Feint of Art:

by Hailey Lind

  It seems I was expected.

  This couldn’t be good.

  No good ever came from the bowels of the Brock.

  Chapter 15

  A painter’s autograph should be approached as a series of abstract lines and forms on the canvas, rather than as a series of letters. Never overlook the importance of these magic lines, for they tell the auctioneer where to start the bidding, the art lover whether to admire the work, and the art expert whether to hail the piece as worthy of merit.

  —Georges LeFleur, “Experts & Other Lower Life Forms,” unfinished manuscript, Reflections of a World-Class Art Forger

  Think, Annie, think.

  If I admitted that I was, indeed, Anna Kincaid, it seemed likely I would be booted from the Brock forthwith. Even I had to admit that I had no business cavorting around the museum’s innards, shod or unshod. My fears were confirmed as I glanced over my shoulder and saw a big blond security guard approaching from the rear. Both men carried guns, as well as those nasty batons for hitting people. I, on the other hand, had only a pair of high heels, having dropped the stapler in Edward’s office. Not exactly a fair fight.

  “Um . . .” said I, always cool under fire.

  “Come with us, please, Ms. Kincaid,” the first guard said politely.

  “Um . . .” I hesitated.

  Big Blondie grabbed my arm. “You heard the man.”

  I was escorted none too gently along the hallway, around a couple of corners, down a flight of stairs, and into a small room. I didn’t know what was going on, but part of me was starting to worry that I might shortly end my days here at the Brock, my bones entombed forever beneath the marble floor of the tacky “Modern Masters” exhibit. That would be Agnes Brock’s ultimate revenge. The only thing that kept me from panicking was the sure knowledge that the old bat didn’t possess anywhere near enough imagination to dream up such a fitting reprisal.

  A door opened, Big Blondie pushed me forward, and the door slammed shut behind me. I was relieved to see neither Agnes Brock, Gordo the Goon, the Hulk, nor the Fonz, but my buddies from the police department, Inspectors Crawford and Wilson.

  Strangely enough, they did not seem equally delighted to see me. In fact, they looked rather grim.

  Annette told me to have a seat on a metal folding chair by a small worktable. Ichabod leaned against a filing cabinet, his skinny arms crossed over his chest. Annette walked over to me, arms crossed over her chest. I wasn’t much into body language, but there was no mistaking that message.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

  I could think of more positive directions for this discussion to take. “Um,” I said.

  “Spit it out, Annie. And cut the crap.”

  “I . . . actually, I was invited by a friend. I’m here legitimately, Annette. Really.”

  “Uh-huh. And were you ‘legitimately’ running around the back hallways barefoot?”

  “Is that what this is about? Is there a law against bare feet in public?”

  “Stow it, Annie. This is serious.”

  Chastened, I fell silent and chewed my lower lip. Annette sat down across from me, put her hands flat on the table, and looked me straight in the eye. “Tell me what’s going on,” she said firmly. “Tell me now, or you’re out of here and I’m charging you with something.”

  “It’s not illegal to go barefoot. Which I’m not, strictly speaking. I have stockings on.” To prove it, I hoisted my skirt and stuck out one foot.

  She was not impressed. “Oh, I’ll think of something,” she told me. “Trespassing. Interfering with a police investigation.” She glanced at my chest and raised an eyebrow. “Indecent exposure.”

  I looked down and saw that my décolletage was in serious danger of revealing too much, doubtlessly as a result of being manhandled by Big Blondie. I hooked a finger in the neckline and hiked it up as best I could. So much for acting like the Queen Mum.

  Ichabod politely looked away.

  “Okay, Annette,” I said. “Point taken. No more crap. I’m here because I think I know where the drawings are.”

  “You mean the drawings you were trying to find for the art dealers?” she asked. “Remind me what this has to do with the Brock Museum in general, and this gala in particular.”

  Might as well come clean. There were goons with guns on the loose. Where to start?

  “Harlan Coombs ran into money problems and stole some valuable drawings from his clients,” I began. “I think he hid them in the museum and that he’s come here tonight to retrieve them. I also think I may know where they are.”

