Arsenic and Old Paint

by Hailey Lind

  “To your love life,” he said with a wink.

  “To yours,” I replied. Anton laughed heartily.

  Lately Grandfather and his cronies had been waging a none-too-subtle campaign to marry me off. I wasn’t certain of Georges’s motives, since he also maintained I would come to my senses one day, chuck the boring law-abiding life, and move to Paris where he and I would forge beautiful art together in his atelier in the Place des Vosges. But I suspected Georges was hoping that if I did crank out a passel of kids at least some of them would inherit the LeFleur art-forger gene. And should Michael—whom Georges adored—be the father of said children, they’d also lack a moral center.

  They’d be perfect, in other words.

  “How did you get in?” I asked.

  “Ah, Annie! You are so droll!” Anton did legal art restoration these days, but in his prime—and in his heart—he was an unrepentant forger like Georges. Breaking into my dead-bolted third-floor apartment was child’s play to my uncle’s ilk.

  “It’s been a long time,” I said.

  “That it has, that it has. Georges will be so pleased to learn of our visit!”

  “Have you heard from him recently?”

  “I’ve been reading his blog. Don’t worry, he sounds his old self.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried.” It would take a speeding Mack truck to fell my septuagenarian grandfather. I just hoped it was genetic.

  I was surprised Anton had found enough pots and pans to work his culinary magic. I noted a cardboard box that he must have toted in. He had brought his own special paella pan, and a number of other items, including a chipped mug emblazoned LE PREMIER ARTISTE DU MONDE, or “world’s best artist.” I had made it for him in Paris when I was sixteen, when Anton, Georges, and I had spent our days “aging” paper and canvases, and our evenings strolling along the Seine as the men vied to tell the most outrageous tale of international intrigue and daring. Did Anton always carry the mug with him? Or was this a none-too-subtle reminder of our shared past, and the importance of loyalty?

  The kitchen was a disaster area, and I wondered why good cooks seemed to think the dishes cleaned themselves. Still, the whole place smelled great. Saffron and olive oil and shrimp and sausage. What’s not to like?

  “What are you working on these days?” I asked as I set out two places.

  “A little of this, a little of that. Restoration mostly. It is very boring work—a child could do it.” I noticed splotches of paint on his hands, and a streak of vermilion on his bald head.

  “I doubt that. By the way,” I began, real casual-like, while I fussed with the silverware, “did you happen to forge the Gauguin the New Zealander’s looking for?”

  Anton spilled the olive oil he had been pouring into a shallow saucer, swore under his breath, and sopped up the mess with a paper towel.

  “Cut up that baguette, will you, Annie?”

  I did as he asked, but kept one eye on him. Anton had never before dropped by to cook me dinner; in fact, he had never come to my apartment without an invitation. He was right; we were practically family and did not stand on ceremony. Still, his out-of-the-blue appearance was cause for concern. Anton had something to tell me. But he needed to butter me up first.

  We sat at the table and served ourselves. I let the richness of the saffron rice and olives bathe my tongue. Besides being delicious, paella is a feast for the eyes. I remembered Anton telling me that the deep orangey-yellow saffron, a subtle spice gathered from the stamens of crocus flowers, was a component of traditional paints. When mixed with egg yolk, it was often used by medieval painters to imitate gold gilding.

  After taking the edge off my hunger, I sipped my wine, sat back, and contemplated my faux uncle.

  “A man was murdered at the Fleming Mansion today, and the scene was arranged like David’s Death of Marat. Ring any bells?”

  Anton paled. “I never cared for the Neo-classicists.”

  “It’s better to talk to me now than to be questioned by the police later.”

  He snorted. “It would break your grandpapa’s heart to learn you are with the FBI!”

  “I’m not with the FBI,” I insisted, though I couldn’t suppress a visual of myself as a muy macha, gun-wielding Special Agent. I sort of liked it. Plus, I imagined FBI agents had health insurance. Maybe even dental. “This is about murder, not art. At least, that’s what I thought—until someone suggested you might be involved.”

