by Lind, Hailey
“I was gobsmacked by the whole thing—” Gossen stammered.
“Never mind,” Dr. Dick interrupted him. “Wrong place, wrong time, eh? Come along now.”
Ever the genial host, Dr. Dick ushered Roy, Dr. Gossen, and me outside, where we huddled in the shelter of the cottage’s portico. “All the way up there?” he asked with a twinge of annoyance, as though I had suggested we park in the farthest corner of the Wal-Mart lot. “Not the nicest afternoon for a stroll, is it? Do you know, I think a little murder-suicide in the crypt by a despondent art forger might be just the ticket.”
He gestured with his weapon and the four of us started hiking. Within minutes we were soaked, and I tried to ignore the rivulet of water running down my back. I scanned the gray landscape, but though the cemetery was open for business, there wasn’t a living soul in sight. Accustomed to bright sunshine as their birthright, Californians are bewildered by bad weather, and tend to hibernate at home watching videos until the sun comes out again.
Dr. Gossen slid on the muddy asphalt path, and Roy Cogswell sniveled and wrung his hands. Neither promised to be much help engineering an escape. If we were going to get out of this alive I would have to take action. I just didn’t know what. Grandfather, I beseeched, give me some ideas here. I need your help.
Run, chérie! Vite! Hide!
I can’t, Grandfather. He’ll destroy the painting.
No painting is worth your life, Annie! Not even one by ze great Raphael. I will paint you another, but run!
He’ll shoot me, Grandfather.
Zen talk to ’im, chérie. Let ’im know zat you are a person, not an object to shoot.
“Dr. Dick,” I said. “You don’t really want to hurt anyone, do you? Why don’t you take the painting and go? It’s worth a fortune, you know.”
“You think I want the painting? I just didn’t want my old cousin Roy here to use it to stop our housing project. I’ll return it to the Barberini Palace, where it belongs.”
“That’s very admirable,” I said, trying to resurrect the camaraderie we’d enjoyed over coffee and scotch a lifetime ago. “Really.”
He gave me a crooked, raffish smile. The rain had plastered his silvering hair to his head, but he was still a good-looking man. Were it not for the fevered glint in his eye, and the fact that he was pointing a gun at me, he might have been a charming escort.
“And if I let you go you’ll promise not to say anything, is that it?” He laughed. “You’ll keep quiet about Cindy and Henderson and Russell?”
“Of course I will. What . . . what did you do to Mrs. Henderson?”
“The nosy old broad was renewing her questions about La Fornarina’s authenticity, and blabbing it to the world in her biography. Cindy told her darling Billy all about what she had learned from the old lady, and Billy mentioned it to me. Henderson urged Cindy to hide the painting, but the girl refused to tell me where, so I gave her a few medications to keep her quiet for good. Then I went to the retirement home, where I blended right in. No one questions a doctor in a white coat. I simply gave Henderson a quick shot of a placebo in place of her insulin, and readjusted the calibration on her glucometer so she went into a diabetic coma. One great thing about knowing how to save lives is that you also learn how easy it is to take them.”
“That’s horrifying.”
He shrugged. “Now do you see why I don’t think you’ll keep your mouth shut?”
Oops. “Sure I will.”
“I’ve been lied to by plenty of patients, Annie. I know when someone’s telling me the truth and you, my dear, are fibbing.”
Dr. Dick might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid.
“Were you the one who trashed my apartment?” I asked, hoping to keep him talking.
“I’m surprised you could tell,” Dr. Dick said in a disapprovingtone. “Really, my dear, you should tidy up more often. Your apartment was a mess.”
“I like it that way.”
“One of your kind neighbors let your ‘uncle’ in the building’s front door, and then I simply picked the lock. Young women should be more careful. I needed to know what you were up to. You’re awfully curious for a faux finisher.”
“We’re like that.”
“It’s a pity,” he said ominously.
Our soggy foursome slogged its way up the hill. I spied the stack of Civil War cannonballs and flirted with the notion of clonking Dick on the head with one, but couldn’t figure out how to distract him long enough to pry one loose from its mortar. I imagined myself kneeling in the mud pawing at the cannonballs while Dr. Dick blew me away.
