by Lind, Hailey
The unseasonable weather matched my mood as I started trudging the two miles to the columbarium. Last night’s acrobatics had left me with a scraped knee, a sore butt, and assorted strained muscles, each of which complained vociferously as I walked along streets lined with charming houses and chunky apartment complexes. The older apartment buildings featured bay windows and elaborate marble entry halls, but the newer ones had been erected during the real estate boom of the 1970s, when aesthetics gave way to slapdash construction. The names of these flat-roofed, multistory, gravel-encrusted monstrosities, such as Mira Vista Manor and Royal Palms Courtyard, were so inappropriate that I wondered if the developers had been indulging in irony.
As I climbed the rolling hills, my thoughts turned toward last night. Apart from a few heavy objets d’art, the columbarium didn’t contain much of commercial value. It seemed unlikely that the masked intruders had broken in to deposit a loved one’s cremains. If they were after the metal box, why hadn’t they grabbed me and demanded I turn it over instead of locking me in the toilet? Had they been planning on coming back for me, when I made my daring escape? And how did they know I had the box in the first place?
Michael wasn’t off the hook in my mind, either. His sudden appearance at the columbarium—not once but twice in the past few days—was a big part of the reason I was even considering the wild idea that the columbarium unknowingly possessed a Raphael masterpiece. So perhaps the ghouls hadn’t been after me or Louis’ box at all, but were searching for La Fornarina.
I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, my teeth clacked, and I swore a blue streak in French. That reminded me of my grandfather, and I realized I’d forgotten to ask Michael what he knew about the Italian fake buster, Donato Sandino. I made a mental note to get Michael’s number from Mary.
On Piedmont Avenue, a charming street fronted by quaint stores, boutiques, and restaurants, I dodged a mother with tots in tow headed for a bagel shop and veered into Peet’s Coffee for a caffeine boost. Pausing in front of the small Piedmont Theater, I sipped my strong French roast and gazed at a cheap apartment building that had recently been converted to an expensive retirement community. In front of the 1950s-era building of blocky beige concrete and sliding aluminum windows was a large wooden sign stating EVERGREEN PINES—ASSISTED LIVING FACILITY.
Manny had mentioned yesterday that this place was home to Mrs. Henderson, the columbarium’s retired secretary extraordinaire. I thought of how Miss Ivy stuck her nose into everything, and realized that secretaries were like chambermaids: they knew where the dirt was. Perhaps Mrs. Henderson could allay my fears about La Fornarina, and I could get back to work with a clear conscience.
The glass double doors whooshed open as I approached, and my senses were assaulted by the pervasive smell of disinfectant and overcooked cafeteria food. But the foyer was pleasant, with cheerful art on the walls and tall green potted plants in the corners.
I approached a blue-haired woman seated at a tall reception desk and asked for Mrs. Henderson.
“I’m afraid you’re too late,” she replied, her wrinkled face a study in concern. “She’s gone.”
“Gone?” My heart sank. Half a century in service to the columbarium, and then she passes away within two years of retirement. Let that be a lesson to you, Annie. “I’m sorry to hear it. Do you know if there will be a service?”
“Beg pardon?”
“A memorial? I’d like to let her old friends know.”
“Oh, my dear, you misunderstood me. Mrs. Henderson’s not dead. Good gracious.”
“Oh.” I felt like an idiot. I must have death on the brain. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”
“No, no, not dead.” The receptionist giggled, and I wished she would stop. “She had a hair appointment this morning.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
Blue Hair glanced at the large round clock on the wall behind her. “Should be any time now. Are you a family friend?”
“One might say that.” Then again, one might not.
“Would you like to wait? She shouldn’t be long.”
“Thank you.” I took a seat on a slippery vinyl sofa and tried to ignore the receptionist, who was recounting my faux pas to a tiny woman with skin the color of tobacco. The two women shook their heads and laughed, and repeated the story to an old man in a plaid shirt who pulled up in an electric wheelchair.
Looked like I was to be the butt of many a joke at Evergreen Pines. Cancel my donation to the AARP.
