Arsenic and Old Paint

by Hailey Lind

  “Shall we?” Nicole started back up the stairs.

  “You mentioned there might be other tunnels?”

  “There are rumors of tunnels criss-crossing Chinatown, though I don’t know if it’s ever been proven. All kinds of rumors swirl about this community. Like, the Chinese will shanghai you and sell you into slavery if you’re not careful. That sort of thing. Goes with the mysterious Asian stereotypes. You know, like fireworks.”

  I looked chagrined, but Nicole just laughed.

  “You think the tunnels are a myth, then.”

  “Really can’t say. Tunnel systems from this era have been found in Red Bluff and Portland, but those cities aren’t as earthquake-prone as San Francisco.”

  “Red Bluff?” I asked. The small Sacramento Valley town wasn’t far from where I grew up, but it was just as isolated. Hard to imagine Chinese immigrants landing there at all, but even harder imagining them building tunnels there.

  Nicole nodded. “I’m sure their local historical society could tell you about them. Chinese immigrants were found in most early California towns, working in the mining camps, railroad construction, all sorts of things.”

  “Why would they build tunnels?”

  “Lots of reasons, I’m really not the expert. And like I said, I don’t even really believe it. But my cousin Will insists he’s seen evidence of tunnels, especially when they take down old buildings. And he sees a lot; he runs a street-sweeping truck on the graveyard shift.”

  “Do you think he’d talk to me?”

  “Are you kidding? He’ll talk your ear off if you give him a chance. Will’s a volunteer at the Chinatown Historical Society on Clay. I think he’s there this afternoon.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nicole hesitated. “Listen, you really think this might have something to do with your uncle?”

  “Someone tried to poison him. He wrote the name ‘Chan’ on the front of a catalogue where he scribbled something about tunnels.” I took the fireworks catalogue I’d found in Anton’s van from my backpack and showed her. “I don’t know if they’re connected or if they were random thoughts, but something strange is going on, and for Anton’s sake I want to know what it is.”

  “Tell you what. Why don’t I call Will and see when he’s done at the historical society? Maybe we could have dinner. You like food?”

  “Food?”

  “Sorry.” Nicole smiled. “Stupid joke—you call it Chinese food, but we just call it food.”

  I laughed. “I love food, Chinese food in particular.”

  Nicole made a phone call and told me to meet her and Will for dinner at a restaurant on Washington Street in an hour and a half. I meandered over to busy Portsmouth Square and perched on a slatted bench, pondering my next move. Clusters of old men played games and gambled, pigeons scouted for scraps, and San Franciscans of every age and stripe hustled in and out of the underground parking garage.

  I called Pedro. “Hola. ¿Qué tal?”

  “Your accent sucks.”

  “You should hear me speak French.”

  “This Jarrah Preston guy you asked about? Looks legit. You know, this little assignment didn’t exactly test my computer skills. Preston not only works for Augusta Confederated, he’s on their website. Photo and everything. Kinda cute, in an offbeat sort of way. You interested?”

  “Why is everyone so invested in my love life all of a sudden?” I snapped.

  “Whoa, sorry. We just want our Annie to be happy.”

  “I apologize, Pedro. It’s been a rough day.” I told him about Anton, and the Fleming Mansion, and what I’d found at Cameron House. He listened carefully, as he always did, and made soothing “There, there” sounds.

  “And Elijah Odibajian?” I asked, hoping for news. “Find out anything more about him?”

  “Turns out the Brothers Odibajian parted on bad terms. After what they so charmingly refer to as their ‘corporate divorce,’ Elijah disappeared. Seems he had a gambling problem.”

  “Serious?”

  “I’d say it was pretty serious: he burned through his personal fortune—no small feat—and may have been skimming from the business. I imagine that’s why Balthazar split from him. There are rumors Elijah was on the hook to some unpleasant people, which is pretty scary when you think about the Odibajians’ reputation. We’re talkin’ Terminator 2-type nasty.”