“Annie, take comfort from the fact that you will go to your heavenly reward knowing a priceless masterpiece has been saved. It will be discovered with your bodies, and repatriated to Italy where it belongs.”
What a dick.
As we neared the crest of the hill I thought I saw something move. But the clouds were low and visibility was poor, and try as I might I could make out nothing more inspiring than silent, stone angels.
All of a sudden a large brown head popped up from behind the Gandolfi family monument. Pete! My friend gestured incoherently and ducked back down as Dr. Dick whirled around. He eyed me with suspicion and I tried to look defeated. It wasn’t much of a stretch.
“Where is it?” Dr. Dick demanded.
“A little farther,” I said, remembering that Pete had planned to meet his mother, Evangeline, his cousin Catiz, and assorted Bosnian relatives to work in the cemetery today. If I could stall Dr. Dick for a few more minutes we might get out of this alive.
Over the pouring rain and the rumble of thunder I thought I heard a car approaching. A big white truck emerged from a rain cloud, sped up the hill, crossed a patch of grass, and slid to a halt on the hill above us. Billy Mudd jumped out of the cab.
Dammit! The odds were bad enough before, but with Billy here—
“Dick, you piece of shit,” Billy snarled.
Dr. Dick aimed the gun at him, and grabbed me by the arm. “Stay out of this, Billy. I’ve got everything under control.”
“Like hell you do. Let these folks go. This has gone far enough.”
Well, who knew? The Evil Developer had a conscience after all.
I had hoped Dr. Gossen and Roy would seize the moment to escape, but both men were rooted in place, gawking. One would think they’d never been kidnapped at gunpoint before.
“We’re on the same side, Billy,” Dick said in a soothing “there, there, Doctor’ll make it all better” voice. “Go home and let me take care of this. I’ll call you later.”
“Dick—”
“We’ve got a lot of money wrapped up in this project, Billy, and so far your role has been on the up-and-up. It would be a shame for you to be implicated in this.”
Billy seemed to hesitate.
“Ask him about Cindy Tanaka, Billy,” I said.
“What about her?” Billy replied.
“She didn’t kill herself—” A pistol jammed into my side and I fell silent.
“Shut up!” Dr. Dick screamed. “Shut up or I’ll—”
A pot of plastic flowers flew past his head, and Dick swung around and started firing wildly at fog-shrouded memorials.
“Take cover!” I yelled, and wrenching my arm from Dr. Dick’s grip I dove behind Billy’s truck. Dr. Gossen and Roy scrambled to join me, Billy jumped behind a headstone shaped like a weeping willow, and Dr. Dick staggered under a barrage of stones, sticks, dead flower arrangements, a pair of pruning shears, a broken rake, several sprinkler heads, a Mr. Igloo cooler, and at least three pairs of athletic shoes. I could have sworn a Civil War-era cannonball or two sailed past. Only the fact that none of my Bosnian friends had grown up playing America’s favorite pastime saved Dr. Dick from severe head trauma.
I heard a rumbling sound, and in the blink of an eye part of the path and hillside gave way with a great whoosh. Billy’s truck creaked and groaned before rolling onto its side, wiping out several small headstones and clipping Billy,
who clutched at the grass briefly until the truck started sliding downhill, dragging him with it. I heard Dr. Dick laughing until the ground collapsed beneath him and he too was carried along as the mud slide picked up momentum. For a split second I thought Dr. Gossen, Roy, and I would be spared, but a sudden jolt beneath us had us slipping and sliding, groping and grasping. As we tumbled down the hill I grabbed for something solid, digging my nails into a man’s skinny leg and getting clocked in the mouth by someone’s elbow. We slid ten, twenty, thirty feet. Everything was dark and wet, so slippery that it was impossible to gain purchase as rocks and stumps, branches and headstones plunged down the steep hillside, creating a solid wall of mud. I felt myself doing somersaults and couldn’t tell which end was up, so I concentrated on holding my breath and trying not to panic. As they said in the ’70s, go with the flow.