I reached for my cell phone, patting my pockets until I remembered that the device was languishing somewhere in the dropped-glass ceiling of the columbarium. It dawned on me that I had no clue how to retrieve my cell phone voice mail from any other phone. Still, the person I most wanted to hear from was Cindy Tanaka. Yesterday’s events came back to me with a wave of sadness. . . . Cindy would never call me or anyone else. All night I had been pushing an idea to the back of my mind, trying to ignore it. What if Cindy hadn’t killed herself? What if there was something in that box worth killing for?
“The van’s returned from the beauty parlor,” Blue Hair called out.
Lost in thought, I jumped at the sound of her voice.
“Goodness gracious, you’re a nervous Nellie,” she laughed again. “You may go see Mrs. Henderson now, if you’d like. Take the elevator to the third floor, follow the green line to the end, then follow the red line. Suite 327 will be on your left.”
I exited the elevator and, feeling like Dorothy on the road to Oz, followed the line of green linoleum tiles that snaked along a dim interior corridor. The décor was Early Hospital Utilitarian: beige Formica surfaces abounded, and heavy railings were screwed into the walls to assist those with unsteady gaits. Nurses and nurses’ assistants in bright pastel smocks and white pants padded about on crepe-soled shoes, filling out forms, counting pills into trays of white paper cups, and murmuring amongst themselves. An old man slumped in a wheelchair rolled himself along with one sneaker-clad foot, his whiskered chin resting on his chest. No one paid the slightest attention to me, and I was surprised that a stranger would be permitted to wander about unchallenged.
I had always envisioned my own old age spent in a quaint village in the south of France, or on some sunny beach in Mexico. I vowed to start saving money, soon. Too bad I was scarcely able to pay my bills. It made it tough to build a retirement portfolio.
The green line at last dead-ended. A red line branched off to the left, and a blue line branched off to the right. I turned left to find a pair of double wooden doors, above which a sign announced the entrance to THE REDWOOD WING. The doors opened onto a tasteful hallway painted a soft rose and decorated with glass sconces, the floor covered in Italian ceramic tile. Several oak doors were propped open, allowing the frenzied excitement of game shows to drift into the hall, though there were no other signs of life. By the time I found suite 327, I was a bit unnerved by the whole scene.
A brass plate on the wall to the left of the door was inscribed MRS. HENDERSON. PLEASE KNOCK. I knocked.
“Come in!” a hearty voice replied, and I entered a large space laid out more like an apartment than a nursing home. On the right was an oversized door leading to a spacious bathroom, its white tiles gleaming. Straight ahead of me a wall of windows offered a view of misty rain clouds hanging over the hills of Bayview Cemetery. Near the windows a blue-and-white-striped love seat and a rosy brocade armchair were arranged around a low coffee table. Against the left wall a hospital bed was draped by an exquisite blue-and-white wedding ring quilt and matching pillow shams. The nightstand held a brass reading lamp and numerous prescription bottles mixed in with a forest of cheerful greeting cards. The floor was carpeted in a creamy Berber, and the pale yellow walls were hung with framed photographs of beaming, gap-toothed children as well as colorful crayon pictures drawn by childish hands. A silver bowl of potpourri on the oak bookshelf helped to mask the antiseptic smell from the hallway.
What drew my attention, though, w
as the framed and matted poster of La Fornarina above an antique writing desk. On the desk was a vase overflowing with daffodils and a faded eight-by-ten photograph of a couple. The woman looked like a middle-aged Mrs. Henderson; the man was gray-haired and leaned upon an elaborate silver cane.
“And who might you be, young lady?”
Mrs. Henderson had bone-white, tightly curled hair, and wore a high-necked lace blouse and gray wool skirt. A crocheted rainbow-colored shawl hugged her thin shoulders. Large, naturally misshapen pearl earrings hung from her earlobes, and a matching string of pearls encircled her throat. The backs of her clasped hands were dotted with liver spots, and her long, graceful fingers were manicured. A plain gold wedding band adorned her left ring finger. Mrs. Henderson appeared to be in her seventies and, except for the wheelchair she sat in, radiated good health and humor. Cloudy brown eyes sized me up.
“I’m Annie Kincaid,” I said, hovering in the tiled entry. “I’m sorry to drop in on you unannounced.”
