Arsenic and Old Paint

by Hailey Lind

  “Insurance fraud.”

  “Exactly. The owner of a genuine painting has it insured, then copied, then sells the original, has the copy stolen, and claims the insurance money on the supposed loss.”

  “Why even bother with a copy? Why not just have the original ‘stolen’ and leave it at that?”

  “It’s much more convincing if the insurance folks, or the cops, have a trail to follow.”

  “The insurance guy is Jarrah Preston, the fellow you want me to check out?”

  “Just in case he’s not who he says he is.”

  “Gotcha. I still say, keep away from the Odibajians, Annie. Insurance fraud isn’t the kind of thing they’re likely to bother with, frankly—the payoff’s too low and the downside’s too great. Their real estate holdings alone are worth close to half a billion, and that’s only what they admit to the IRS.”

  “Elijah probably had no idea the painting was a fake when he put it up for sale. Just see what you can find out about them for me, will you?”

  “You know who you remind me of?”

  “Salma Hayek?” Hope springs eternal.

  “A stubborn burro on my grandmother’s ranch.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as dedicated.”

  “I’ll just bet, my little burrita.”

  “This is me ignoring you. Could I talk to Elena for a second?”

  “Don’t tell me you really do need to be bailed out...?”

  “No, oh ye of little faith. But I know someone who does.”

  Pedro’s girlfriend came on the line. Elena had recently left the Oakland Public Defender’s office to set up her own criminal defense practice. Smart, aggressive, and savvy, her dedication to progressive causes made me feel I should be out protesting global warming, or raising money for AIDS orphans, or scaling a fence at a nuclear silo. I put in my time on peace marches and volunteer work, but Elena seemed disappointed that I had never been arrested for anything political.

  I told her about Destiny and the murder at the F-U, and explained that I wasn’t sure if the maid had been charged with anything. Elena assured me not to worry, she would take it from here. The steely note in her voice made me feel a little sorry for Inspector Crawford.

  Next I tried my Uncle Anton’s number. No answer. A Luddite of the highest order, the old forger didn’t even have an answering machine.

  The pictures I saw of the fake Gauguin were good enough to prove one thing: it was the work of a gifted forger. Anton loved the Post-impressionists, and would have especially enjoyed mixing his own authentic period paints and then mimicking the layering to recreate a true Gauguin. But if he had painted the Gauguin forgery, why would he have spoken with Jarrah Preston, much less given him my name?

  Maybe Anton had nothing to do with anything. Could the forged Gauguin have something to do with Michael’s recent absence? I had no reason to think so...but coincidences make me nervous.

  My hand still lingered on the receiver when there was another knock on the door. I looked up to see my landlord, Frank DeBenton, looking elegant as always in gray slacks and jacket, a striped tie, and a tailored cream shirt. My mind leapt to a memory of Frank a few months ago: tipsy, tie loosened, hair tousled, mouth coming down on mine.... I reached for a Hershey’s Kiss from the blue ceramic bowl on my desk.

  “Frank.”

  “Annie.” He glanced around the office. “Nice furniture.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to buy it?”

  He raised his eyebrows in silent question.

  “Never mind. Did you get my rent check?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Have a seat. Would you like a Kiss?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Hershey’s Kiss?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Silence. Usually if Frank was quiet long enough I would start babbling, say something stupid, and either incriminate myself or agree to something I shouldn’t. I used to think it was just his way, but having learned recently that Frank was a former Special Ops agent, I now concluded it was an interrogation technique that, unfortunately, worked like a charm on mere mortals like me. I swore I would no longer buckle under the pressure. From this day forth, Frank’s sneaky tactics of silence were useless on me.

  I stared at the beams in the ceiling. I stared at the desk blotter. I stared at my paint-stained nails.

  I cracked.

  “Something I can do for you?”

  “I need a favor.”

  Well. That was unexpected. “Shoot.”

  “It’s about the College Club.”

  The College Club isn’t nearly as exclusive as the F-U, though it does rank high on the city’s list of Privileged People’s Lairs. But it admits women, which no doubt brings it down a rung or two on the ladder of social snobbery.

  “You want to join? I’d be delighted to write you a letter of recommendation.”

  “Cute. I’m already a member.”

  “You’re not here to sell me some magazine subscriptions, are you?”

  “Annie—”

  “I’m not buying any cookies, either. Unless you have Thin Mints.”

  Frank grinned despite himself, and our gazes locked. It was the first real connection we’d had since the beginning of the Ice Age, and I had a sudden sensual memory of his lips on mine.

  Zing.

  “I need you to find Hermes.”

  “The French fashion designer? I think he’s dead.”

  “No, the Greek god, also known as Mercury to the Romans.”

  “Have you checked Mount Olympus?”

  “Resting Hermes is a life-sized bronze statue from the 1915 Pan-Pacific Exposition. It stands outside the College Club, near the sidewalk. At least it used to. Somebody absconded with it.”

  “A bronze that size would weigh hundreds of pounds.”

  “More than three hundred pounds, so they say.”

