Arsenic and Old Paint

by Hailey Lind

  “Aren’t you allowed in sometimes?” I asked. “The other night...?”

  Cathy was babbling high-pitched baby-talk to the dog and didn’t seem to hear my question. Either that, or she was ignoring it.

  My attention was drawn by a pair of coverall-clad men arranging neon orange cones around an open manhole before descending, one by one, under the street. In a flash I had an idea for getting access to the F-U. One of my oldest and best clients divided his time between San Francisco and London, and paid me to keep an eye on things for him when he was out of town. One of my tasks was to schedule the annual testing and certification of something called a backflow prevention device. I had no idea what the device accomplished, but it didn’t matter. When it came to bureaucracy and plumbing, nobody ever wanted to know the details.

  “Cathy, it’s been lovely chatting with you,” I said. “Why don’t you give me your name and number? I’ll call and make an appointment to come look at your job.”

  Cathy waved gaily as I headed for my truck, which I’d parked out of sight on Powell. I flipped the seat forward and started riffling through the mountain of junk I kept there through sheer laziness. Sure enough, I found several things of use: worn khaki coveralls, a clipboard, a tube of hair goop, my tool belt, a pack of peppermint Trident, dusty work boots, registration forms from the local DVD store, and a black ballpoint pen with PROPERTY OF THE U.S. GOVERNMENT printed in gold. I stuffed everything into a canvas carryall, walked to the Fairmont Hotel, and made a beeline for their elegant, marble-lined women’s room.

  I knew exactly where it was; as the possessor of a tiny bladder I had long ago memorized the location of the rest rooms in all the nicer downtown hotels.

  Ten minutes later I emerged a new woman: dressed in stained coveralls with my hair slicked down, braided, and wrapped around my head. I had scrubbed any vestiges of makeup from my face and removed my earrings. I looked plain, workmanlike. Utterly unmemorable. I tossed my nice clothes in the truck, slid the DVD store paperwork under the hinge of the clipboard, stuck the government’s pen in my chest pocket, and cradled the clipboard in one arm. Now for the pièce de résistance: I crammed two pieces of gum in my mouth.

  You’re a cog in the wheel, I told myself. Just another cog in the machinery. I strode officiously up the Fleming Mansion’s front steps, rang the bell, and commenced snapping my gum.

  No answer. I peered in the side window, which opened into the office where a Diet Coke can still perched precariously on a stack of paperwork, just as it had yesterday when I met Wesley Fleming III. There was a man at the desk with his back to me, wearing a blue blazer that strained against his chubby shoulders. I banged on the window, held up the clipboard, and pointed sternly toward the door.

  “Maintenance is in the back,” he said through the closed window.

  “Open the door,” I insisted, ringing the bell again. I knocked for good measure.

  At last the man came around to the front door and cracked it open a few inches, a radio crackling on his hip.

  “Go round back,” he said, and tried to close the door.

  I put my boot-clad foot on the threshold.

  “I gotta check your backflow prevention device.”

  “My what?”

  “Backflow. Prevention. Device,” I enunciated, eyebrows raised, my tone implying duh.

  “Talk to Maintenance.”

  “Look, pal, this isn’t brain surgery,” I said as I put my shoulder to the door and shoved past him to step inside, speaking loudly. “Now I’m here it’ll take, like, ten minutes. I just gotta do the annual check of the backflow prevention device.”

  A pair of well-dressed men descending the stairs glanced over at us, their expressions a combination of annoyance and contempt.

  “I’m a card-carrying member of the American Backflow Prevention Association, the ABPA, if that’s what’s bothering you. Licensed and bonded, which is more than you can say about most people.”

  I waved the clipboard at him again, complete with the official-looking DVD rental agreement form. In my experience, a clipboard with paperwork is like a magic wand—people assume you’re doing something official, and usually figure they don’t want to be involved.

  “Maintenance is in the back,” he sputtered. “You’ll have to go around and check in with them.”

