Arsenic and Old Paint

by Hailey Lind

  “So, Wesley, how come you’re not in the woods with the rest of the ‘brethren’?”

  He turned bright red and pushed his glasses up his nose again.

  “They didn’t invite me,” he mumbled. “Just said the place was closed for a few days for renovations.”

  “Surely they didn’t mean to leave you out...?” I began.

  “I’ve never...I mean, people don’t like me much. They only let me in because of my name, anyway.”

  I suspected he was right, and he struck me as too intelligent to insult with soothing platitudes. Still, the look on his face put me in mind of an overly eager puppy that had just been smacked.

  “It’s not really my business,” I said, “but if they treat you badly it doesn’t seem like the kind of group you’d want to be associated with, anyway.”

  He shrugged and started back down the stone steps. “I certainly could use some coffee.”

  Following the Peet’s Coffee signs, we entered the basement-level building adjoining Grace Cathedral and followed a long, institutional maze of white, windowless hallways. The muffled sound of children’s laughter and the squeak of rubber soles on wooden floors evidenced the church’s school for boys was at recess in the basketball court.

  At last we came upon the coffee stand, right next to the gift shop.

  “Mocha caramel Freddo, please,” Wesley ordered.

  “Double non-fat latte for me, thanks,” I told the apron-clad young man behind the coffee cart.

  On the counter was a display stand with silver pendants in the shape of the Chartres labyrinth, but I told myself no. Cheap, interesting jewelry is a weakness of mine. Up to this point in my life I had never had enough expendable income to figure out whether expensive, interesting jewelry would be equally intriguing to me.

  I turned back to Wesley. “This place is so different from the cathedral. It reminds me of a really white cave.”

  “I love caves. Do you?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought, but sure, I guess so.”

  “Do you like bats?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bats. I’m the Batman. I love bats. And caves.”

  “Dude! Me, too,” interjected the young barista. His shiny hair swept across his forehead, nearly obscuring his eyes. It was a hairstyle I would have associated with the most hopeless nerd in high school, but according to my nephews it was now considered fashionable in a kind of metrosexual way.

  “I go spelunking every chance I get,” said the young man as he dumped ingredients into a blender. “You ever check out those bat caves where you can’t even go in without a special breathing apparatus, like a scuba diver? Awesome. And hey, they’re not caves but dude, they say there used to be some tunnels between the mansions here on the hill before the big quake. Not as cool as caves, but still. I’ve never found ’em, though.”

  “Really?” The thought of tunnels in the seismically shaky Bay Area brought out my inner claustrophobe. “Tunnels in San Francisco?”

  “They probably caved in during the ’06 earthquake,” added the barista. “You want extra whipped cream?” he asked Wesley.

  I paid for our coffees...and bought a silver pendant. I’m not great at impulse control.

  Savoring my blessedly strong caffeine-conveyance device, I followed Wesley back through the tunnel and out into the suddenly foggy day. I paused to take a gulp of coffee and spotted Michael engrossed in conversation with a buxom woman in a long black leather coat and fuchsia scarf. Her voice was loud and strong, and I heard her laughing all the way from the sidewalk.

  Michael spied me, and made a beeline in our direction.

  “Michael, this is Wesley. Wesley, Michael Johnson.”

  “Oh dear,” Wesley sputtered, looking at his watch. “I really must run.”

  He handed me his card and loped down the street toward the Fleming Mansion.

  5

  The artist is, almost by definition, a mischief maker....Keep in mind the close associations between the words art and artifice, craft and craftiness, artifact and artfulness. The great Aristotle philosophized that all art is imitation; while some artists imitate nature, others imitate art itself. And only then are they able to pay the rent.

  —Georges LeFleur, “Craquelure”

  I glanced down at the card in my hand.

  Cheap. The kind you can order online—the kind I had until Michael insisted on spending a lot of money to spruce up our image. Name, phone number, address. Picture of a bat. I flipped it over and read the back: ULTIONIS EST PATINA OPTIMUS SERVO GELU.