  “Why would he hide them here?” Annette demanded. “And why would he risk coming back for them tonight of all nights?” She hadn’t gotten her gold shield out of a cereal box.

  “Can you think of a safer place to hide fragile old drawings than a museum?” I asked. “They’re quite valuable, and are much easier to fence than a famous painting like The Magi.”

  Annette looked at me severely. “I’m not going to ask how you knew he hid them here. So I’ll ask you this: where are the drawings now?”

  That was the question, wasn’t it? I wasn’t positive, but I was willing to hazard a guess.

  “With The Magi,” I said. “Behind the canvas, in a false insert in the frame . . . I think. It’s an old trick used for smuggling documents. That would explain why Coombs had to be here tonight, to get access to the painting. It’s usually in the vault.”

  “Uh-huh. And why were you asking me about a key the last time we talked?”

  “Just a wild guess. You know how in the movies people are always after a nondescript safety-deposit box key? And then just getting the key isn’t enough—you have to know which bank to go to? I heard something about someone looking through someone else’s pockets, and it occurred to me that one of the thousands of archival drawers lining the back rooms of this place would make an excellent hiding place.”

  “For the drawings?”

  “Or for a lot of money. Seems to me that there’s more than one fake Caravaggio floating around, and maybe a real one, too, and that somebody’s gotten paid for those paintings by collectors, each thinking they’re buying the real one.”

  “Uh-huh. Do you also think Harlan Coombs killed Stan Dupont?”

  “I have no idea, but Harlan is here tonight. I saw him earlier. Maybe we should find him and ask. Plus, the guy who attacked Pete and kidnapped me is here tonight, too. He looks capable of murder, if you ask me.”

  Annette looked at me sternly. “I didn’t ask you. And you are not going anywhere, Annie. You are going to wait here with Officers Campbell and Westmont.” She rose and turned to go. Ichabod stood up straight.

  “Annette, wait,” I said, prepared to beg if I had to. “With all due respect, you’re a cop, not an artist. You might find something and not even recognize it when you see it. You could even irreparably damage the drawings and the oil painting if you’re not careful.” I threw that last bit in for good measure, since most people handled expensive art the same way they did newborn babies—gingerly.

  Annette looked at Ichabod, then back at me, and sighed. “All right,” she relented. “But no more bullshit, you got me? We’re dealing with murder here.”

  “I realize that,” I said, trying to sound chastened. It wasn’t too hard.

  “Come along, then.” She pulled a police radio out of her spangled evening bag and asked someone if the Caravaggio had been brought downstairs yet, only to be told that it was currently under guard in the Blue Room.

  Annette led the way, bustling down the hall in her amethyst gown. I couldn’t help but notice that her heels were easily two inches higher than mine had been, yet she could really move in them. I had to ask.

  “Six months undercover, Vice,” she told me, a note of pride in her voice. “You have any idea how high the average hooker’s shoes are? That’ll train you for these little bitty things. I could run a marathon in these babies.”

  That clinched it. When I
grew up, I wanted to be as cool as Annette.

  Annette, Ichabod, Officers Campbell and Westmont, and I took the elevator to the ballroom, where we had to wade through the jabbering crowd of partygoers to get to the Blue Room.

  As I walked along with my armed police escort, I saw the one person I most wanted not to see—my date, Frank. He watched as we passed, his face grim. I couldn’t help but notice the voluptuous brunette hanging on his arm, gazing up at him adoringly. Helga—or was it Ingrid?—had better get back from her trip pretty soon.

  I scanned the crowd for Harlan, or Michael, or Gordo, or Quiana, but without luck until, as we neared the double doors that led into the Blue Room, I saw a man in a waiter’s red bolero slip in through a side door. I nudged Annette, who radioed Security to be on alert for any uniformed waiters trying to get near the Caravaggio.

  Officer Campbell opened the door and we walked into mayhem.

