Brush With Death

by Lind, Hailey

  Oh yeah. Also, Josh and I were an item. Geez, I kept forgetting. That man better get home soon or fit me with a chastity belt.

  Slipping into the bathroom down the hall, I took a hot shower and scrubbed myself raw. I had to put my dirty clothes back on afterward, but it was better than nothing. I covered the couch with the soft cotton sheets, spread out the blanket, and lay down. The pillow was soft and smelled like Frank, and I snuggled into it. It was much better this way, I told myself as I closed my eyes. But goodness, could that boy kiss.

  The next thing I knew soft light was streaming through the large living room windows and the clock on the mantel read 6:17. A host of heretofore unheard-from muscles made known their existence, and when I rolled over my knee barked at me. Walking gingerly around the living room loosened it up, but it still grumbled.

  Last night Frank said he wanted to Talk. But Talking led to Languaging, and no matter how long I lived near New Age Berkeley, I would never be any good at it. That threat alone was enough to scare me out of bed at the crack of dawn. I wrapped some pizza slices in a paper towel and tip-toed out of the apartment.

  I pressed the elevator button, and after a moment the doors slid open to reveal a fiftyish woman in a fur coat, wearing too much perfume and holding a yappy dog. I limped onto the elevator and smiled, but she wouldn’t stop staring.

  “Rough night,” I said, taking a big bite of pizza and watching the numbers flash as we zoomed down ten floors. “But he pays well.”

  Chapter 18

  Iron rusts from disuse, stagnant water loses its purity, and in cold weather becomes frozen; even so does inaction sap the vigors of the mind.

  —Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), Italian painter and inventor

  Use it or lose it. —Georges LeFleur

  I stopped at a café on Chestnut, washed up in the bathroom, ordered a coffee with a shot of espresso, and nursed it for an hour while I perused the local rags. The “Advice from the Sexpert” column was conducting a lively debate on whether or not men could be lesbians. I read both sides and considered the issue. In true Bay Area fashion, the consensus was that men had the right to be lesbians even though they couldn’t be lesbians.

  I ordered another coffee to go, stopped at a doughnut shop to pick out a couple of dozen, and ate an old-fashioned on the way to Aaron Garner’s house renovation. It wasn’t yet eight in the morning and the job site was in full swing. Construction workers were early risers, and say what one might about Norm, the man knew how to run a crew.

  I found Norm arguing with Ethan Mayall at the soon-to-bekitchen counter. The architect wore a lamb’s-wool sweater, pressed khakis, and brown penny loafers while Norm’s ripped jeans were just this side of indecent and his T-shirt read NO, I DON’T HAVE A MOOD DISORDER. I JUST HATE THIS *&%$(#* RAIN! The air between the two men crackled with tension.

  “Doughnuts!” I called out. If carbs, fat, and sugar couldn’t defuse a situation, nothing could.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Norm growled, cramming a glazed doughnut into his mouth and masticating vigorously.

  “You’re supposed to ignore my appearance, like Ethan here.”

  “Wasn’t some guy, was it? ’Cause I don’t hold with that sort of thing.”

  “Nothing like that, just clumsy.” I reminded myself to call the hospital and check on Curly Top. “Doughnut, Ethan?”

  “I’m watching my weight,” he said and patted his concave stomach. “I gained half a pound last weekend at the Napa Valley Wine Festival.”

  Norm and I glared at him until he took a doughnut.

  “Are you working with Billy Mudd on a development near Bayview Cemetery?” I asked.

  Ethan choked on a chocolate candy sprinkle. “That’s confidential.”

  “Listen, shit-for-brains.” Norm loomed over him. “The lady asked nicely, so either you tell her what she wants to know or you’re gonna need a court order to get my size-fourteen work boot outta your ass.”

  I stared at Norm. He shrugged.

  Ethan crumbled. “I, uh, yes, I am. Working with Billy Mudd, I mean.”