“You aren’t planning to steal from me, are you? Kidnap me? Do evil deeds?”
“I, uh . . .”
She smiled. “Come in, come in, Ms. Kincaid. You have an honest face.”
So much for the saying “with age comes wisdom.”
She waved me into a chair at a café table graced by a hand-tatted doily and an Italian fruit bowl with two shiny Macintosh apples. On the wall next to the table a curio cabinet displayed a collection of ornate silver. I felt like a scruffy scullery maid encountering the lady of the manor.
“Tell me about yourself, Ms. Kincaid,” Mrs. Henderson said.
“I’m a faux finisher. I have a studio in San Francisco.”
“Ah, a businesswoman! Are you here to sell me something?”
“Uh, no. I’m an artist, and—”
“An artist . . . Young women these days have opportunities of which the women of my generation could scarcely dream. How I envy you, my dear.”
“It has its ups and downs”—boy, did it ever!—“but on the whole I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“That’s the spirit! Well, Ms. Kincaid, since you’re not here to pick my pocket nor to decorate my humble abode, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
I smiled and started to loosen up. Mrs. Henderson’s old-fashioned manners put me at ease. That is what ladies of the manor do when scullery maids come a-calling.
“I’m working on a project at the Chapel of the Chimes. I understand you were the director’s secretary for fifty years.”
“I was the director’s secretary for fifty-one years,” she sniffed. “I tell the girls I’ve seen more dead bodies than this place ever will, and believe you me—that’s saying something.”
“Would you mind if I asked a few questions?”
“Fire away.” She cocked her head and looked at me expectantly.
“What can you tell me about La Fornarina hanging in the Chapel of the Allegories? I see you have a poster of it here, as well.”
Mrs. Henderson grew still. “They say it’s a copy. A nineteenth-century copy by Crispin Engels.”
“Yes, that’s what I was told, as well.”
We stared at each other.
“Have you ever been to Rome, my dear, to the Barberini Palace Museum?”
“A long time ago, as a child.”
She gazed out the window. “I always loved La Fornarina. After twenty years of service, I asked to hang it in my office, and Mr. Cogswell agreed. For the next thirty years the little baker girl looked over my shoulder as I worked.”
“Is that right?”
“Thirty years. Thirty years. Longer than you’ve been alive, am I right?”
“Close enough.”
“Then one summer my husband was felled by a heart attack—high cholesterol, you know—and we had no children. Never been blessed . . .”
I was starting to get impatient, and wondered if Mrs. Henderson was as mentally alert as she had at first appeared. Where was she going with this?
“When my dear Charles died, I was at my wits’ end. I spent weeks in a dark room, wondering what to do with myself. We’d planned to travel the world when we retired, and I felt cheated by fate. I was angry, of course—angry at Charles, angry at God. Furious, to be honest.
“I realized I had two choices. I could sit around in my widow’s weeds and mourn what would never be, or I could embrace the gift of life and fulfill my dreams. So I took a leave of absence from Chapel of the Chimes and went to Europe. I spent several days in the National Gallery of Art in London, looking at its Raphael collection, then went to the Prado in Madrid, to the Louvre, and finally to Palazzo Pitti in Florence. I spent nearly a month doing nothing but drinking in Raphael’s talent.”
“It sounds wonderful,” I said.
“The last stop was Rome. For an entire week I sat on a bench in the National Gallery at the Barberini, just gazing at La Fornarina. I was there when the museum opened first thing in the morning, and had to be shooed out at the end of the day. The guards took to calling me Signore Fornarina.”
“Is that so?” I said, wondering how soon I could excuse myself and leave. Mrs. Henderson was a nice old lady, and I admired her taste in art—it seemed unlikely she’d been the one responsible for the Tim O’Neill painting in the cemetery office, for example—but it didn’t seem that she could tell me anything of interest. The thought of Cindy churned in my gut, and I felt the urge to go paint something.
“My dear, I am not losing my faculties.” Her eyes twinkled, and I blushed that she had read my thoughts. “There is a point to this story. Something was wrong with the painting.”
“With La Fornarina?”