  Pedro is a huge Arnold Schwarzenegger fan. It is a testament to our friendship that we work around his obsession.

  “But you probably have better sources than I for that sort of thing,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. Sources. Of information.”

  “Isn’t that what I have you for?”

  “You’re telling me you don’t know any bookies, loan sharks, or well-groomed men with a taste for gaudy jewelry?”

  “Pedro, I’m an artist, not a gun moll. Good heavens. I hang out with people like you.”

  “You’re a special type of artist, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Hey, I let my membership lapse in the International Brotherhood of Forgers and Fakers years ago.”

  “And speaking of which, you asked about hidden messages under paintings? Turns out it’s not that strange. A lot of artists do that. Who knew? Including your Uncle Anton.”

  “Yeah, I got that last bit already, thanks. But nothing on the phrase per se?”

  “Squat-comma-diddley. Just that it seems to be a take-off on ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ ”

  “What about Victor Yeltsin, the owner of the original Gauguin? I met his wife. She seems nice enough.”

  “Judging by...?”

  “She was sweet to her dog.”

  “Yeah? So was Hitler.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Sure—loved his German shepherd, Blondi.”

  “That’s...really creepy.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Okay, so what’s up with the Yeltsins?”

  “Let’s see... Yup, got it right here. Catrina and Victor Yeltsin, Sausalito. About five years ago, Yeltsin started making a whole lot of money. Before that, he was well off thanks to his wife; she inherited a bundle from her grandmother, a heartwarming rags-to-riches story. Brewed up shampoo and creme rinse in her kitchen during the Great Depression, branched out into moisturizers and makeup after World War Two. Made a killing. After fifteen years of depression and war, America wanted to look pretty. Marrying Yeltsin was a step down for Catrina, fortune-wise.”

  “What happened five years ago?”

  “Dunno, but he started making a whole lot of money round about the time he joined the Fleming-Union. That’s typical though—those guys throw each other work, seats on corporate boards, that type of thing. The surprising thing is that he’d be allowed into the club, though. They’re pretty darned exclusive.”

  “What kind of work does Yeltsin do?”

  “Consulting.”

  “What does he consult about?”

  “Dunno. His business is called Yeltsin Consulting, Inc. Has one of those flashy, elaborate websites that look great but offer almost nothing in actual information. It’s privately held, so there are no SEC filings that I can get my hands on without hacking into the feds’ system. And that’s a line I won’t cross.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

  “I would. But that’s not why. I know a few tricks for getting in and out of the system without being detected, but there are only so many times I can play that card. I’m saving it for something special.”

  “You’re secretly the mastermind of an evil criminal empire, aren’t you, Pedro?”

  “Well, I don’t like to brag....”

  “Thank you for the scoop on Yeltsin.”

  “Wish I had more for you. Want me to look up Catrina Yeltsin?”

  “Sure. Any info is helpful. Oh, and the other name in the file, a guy described as their ‘houseboy,’ Kyle Jones.”

  The moment I hung up the phone rang: Annette Cr
awford. I hesitated, then decided not to answer. Suppose she wanted to talk to me about the Fleming-Union’s missing paintings? I hated being questioned by the police at any time, but especially when I was a) innocent and b) didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on. What would I say to Annette? That my business partner, a “retired” art thief, had been missing for an entire week during which the paintings disappeared? That I was working for a New Zealand insurance investigator who had hired me because I had a tendency to look the other way where the law was concerned as long as no one got hurt? That, yet one more time, I seemed to be caught up in some sort of criminal conspiracy?

  I blew out a breath, frustrated. Annie Kincaid, Crime Magnet. Was it something in my DNA? Had the line for the “Catch a Clue” gene been so long that my pre-embodied self had settled for the “Freakin’ Clueless” gene instead?

  Maybe I should commit a crime so that at least once in my life I would understand what was happening.