  “What’s the big secret?” I asked.

  “Aaron Garner said to keep it confidential. And Billy Mudd threatened to beat me up.”

  “Nice,” Norm said without a trace of irony.

  “But why would Aaron—”

  “Why don’t you ask me yourself?” Aaron Garner appeared behind us, his elaborate comb-over undulating in the breeze from the open window. Ethan, Norm, and I tried not to stare.

  “I didn’t realize you were back, Aaron,” I said. “How was your trip?”

  “Splendid, just splendid. Josh is staying a few more days to be sure the project gets off to a good start. Now, if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, I’d like a word with Annie.” He ushered me down the back stairs to the garden. “Norm tells me you found some fantastic old headstones.”

  “Ricardo and his crew dug them up.”

  “What a find. I’m thinking of funding an institute on the history of Bay Area cemeteries. Does that sound too gruesome?”

  “Not at all,” I said, wishing my hero Norm were with us. I led the way into the narrow alley lined with old marble gravestones.

  “You’ve been a busy girl,” Aaron said softly from behind me. “Seems you’ve discovered my little secret. I hired Ethan to design a housing development inspired by the art of Tim O’Neill.”

  I turned to face him. “Where?”

  “Near Bayview Cemetery.”

  “Near or on?”

  “On unused cemetery land.”

  “Are you referring to Potter’s Field?”

  “Annie, those graves have been abandoned for decades, a century even.”

  “But, Aaron, the cemetery is part of Oakland’s history.”

  “Don’t be a naïf, Annie. Need I remind you that the San Francisco Bay Area is the most expensive housing market in the nation? That land isn’t being used and the cemetery needs the money. If I don’t develop it, someone who cares less about historical preservation will.”

  “Then why is it a secret?”

  “Because as soon as the word gets out, the history buffs and tree huggers will launch their protests. Listen, Annie, I’m offering to fund a historical project. Perhaps it could even be a part of Chapel of the Chimes. I’d put you in charge, pay you a generous wage.”

  “I don’t know the first thing about cemeteries, Aaron. If you’re serious about the project you should consider hiring Russell, he’s the expert.”

  “Who?”

  “Russell, from Bayview Cemetery? He was here looking at the headstones?”

  “Oh, right. Helena recommended him. To tell you the truth, I find her fascination with that cemetery rather morbid. She hasn’t been the same since our boy, Chad, died.”

  “I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”

  “It was my fault. Chad and I argued, and he stormed out.

  He drove too fast, and . . .” Garner shook his head. “Helena blamed me, too, and our marriage never recovered. All she wants is a home overlooking her son’s grave. Is that too much to ask?”

  “It is if it means destroying other peoples’ graves. There are loved ones in Potter’s Field, Aaron.”

  “No one cares about them! My son died there. Crashed through the fence at the top of the hill!” His face reddened in anger. “If his grieving mother wants a house there, by God she’ll get one!”

  “Whatever you say, Aaron. Good to see you again.” I pivoted and hurried down the narrow, gravestone-lined alley.

  “Frank.”

  His shoulders twitched as he stood with his back to me, searching through the top drawer of his office filing cabinet.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “Mmmpht.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’m doing much better, myself.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Cat got your tongue? Or was it a hair of the dog?”

  Frank turned to face me. “What, not even a hello this morning?�
��

  “No time for that.”

  “For a hello?”

  “For a Talk. No time for Talking or Languaging.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My point exactly. Do you know Aaron Garner?”

  “Who do you think recommended you for the job that’s kept you solvent lately?”

  “What are you talking about? I knew Garner from the Save the Fox Theater campaign. I even recommended he hire Josh.”

  “I know. And Aaron asked if I’d vouch for you both.”

  “He did?”

  “I was happy to do it. You’re an excellent artist, and Josh seems like a good man, even though—never mind.”

  “Never mind what? Out with it.”