  “All I know is, I gotta test the backflow device or your water gets cut off.” I shrugged. “No skin off my nose, but I gotta lotta other people waitin’ up to six weeks for my services.” I flipped through the paperwork on the clipboard. “We scheduled this doohickey back on...yep, month and a half ago.”

  My cell phone rang. The readout said Annette Crawford. I pressed IGNORE.

  “See there? My next customer. Listen, pal, you don’t want me to come in, no problemo. I’ll shut the water off at the meter and you can call to schedule to have it turned back on just as soon as you get your BPD tested. Shouldn’t take more’n six, eight weeks. More if you run into a holiday.” I turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  Gotcha.

  He checked his watch. “You know exactly where to find this device?”

  “Sure, I was here...lessee...” I made a show of flipping through the papers on the clipboard “...last September nineteenth. And the year before that, too. Gotta get recertified every year. They like to send the same folks out on account o’ we know where to find the BPD. They’re little buggers, but they’re real important.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Just make it fast.” He chugged back into his office, muttering into his radio.

  I strode down the hallway as if I knew where I was going. The regal, oversized entryway was empty but for a few oil portraits of sour-looking old men, plush Oriental rugs, and the colossal staircase. I followed the muted sounds of silverware clinking against porcelain until I reached the dining room. Based on the hubbub it sure didn’t seem like the members were in deep mourning for the man in the tub.

  The dining room was a walnut-paneled extravaganza featuring a massive carved limestone fireplace in which a blaze roared despite the warm weather. Heavy brocade curtains and sheers dimmed the natural light. About half the linen-draped tables were occupied by well-dressed men, nearly identical with their close-cropped hair, starched white shirts, and plain business suits. I hoped none of them ever committed a crime in my presence because I’d never be able to pick one of them out of a lineup.

  For several seconds everyone seemed so flummoxed by the sight of a woman—in coveralls, no less—that no one moved. I strode over to the man I recognized from the newspaper photograph: Balthazar Odibajian.

  “Mr. Odibajian, I need to speak with you,” I began. My confidence faltered when I realized his lunch companion, with his back to me, was none other than Frank DeBenton.

  9

  During a lovely meal upon a terrace in Siena this evening, I pondered.... I have never trusted those who purport to have a great love of art, yet profess no fondness for the culinary arts. Palate and Palette—coincidence? I think not.... Consider these indispensable items for the chef, as well as for the forger: eggs, milk, bread, potatoes, coffee, tea, olive oil, gelatin, flour...even the pastry board and the kitchen stove.

  On the other hand...as anyone who has ever dined with a gallery owner will attest, there is still no such thing as a free lunch.

  —Georges LeFleur, “Craquelure”

  “And who might you be?” Odibajian asked in a quiet voice as he placed his fork and knife on the lip of his fine china plate as his nanny must have taught him when he was a boy. Red juice flowed freely from his steak, staining the roasted fingerling potatoes pink. His hazel eyes were cold and flat as they ran over my outfit; his nostrils flared as though he were inspecting something sticky and brown on the sole of his shoe. Authority and privilege came off him in waves.

  He lifted his chin, ever so subtly, and the muscled men who had come up on either side of me backed off.

  “I’m Annie Kincaid,” I said, thrusting my hand out. He looked, but d
id not shake. “Anton Woznikowicz is my uncle. Last week your brother tried to hawk a fake Gauguin, painted—quite legally I might add—by my uncle, and now Anton’s been assaulted and left for dead. I don’t think that was a coincidence.”

  “I don’t understand your meaning, young lady. To what are you referring? A fake?”

  “An inspired fake.”

  “You’re saying the Gauguin was a fake?”

  I nodded.

  “And now you’re looking for my brother?”

  “You’ll do for the moment.”

  “Are you suggesting I had something to do with your uncle’s misfortune?”

  “I think it’s a possibility.”

  Frank stood. “Annie—”

  “You know the woman?” Odibajian asked Frank.

  “She’s my...tenant,” Frank said. “Geoffrey hired her for the painting restoration upstairs. She’s very upset about her uncle’s accident.”

  “Of course,” he said. His flat eyes held mine. “Family is so important, isn’t it?”