After what seemed like an eternity the slide slowed and finally stopped. I scraped the mud from my eyes, spat out a mouthful of muck, and took a deep breath. We had been depositedat the bottom of the hill, near the main cemetery gates. Flailing around and trying to stand up, I felt a mass of sludge settle in the rear of my overalls and tried not to think of the graveyard effluvia that encased me. The clinging mud made it hard to move, so I rested for a moment and took in the scene. Billy’s truck was lodged at the base of a large oak tree, and on the edge of the slide zone I saw Helena run out of the cottage and take a swing at Mama Pete, who ducked and started walloping the docent about the head and shoulders with a muddy bouquet of plastic daisies. I heard Pete and Evangeline calling my name, but hesitated to reply in case Dr. Dick was near, prepared to shoot me for the sheer joy of it.
Ah, chérie! You are fine, non?
Yes, Grandfather. For the moment, anyway.
Quel soulagement! And ze Raphael?
Merde! I plunged my arms into the lake of mud, searching for the cardboard tube containing the precious painting. A few yards away Dr. Gossen sat shaking his head and looking befuddled. Rain had washed the mud from the professor’s face, and the paleness shone in the dim light.
“Are you hurt?” I called out.
He shook his mud-caked head.
“Help me, then! We need to find the tube with the painting!”
We crawled around the slide zone, feeling for the tube.
“I found something!” he shouted.
I slithered toward him and together we excavated it. It wasn’t the cardboard tube. It was an arm.
I did a quick head count. Billy Mudd was resting near his truck, Roy Cogswell was being assaulted by an outraged Bosnian mother, and Dr. Gossen was with me. The arm belonged either to a disinterred body or to Dr. Dick.
“Annie!”
“Pete! Over here!” I called. He, Evangeline, and Catiz slogged through the muck and helped us dig out the body.
“You hokay, Annie?” Evangeline asked, her mild blue eyes worried.
“I’m fine, thanks. I’m so glad you guys were here.”
“No kiddin’. We was about to leave ’cause of the rain, but we thought we’d wait and see if it cleared up. Whoa! This guy’s a goner, ya ask me.”
“Dick!” I heard Helena scream. “My darling Dick!”
“Did you call 911?” I shouted, but she ignored me and ran full-throttle toward us, fell to her knees, and started pawing through the mud.
“We need something to dig with,” I said to Pete.
“We will get.” Pete spoke rapidly to Catiz, who sent a hovering cousin to fetch the tools the Bosnians had brought to clean up Potter’s Field. With the aid of shovels and trowels we unearthed Dr. Dick. Helena threw herself on him, sobbing, and I pushed her aside to see if he was alive. I thought I felt a thready pulse but he was unconscious.
“Get help!” I said, and as Pete bounded off toward the cemetery office I turned on Helena. “Now don’t you wish you’d called 911?” It was a cheap shot, but considering her beloved husband had intended to murder me—with her endorsement—I thought I was entitled.
“Everyone! Listen up! This is extremely important. We’re looking for a cardboard tube, the kind posters come in. It’s got to be around here somewhere.”
Leaving Dr. Dick to the ministrations of his beloved Helena, the rest of us fanned out across the slide zone to search for the missing Raphael. I felt a tightening in my chest, which meant either I’d inhaled a lot of mud or I was starting to panic. Even if we found the painting, the odds of being able to restore the damage wrought by tons of mud and graveyard debris seemed overwhelming.
“I’ve got it!” Billy yelled, holding up a muddy tube. “It landed in the cab of my truck.”
Bien fait, chérie, my grandfather whispered. Ze great Raphael would zank you eef ’e could.
“Jeee-sus, wouldja get a look at my truck?” Billy muttered as we sat on a bench outside the columbarium.
After giving my statement to a bone-weary Detective Hucles, I had called Frank from the office. He arrived in an armored car and whisked La Fornarina away, promising to take it straight to Donato Sandino at the Getty Museum. The Italian fake buster would unleash the battery of restoration skills he’d mastered during the Arno River flood to repair any damage Raphael’s masterpiece may have sustained.