  I looked up at the monument to Robert Louis Stevenson, who in 1879 and 1880 used to sit in this very square, depressed, writing poetry while waiting for his beloved Fanny to divorce her husband and marry him. Failing to find that particularly inspirational, I looked down at my list of Things to Do. 2....“Ask about fireworks?”

  That sounded simple. I could do that. I was in the heart of Chinatown, after all. And no matter what the upstanding citizens over at the Cameron House thought about it, this neighborhood was the mother lode for illegal fireworks. Even clueless lasses like me knew that.

  I went into the first retail store I saw that sold a wide variety of items and asked about fireworks, receiving nothing for my trouble but wary looks and suspicious glances. In the next store, I made up a story about wanting fireworks for my children. Still nothing.

  Probably I should have left my coveralls on.

  I needed someone with criminal savvy. Someone with the face of a heavenly angel and the heart of a fallen angel. Someone who could talk others into doing things they would otherwise never consider. Too bad I wasn’t currently speaking to Michael, my usual Plan A.

  My usual Plan B was to call Anton.

  I didn’t have a Plan C. I had never needed one. Anton had always been able to—

  Wait.

  I clawed through my backpack and found the business card.

  “ ’allo?”

  “Hello Mr., uh, Hippo. It’s Annie Kincaid. Any update on my uncle?”

  “No better, no worse. Which is good news of a sort. The physicians are calling it ‘wait and see mode,’ which seems to mean they don’t know what’s going on.”

  “I am wondering if I might ask you a favor.”

  “For Anton’s niece? Name it, and if I can help I will.”

  “I need to get my hands on some fireworks. Do you know where I might buy some? Oh, and the name of anyone who deals in stolen art?”

  Twenty minutes Hippo called me back with a couple of contacts and addresses, and told me to use his name as a calling card. I could get used to having friends in high places.

  “Before you go, could I ask whether you knew Elijah Odibajian?” I asked.

  “Why are you asking?” His voice sounded wary.

  “I don’t know if you heard, but he was found dead yesterday.”

  “Yes, I did hear that.”

  “Did you also hear that he had substantial gambling debts?”

  I heard a long intake of breath. “Yes.”

  “I’m not asking for any details. I was just wondering whether he thought he’d be coming into some money to pay off those debts?”

  “Yes, I believe he was going to sell an asset, and pay on the balance.”

  So, one lonely night in the mansion, Elijah had crept down those wide carpeted stairs, made his way to the club’s art gallery, disabled the security system, and snatched the fake Gauguin? Then he snuck it out of the club and took it to Mayfield’s for sale, figuring since he had the provenance papers, it was no problem? Could he have taken the other paintings as well?

  “Okay, thanks so much for all the information.”

  “Of course. But Annie? Be very careful.”

  “Yes, I know, I’m dealing with some scary people.”

  “No, they’re actually lovely people. But you can lose a finger handling those firecrackers. Or worse. One of my nephews... Well, you don’t want to know. Let’s just say his friends call him Lefty.”

  “He blew his hand off?” I asked, appalled.

  “It wasn’t his hand.”

  * * *

  The first fireworks supplier’s address Hippo had given me led to a nondescript door opening off an alley. I banged on the door for what seemed like an eternity until a young man answered. Thin and short, he was not the typical bouncer; I had probably outweighed him by my tenth birthday. Feeling like a bad actress in a low-budget movie, I told him Hippo had sent me, and was escorted into a retail area jammed with a dizzying array of brightly colored packages. The place reeked of rotten eggs and Pine-Sol. I fought the urge to hold my nose and approached an old man behind the glass counter.

  “I think my uncle was here recently.” I showed him the photograph from the Cameron House newsletter. “Looking for fireworks?”

  He nodded.

  “You helped him?”

  He nodded again.

  This was going to be easy. “When was that?”

  He turned stiffly to consult a flowery pink-and-red calendar from Dragon Land Bakery, and pointed to a day two weeks ago.

  “Did he say what he wanted the fireworks for?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did he say anything?”

  He shook his head.