  Why did that sound like a threat? A chill ran through me. I realized why everyone warned me about him.

  “Speaking of family, where is your brother?” I asked.

  “In the morgue.”

  I gaped at him.

  “The...morgue?”

  “I believe you found him yesterday in one of the upstairs guestrooms. That was you, was it not?”

  “Yes, it was. I didn’t know he was your brother. I’m...so sorry. For your loss.”

  “And yet though you were by your own admission at the crime scene I have managed not to accuse you of playing a role in his murder. Perhaps you would be so kind as to show me the same consideration, especially since I’ve never met your poor uncle. I do, however, wish him a speedy return to good health.”

  His little speech sounded as sincere as that of a televangelist resigning from the pulpit after a video of him partying with prostitutes went viral on YouTube.

  “What about the painting Elijah tried to sell? Did you have something to do with that?”

  “I should say not. He spirited it away from the club’s collection.”

  “The club’s collection?” That was news. This whole talk wasn’t exactly playing out the way I had imagined it. I was starting to feel sick to my stomach.

  “It was donated to the club anonymously, years ago. The provenance papers were in order. Suffice it to say that we had no way of knowing it was stolen when we accepted it.”

  “But it was stolen from one of the club members. How is it he never mentioned it?”

  “Perhaps he never visited the gallery. Such a shame. Art is a gift to us all.”

  The half smile on Odibajian’s face suggested he was toying with me.

  “There’s an international database of stolen and missing art. It’s as simple as pie to check.”

  “And I will personally suggest to the board that we make it a policy to do so in the future. Ours is a small, intimate art collection. I’m afraid we’re rather informal, not really up on the most current trends in art curation.”

  “I’d be happy to curate it for you.”

  He let out a loud bark of laughter. Everyone in the room seemed shocked at the sound.

  “She is priceless, this one.” The smile fell from his face and he gestured to the men hovering by my side.

  One man grabbed me by each arm. My clipboard clattered to the floor.

  Startled, I tried to pull away but I didn’t stand a chance. They started dragging me toward the door.

  “Hey,” Frank protested, his chair screeching loudly as he jumped up. “There’s no call for that. I’ll escort her out.”

  While my captors looked to Odibajian, I decided not to wait and stomped heavily on one man’s foot. He grunted and wrapped an arm around my neck in a choke hold. I reached for my secret weapon—a travel-size can of hairspray, as effective as Mace if used properly—and tried to aim the nozzle at his eyes but before I could fire off the first spritz Frank punched him in the nose, the other goon grabbed Frank, and two more oversized men joined the fray. One snatched the Lady Clairol from me but not before I smacked him in the face with the can.

  All in all, it wasn’t much of a fight. Without my chemical weapon I was useless, and Frank could only do so much against four musclebound men.

  “Take them out of here,” Odibajian said with contempt. “I wish to return to my meal.”

  We were hustled out of the mansion and tossed onto the sidewalk like trash. I lay on my back for a few minutes, rubbing my neck and imagining the size and color of the bruise I would soon be sporting on the hip that had made first contact with the concrete. When I worked up enough courage to sneak a peek at Frank, his shoulders were shaking.

  My heart sank. Had I reduced Frank to tears? I sat up for a better look. No, my straight-arrow landlord was laughing. I was speechless.

  After a few minutes he lay back, tucked his hands under his head, crossed his ankles, and gazed up at the cheerful blue sky. “I don’t suppose it ever occurs to you, Annie, to think before you act?”

  “You told me I should drop in on him over lunch.”

  He chuckled. “And you took me quite literally.”

  “I wanted to talk with the man. I don’t know why he had to make a federal case out of it. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Interrogating him in what I imagine would have had a far more productive outcome had you not interrupted.”

  “I mean this in the nicest way possible, Frank,” I said, “but the way you phrase things makes you sound pompous from time to time.”