  “I am not involved in murder, Annie.”

  “I never thought you were. How are you involved?”

  “I have done occasional restoration work for the club. Also, I painted a charming reproduction for a Fleming-Union member, many years ago.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Five, maybe seven years. I don’t remember; time passes so quickly at my age that—”

  “And this is the copy that showed up at auction recently? The one the Kiwi insurance guy is looking into?”

  “Ah, you met him! Such a charming fellow. Smart, too. Interesting people, the Maori.” He waggled his bushy eyebrows. “He’s single, you know.”

  “Anton, just tell me: did you paint the forgery that came up at auction?”

  He just stared at me, lips pressed together in a stubborn line.

  “Might as well ’fess up. I’ll know the moment I see the painting in person.”

  “There’s nothing illegal about copying a painting.” He muttered in Polish, took a sip of wine, and sighed. “It wasn’t supposed to go into circulation. Believe me when I say this. My client was forced to sell the original but insisted he would keep my copy at home. He did not want to lose face in front of his friends by admitting he had to sell.”

  I’d heard that one before. “So your client was a ‘he,’ then. Was it Victor Yeltsin?”

  “I can’t say, Annie. You know that.”

  Anton and Georges were Old School forgers, which meant they lived by a strict code of personal and professional ethics that often baffled outsiders. The men were, after all, criminals. Near the top of the list, just below “What Happens in thy Studio Stays in thy Studio,” was “Thou Shalt Not Squeal on thy Employer.”

  “But you’re positive there was a genuine Gauguin?”

  “Of course! She lived with me for more than a month while I worked. A rare beauty. I could have stared at her forever....” Anton’s expression was wistful, as though recalling a bittersweet romance. Passion such as this puts the “love” in “art lover.”

  “Who did he sell the original to?”

  “All I know is that it was someone discreet. I did think...”

  “What?”

  “I got the impression at the time that selling the painting was part of another deal, perhaps a trade rather than a sale, and that he needed the insurance money.”

  “And the secret message?”

  “The client asked me to write it. To distinguish the copy from the original, I presume. I also acquired for him an EDXRF.”

  “An EDXRF?”

  “Annie, I’m surprised at you.” He gave me a disappointed look, as though the acronym were as common as toothpaste. “An energy-dispersive X-ray fluorescence spectrometer. So he could see the message on the spot, not confuse the two paintings.”

  “Did you tell all this to Jarrah Preston?”

  Anton looked shocked. “He’s practically a police officer!”

  “Then why did you refer him to me?”

  “Listen, Annie, I’m leaving town tomorrow. Wonderful news, my daughter is having a baby.”

  “Congratulations. But—”

  “I am to be a grandpapa! Oh, to think that my dear sweet grandchild might one day turn out as well as you, my dear. That would be the greatest of blessings indeed. How I have envied Georges his relationship with you, his granddaughter.”

  Even though I knew full well that Anton was manipulating my emotions, and none too subtly at that, I got a little choked up. “You deserve all the best, Anton.”

  “I think I do.”<
br />
  “Now will you answer my question? Why did you refer Preston to me?”

  He waved a hand airily. “I assumed you would recognize my work, keep my secret, and find the real Gauguin. I thought you might as well get paid for it. Your old Uncle Anton is always looking out for you, eh?”

  “The only surprise is that I was surprised.” I reached for more paella.

  Anton looked at me sternly. “It is critical that you find the missing Gauguin, Annie. I cannot bear to think it might disappear forever. ”

  “Yeah, that’s me all right,” I said glumly; as good as it was, paella did not have the magical frustration-fighting abilities of chocolate. “Annie Kincaid the First, Finder of Lost Art.”

  6

  Dear Georges: Is it true that some of your forgeries sell for millions of dollars?

  Dear Reader: Yes. But if I tell you which ones they no longer will.

