stuart gave a sigh of exasperation.

‘Okay,’ he said.

‘You’re welcome,’ the girl replied, turning away.

Stu’s forehead was furrowed in thought as he stared at the painting once more. It really was excellent. It was almost as if there was a breeze stirring the leaves of the trees and a wisp of smoke eddying from the chimney. He took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and leaned closer.

The detail was magnificent. There were no people but the cabin looked so real, it was almost as if he could reach out and touch it. He leaned closer and as he looked one of the drapes hanging at the windows of the building seem to twitch.

Stuart jerked back. He grinned and shook his head. It had to be good to make him imagine something in the painting moved. He had to have it. He looked round. For the moment he was alone in the room. Okay, he decided, if he could not treat the old woman, he would trick her. It was Halloween after all.

No one was watching; the picture was small and would easily fit under a folded topcoat. Slipping his coat off, Stu stepped forward and reached up to unhook the painting.

When Lynette came looking for him ten minutes later the only sign of him was his coat lying on the floor beneath a picture showing a country scene with trees and a cabin. She leaned closer to look at the picture. At one of the windows there appeared to be a screaming face.