  “Having been summarily ejected from one of the city’s most prestigious social clubs and currently lying on a public sidewalk in a twelve-hundred-dollar suit, I postulate I may be overcompensating for a certain loss of dignity.” He got to his feet and brushed some dust off his pants, held out a hand, and hoisted me up. “Where’s your truck?”

  “On Powell.”

  “I’ll give you a lift.”

  We walked to his gleaming Jaguar. It was parked in a visitor’s spot in the club’s lot and looked like a poor relation in a sea of six-figure automobiles. I think of Frank as wealthy, but it’s all relative, I suppose.

  The blond parking attendant confronted us and swallowed hard. “Uh, yes sir, ma’am. I’m to tell you not to come back. Ever. Because of the stolen paintings.”

  “Sure, sport. Whatever you say.” I sank into the Jaguar’s leather-scented cocoon. As Frank roared out of the parking lot I asked, “What paintings is he talking about?”

  “No idea.”

  “I didn’t know the F-U had an art gallery. Did you know the F-U had an art gallery?”

  Frank’s face went blank.

  “Oh, wait, let me guess. You installed the gallery’s alarm system, didn’t you?”

  “I told you I did some work there.”

  “If it’s your security system, and you’re the best, then how did the paintings get gone?”

  “Well, let’s see. Bypassing the system I installed would take a thief with considerable skill and expertise. Know anybody like that?”

  I ignored his question. “Where is this gallery?”

  “It’s private.”

  “The whole club’s private.”

  “I meant, I’m not telling you.”

  “What’s in the collection?”

  “A few minor Impressionists, a couple of so-so contemporary pieces that may or may not appreciate much. Considering the membership’s resources it’s nothing special. Kind of rinky-dink, actually, as private art collections go. The Gauguin was by far their best piece. Until it turned out to be a fake, that is.”

  “When did the alleged theft of the other paintings occur?” For some reason, I was channeling Inspector Crawford.

  “Earlier today was the first I’ve heard of it. Either they don’t know or they won’t tell me. Now that you’ve gotten involved, of course, I’ll probably be accused of aiding and abetting a theft from a gallery whose
system I installed.”

  “Surely it isn’t that bad? They can’t prove you had anything to do with it, can they?”

  “Unless I find who did, I imagine I’ll be the fall guy. I vouched for an art forger who’s in business with a convicted art thief. I doubt that will reflect well on me.”

  “Who cares what the F-U thinks? They’re a bunch of creepy, misogynistic old men.”

  “I envy you sometimes, Annie,” Frank said. “The world you live in, where you don’t have to deal with anyone you don’t like. But then again, I knew what I was doing when I gave them your name, so I only have myself to blame.”

  “What were you talking to Balthazar Odibajian about?”

  “You.”

  “What about me?”

  “I was trying to do you a favor. Feeling him out. My approach is more—what’s the word? Ah, yes—subtle than yours. And as usual, when I try to do you a favor I wind up paying a price.”

  “I really am sorry. I’ll take your suit to be dry-cleaned.”

  He shrugged. “It’s almost a badge of honor to have Odibajian as an enemy. At least he’ll keep things interesting. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Too late. Just do me a favor. Don’t go home tonight. Change things up, stay around people for the next few days. I don’t know what’s going on but I’m going to find out. At the very least I’ll get some information on the paintings they claim were stolen.”

  “You don’t believe them?”

  “I think it’s interesting they didn’t mention it earlier. I want to see if a report was filed with the police, much less the feds. If they didn’t know the real provenance for the Gauguin, perhaps the rest of the paintings are questionable, as well. They might not want the cops prying around.”

  “Good point.”

  Frank pulled in behind my truck, and as I turned to open the door he rested a hand on my arm.

  “Annie...I’m sorry about earlier in my office. You came to me for comfort, and I wound up yelling at you.”

  “It’s okay. I have it on good authority that I can be annoying.”

  Our gazes held.

  Suddenly I was acutely aware of what I was wearing, feared how I must look. I could feel my curls corkscrewing out from my otherwise slicked-back ’do, I was a little sweaty from the scuffle, and I didn’t have a bit of makeup on. I was a fresh-faced, street-brawling grease monkey.