  —Georges LeFleur, “Craquelure”

  After Anton left, I knelt on my living room floor beside my stack of old newspapers. Digging down a couple of weeks’ worth, I found what I was looking for: the front page article on the Odibajian brothers.

  According to the reporter, the two had built an empire together, riding to unthinkable wealth on the wave of real estate fever that clutched the San Francisco Bay Area over the last two decades. With the kind of money-making intuition that always eludes folks like me, they had diversified just in time to keep the bulk of their assets safe in the recent economic decline. They now had significant investments in the pharmaceutical industry, oil concerns, and several lucrative high-tech startups, besides owning a good section of San Francisco’s downtown. They were important benefactors to the San Francisco Opera, the symphony, the Legion of Honor and de Young museums. They’d bought the naming rights for the baseball stadium next year.

  But the brothers had developed certain “irreconcilable differences”—differences in management style, it said here—and were untangling their assets. I got the distinct impression that the elder, Balthazar Odibajian, ran the show. He was the one who gave the majority of the quotes, and in the color photo of the two brothers “in happier times” he was slightly ahead of Elijah, looking larger, more confident, unsmiling. Elijah’s face was hard to make out, looking off in the distance.

  Another, smaller black-and-white photo showed Balthazar Odibajian standing with a crowd of well-dressed men and women whom I assumed to be the city’s upper-crust party-goers. Balthazar had his arms draped casually around two glossy, well-endowed women, one on either side. Despite the arm candy, he looked unrelentingly stern.

  So Balthazar Odibajian and Victor Yeltsin were “brethren” at the Fleming-Union. Maybe Victor knew Elijah through his brother, and had sold Elijah the Gauguin five years ago, giving him the copy instead of the real one. Then Elijah, under financial pressures because of the rift with his brother, decided to sell. And only then did he realize the painting was a fake. So could the man in the tub be Victor Yeltsin, killed by Elijah in a fury? And what happened to the genuine painting?

  I glanced at the clock: 11:30. Too late to call Jarrah to see whether he’d managed to track down Elijah. I’d check in with him in the morning.

  I tore out the Brothers Grimm article and put it into the case folder Jarrah Preston had given me, then took the folder into bed, fully intending to read up on one Victor Yeltsin. I flipped through the papers for all of five minutes. Police reports will put a person to sleep faster than a pill.

  * * *

  A friend of mine moved from New York City to the Bay Area last year and the first time he experienced what we locals call Casual Carpool, he called a New Yorker friend to exclaim that strangers were crawling into other strangers’ cars, and it wasn’t even something normal like a carjacking.

  Casual Carpool is a unique Bay Area answer to inadequate public transportation. San Francisco-bound drivers want to avoid the Bay Bridge toll and the most congested traffic lanes by using the “diamond” carpool lanes, which require three passengers on the bridge—except for two-seaters like my truck. Passengers, meanwhile, wish to avoid the cost of gas and parking, or BART or the bus. Riders wait at designated Casual Carpool spots, and drivers pick them up to cross the bridge. Simple as that.

  This morning there was a long line of cars outnumbering riders. The aroma of my Peet’s French roast permeated my truck’s cab as I waited, creeping along in line as cars picked up two passengers at a time.

  I had already called ahead to Spenser Keating at Mayfield’s auction house. I would go straight there to assess the ersatz Gauguin, even though I knew it must be Anton’s forgery. I doubted it would give me any more information than Anton had himself, but I had to look at it in person, and while I was there I would see if I could learn anything more from Keating about Elijah Odibajian. I had even dressed as a respectable professional for the meeting: straight skirt, silk tank, soft cardigan sweater.

  Anton said he was going to drop out of sight for a while. That was good; one fewer thing to worry about. On the other hand, one more thing to try to keep from Inspector Annette Crawford, who, while she wasn’t out to get me, wasn’t the sort to turn her back on an obvious act of larceny either. With regard to the SFPD, my basic game plan was to avoid contact for the next few days until I figured a few things out.

  Too bad I wasn’t on better terms with Annette—or with anyone in the police department. I would love to know how things were progressing with the murder investigation.

