Feint of Art:

by Hailey Lind

  Once again I was reminded of how little we had talked recently and how quickly everything had happened. I brought her up to date, starting from the meeting with Anthony Brazil and ending with my jaunt with Michael to Belvedere.

  Samantha was not amused.

  “So you’re telling me you’re going to try to get into the Brock gala and hunt down this Coombs fellow?” she asked, incredulous. “Weren’t those men the other night scary enough for you? Have you had your head examined lately?”

  I made a mental note to look into therapy when all this was over.

  “What I need, Sam, is to find those drawings, collect the reward money, and get Frank to lay the hell off.” I was feeling a little touchy.

  “Girl, you know I speak my mind,” she said. “There’s no one but a fool who would go after this kind of thing after all you’ve been through. Let me talk to Frank. Maybe if a few of us tenants band together we can work something out. You don’t need the money bad enough to get yourself killed, my friend.”

  Fine. If Sam wanted to be reasonable, then let her be. I, however, was tired, and cranky, and one way or another I was going to get invited to that damned gala. Contrarily, the more that people tried to talk me out of it, the more determined I was to see this thing through to its conclusion.

  Maybe I could get Frank to take me as his date! We could spend quality time together and I would get to go to the ball. Okay, it was a long shot, but it would be the perfect solution.

  I didn’t know whether Sam took my silence for acquiescence, or whether she decided she’d said her piece, but she gave me a hug, told me to be careful, and went home to fix dinner. Ten minutes later, after a little puttering around, I walked down the stairs and saw a light in Frank’s office. What the hell. I took a deep breath, opened his door, and stuck my head in.

  “Heya, Frank,” I said as cheerfully as though we had parted friends. “How ’bout some dinner? My treat.” I plopped down in an armchair. “Or you could take me to dinner. I wouldn’t want to step on any old-fashioned toes.”

  Maybe the perky approach would work. It often did with these older guys.

  His somber brown eyes took in my T-shirt and paint-spattered overalls.

  It didn’t seem like perky would cut it.

  “I’m flattered.” He didn’t sound it. “But I’m involved with someone.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to sleep with me, Frank,” I assured him. “I was inviting you to dinner.”

  “Uh-huh,” he murmured. He seemed engrossed in a stack of official-looking papers on his desk.

  This was not going well. I decided to try contrition. “Listen,” I said, “I’m really sorry about all the drama. And especially about the water damage. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”

  Frank did not reply.

  “Sooo,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Are you going to take her to the Brock gala?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman you’re seeing. Remember?”

  “No,” he said stiffly. “She’s out of town.”

  I decided to press on. “Funny thing, Frank. I had an invitation, too, but it was destroyed in the recent catastrophe. I think one of the guys probably threw it out. They’re sticklers at the Brock for official invitations at events like this. I used to work there—did you know that?”

  “Then perhaps you could have them send you another,” he suggested.

  Rats. Busted.

  “Um, yes, well, perhaps I could, couldn’t I? But you see, I was thinking, since you don’t have an escort and I don’t have an escort—”

  “Is that what this whole thing has been about?” Frank clasped his hands on the top of the desk. If he’d been wearing a clerical collar he would have been a dead ringer for someone who was ready to hear my confession.

  “You want me to take you to the Brock gala, and rather than just ask me straight out you’ve put us both through this labyrinthine babble?”

  I thought “labyrinthine babble” was a bit harsh. Granted, I had not been as forthright as I might have been, but still. However, under the circumstances I decided to let it go.

  “I was shy,” I suggested.

  Frank snorted.

  “So will you take me to the Brock gala?”

  “No.”

  “Do you already have a date?”

  “No.”

  “Then why not?”

  He looked at me, a pained look on his face. “For one thing, you scare the hell out of me.”

  “You’re scared of me?” I was genuinely shocked.

  “You show very poor judgment, Annie. You leave this little trail of bad things behind you, like Gretel and her bread crumbs. I don’t want to get stuck having to follow the bread crumbs back to the biggest disaster of all.”