  The room was full of thick smoke. I heard a muffled shout, and then a series of small explosions that, to my untrained ear, sounded like gunshots with a silencer. Annette immediately stepped in front of me, reached under her dress to her thigh holster, and drew her weapon. She and Ichabod peered around cautiously, then charged into the center of the mess, shouting their identity as police. Officers Campbell and Westmont guarded the door.

  Since no one in the smoke-filled room seemed to be watching me, I edged around it, keeping low and hugging the wall. The first person I bumped into was Michael.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Annie,” he swore, then added something that was unintelligible above the noise of the shouts, before turning to run the other way, deeper into the smoke. Only then did I realize that he had something clutched under his arm.

  Something large. And flat. And painted.

  I took off after him, flinging myself through the dense smoke. I stumbled over not one but two bodies of uniformed police officers or security personnel, I couldn’t tell which. Taking heart from the fact that I didn’t see blood anywhere, and praying that they were just unconscious, I kept on going and bumped into a podium, which sent me spinning off in a new direction. I heard yells somewhere up ahead, but by now I had no idea where I was or what was going on, and was just starting to think it might be time to find an exit, when I tripped over a third body.

  Michael.

  As much as I’d threatened, at various points in our relationship, that I would see him dead one day, I hadn’t really meant it. Despite the chaos all about us, I sat down and lifted his head onto my lap. “Michael? Michael, are you okay? Colin? Paddy? David? Somebody answer me.” I started examining him for signs of a wound.

  “You realize that in some cultures this means we’re engaged?” Michael said groggily.

  I took that to mean he wasn’t dead, and was surprised by a surge of emotion as he gazed up at me with those piercing green eyes.

  “For the love of God, Annie,” he barked. “Stop fussing over me and go find that damn painting!”

  Jackass. I dropped his head, and took off in search of The Magi.

  Finally, in the midst of the shouts and the smoke, the scuffling feet and the yells, I reached a door and pushed through it, regaining my eyesight just in time to catch a glimpse of a waiter’s red bolero jacket. Running after him, I found myself back in the grand ballroom, where people were milling about, chattering excitedly, and trying to figure out what on earth was happening.

  I searched for my quarry. If I were Harlan, dashing through this crowd with a stolen Caravaggio tucked under my arm, I would head for the nearest exit and take my chances outside. Using my elbows to shove the gawking glitterati aside, I finally reached the main doors, where several security guards stood, looking bored. Red Bolero obviously hadn’t gone out this way, but I thought Annette and the crowd in the smoke-filled room might need some backup.

  “Officer,” I said panting and pointing behind me. “Trouble. The Blue Room.”

  The young Latino guard looked as if he didn’t know whether to believe me.

  “Smoke!” I cried.

  That did it. Pausing long enough to bark orders into his shoulder mike, he plunged into the crowd. I followed suit, but veered off toward the maintenance corridors. Maybe Red Bolero would try the service exit.

  Pushing my way through the crowd, I suddenly came face-to-face with Camilla Culpepper, who was wearing a black-and-gold-striped satin gown and an extravagantly feathered turban. There was no sign of a Mr. Culpepper, but Camilla had brought along her assistant, Emily Caulfield, who carried the charming Miss Mopsy in a brocade doggie carrier slung around her shoulders. I could only wonder how much the Culpeppers paid Emily to submit to this kind of humiliation. Since we had not parted on the best of terms, I was not particularly surprised when Emily turned and bolted, dog and all, in the opposite direction.

  “Emily!” Camilla squealed.

  I grabbed Emily by one arm and swung her around. Miss Mopsy started squirming, trying to lick me.

  “Where’s Harlan?” I hissed.

  “Harlan?” Camilla echoed.

  “Who?” squeaked Emily.

  “Don’t play coy, Emily. Now tell me. Where. Is. Harlan.” I was not in the mood for more attitude from Miss Priss here.

  “How would I know?”

  “Yes, how would she know?” Camilla interjected. “You don’t even know Harlan, do you, Emily?”

  “She most certainly does,” I said, then turned back to Emily. “You were supposed to meet him here tonight, remember, Emily?”

  Wait a minute. Why did Harlan want Emily here tonight? For that matter, why did he want Camilla here tonight? Unless, perhaps, they were part of his plan to smuggle the drawings out?