  “He’s not the right man for you.” Frank’s dark eyes held mine for a beat too long, and I flashed on the memory of his mouth on mine. I took a deep breath and looked away.

  “Is Garner a good person?” I asked.

  “He’s a sharp businessman, and on the whole I’d say he’s decent as long as you’re not married to him. Why?”

  “When you say ‘as long as you’re not married to him’ do you mean in the sense that he cheats on his wives, or in the sense that he kills people and buries the bodies in the basement?”

  Frank slammed the file drawer shut. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “There are some odd goings-on at Bayview Cemetery. And I’ve just learned that Garner’s planning to develop the portion of the cemetery known as Potter’s Field because those residents don’t own their land.”

  “What residents?”

  “Bodies, whatever. It’s what they’re called.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, a graduate student I met there died, a cemetery employee is in the hospital, and the columbarium’s retired secretary is in a diabetic coma.”

  “And you think one of the City’s most illustrious citizens had something to do with all that? Annie, I wouldn’t want Aaron Garner to marry my sister, but I rather doubt he’s murdered anyone or engineered a diabetic coma. I don’t think he’d even know how.”

  “All right, different subject. You know Sandino believes me about the Raphael.”

  Frank crossed his arms. “If he does, he’s the only one.”

  “Have your art squad friends turned up anything on a forgery of La Fornarina?”

  “Not so far. Are you suggesting the painting is connected to these other events?”

  “I don’t know. But Cindy Tanaka—”

  “Who?”

  “The Berkeley grad student who died. Cindy had just sent paint flakes and threads from the columbarium’s copy of La Fornarina to a lab to be analyzed. The results fit the painting’s sixteenth-century origin.”

  “Really?” He cocked his head and looked intrigued. “Who did the analysis?”

  “Dr., uh, Brianna Something.”

  “Dr. Brianna Something?”

  “The last name escapes me.”

  “What lab does Dr. Brianna Something work at?”

  Busted. “Okay, she’s a chemistry graduate student. But these tests aren’t rocket science.”

  Frank ran a hand through his hair. “You’d damned well better be sure of what you’re saying if you expect me to bring it to Interpol.”

  “Look, Frank, about last night—”

  “Don’t you dare bring last night into this discussion,” Frank barked. “Either we’re talking about art crime or we’re talking about the two of us taking this relationship to another level. We are not mixing those two topics. Ever.”

  “Frank,” I said quietly. “You know who my grandfather is.”

  After a moment Frank let out a rueful chuckle and shook his head. “Don’t I just? All right, get me the test results from your Dr. Brianna Something and I’ll take it to the authorities.”

  “Will do!”

  “But, Annie, a favor? Make sure your grandfather and I never meet.”

  “I think that would be best,” I said, gave him a smile, and turned to leave.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Frank said, grasping my arm and turning me to face him. He cupped the back of my head in one hand and gripped my waist with the other. His kiss was slow and thorough and very, very sexy.

  After a long moment Frank lifted his head and ran his thumb across my bottom lip.

  I tried to remember how to breathe.

  “Just wanted to make sure last night wasn’t a fluke. You’d better have a talk with Josh. Tell him it’s over.”

  Somehow I made it up the stairs to my studio, where I found a note from Mary indicating that she wouldn’t be in today due to some Goth event. Having spent a night in the cemetery, Mary was now pink-worthy, and she thanked the gang effusively:

  I am really touched, you guys, and not in a touched-by-a-perv-on-BART kind of way. You’re such effin’ angels to support me in my time of need!! I l*o*v*e you guys!!!

  I added the note to the collection of Maryisms tacked to the bulletin board.

  This was good, I thought. I could use some time alone. Since yesterday two people I knew had landed in the hospital, I had found semi-sort-of proof that a sixteenth-century masterpiece was floating around somewhere, and my handsome, by-the-book landlord had kissed me. Twice.