  I pondered that for a minute.

  “You kind of lost me with the whole bread crumb thing, Frank.”

  He sighed. “Then let me make it simpler. The answer is no, Annie. Regretfully, respectfully, no. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to finish up a few things.”

  I’d just been dismissed. I rose with as much dignity as my scruffy overalls allowed, and stalked out.

  Driving home across the Bay Bridge, I was pissed off and discouraged. As the traffic stopped and started, I entertained myself by inventing snappy comebacks to the little Frank had said to me until I’d worked myself into quite a state. Low blood sugar was not helping the situation, so I stopped at a Vietnamese restaurant in Oakland’s Chinatown and ordered eggplant in garlic sauce, garlic rice, and shrimp rolls to go. All the way home, the savory aromas wafting from the pink plastic bag tormented me. By the time I had pulled into the parking lot of my house and climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment, I was nearly faint from hunger. I never would have lasted on that Survivor show. One missed meal and I would have skewered one of my juicier tribe mates with a punji stick, which I’m pretty sure would have gotten me voted off the island.

  I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed when the phone rang. It was nearly midnight. Lord, please don’t let it be bad news, I prayed as I leapt across the bed and snatched up the receiver.

  “Annie, ma petite! How are you?”

  Not bad news, but definitely trouble.

  “Grandfather,” I cried. “What is going on? Did you paint that copy of The Magi for Harlan Coombs?”

  “Ah, but you have always been so intelligent, so discerning, ma cherie! Yes, yes, I did. It is very fine, no?”

  “Grandfather—”

  “I have only one minute on ze phone, my darling girl,” he interrupted. “I wanted to tell you zat I have found Anton, so you must not worry.”

  “Anton? Where is he?”

  “Chicago, cherie.”

  “What’s he doing in Chicago?”

  “Why, ze same zing I am doing, cherie. We are going to ze Fantastic Fakes exhibition.”

  “You’re going with Anton? I thought you hated Anton.”

  “Ah, all zat is in ze past. You should see what he has done! He has liberated my exquisite copy, and entered it in ze Fantastic Fakes competition! Is zat not marvelous?”

  “Yeah, great,” I said, distracted. “No, wait—what do you mean, liberated it? Georges? Liberated it from whom?”

  “From Coombs’ petite amie, I forget her name. Bof! Zis I do not care. Ze fact remains zat Anton brought it here and has entered it for me. We are renewing our friendship, and zis is a marvelous zing. Cherie! Why don’t you join us?”

  “Georges, how many copies did you paint?”

  “Only one, ma cherie. Only such a fool as Anton would paint two! Did you hear? He painted an extra to replace ze one I painted, so zat he could bring mine here. Now zis is true friendship. I must go now, bye-bye!”

  “Grandfather, don’t hang up! Listen to me. Your painting is in the Brock—or at least it was last time I looked. I think the museum has your painting, not the original. Grandfather? Georges, do you hear me?”

  There was no answer. I slammed the pho
ne down in frustration, switched off the light, and slid under the covers, but my mind was whirling.

  What did all this mean? If the Culpeppers had one of Anton’s Caravaggio forgeries, and presumably the New Yorker I called Mr. Suave did as well, but the Caravaggio at the Brock had been painted by Grandfather, then—

  Then what? It was Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with a candlestick?

  I needed to sleep, but I lay awake for a long time, thinking. It was now Tuesday. Could I, should I, go to Chicago? No, I could not, should not, because I was after Brazil’s missing drawings, not The Magi, not to mention that I had no money and no room left on my credit card. Remember that, Annie, I scolded. I could give the information to the authorities, but they wouldn’t know how to tell if a painting was a fake or not. What to do, what to do . . .

  I had just drifted off when the phone rang again.

  “Hullo?” I rasped.

  It was Samantha. “Annie, I’m sorry to call so late.” “Sam, what is it? Is something wrong?” I asked, awake now.

  “I just heard on the radio that Ernst Pettigrew has been found.”

  “Ernst? Where is he? Is he okay?”