  “Why would someone steal it? For that matter, how would someone steal it?”

  “That’s what I’d like you to find out.”

  “Me? Call the cops.” What was it with men and their missing art these days?

  “I did. They’re swamped; it’s been a week, and the police haven’t had much time to spare to search for a statue. I put out a few feelers, but nothing’s turned up.”

  “And you think I can find something you and the cops can’t? Have you learned nothing about me, lo, these many moons?”

  Frank’s eyes swept over me. “Quite a few things, actually.”

  It was my turn to squirm. I glanced over at the Hershey’s Kisses, but told myself “no.”

  Frank continued, “I hoped you would be willing to...talk to some people.”

  “People?”

  “You know who I mean. People.”

  “People who need people? The luckiest people?”

  “People who deal in this sort of thing.”

  “You think I know the people who stole your Hermes?”

  Frank tugged at his shirt collar. “I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “The sculpture is important to the club, Annie. It’s important to me.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to deny, for the second time in twenty minutes, any contact with the art underworld. Regardless of how hard and long I had worked to be an honest artist and faux finisher, my reputation as a teenaged forger—combined with that of my scalawag of a grandfather—always preceded me. To be fair, going into business with Michael-the-ex-con had not exactly burnished the luster of my good name. Still, it seemed past time for the art world to forgive and forget. What was a fake Old Master drawing or forty among friends and colleagues?

  But it was undeniably flattering to have Frank come to me for a favor. Maybe I should make the most of it. Besides, I rather liked the image of Annie Kincaid, Ace Investigator—Annie’s my Name, Art’s my Game.

  Too bad I hadn’t the slightest idea how to find a missing Hermes, much less a lost Gauguin. Half the time
I couldn’t find my keys in my backpack with a flashlight and a metal detector.

  “The club will pay you for your time, of course,” Frank continued.

  “Frank, I’d love to make some extra money, but I can’t imagine I’ll be able to help.”

  “All I’m asking is that you look into it. If you don’t find anything, then we’ll just have to presume it’s gone for good.”

  This no-results-necessary thing was new to me, and darned attractive. I tried to imagine telling my painting clients, “Gee, I tried but the mural didn’t quite work out. Such a shame. Now, where’s my money?”

  “Won’t you at least ask around? I would consider it a personal favor.” Ever the gentleman, Frank did not point out the many times he’d done me a favor. He didn’t need to.

  I blew out a breath.

  “I take it that’s a yes?”

  “All right. But remember—I can’t guarantee results.”

  “Understood.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, brought out an envelope, and slid it across the desk. “Here’s a copy of the police report and two hundred dollars. The cash is for expenses. If you need more, let me know. Just keep track so I can get reimbursed by the club. Your fee is, of course, separate. What is the going rate for your services?”

  I debated quoting Jarrah Preston’s offer, but Frank was, after all, a friend.

  “Why don’t I charge my hourly rate for faux finishing? Double for overtime. Triple if goons or guns are involved.”

  “Back off if anything dangerous comes up, Annie. No sculpture is worth your getting hurt.”

  “Those clubby types are a little scary,” I mused.

  “I’m a club member.”

  “You’d scare me, too, if I didn’t know what a marshmallow you are under your silk Armani. Oh, by the way, would you happen to know an insurance investigator named Jarrah Preston?”

  Frank’s dark eyes stared at me for a long moment. “How do you know him?”

  “He offered me a lot of money to track down a painting.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why isn’t he tracking down the painting himself?”

  “He doesn’t have the, um, connections that I do.”

  “Would these be illegal connections?”

  “These would be the same sort of connections you just asked me to exploit, if I’m not mistaken.”

  A slight inclination of the head: I won that round.

  “He also asked me to speak with Balthazar Odibajian.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t mess with Odibajian. He’s not a man to trifle with.”

  “But if I were, hypothetically, to wish to speak with him, how would I go about it?”

  Frank sat back in his seat. I couldn’t tell if his eyes were sweeping over me as a man who appreciates a woman, or as a concerned citizen who thought I was nuts. Pedro’s burrita comment had stung.

  His gaze paused for a fraction of a second on my lips. Aha!

  “Odibajian’s tougher to get to than the president,” he said. “He won’t talk to you. But he’ll know you tried to get to him, so you’ll be on his radar. Trust me on this one, Annie: you don’t want to be on that man’s radar.”

  “You know, the more people warn me away from him, the more I want to talk to him.”

  “Pardon me for pointing it out, but isn’t that the same character trait that almost got you killed a couple of months ago?”

  “But I saved—”

  “And the time before, when you spent Thanksgiving in jail after an encounter with homicidal drug runners?”

  “There was a good explanation—”

  “There always is.”

  This was the crux of the problem between Frank and me. Our interactions almost always led us to this point: Frank accusing, me defending. It did not bode well for the romantic relationship we had been dancing around. For several seconds, silence reigned.

  “So, what do you think about the Giants’ pitching lineup?” I asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m changing the subject.”

  “And you think I’m a baseball fan?”

