by Betsy Draine
“Try it on for me. You’re Mom’s size,” she said, draping it over my shoulders. It was just the right length to cover the arms on a cold day and yet short enough to wear scarf-style under a coat. And the texture was soft.
“What about cleaning?” I wondered. I drew the shawl off my shoulders and looked for the tag. It was handwritten. On one side were the price and the directions “Hand wash, cold. Block and hang dry.” The other side said, “Sonoma lambs wool, hand dyed and woven by Rose Cassini, Cazadero,” with her address.
“Something wrong?” asked Angie. “Does it have to be dry-cleaned? Mom hates that.”
“No. It’s just that I know the person who made this. Toby and I talked to her the other day. She’s the woman who originally owned the icon that Charlie bought, the one that was stolen from the shop.”
“Yikes. Bad karma?”
“I don’t think so. She seems like a really good person. You’d like her.”
“Because?”
“She’s strong and independent, a weaver living alone in her late sixties. When she was young she was a protester against the nuclear plant on Bodega Head. Then she fell in love, and when her sweetheart died—he’s the one who gave her the icon—she retreated to Cazadero. It’s a tiny, isolated hamlet way off in the boonies, inland from here. She’s spent her whole life making beautiful things there.”
“Well, that sounds romantic enough for Mom. I’m buying it.” Angie took the shawl from me and headed for the counter. I stayed behind, fingering through the other shawls that Rose had for sale there—beautiful, every one. We soon had the gift package stashed in my car, and we walked around to the back of the complex to Toby’s shop. As usual when he’s open for business, the front door was ajar. I thought I heard someone talking.
Inside Toby and Andrew Federenco were standing beside the large oak dining-room table. Federenco was rocking back and forth, his left hand cupped atop his right, which pressed down on his cane. Toby’s posture was stiff. “We were just talking about the break-in at our house. Mr. Federenco thinks he’s being harassed.”
Federenco acknowledged our entrance with a nod and turned back to Toby. “So it wasn’t you who suggested I be interviewed about it?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Angie came over. Toby introduced her, and she drifted away.
“Look, if you’re here to complain,” Toby continued, but Federenco cut him off.
“That’s not why I came. I’m here to warn you. The sheriff knows I’m looking for an icon that by rights belongs to me. Your partner had it. Now he’s dead, and someone’s broken into your home. You may be in danger.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t have a name, but someone else has been making inquiries. I’ve talked to other dealers.”
“A Russian? Someone speaking with a Russian accent?”
Federenco’s eyes narrowed. “Possibly. Have you met such a person?”
“You might say we had a run-in,” Toby observed dryly, “or more precisely, he almost ran into us.” Toby paused for effect. “He’s dead.”
I studied Andrew Federenco’s face as he absorbed this news. His shock seemed genuine. “What?”
“He’s dead,” Toby repeated. “He was following us home from Fort Ross and almost drove us off the road. But he went over the rail instead. It happened Saturday.”
“My God!” exclaimed Federenco. “I read about a crash but had no idea you were involved. The paper didn’t give names. Who was he?”
“You don’t know?” I asked pointedly.
“No, why should I? Do you?”
“According to the deputy sheriff, his name was Ivan Mikovitch. Does that ring a bell?” Again I observed Federenco’s reaction, trying to test whether he was hiding something.
He took a moment to reply. “I’ve heard the name. He’s connected to the Russian mafia, a circle of art thieves and extortionists.”
“How do you know him?” I pressed.
“I don’t know him. I said I’ve heard the name. When you’re a collector and you follow the trade, you hear these things.”
“I see.” It was hard to read his face.
“Now, may I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead,” I replied.
“What were you doing in Fort Ross?”
Was there any reason not to tell him? “To be honest, I was interested in finding out more about your family.”
“Oh, really?”
I explained how my research into the icon that Charlie bought led me eventually to his ancestor Andreyev Federenco’s memoir, which he himself had donated to the Fort Ross Interpretive Association in 1972.
When I finished, his face bore a bemused expression. “Well, that was clever of you. And did you find his life story of interest?”
“Very much so,” I said. “I’ve been wondering how the icon came into the possession of your family.”
“It was given to one of my ancestors by a pious monk in the seventeenth century. It was a reward for his work in helping build a cathedral.”
“And how did the tradition start of passing the icon down from son to son?”
“It was that way from the beginning.”
“Then why was the chain of inheritance broken? As I understand it, the icon was supposed to go to the eldest son of the eldest son.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“So when Andreyev died, the icon passed to his son, Vladimir.”
“My grandfather, yes.”
“But when Vladimir died, the icon didn’t go to Feodor, but rather to Boris.”
“My uncle. That’s so.”
“But your father was the elder brother, so why—?”
“Because my father wavered in his faith. As far as my grandfather was concerned, he was an atheist. That isn’t exactly the case. What happened was that my father wanted to go back to Russia after the 1917 revolution, in sympathy with the Communists. Grandfather prevented him, which made him bitter. They fought about it all their lives. But since my father had left the church, my grandfather willed the icon to his younger son, my uncle, breaking the family tradition.”