  “He’s dead, Annie. His body was found in the bay. A presumed suicide off the Oakland Bay Bridge.”

  Chapter 13

  Ink can be mixed with tap water and left to evaporate to its former strength. It will then be somewhat impure, and when it is viewed under a microscope, a powdery residue will be apparent, instantly “aging” the ink.

  —Georges LeFleur, “Tools of the Trade,” unfinished manuscript, Reflections of a World-Class Art Forger

  I was stunned. Even though I had suspected, deep down, that something bad had happened to Ernst—the disappearing act simply wasn’t in character for him—the confirmation of his death still came as a shock. I had cared for him once, and although our breakup had been too painful for me to harbor any lingering romantic feelings for him, I did still respect him as a top-notch curator.

  Something else Samantha said bothered me.

  “You mean he jumped off the Golden Gate,” I said.

  “No, the radio said the Oakland Bay Bridge.”

  “That makes no sense,” I replied, confused. “The Bay Bridge has no pedestrian access. Somebody would have had to see him jump. Was his car found on the bridge?”

  “What difference does it make?” Sam said gently.

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Are you all right?” Sam asked, sounding worried. “Why don’t I come over?”

  “No thanks, Sam. I’m fine. Really.” I paused. “Ernst didn’t kill himself, you know. Someone did it for him.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Ernst was too arrogant to commit suicide. Besides, he was a fighter. He didn’t run away from his problems.”

  “Annie, promise me you’ll be careful,” Sam responded.

  “And if you need me, for anything, just call.”

  I put the receiver down with care. The body count was now up to three. And I still hadn’t a clue what the hell was going on.

  I was going to figure this out if I had to stay up all night.

  The next thing I knew, my alarm was blaring and it was seven in the morning. With a jolt, I recalled the conversation with Sam. Ernst’s death rendered moot my resolution not to get involved with The Magi. Not only had Ernst been my friend, but since all three victims had known something about the forgeries it now seemed apparent that I might be Number Four on some homicidal maniac’s list of “The People I Most Want to Kill.”

  It was more important than ever that I find a way to get invited to the Brock gala on Saturday. Then I might be able to find Harlan Coombs and wring an explanation out of him. Plus, Emily told me he had stashed the drawings at the Brock. And just to prove that slothfulness was occasionally virtuous, I had worked a few things out in my sleep.

  I bounced out of bed, energized. I now had a Plan to get myself invited to the Brock gala. Granted, it wasn’t a very complicated Plan, but therein lay its genius. This morning I would Dress to Kill.

  One of my better features was my long legs, so after coffee and a shower I chose a short, plum-colored silk skirt and a low-cut, snug camel-colored sweater. I slid my feet, sans stockings, into a pair of strappy, heeled sandals made of faux leopard skin. I piled my hair on my head, allowing a few tendrils to escape, took extra care with my makeup, applying mascara and a little eye shadow, and even putting on some blush. Luckily my bruises and cuts were hardly noticeable anymore. I selected gold-and-tortoiseshell earrings that picked up the leopard theme of the shoes and, after some consideration, added a small, tinkling anklet. Spritzing on the tiniest whiff of my favorite Ralph Lauren perfume—my gift to myself on my last birthday—I headed out the door.

  This time my casual carpooler was a young financial type from Piedmont whose Beemer was in the shop and who violated carpool etiquette twenty seconds after he got a gander at my leopard outfit. Ben the Banker practiced his pickup lines all the way into the City, desperate to impress me. Thinking he’d lose interest, I played at being Amber the Airhead on her way to her job as a cocktail waitress. Instead, he handed me his business card and offered to set me up with a low-fee personal retirement account. Hey, the guy was working with what he had. I promised to call to set up a Roth IRA, dropped him off on Front Street, and roared off in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

  I tossed his business card onto the pile of flotsam behind my seat. Although it seemed kind of premature to worry about retirement when I barely had a functioning business, who knew? Maybe I’d find those drawings, maybe I’d win the lottery, maybe a long-lost relative would turn toes up and leave me stinking rich, and I’d actually end up having some money to invest.