  “Actually, I had you pegged for tennis. Or polo. Something expensive and exclusive. But even I’ve heard of Barry Bonds.”

  Frank chuckled. “I play squash, actually, which is why I’m a member of the College Club. Okay, Annie. Since I know you’ll do what you want to anyway, here’s some advice: don’t bother going to Odibajian’s home or office. He’s fortified against attack there. But he’s a member of the Fleming-Union. Aren’t you working there?”

  “Sort of.”

  “If I were suicidal and pigheaded like you, I would find out when Odibajian eats lunch and surprise him before he gets inside the dining room. It’s members-only—and by members, I mean men. Women are allowed in only by invitation, and even then they have to go in the back door.”

  “That place is so bizarre. You’re not a member, are you?”

  “Do you think I would spend my days dealing with unruly tenants such as yourself if I had that kind of money?”

  “And here I was thinking your opposition might be a social protest.”

  “It does boggle the mind that some men use their wealth to hide from women,” he said with a crooked smile. “I’d rather use my money to capture their attention.”

  Our eyes held. I thought about kissing him again.

  My hand inched toward the bowl of chocolates.

  “Don’t I get a Kiss?” said a deep voice from the doorway.

  4

  I believe that a great deal of art, as life, is accidental. Alors! The route that an artist takes to expressing his creativity is a labyrinthine affair, full of twists and turns, full of joy yet always ending in sweet loss.

  —Georges LeFleur, “Craquelure”

  Frank rose as my misplaced business partner, Michael X. Johnson, sauntered into the room.

  “Frank.”

  “Michael.”

  The air crackled with tension as the two alpha males bristled and tried to stare each other down. The contest went on so long I cleared my throat.

  “Uh, guys?” I interrupted. “This is entertaining as all get-out, but I’ve got work to do.”

  “As do I,” Frank said. “Let me know what you find out, Annie. Michael.”

  “Frank.”

  The door shut quietly.

  “Call me crazy, but I feel as though I interrupted something,” Michael said, taking the seat Frank had just vacated and cupping his hands over his heart. “A declaration of undying love? A marriage proposal, perhaps?”

  “Where the hell have you been?” I turned on him.

  “You missed me.” He looked pleased.

  “I was on the verge of informing the FBI that you had violated your parole.”

  Now he looked hurt. Sighing dramatically, he laced his fingers behind his dark head, crossed his ankles on the desk, and fixed his green gaze upon me, concern sketched on his even features. “I don’t remember you being such a drag before. I think this business is bringing out the worst in you.”

  “Where have you been? It’s like Remington Steele in reverse around here. I’ve been pretending to have a partner who doesn’t exist or...the other way around. Whatever. Not only did you leave without a word, but you seem to have forgotten that you’re supposed to be responsible for half the work load—”

  “Hey, I’ve been working. I arranged the insurance gig with...whatshisname?...the guy with the accent. That should be a real money-maker.”

  “About that ‘insurance gig’...when we established this business you assured me it wouldn’t involve anything more than answering a few e-mails.”

  “I may have exaggerated a tad.”

  “I have another business, you know, which requires at least half my time and attention. Among other things, I have to get started on some sketches for a seascape in a house out in the Avenues, near the Legion of Honor.”
>
  “I thought you were cutting back on your painting-for-hire.”

  “There was a backlog.”

  “Must be nice to be so popular. I envy you.”

  I ignored him. “Which reminds me, a nightclub on Broadway wants me to faux-finish a metal stair-railing....” I jotted a note to myself on the back of a flier for an art supply store. I should stop by and give them a quote.

  “A railing?”

  “They want it to look rusty.”

  “I’ll sell them the one from my mother’s porch. That’ll save you time.”

  “They don’t want it to be rusty, just to look rusty.”

  “Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” he shrugged.

  “Wait a minute—are you admitting you have a mother?”

  “Everybody has a mother, Annie.”

  I remained skeptical. Anyone as effortlessly gorgeous as he was must have emerged, Venus-like, from the sea on a scallop shell. Tall and slender but well-muscled, Michael was a manly man in his mid-to-late thirties—I’d given up trying to discover his age—with glossy dark brown hair and the deep green eyes of a Norse god. At times I feared I had agreed to our partnership purely out of an aesthetic appreciation for his abundance of masculine pulchritude. It was like having a walking, talking work of art hanging around the office.

  Fortunately, I’m philosophically opposed to fraternizing with co-workers. Unfortunately, I had coped by upping my chocolate intake to imported seventy-percent-cocoa chocolate bars, and had gained three pounds.

  “You’re wasting your time faux-finishing banisters,” Michael said, looking pained. “Yet you’re complaining because I got us a real job?”

  “This may come as a surprise to you, partner, but we’re not private eyes.”

  “How hard could it be?”

  “I have a feeling it’s a learned skill set. People go to school to become investigators. I think you’re even supposed to be licensed.”

  “That’s only if you carry a gun.”

  “Really?” I made a mental note to check on that. “Still, we have no investigative skills or training.”

  “Ah, but we understand the criminal mind.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t know the first thing about tracking down stolen goods.”