Chapter 5
The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery.
—Francis Bacon (1909-1992), British painter
The job of the art forger is to render the mystery impenetrable. Especially to Interpol.—Georges LeFleur
At the end of my first year in business I had been shocked to discover that the IRS expected me to pay hefty self-employment taxes even though True/Faux Studios had lost money. As my unsympathetic tax accountant commented: “You gotta pay your taxes. Business is ninety percent paperwork whether you’re selling art, paper clips, or pigs’ snouts.”
Kind of took the glamour out of the old day job.
Then again, being self-employed allowed me to deduct the cost of art supplies as a business expense, which was a boon for an artaholic like me. More than once I had assuaged my woes with a ream of expensive Belgian linen canvas or a pot of powdered pigment. And though I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing fur, I was known to salivate over brushes of sable and rabbit hair.
I spent the next few hours blasting partway through the mountain of paperwork that is the reality of running a business: keeping the books and paying estimated quarterly taxes to the IRS and the State Board of Equalization; filling out reams of forms for Mary’s biweekly check; making sure my insurance policies and business licenses and resale numbers were current; updating inventory and supplies so we didn’t run out of boiled linseed oil in the middle of faux-finishing a ballroom; developing a Web site for increasingly computer-dependent designers and the public; and every now and then taking clients to task for “failing to fulfill their contractual obligations”—i.e., not paying me.
Given my family history one might think I would know that a love of art did not always accompany a sterling character, but I still took it as a personal insult when clients— usually the wealthiest ones—tried to stiff me.
My cell phone rang and I leapt on it, hoping for Cindy or Michael. It was Josh. I gave him the rundown on Aaron Garner’s renovation, and he made me laugh as he described the moneyed inhabitants of Aspen. We lingered for a while on the phone. Josh was sweet and steady, and I pondered why I doubted my relationship with one of the few men I knew who had no unclear, possibly nefarious motives in wanting to be with me.
After hanging up, I spent a few minutes tidying up the studio, gathered my things, switched off the lights, and headed downstairs. Maybe tonight I’d catch up on my sleep deficit. Great. Thirty-two years old, single, and I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home and an early bedtime.
Maybe I should get a cat.
As I descended I noticed the lights blazing in the office of DeBenton Secure Transport. Peeking in the window, I saw Frank DeBenton sitting behind a massive desk, his neatly combed head bent low over paperwork, and felt a perverse satisfaction that my landlord worked even longer hours than I.
I opened the office door and poked my head in. “Heya, Frank.”
His dark eyes swept over me, and I felt the little zing I had been getting lately around Frank. He sat back in his chair and gave me a slow smile.
Double zing.
Dammit!
“We’ve missed you around here, Annie,” Frank said in his deep, deliberate voice. “The alarm hasn’t tripped once since you began working in the East Bay. And hardly anyone uses the fire escape anymore.”
Last fall I had gotten a reputation for setting off the building’s shrill alarm, even though I had done it only once. Come to think of it, I had only used the fire escape once, too.
But as my mother used to tell me, once was enough to ruin a girl’s reputation.
“Very funny,” I said, plopping into one of the two cushy red leather chairs my landlord kept for clients and visitors.
“Aren’t you working at the columbarium tonight?”
“The paint needs to dry.” I knew from painful experience that if we jumped the gun the still-volatile underpaint would mingle with the new overglazes to create an all-around muddy disaster. The only remedy would be to start over from scratch.
“Mmm.” A man of few words, Frank.
“May I ask a question?”
“You just did.”
“You’re a riot, Frank.”
My landlord was looking especially handsome tonight. Last fall Frank and I had taken tentative steps towards developing a personal relationship, but just as we were about to head off to have Thanksgiving dinner with my parents, Josh had shown up and Frank had backed off. It was probably just as well, I thought. He was smart and funny, but he was a real straight arrow. Which explained why my mother was planning the wedding and I was doing my level best to ignore those pesky zings. Frank was a security man who hung out with law-and-order types. I was an insecurity woman who ran around with wanted-by-the-FBI types. I feared Frank might have to turn me over to the cops one day, or testify against me in court, and it was difficult to build a relationship when one person was looking for an escape route. Literally.
Not to mention I already had a boyfriend. Good ol’ Josh.
Frank grinned.
Zing.
“Fire away,” he said.
“Are you familiar with Raphael’s La Fornarina, which is supposed to be in the Galleria Nazionale at the Barberini Palace . . . ?” I trailed off as Frank sat back in his chair and laced his fingers over his flat stomach in his customary “We Need to Talk” posture. It never ceased to amaze me how his warm brown eyes could turn so cold, so quickly.
“Go on.”
“You okay, Frank?”
“Jim dandy. Continue.”
“You’re cozy with art security types. I was wondering if you’d heard anything about the Barberini’s La Fornarina.”
“Like what?”
“Like whether it’s been sold.”
He shook his head.
“Removed from the museum for restoration?”
Another head shake.
“Replaced by a forgery?”
“You’re the forgery expert, Annie.” Frank’s voice became quiet and measured, a sure sign he was agitated. “I transport fine art, but La Fornarina has never been under my care. Cut to the chase and tell me what you’re fishing for.”