  Swinging into the building’s parking lot, I was pleased to see Frank’s Jaguar in its usual spot. I sashayed to his office and pushed open the door.

  “Morning, Frank,” I crooned. “I’ll need you to sign off on some insurance forms. Will you be around later?”

  Frank’s eyes swept over me and he stared for a long moment, not speaking. The Plan was In Play.

  “Uh, sure. Be happy to.”

  For some reason Frank seemed nervous. “Thank you so much. See you later, then?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  And with that the masked faux finisher was off. It wasn’t an invitation to the gala, but the wheels were in motion.

  I climbed the stairs, fought for a moment with the sticky outer door, and clacked down the hall to my studio, opening the damaged door to find the place dark and silent. A wave of nostalgia washed over me. I missed my old life. I missed Pete’s happy demeanor over espresso first thing in the morning. I missed seeing him blush at Mary’s jokes. I missed the way things used to be before some idiot came and trashed my studio.

  The euphoria of yesterday’s progress ebbed with the realization of all that remained to be done. I’d forgotten that I needed to move the furniture back inside, and I could hardly do that in my girlie clothes. I needed to replace some supplies. I needed to harass my insurance agent.

  I needed to kick somebody’s ass.

  “Knock, knock,” came a voice from the doorway, and in walked Pedro, loaded down with black canvas bags, presumably his computer equipment. “Not bad,” he said, looking around. “I’ve seen worse after some of our parties.”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t get invited to this one.” I gave him a hug.

  “Wow, look at you,” he said, holding me at arm’s length. “You got a hot date? You smell good, too.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. Maybe I got dressed up for you,” I teased. “Ever think of that?”

  “Naw, Elena would kill you. Besides, you know I love you just as you are.”

  I started getting misty. Man, I really was a basket case. “Thanks for coming, Pedro. You’re a lifesaver.”

  Pedro stretched his arms out in front of him and wiggled his fingers. “Just leave it to the maestro, kiddo,” he said, sitting down at the computer and
switching on the CPU. “Oh, you know that e-mail you asked me about? Piece of cake. The sender didn’t encode or anything. It was sent from a hotel up in St. Helena. The Gray Goose. Here, I wrote it down. And I wrote down that Ernst guy’s address, too.”

  He handed me a folded piece of yellow legal paper. So Harlan Coombs had been in Napa at the same time Michael and I were there? Quite a coincidence.

  “And that Quiana chick?” Pedro continued as his fingers flashed across the keyboard. “Last name’s Nash. Doesn’t really go with ‘Quiana,’ does it? She does the occasional bikini photo shoot, strictly small-time catalogue stuff. Gets mentioned a lot in the papers, so maybe she’s a debutante. There’s money somewhere, ’cause she’s got a place in Mendocino and drives a Lexus. Easy on the eyes, I’ll give her that.”

  He handed me a photo he’d downloaded from the Internet. Those feline eyes were hard to forget. I remembered Joanne lying among blood-soaked, forged drawings. I wondered whether Quiana had been involved with Joanne’s death but then dismissed the thought. They were sisters, after all. But how exactly was Quiana linked to Harlan?

  That thought reminded me that I still hadn’t heard from Inspector Crawford about the phone numbers I’d asked her to trace. I tried calling her office and was informed that she was out, presumably pursuing bad guys—hopefully no one I knew. I settled for leaving a message insinuating that I had some information about the upcoming Brock unveiling.

  Pedro informed me that the computer was history but he could retrieve the data. I watched, fascinated, as he took a screwdriver, opened the outer shell, and unscrewed something he said was the hard drive, a revelation to me, since I hadn’t realized that a hard drive was an actual thing that could be removed and reattached elsewhere. I thought computer stuff existed in a theoretical cyberspace.

  And that reminded me to call my insurance agent, who also seemed to exist only in the theoretical sense. He was remarkably more helpful today. It probably cheered him up to inform me that my policy had a substantial deductible.