  The doggie sling! It was ridiculous to bring a dog to a ball, something Camilla surely knew. But what was the likelihood that a doggie sling would be carefully searched?

  “Give me the dog,” I told Emily.

  “She won’t!” cried Camilla.

  “Go to hell!” spat Emily.

  I grabbed the doggie sling, Miss Mopsy started to bark, and Emily took a swing at me and missed. The upshot of all of this was that the sling ripped, the dog flew, and a quick inspection revealed there were no drawings anywhere. Emily ducked past me, Camilla following her in hot pursuit, while Miss Mopsy landed nose-first in the truffled mousse paté and started mowing her way down the rest of the buffet table.

  There were more screams and the clatter of breaking dishes, but still the orchestra played on. Turning to continue the hunt for Harlan, I came nose to nose with Agnes Brock. What luck. Beside her was Sebastian Pitts. Luckier still.

  “What in the world is going on here, young lady?” she demanded, livid. “Did you just throw a dog in my paté?”

  I didn’t know how to answer a question like that, so I didn’t even try, taking aim instead at an easier target. “You know, Sebastian,” I said, “if I were you, I’d be worrying more about the fact that your precious Caravaggio has been stolen. Good thing it was a fake, huh?”

  Leaving the two gaping in my wake, I spun around and ran smack into the elegant Quiana, who proved surprisingly strong as she grabbed me by my already bruised arm.

  “Where is it?” she demanded.

  “Back off!” I snarled, and to my surprise, she let go and disappeared into the crowd.

  I turned toward the kitchen, still hoping to find Harlan before he managed to flee the building. However, moving across the great hall was now like swimming upstream against a surging torrent of tuxedos and silk. The smoke-bombed Blue Room was finally attracting the attention it deserved, and security and police officers started flooding the ballroom. Shrieking had begun in earnest, and I had a feeling that the loudest of all was Agnes Brock. Or maybe it was Sebastian Pitts.

  At long last the waltz music ground to a halt, “Tales of the Vienna Woods” being replaced by the sounds of alarms and hundreds of frantic voices. A few of the hardier souls and leveler heads were shouting instructions for everybody to remain calm, in an attempt to direct the tr
affic toward the front doors. A mass exodus began, but with all those high heels and swelled heads it was slow going. Mostly people milled about aimlessly, and despite the general atmosphere of catastrophe I noticed that more than a few were still enjoying the buffet table and the open bar, indicating, as far as I was concerned, that there was no real consensus on what the appropriate course of action should be.

  Until somebody pulled the fire alarm. Warning sirens screamed, the overhead sprinklers went off, and a recorded message began repeating, over and over, “The fire alarm has sounded. Please do not panic. Proceed calmly toward the clearly marked exits. Please do not panic.”

  Immediately the crowd panicked, as water cascaded down like a tropical monsoon. My dress was now officially a disaster. If I got out of here alive, Bryan was going to kill me.

  I made my way slowly through the throngs trying to exit, and finally reached the kitchen, where I asked the gaping serving staff if they’d seen a waiter rush through here with a painting in his arms. Surprisingly, three of them pointed to the back door, so I ran into the maintenance corridor once again. Trying to decide which way to go, I saw what appeared to be a hand peeking out from around a corner, and slowly eased toward it and around the turn.

  Harlan Coombs lay motionless on the linoleum floor, a pair of strange-looking glasses askew on his face, his white shirt and red bolero jacket stained by a much deeper red. There were three small holes in his chest.

  I swore and jumped back, looking around wildly. Which way, which way? If Gordo the Goon or his sidekick the Hulk had just plugged Harlan and grabbed the painting, wouldn’t they head for the nearest exit?

  I tore down the hallway until I heard voices coming from an open door about ten feet in front of me. Pressing myself against the wall, I held my breath, and listened. The voices were muffled, but I recognized Suave Gordo’s velvety tones.

  “. . . and you weren’t supposed to kill him until he told you which drawer the key fits.” He sounded aggrieved. “Let’s get out of here.”