  “Nothing at all...? All right, thanks.”

  The newspaper article on the Odibajian brothers slipped out of the file. He tapped the black-and-white photo of Balthazar and nodded.

  “What, you saw him, too?”

  The young man came out from the back.

  “He understands some English, but he doesn’t really speak.”

  “Oh. He tapped the photo as though he knew this man. Could you ask him about it for me?”

  The young man came and looked at the grainy newspaper image of Balthazar, and the newsletter photo of Anton, then shrugged.

  “All old white guys look the same.”

  “Oh. So you don’t remember either of these men?”

  Grudgingly, he looked at the photos again, and tapped Anton’s. “Maybe this one. Seems like he came in, said he was a painter.”

  “Why did he want fireworks?”

  “We got Emerald Green, Paris Green, and Scheele’s green. Different names for pretty much the same thing. Any kind copper arsenite, copper acetoarsenite. You can use it as a pigment, mix it for paint colors. Gotta be careful, though, it’s poison.”

  “Do you keep records of when you sold it, who you sold it to, maybe?”

  “Yeah, right.” He laughed and escorted me out.

  11

  Dear readers, I have been asked many times, isn’t it illegal to copy a painting? I shall clarify:

  1. Creating a new Old Master is not, in itself, a crime.

  2. Pretending that the painting is a genuine Old Master, and therefore selling it for much more than it would have been sold as a copy, is a crime according to Interpol and the FBI.

  3. Creating fake certificates of authentification or otherwise falsifying a trail of provenance, is always a crime.

  4. To deprive the world of my masterpieces, my versions of beautiful paintings...well, this would be the greatest crime of all.

  —Georges LeFleur, “Craquelure”

  Will and Nicole were cousins who squabbled like siblings.

  “Order,” she demanded.

  “You order,” Will replied.

  “Don’t argue with me, William. I know where your bodies are buried.”

  “You really want to launch a cycle of revenge that can only end in tragedy?”

  Nicole rolled her eyes. “I speak Mandarin, Will, not Cant
onese. Order.”

  “Right. You grew up in Chinatown with Cantonese parents but only speak Mandarin. We’re not buying it, are we, Annie?” Will looked at me for support, but I was staying out of it.

  “I learned at college,” Nicole explained to me. “Cantonese and Mandarin are the same written language but not the same spoken language. I can communicate in Cantonese just fine as long as I’m writing.”

  “So write already,” said Will. “I’m hungry.”

  I got the feeling I was witnessing a Chan Family Smackdown. My money was on Nicole.

  She stared at her cousin and raised one eyebrow.

  He finally snorted and rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll do it. But only because I’m starving.” Will flagged down a waiter who soon returned with several plates of noodles, rice, fried meats, and vegetables. The scrumptious-smelling dishes were placed on the lazy Susan in the middle of the large round table we shared with others.

  The cavernous room was filled with men, women, and children and loud with the clatter of dishes and the sound of people speaking, presumably, in Cantonese.

  “So,” Will said as we started in on the varied delicacies, “Nicole says you want to know about the tunnels.”

  “Do you think they really exist?”

  “I know they do. I’ve seen evidence of them when they take down buildings, that sort of thing. PG and E knows about them, too.”

  “The gas company?”

  “They know what’s under the streets. Infrastructure. Pretty important.”

  “So if everyone knows about these tunnels, why are they still considered a myth?”

  “Fact is, there’s all sorts of weird stuff goes on under our feet: pipes, wires, cables, sewers. Did you ever hear about them finding old, wrecked ships sometimes when they excavate new building sites? But these might not be tunnels the way most people think about them. There were two and a half miles of brick sewer tunnels under Chinatown alone, back in the day, before the quake. They were big enough to walk in, and discharged into the bay.”

  “What were the tunnels used for?”

  “Besides the sewage and coal they were designed for? Anything you didn’t want people to know about. Gambling, smoking opium, smuggling. Maybe just a place to get away from the whites. No offense.”