  I pulled ahead one more spot, starting to chafe at the delay. Why are there always more cars than riders, or the other way around? The law of averages would suggest that it even out, at least some of the time, shouldn’t it?

  Actually I had no idea what the law of averages said. Math was never my strong suit.

  I placed a call to Elena Briones. I hated to talk while driving, but there wasn’t any driving going on at the moment.

  “Elena? It’s Annie. I was just wondering whether you had an update on Destiny’s situation with the police.”

  “Actually, it looks as though she’s going to be released today.”

  “Already? Good job.”

  “It’s not anything I can take credit for. They made some assessments having to do with the body and the crime scene, and let her go.”

  “What kind of assessments?”

  “All I know is, the sword seems to have gone in postmortem. The most she’ll be charged with is ‘unlawful handling of a deceased individual.’ ”

  “Why would she stab a corpse?”

  “She didn’t stab anything,” Elena, the lawyer, said in no uncertain terms. “She was trying to pull it out.”

  “Oh. Right. Thanks a lot for helping her out. I owe you.”

  “No problem. All my clients should be so easy. But if she can’t pay the bill, I’ll send it on to you.”

  She wasn’t kidding. Unlike Pedro, Elena was very pragmatic when it came to her professional services.

  I craned my neck to look down the street, hoping for more pedestrians to show up, briefcases in hand and ready to be productive members of society by shuffling money around from one account to the next. I’ve never figured out how the money ever does anything useful, but that probably explains why I never seem to have any at hand. As Michael would say, I don’t grasp the fundamentals of capitalism.

  Speaking of whom, I tried Michael’s cell phone again. No answer. No surprise.

  If he disappeared for another week, I was calling the FBI on him. For real this time.

  I called Jarrah Preston to see if he had made any headway with finding Elijah Odibajian, but he didn’t pick up either. I left a message and asked him to get back to me.

  Finally, I got to the head of the line. My turn to pick up the next passenger. I fiddled with my new Bluetooth device, which always made me feel like a cyborg, not even looking up as a suit-clad executive climbed into the cab of my truck, snapped open the San Francisco Chronicle’s business section, and disappeared behind the newspaper. This was pa
r for the course at Casual Carpool, where too much social interaction was generally frowned upon.

  By the time we reached the toll plaza I noticed the man in the passenger seat smelled good. Really good. I’m not a cologne girl, but despite this–or perhaps because of it—I notice when men smell inordinately good. Must be a vegetarian.

  There was a brief delay at the metering lights regulating the entrance to the bridge, so I tried calling Michael one more time. My passenger’s phone also rang. I rolled my eyes at our brave new high-tech world, where we’re more likely to chat with someone miles away than with the person sitting next to us. The businessman answered his phone just as Michael finally answered his.

  “Hello?” the executive said as I heard Michael say, “Hello?”

  I looked to the right. The executive looked to the left.

  I cursed.

  “You’re not exactly a morning person, are you?” Michael smiled.

  “How did you manage...never mind. Listen, partner, we have to talk.”

  We made it through the carpool metering lights to the span, then screeched to a halt once again.

  “So talk.”

  “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “That’s what we ‘need’ to talk about? My wardrobe? Whatever you say. This morning I’m wearing an amusing little ensemble, a summery wool neither too heavy nor too light, but appropriate for all venues, from bedroom to boardroom to ballroom—”

  I snorted. “You look like you’re attending a funeral.”

  “I’m heeding your words of wisdom and am taking seriously my responsibilities as a small-business owner. We entrepreneurs are the backbone of this country, the epitome of the American dream. It is by the sweat of our lowly brows that this great nation was built. Do you know, we self-employed small-business owners pay ten times as much in federal taxes than all the corporations in America combined?”

  “No, we don’t.” We rolled ahead at five miles per hour, still only halfway across the first span. It was going to be one of those mornings that drove otherwise rational commuters to fantasize about rocket launchers and jetpacks.