Burnt potatoes

Geraldinium Holmes crunched a potato crisp thoughtfully. Her hand reached out without looking for another, and her fingers dipped neatly into a freshly-made cup of coffee. She pulled them out, and looked round. The newspaper reporter whose drink she'd just turned into a finger-bowl tried not to look reproachful.
"You?" she said, contriving to suggest that she was taller than him and looking down dismissively, despite the fact she was at least three inches shorter. In her heels.
"Miss Holmes, it's a pleasure to meet you again!"
"You sound desperate."
"No! No, I just didn't want you to think you might have offended me by putting your fingers in my drink...."
"I didn't think that. Why are you here? Why do I keep finding you under my feet whenever I turn round?"
The reporter shuffled back a little, as though apprehensive that she might attempt to trample him, but kept smiling. It was a little manic, thought Geraldinium. If he could keep it up for the whole conversation she might have to photograph it and use it as the basis of a painting. Something with clowns.... Abruptly she realised that he'd stopped talking and she'd not heard him start.
"I wasn't listening," she said, opting for honesty. "I doubt it was worth listening to."
"I came to view your exhibition," repeated the reporter. "I didn't actually think you'd attend."
"He ain't got no choice, 'as 'e?" said an elderly, obese woman who was rubbing vigorously at a canvas with a cloth that smelled of turpentine. "He's under contract to appear with all 'is paintings at this gallery." She darted off with surprising agility as two security guards raced towards her.
"Your landlady?" asked the reporter politely, and Geraldinium just nodded. "I mean, ex-landlady, of course," he added. "You're contractually obliged to appear here?"
"No," sighed Geraldinium. "She's just insane. That painting she was trying to deface? It has a herbal varnish on it, to protect it from just that kind of attack. The little plaque beneath the painting even explains it, because it gives the painting a special kind of smell."
"Burnt potatoes," said the reporter smiling.
"What?" Geraldinium looked mystified.
"I've been smelling burnt potatoes all round the exhibit," said the reporter. "I thought that must be the herbal varnish."
"No. That's the sculpture made from burnt potato crisps," said Geraldinium. "Be careful with it though, I had to use an arsenic-based glue to hold them together with enough structure soundness."
"Isn't that sculpture being installed in an infant school?" The reporter looked shocked.
"I believe so," said Geraldinium. "I can't imagine why, though. What child understands art, really? Just look at their television programmes, they're devoid of any intellectual creativity!"
"Is that why one of your paintings depicts the Teletubbies being hanged?"
"You spotted that one?" Geraldinium looked pleased.
"Yes, even though it's the size of a postage stamp."
Geraldinium's smile got broader. "I had to make a brush out of ant-hair to paint that," she said.
"Ants don't have hair." The reporter realised what he'd said, and went bright red, but Geraldinium ignored him. "Any others you spotted?"
"Um, well, yes, but I think the police have spotted it too."
"Which one?"
"The one that's your orphan servant girl leaping off the roof in that bizarre Batman costume."
"Why would the police be interested?"
"You noted it was painted from a photograph, and that suggests you knew it was going to happen...."
"Why are you telling me this now?"
"I'm the distraction." The reporter hung his head, looking thoroughly miserable, as two burly police officers stepped silently up behind Geraldinium and seized an arm each.