  “Picking up strange men at Peet’s again, eh?” Michael asked as he watched Wesley’s lanky form walk away.

  “Something like that,” I said. “Do you read Latin?”

  “Only on money.” He held out his hand and I surrendered the latte. “You didn’t get me anything?”

  I shook my head. “I got myself a necklace, though.”

  “Nice.” Warm fingers grazed my skin as Michael lifted the medallion, and I was hyper-aware of his lingering touch. His voice deepened. “Very nice.”

  “I’ll go get you something,” I said ignoring his gaze and my quickening pulse. “What do you want?”

  “Do they have sandwiches? If not, get a half dozen muffins and croissants.”

  “What, did you skip lunch?”

  “It’s not for me.” He lifted his chin in the direction of a small alley off Sproule Lane, where the nose of a grocery cart indicated the presence of an informal living situation. “The doorman at the Fairmont said a couple of homeless guys live over there. Said one in particular hangs out on the corner at night. Cathy says they’re always hungry.”

  “Who’s Cathy?”

  “The dog walker.”

  “You know her?”

  “I do now.”

  “Is there anyone you can’t make friends with?”

  “Your buddy Frank doesn’t like me.”

  “Frank’s a very perceptive man.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  Best not to pursue that line of thought. “Did the homeless men see anything?”

  “That’s what we’re about to find out. Come on.”

  Ten minutes later we emerged from Grace Cathedral’s basement loaded down with cardboard boxes containing paper cups of sweetened, creamy Peet’s coffee, three muffins studded with plump blueberries, two cherry-cornbread scones glistening with icing, and two gooey chocolate croissants. Delectable enough to tempt even the most reluctant of informants.

  Skirting Huntington Park, we made our way down Sproule Lane until we reached what was technically an alley but was really more of a deep dent between apartment houses. Leaning against one wall was an older African American man with a grizzled beard and red-rimmed, hollow eyes. He was dressed in a black knit cap, dirty Levis, and several layers of grimy sweatshirts, the topmost of which was emblazoned with a crest and HARVARD in gothic script.

  The alley’s other resident was a younger white man in a newish red-and-black jumpsuit, orange gloves, and a black ski mask. A scraggly blond mustache poked through the opening for the mouth, giving him the appearance of a masked walrus. He lay on his back, eyes closed and arms sticking up and bent at the elbow. It was an oddly infantile gesture, and I hoped he wasn’t dead.

  Personal growth notwithstanding, two corpses in one day were beyond my coping skills.

  “How you doin’?” Michael asked in that easygoing way of his that made me want to confide in him, until I remembered he was a thief and a liar.

  The man in the Harvard sweatshirt looked resigned, as though expecting us to order him to abandon his little hollow to the rats.

  “We have hot coffee and fresh baked goods,” Michael said. “Hungry?”

  Harvard nudged the thigh of his jumpsuited companion with the toe of a once-white athletic shoe. “Hey,” he said in a flat voice. “Food.”

  Jumpsuit sat up immediately, blinked blue eyes as red-rimmed and empty as his companion’s, and stared at us. Handi
ng me the carton of food, Michael helped the younger man to his feet.

  I offered Harvard coffee and a muffin, and smiled. He nodded his thanks but looked right through me. As always when confronted with homelessness, my heart went out to these men. What were their stories? How did they come to live like this? Why were people just scraping by, living in alleys in the richest nation in the world?

  “You guys hang out around here?” Michael said as he handed Jumpsuit coffee and a croissant. The man peeled up his ski mask and took a huge bite, smearing chocolate on his chin.

  Neither man said anything.

  Michael’s voice became relaxed, almost slurred. “Thing is, we’re lookin’ for some guys who were here a coupla nights ago and made off with the sculpture in front of the College Club, over on Powell and California. Know what I’m talkin’ about?”

  Harvard took another muffin. “Hermes, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Tol’ ya,” he said to his companion.

  “Hermes,” murmured Jumpsuit, nodding and gulping his coffee.