“So that’s how your cousin got the icon.”
“Yes, my uncle died young, and Peter inherited it. But that never should have happened. So now you understand why my side of the family has a claim to ownership.”
“But it wasn’t until that story appeared in the newspaper in 1962 that you went after your cousin. That was because the article suggested the triptych might be extremely valuable. Am I right?”
“I never ‘went after’ Peter, to use your words, but the family did put pressure on me to try to work out a sharing arrangement with Peter. I suppose that was prompted by the publicity. For me, it was never a matter of money. It still isn’t. I have no idea what the icon may be worth. Its value for me is its heritage. I don’t care if it’s not worth ten dollars, I want it back.”
This speech was delivered with such passion that I was tempted to believe it. Toby, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, looked dubious.
“You know, I lost my wife two years ago,” Andrew Federenco continued. “Since then I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’ve done with my life and what I’ll be able to leave to my children. I want to succeed where my father failed. It’s important to me to recover the triptych or whatever’s left of it, and to see that it goes rightfully to Nicholas, my son, and that his children and theirs have the chance to venerate it. So again, I’m asking for your help.”
Toby didn’t reply.
“Can you tell me if there have been any developments? Are you any closer to locating what we’re both looking for?”
“Not really,” said Toby, on his guard.
“As I told you before, I’m prepared to offer a substantial reward for the recovery of that icon. That’s another reason why I’m here.”
Toby thanked him for the offer. “We’ll keep it in mind. By the same token, if you come up with any information that might help us or the sheri
ff, you’ll share it, won’t you?”
At the mention of the sheriff, Federenco stiffened. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, echoing Toby’s words with his fingers raised and curled in air quotes. He had decided to disengage. “Nice meeting you,” he called in Angie’s direction. She was sitting at the other end of the gallery, reading.
“You, too,” said Angie, looking up from her magazine.
With that, he turned and left.
Obviously, he was fishing for leads,” said Toby. “He seemed surprised to find out about the Russian, but that could have been an act. How do we know they weren’t working together?”
“Do you think that’s likely?”
“I’m not sure what to make of him, to tell you the truth. What’s your read?”
“He can be persuasive. But I don’t buy that ‘I don’t care about the money, it’s all about the family’ line, do you?”
“Not for a minute.”
Angie walked over to us, and Toby turned his attention to the oak dining table he was standing next to. “Nora, could you give me a hand with this? I was trying to open it when he came in. It seems to be stuck.”
“Sure. Isn’t this the table that Charlie brought into the gallery? The one that Tom Keogh claims belongs to him?”
“Yeah, it is. Since the funeral, I’ve been thinking that I don’t want to fight with Tom about Charlie’s inventory. If it’s so important to him to get the table and desk and a few other things back, then, what the hell. He can have them.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.”
“Yeah. So I was checking this table out. It has a storage space for leaves in its undercarriage, but I’m having trouble getting it open. It takes two people, so just grab it like this and pull when I tell you to.”
“Okay.” I followed Toby’s example and grasped the underside of my end of the table and gave it a tug when he said to pull. Nothing happened.
“I’ve opened the release on my side. See if there’s another release on your side,” he said.
“What am I looking for?”
“A small iron lever underneath. You should be able to feel it with your fingertips.”
“Nope, I don’t think so.”
He came around and checked himself. “You’re right.” He ducked his head under the table. “There’s just the one release on my side and it’s open. Let’s try again.” He resumed his stance at his end. “Ready? Go.”
We both tugged, and the table lifted an inch off the floor on Toby’s side, but it remained stuck.
“Let me give it a try,” said Angie. I yielded my place to her. Angie is seriously buff.
“Hard this time,” instructed Toby. “On three. One. Two. Three. Pull!”
There was a loud crack, and the two halves of the table slid apart. “You did it!” I clapped Angie on the back. Then I followed Toby’s gaze. He was staring at the open compartment. Nestled between the railings of the undercarriage was a package encased in bubble wrap. That’s what had caused the jam. My heart raced. Was it possible?
Toby gently detached the package from its hiding place. One corner of it, where the bubble wrap had torn, had been crushed by the attempt to free the table mechanism. I shuddered to think of the damage done.
“What is it?” asked Angie. “Is it the icon?”
“Let’s just see.” I took the package from Toby’s hands and brought it over to the desk. Carefully I unwound the bubble wrap, which had been folded around the item several times and fastened with Scotch Tape. In another minute, the icon was exposed.
“Oh,” exclaimed Angie. “It’s the angel Michael!”
The panel was obviously the right wing of a triptych, with a curved top and two straight sides. Grooves on the left side marked the place where hinges would have connected it to the central panel. The angel stood with legs apart, his sword upraised against a background of golden sky, now murky and coated with a layer of grime. A pink cloak billowed around his torso. The white curves of Michael’s pinions rose behind his shoulders. His eyes, with their large black irises, looked directly out at us.
Angie was thrilled. “Nora, it’s a sign. He’s your guardian angel. Now there can’t be any doubt about it.”