I watched Pete, Mama Pete, Evangeline, Catiz, and several other cousins gesticulating energetically as they gave their statements, and wondered if the cops would be able to figure it all out. An ambulance escorted by a squad car had taken Dr. Dick and Helena away. Dr. Dick was alive but just barely, and I’d heard the EMTs puzzling over the terrible third-degree burn on his thigh. The vial of sulfuric acid must have been crushed during the mud slide. Let that be a lesson to you, Dr. Dick, I thought. Nobody messes with the little baker girl.
Miss Ivy, who’d had the presence of mind to call the fire and rescue squads when she heard the hillside give way, was distributing warm blankets and mugs of steaming coffee. It wasn’t Peet’s, but at the moment it was manna from heaven.
It was still raining, but at this point clean water could only help the situation. The straps and bib of my overalls sagged, and the mud-filled pants rode low on my hips. I’d been trying to scoop the muck out of them, but this proved hard to do and still remain a lady.
A flatbed truck rolled by, hauling the contorted mess that used to be Billy’s pickup.
“I’ll bet your insurance covers it,” I said. “You know, mud slides, acts of God . . .”
Mudd glared at me with a baleful expression.
“I have to confess that I was surprised when you came to our rescue, Billy. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I never pictured you as one of the good guys.”
He shook his head. “Cindy and I met here, you know, when she was photographing some of the crypts. I know it’s kind of weird, but sometimes I just sit in this cemetery, and enjoy the peace and quiet.” He paused and his voice lowered. “I thought Cindy killed herself because of me. Because of us. I’ve got a wife and kids. What the hell was I thinking?”
That Cindy was young and pretty and adoring?
“Never again,” Billy said, his chin thrust out. “It’s the straight and narrow for me from now on.”
I was skeptical, but who was I to say? I’d read that Fatal Attraction had driven an entire generation of philanderers into temporary fidelity. If a movie could inspire better behavior in an audience, then perhaps the murder of a young woman could reform Billy’s character.
“You couldn’t have known what Dr. Dick was up to, Billy,” I said. “He fooled all of us.”
“Maybe so. But I’ll never know, will I? And Cindy paid the price for my mistakes.”
There wasn’t much to say to that, so we watched the crowd begin to disperse and the squad cars leave. One of the cops signaled that we could go.
“Well,” Billy sighed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an appointment with a marriage counselor.”
Now that it was safe to return to my apartment, I was looking forward to a long, hot shower. Assuming hot water was available. At this point, I�
��d settle for a long, cold shower. Anything to remove this clinging mud.
I was searching my bag for my truck keys when Michael approached, twirling a huge yellow-and-black-striped umbrella on his shoulder. He was dry and gorgeous and smelled as delicious as ever. He lifted one foot onto the bench and leaned on his knee.
“This is probably an inappropriate thing to say, under the circumstances, but that wet T-shirt you’re wearing is making me hot.”
“You’re incorrigible,” I said with a reluctant smile. “How did you know I was here?”
“The mud slide’s been all over the news. I figured if there was a natural disaster you had to be involved.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Plus, Frank called. He asked me to tell you that Sandino’s crew is at LAX waiting for him to arrive with the painting. They’re as eager as a heart transplant team.”
I smiled, relieved. Now that Sandino had the original Raphael, both the painting and my grandfather were safe. For the moment anyway.
“The Italians are offering a nice reward for the relatively safe return of their national treasure. You can afford to go hang out on a beach in Hawaii for a while, see how much trouble you can get into amidst coconut oil and mai tais,” Michael said.
“Loitering in the Louvre is more my style,” I replied. “But any reward money should go to the columbarium. They were the ones who kept the Raphael secure all these years, and they need the cash to preserve Potter’s Field.”
“You did good work, Annie,” Michael said. “I’ll make sure the right people know.”
“We were lucky,” I said, shuddering at the memory of Raphael’s great masterpiece buried beneath tons of mud, degrading by the soggy second. “It was nearly destroyed.”
“As your illustrious grandfather is fond of saying, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. If not for your quick thinking, who knows what might have happened.”
“Dr. Dick said he was going to give it back to the museum.”
“And you’re taking the word of a homicidal doctor?”
“I guess you’re right.”