  “Tol’ ya, ol’ Hermie was the god of up-to-no-good. Whaddayacallit, mischief. Yeah,” Harvard said, his voice coming to life. “We got us a verifiable patron saint in Hermes. I loves that statue, man. A coupla times I slept in that courtyard they got there. Reminded me of home, know what I’m sayin’? People got no respect for art.”

  Michael nodded. “It was stolen last Monday. Did you happen to see anything?”

  “Coupla guys with a crowbar.” He nodded. “Came outta nowheres, those guys. Then another guy pulls up in a truck an’ they loaded Hermes up.”

  “What kind of truck?” Michael asked.

  “Dark-colored Ford. Full-sized, kinda banged up. Nothin’ special. I tried to tell the folks at the club. Huh. Even put on my Harvard shirt for ’em, but them sumbitches wouldna talk to me.”

  “Sumbitches,” Jumpsuit echoed.

  “Did you call the police?” I asked.

  For the second time that day, three pairs of male eyes stared at me, incredulous. Note to self: stop hanging out with guys.

  Harvard shook his head.

  “Did you happen to notice anything strange over at the Fleming-Union earlier today, or last night?” I asked.

  “There was a woman there pretty late last night,” Harvard said as he reached for a blueberry muffin. “Only reason I mention it is ’cause women aren’t allowed in there, and she didn’t look like no maid. But sometimes they got professional women goin’ in there, if you get my meaning.”

  “Do you remember what she looked like?”

  He shrugged and gestured towards his chest. “Well built. Today there were a bunch o’ cops. I steered clear.”

  “About Hermes...” Michael gave me a “stay on topic” look. “Any chance you noticed the truck’s license plate?”

  “Sure,” Harvard mumbled around a mouth full of muffin, crumbs and errant blueberries clinging to his whiskers. “Thought maybe there be a reward. But them sumbitches wouldn’t talk to me.”

  A look of pleased surprise flitted across Michael’s face, but he quickly disguised it with his customary mien of amused self-confidence.

  “Sumbitches,” whispered Jumpsuit like a Greek chorus.

  “Do you remember what it was?”

  “I said I did, din’t I?” Harvard sounded offended, and Michael held up his hands in apology. “Mem’ry’s not so good. Tha’s a fact. I wrote it down.” He reached into the coin pocket of his threadbare Levis and fished out a gum wrapper. “I been thinkin’ maybe this be worth somethin’? Say, ten bucks... Or twenty? Git us a room wit’ real beds and a nice, hot shower.”

  “Hot shower,” Jumpsuit echoed dreamily.

  “Sounds fair.” Michael took a business card and two crisp twenty-dollar bills from his wallet. “There’s more where that came from if you think of anything else.”

  Harvard nodded, exchanging the gum wrapper for the card and the cash. “Best get on it, ya hear? They be sellin’ my man for scrap, and he be melted down before you knows it.”

  “Scrap?” Michael asked.

  “Sure. Might could git forty, fifty cents a pound. Maybe more.”

  “Maybe more,” Jumpsuit repeated.

  As we walked back toward the top of Nob Hill, Michael’s eyes slewed in my direction.

  “All right, I’ll admit it: you did well,” I conceded. “Though I’d like to point out that if the members of the College Club weren’t such snobs, they wouldn’t need our services.”

  “Sumbitches.”

  We shared a grin, and I felt a dangerous sensation. Was it affection? Animal attraction was one thing, but affection was dangerous. It was the first step on the road to picking out kitchen curtains.

  Since Michael refused to tell me where he lived, this would be highly complicated.

  “So, Super Sleuth, how do we find out who the license plate belongs to?” I asked.

  “Now, missy, don’t you go troublin’ your purty li’l head ’bout that.”

  Good idea. The less I knew about Michael’s investigative techniques, the better.

  “What’s this sudden interest in the Fleming Mansion?” Michael asked as we neared the huge building. “Weren’t you researching ‘killer wallpaper’ for that place? Don’t tell me the Martha Stewart Cabbage Rose collection took someone out?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was working there earlier today.” I took a deep breath. “A man was murdered, and the crime scene resembled The Death of Marat. You know the painting by David? The victim was in a bathtub and everything.”