I felt a wave of emotions, but the dominant one was distress, for a deep gouge had been dug into the upper corner of the panel, obliterating the tip of Michael’s sword. A web of fine cracks radiated outward from the indentation. “Look what we’ve done,” was all I could say.
“Charlie would have opened the table without hurting it,” admitted Toby. “We didn’t know.”
“Don’t feel bad, Nora,” Angie said.
“It can be restored,” said Toby, “can’t it?”
“We’ve got to call Al and bring it in and see what he says. I hope so.”
“Let’s call him right away. In fact, let’s get this home. We can call him on the way.”
As our discovery began to sink in, I felt the first flutters of excitement balancing the wrenching feeling prompted by the damage. We had discovered Charlie’s hiding place. The icon had never left the shop. Toby quickly closed up the store and bundled the icon into the trunk of my car alongside Angie’s purchases; then we started home. I reached Al on my cell, and he suggested that we lose no time in bringing him the icon. He would assess the damage. We made an appointment for early the next morning, since Al taught in the afternoon.
Now that she had seen the icon, Angie was bursting with questions. On the ride home, I gave her a recap of what we’d gathered from Rose Cassini and the Fort Ross documents. Having just met Andrew Federenco, she declared: “I’m on his side. He cares enough to be looking to get the icon back for his children. And this Peter guy, how much could he have cared about the icon if he split it up into three pieces and gave one of them to a girlfriend?”
“Peter was afraid of Andrew, so he gave the icon to Rose for safekeeping,” I explained.
“That old man? He doesn’t look scary to me.”
“He wasn’t old at the time. And according to Dan, he ran with a tough crowd and had some brushes with the law. Besides, if Peter hadn’t been killed in that traffic accident, he could have reassembled the triptych.”
“Unless the other panels were hidden in the Gaffney house,” said Toby, “in which case they burned up a long time ago. Speaking of which, I still haven’t returned the DVD. I’ve got it with me. Mind if we stop at the Surf Shop on the way home?”
“We have to stop anyway,” I said. “We don’t have anything for dinner.”
While Toby went into the Surf Shop, Angie and I went into the attached grocery store and picked up fresh crab cakes and “homemade” coleslaw. I was a little surprised that we got back to the car ahead of Toby.
“What?” I asked when Toby came out of the shop flushed and excited.
“On impulse, I asked the clerk to look up who the last person before me was to check out The Birds. Guess.”
It took a few seconds to register. “Charlie,” I said. “When?”
“He brought it back the day he died.”
Now I was certain there was a connection between the movie and the site where Charlie was killed. If we had the storyboards that Peter had drawn for the Hitchcock film, maybe we could work it out.
10
THE NEXT MORNING a bleary-eyed Toby drove us into Berkeley, with the damaged icon cradled in my lap. Angie was off for another session with her angel reader. I hadn’t been in touch with Al since our previous visit, so we had some catching up to do. Sitting in his familiar living room over tea in china cups, Toby and I went over everything we had learned about the icon, while he peered at the damage, turned the panel over, and examined its back.
Today Al was wearing a herringbone sports jacket and a bowtie. He was in his teaching outfit. “Well,” he said at last, “it can be repaired, but not by me. You need a specialist. I was right about the panel, though. It’s much older than the painting on it, at least sixteenth century, probably even fifteenth. The grooves, cleats, con
dition of the wood all point to its age, so that in itself makes it rare. There’s almost certainly an older image under Michael—or several. There’s no telling what you might have here.”
“Maybe there is,” I said, surprising him. “Read this.” I handed Al a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle article from 1962, the one that recounted the legend of Rublev’s lost triptych.
His eyes widened as he read it. “Whew!” he exclaimed when he had finished. “Call me Ishmael.” He reached for his cup and took a sip of tea.
“Huh?’
“Moby-Dick,” he explained. “You’ve been chasing the white whale of icon-hunting. You’re not the first to go running after that legend.”
“But is there anything to the legend?” Toby asked. “There actually was a white whale in Moby-Dick. Ahab found it.”
“And it killed him,” noted Al, a twinkle in his eye. He sighed and put down his cup. “About the legend—we all know it. It’s been around a long time, but there’s never been a reason to take it seriously. No grounds, no real evidence. Every once in a while someone claims to have traced the Rublev triptych through a reference in some arcane document, but it’s never turned up. I’ve always considered it a myth.”
“But what if it’s more than a myth and someone found it,” persisted Toby. “What would it be worth today?”
Al snorted and his tea sloshed dangerously. He steadied the cup and leaned forward. “What if Leonardo had made a small copy of The Last Supper to carry around with him on his travels and it showed up after having gone missing all these years. What do you think that would be worth?”
“You’d put Rublev in the same category as Leonardo?”
“In the history of Russian icon painting, he’s the equivalent. There are very few examples of his work, aside from a few undisputed masterpieces and fragments. But no one else had a greater influence on the genre. You must know something about him, don’t you, Nora?” He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a meerschaum.
I confessed I knew the name but not much else.
“You should have taken my Russian icon seminar,” Al grumbled as he filled and lit the pipe.