“The very one.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“Unlike you, I’m not an artist, so I don’t know how to explain what I saw. Something about it was just—off. It seemed, I don’t know . . . modern somehow. And I wasn’t the only one who thought so.”
Now she had my attention. It was hard to describe the feeling I got when I saw a top-notch forgery, except to say that it was a gut-level certainty that something was “off.” Did Mrs. Henderson share this rare talent?
“What do you mean you weren’t the only one?”
“There was a fellow, an Italian fellow.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Anyway, it was all for naught. He went on his way, and I returned to Oakland. Still, I insisted we have the columbarium’s painting assessed a few years ago. It was determined to be a nineteenth-century copy, and the provenance was in order.”
“Do you remember who did the authentication?”
She waved a hand. “The name escapes me at the moment. It’s in the file at the columbarium.”
“The file seems to be missing. You wouldn’t happen to know where it could be?”
“It should be right there, in the main file cabinet, as always. Let me see . . . the name started with a P. Powers? Phillips? No, Pitts—something Pitts. Dreadful little man, but he came highly recommended.”
My heart sank. Trained at London’s esteemed Remington Museum, Dr. Sebastian Pitts had a long list of scholarly publications, each more pompous than the one before. Several years ago he had relocated to San Francisco’s Brock Museum and become the City’s reigning art expert. When Pitts spoke, the art world listened.
Too bad he was an idiot.
“Do you know if Dr. Pitts ran any tests on the painting?”
A timid knock on the door preceded the entrance of a petite housekeeper carrying a stack of towels; she quickly disappeared into the bathroom.
“I don’t want to talk about the little baker girl anymore,” Mrs. Henderson said with a bluntness borne of age. Silence reigned until the housekeeper departed. “What else can I help you with?”
“Are you familiar with Louis Spencer’s crypt?”
“Of course. Poor little thing died long before I started working there, but I remember his pyramid very well. Louis was Mr. Cogswell’s cousin.”
“Mr. Cogswell? You mean Roy C
ogswell?” I was math-challenged, to be sure, but the dates seemed wrong.
“Good gracious, no. Bernard Cogswell, Roy’s father. He was the director of Chapel of the Chimes for decades, long before Roy took over. Bernard and Louis Spencer were inseparable as children, I was told.” She rolled her wheelchair over to the window, where colorful pots of winter flowers bloomed, and began inspecting their leaves. “Both boys were from local Piedmont families. The way I heard it, they were playing in the cemetery one day when Louis fell in the pond and drowned, right before Bernard’s eyes. I always thought that was why Bernard pursued a career in the death business.”
“The death business? Is that what you call it?”
“I spent fifty-one years being circumspect, my dear. Do you know how many ways I know of not saying ‘dead’? The day I retired I swore, as God was my witness, never to use a euphemism again.” She pinched off a faded azalea bloom. “Death is a business like any other. Those of us who work in the industry learn to accept that—or we find another job.”
“I can imagine. Mrs. Henderson, did you ever hear anything about valuables in Louis Spencer’s crypt?”
“Oh, sure, Bernard used to say there was a fortune in those crypts, and he said he knew because of the things buried with Louis. But I think he was all talk. Just because something’s old doesn’t mean it’s valuable—just look at me.” She laughed at her joke. “Still, if you ask me, Bernard was drawn to the business in a way that wasn’t healthy. He was a very religious man, but he seemed, shall we say, enthralled by the business of laying the dead to rest. It fairly consumed his life. I wasn’t afraid to tell him so, either. Years of faithful service provide one with a degree of latitude.”
“I’ll bet he wasn’t happy to hear that.”
“Oh, he didn’t pay much attention. In those days mere secretaries—especially female secretaries—weren’t accorded much status, no matter that it was I who actually ran the place. What bothered me most, though, was what Bernard did to his boy.”
“What do you mean?”
“After his wife died, Bernard moved with his son into the caretaker’s cottage. I never understood why. It’s not as if he couldn’t afford a real home. That was no place to raise an impressionable motherless child, surrounded by graves, grief, and the rituals of death. Roy grew up to be as morbid as his father.” Mrs. Henderson rolled herself over to the bathroom and emerged with a long-spouted watering can. “As for me, I like flowers.”