  I called Summit Medical Center and received the welcome news that Mrs. Henderson had rebounded and was doing well. When I asked about Russell I realized I couldn’t remember his last name, and figured “Curly Top” wouldn’t be much help. The candy striper I spoke with was unable or unwilling to help, so I crossed my fingers for Russell’s speedy recovery and decided to check on his status later with the grand pooh-bah of gossip, Miss Ivy.

  As I reached for my apron, I realized I was still wearing the torn blouse and skirt, which were not improved by having been slept in. My trusty painting overalls were still clammy from yesterday’s downpour, and I’d neglected to replenish the clothes in the armoire. Since Samantha never arrived at her studio before ten, I called and asked her to bring me something to wear.

  At last I settled in to put the finishing touches to the Design Center curtain rods. I cleaned off stray gold and silver leaf, checked to be sure the glazes had been applied evenly, softened the antiquing effect by buffing lightly with steel wool, and started inspecting each and every one of the five hundred wooden curtain rings.

  Samantha showed up an hour later with a colorful muumuu concoction that looked regal on her but downright silly on me. She insisted the outfit was an old one and that I should feel free to splatter it with paint. As I slipped it on, I caught a subtle whiff of patchouli, a scent I associated with Sam and warm friendship, and it lifted my spirits.

  I returned a few phone calls, updated my calendar, and wrote Josh an e-mail on the progress of Aaron Garner’s house renovation. As I finished the business report I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Should I tell Josh what had been going on at the cemetery and columbarium? Should I break up with him? Should I chuck it all and join my grandfather in his game of international hide-and-seek with Interpol?

  I typed Hugs, Annie, and signed off.

  Wrapped in my floaty muumuu cocoon, I shuffled over to the velvet couch and took a nap, woke up forty minutes later groggy and combative, took advantage of a pause in the rain to walk to a deli for a turkey-and-Napa-mustard sandwich, ate half of it, and spent the rest of the afternoon sketching drawings for a mural that would transform a mortgage broker’s office into a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean. Why a mortgage broker wanted to remind his clients that they were being robbed by high interest rates was beyond me, but I had to hand it to him—there weren’t a lot of brokers with such imagination.

  At seven, I ate the other half of my sandwich while mulling over the New York Times crossword puzzle and listening to an NPR report on mud slides in the Santa Cruz Mountains, and avoided thinking about Frank. By nine I had caught up on my paperwork—a rare occurrence—inventoried the painting supplies, and straightened
up the studio. I had even cleaned the innards of the espresso machine with a vinegar-and-water solution, the way you’re supposed to but I never had.

  By nine thirty my desk was clear, the drawings were finished, and the studio sparkled. Only one thing remained: admit that I was afraid to go home. I was scared in a different way to drop in on Frank again, and I wasn’t up for a serious discussion with Samantha or for dealing with Bryan’s boundless enthusiasm. Coping with Mary’s Goth-and-musician-filled apartment was never an option. So I took a fleece blanket out of the steamer chest. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d spent the night in the studio.

  But it was the first time I’d awakened with a hand over my mouth.

  Chapter 19

  The buildings will be my legacy. They will speak for me long after I’m gone. . . .

  —Julia Morgan (1872-1957), American architect

  An artist creates something from nothing, nurtures it lovingly, and when it is complete sets it free to follow its destiny. I have tried many times to explain this to the FBI. —Georges LeFleur

  I bit it.

  “Ow! Not nice, sweetheart.”

  “Michael, what the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded and sat up. “What are you doing?”

  “I just didn’t want you to scream,” he said, shaking his injured hand. “Why are you sleeping in your studio?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “I felt like it.”

  “Afraid to go home, huh?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Michael shrugged. “Why aren’t you at your boyfriend’s?”

  “Josh is out of town.”

  “I was referring to Frank DeBenton. What’s going on between you two?”

  “How did you know I was at Frank’s last night? Are you spying on me?”

  “It’s my job to know such things.”