  Michael’s jaw tightened. “I told you not to take that job. The members of the F-U can’t be trusted. They have too much money and too much power. It twists people. They start to think the rules don’t apply to them.”

  “Does the phrase ‘pot calling the kettle black’ mean anything to you?”

  “We’re talking about you, not me. Do as I ask, just this once? Tell them you can’t finish the job.”

  “First off, it’s not for you to decide what commissions I accept. You’re my partner for the online business only. Period. And second, I’m not involved. I just happened to be in the mansion when the body was found. Inspector Crawford’s on the case.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Michael said grimly. “I thought you might do something stupid because your Uncle Anton—ah, hell.”

  I halted in my tracks. “What about Anton?”

  “Don’t you think it’s significant that Hermes is the god of theft?” Michael asked, his tone buoyant. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and stared into the distance, an odd look on his face.

  It was the first time I’d caught him in a slip of the tongue.

  “Perhaps the thieves have an ironic sense of humor,” Michael continued.

  “Don’t change the subject. What were you going to say about Anton?”

  “It has nothing to do with anything.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Michael’s gaze shifted to a point over my shoulder. I turned to see what he was looking at and saw Annette Crawford approaching. She did not look pleased.

  When I looked back to Michael, all I saw was his back as he disappeared down a nearby alley.

  “I thought you were headed home, Annie,” Crawford said. “But look, you’re still here.”

  “No, I’m not. I mean, I went to my studio, then came back here, but I’m not trying to get into the Fleming Mansion. We...I’m investigating a different situation.”

  “Situation?”

  “I have a new art assessment business, and—”

  “I understood you ran a website that dealt with e-mails.”

  “Um...”

  “You’re not impersonating a private investigator, are you? PIs have to be licensed, you know.”

  “I don’t carry a gun.”

  “Thank the Lord for small favors,” she said. “What sort of investigation are you mucking around with, and please tell me it has nothing to do with my murder investigat
ion.”

  “The boys at the College Club lost their Hermes.”

  “Excuse me?

  “You know the big bronze statue that used to sit outside their club? It was stolen last week.”

  “And what are you supposed to do about it?”

  “Find it?”

  “Uh-huh.” An unmarked police car pulled up next to her and she opened the passenger door to climb in. “Annie, do us all a favor and stick to faux finishing. It’s more your speed.”

  * * *

  Back home in Oakland, I flipped through my mail halfheartedly as I mounted the three flights of stairs to my apartment up under the eaves in an old house–turned–apartment building.

  As I neared the little landing at the top of the stairs, right outside my door, I slowed my pace and looked up. Something was wrong.

  Yummy cooking smells. Emanating from under the door of my apartment. My stomach growled in appreciation. There was only one problem: there hadn’t been any actual food in my kitchen since I broke up with Josh-the-wonder-chef-and-carpenter.

  And my front door was ajar.

  “Hello?”

  “Annie!” The door flew wide open and there stood my ersatz uncle, Anton Woznikowicz, arms outstretched, a brilliant grin on his face. “I thought you would never arrive!”

  “Anton,” I said as he wrapped strong, pudgy arms around me in a bear hug. He smelled of garlic, onions, and turpentine. “I see you’ve started on the wine. You know, most people call before they break into someone’s home to cook dinner.”

  “Bah.” He waved me off. “Family doesn’t stand on ceremony.”

  “LeFleurs sure don’t.” I wasn’t technically a LeFleur, but then no one in the family was. Grandfather, a Brooklyn native, had made the name up in a bid to convince the world he was French. Unfortunately, his linguistic skills left something to be desired; in French fleur is a feminine noun, so the name should have been La Fleur. It was something of a sore subject with the old forger.

  “Come in, come in, my darling,” said Anton. “Tell me: how long has it been since you came home to a traditional Spanish paella?”

  “Pretty much never.”

  “Then it’s well past high time.” He tsk-tsked, and handed me a glass of ruby red Rioja. We clinked glasses.