“There’s a version of the painting in the Chapel of the Chimes Columbarium, and it’s been brought to my attention that—”
Frank interrupted. “Are you saying you saw a painting you believe to be a genuine Raphael?”
“Not in so many words.”
“What did you see?”
“A cheap copy. One of those created by paint jets and a computer, you know the kind.”
Frank nodded.
“But it was labeled a copy from the nineteenth century.”
“Let me get this straight,” Frank said, running a large tanned hand over his face. “You saw a computer-generated copy of Raphael’s La Fornarina that was labeled a nineteenth-century copy, and this prompted you to imagine Raphael’s original wasn’t in the Barberini Palace?”
“When you phrase it like that it sounds kind of silly.”
“Is there any way to phrase it that doesn’t sound silly?”
“I know it’s a wild idea, Frank, but my gut’s telling me something is wrong. Another scholar swears the one she saw in the columbarium was the original. Maybe it was switched with the computer copy. I know there’s nothing substantial to go on at this point, but I would feel a lot better if I knew the original Raphael was safe. And, um, an original.”
“Who’s this ‘other scholar’?”
“She’s a, uh . . . Okay, she’s an anthropologist. But you know as well as I that academic training only goes so far in this field. I don’t have an MFA either.”
“Yes, but you’re a former art forger. Which brings me to my next point. You’re far more qualified than I to determine the authenticity of a Raphael masterpiece,” Frank said, his head tilted to one side. “Not to mention you have more contacts in the art underworld. So why are you asking me?”
“Because I don’t have any official contacts. Nor do I have the time or money to hop a plane to Rome to check it out for myself. I was hoping you might give your buddies on the FBI art squad a call.”
The art squad was the FBI’s answer to Interpol. Over the years the European law enforcement agency had worked to foil international art crime. In the U.S. of A., stolen art had traditionally been the jurisdiction of local law enforcement agencies, which meant that if the Guggenheim lost a priceless work of art it called in the NYPD. But urban police departments, overwhelmed with street crime, drugs, and random violence, rarely had the time, interest, or expertise to track down stolen masterpieces. A few years ago the FBI launched a specialized unit dedicated to tracking art and art criminals. Not only did the formation of the new squad recognize the historical and cultural value of art, but it was also a response to trends in crime in the new millennia. Stolen and forged art were now the third most profitable international crime, and were often used to launder drug money and as collateral for arms deals.
Frank was on good terms with the FBI art squad. I feared I was on file with the FBI art squad.
“I’ll make a few inquiries,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“One more thing. Have you ever heard of Donato Sandino?”
“Of course. He’s a fake buster. Probably the fake buster. For the last decade or so he’s been the director of the Dietrich Labs in Germany. I’m surprised you’ve never run into him.”
“Well, you know me. I keep my nose out of fakes and into faux.” I repeated the phrase to myself. I liked it.
“Smart woman. Why the sudden interest in Sandino?”
“I was just wondering what he’s been up to lately.”
“He’s rumored to be chasing a forger he calls ‘the Bandit. ’ I don’t suppose you know him?”
“Who?”
“The Bandit.”
“The Bandit?”
“Because if you did happen to know the Bandit,” Frank said with a ghost of a smile, “you might want to warn said Bandit he’d better beat it out of Bavaria.”
“’Fraid I don’t know who you’re talking about, Frank, but thanks for the heads-up.” I kept my face straight while my mind raced. Had straight-and-narrow Frank DeBenton just tipped me off to warn my grandfather about Sandino? Maybe I should make a phone call or twenty to Bavaria. I rose to leave.
“Now I have a question for you,” Frank said.
I sat back down. “Shoot.”
“How well do you know a man who goes by the alias Michael X. Johnson?”
“Doesn’t, um, ring a bell. . . .”
“Johnson came by yesterday to discuss what he calls the ‘discreet retrieval’ of stolen art and artifacts. As I suspect you know, he is uniquely qualified for the position.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed.”
“What makes you think—”
“Annie, please.”
I looked away. Frank’s scorn was harder to deal with than it used to be.
“Remember my friend Kevin, the FBI agent? If I’m not mistaken, you met Kevin last fall at a cocktail party in Hills-borough. Your escort that evening was a man who called himself ‘Raphael,’ aka Michael X. Johnson. Ring a bell now?”
Damn. “How’s Kevin doing?”
“He’s recovered nicely from the bullet wound,” Frank said. “His ego took more of a beating. Answer my question.”
“Now that you mention it,” I said, “Michael’s an old family friend. I had no idea what he was up to that night.”
“Are you telling me your father, the eminent art scholar Dr. Harold Kincaid, consorts with art thieves?”
“The family’s tie to Michael sort of skipped a generation,” I said. “But, Frank, Michael has nothing to do with—”
“Annie,” Frank said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I doubt you can appreciate how much I regret having to say this, but . . .”
My heart sped up.
“. . . if you continue your relationship with this man I will not be able to employ you. In any capacity. In fact, if you continue your relationship with this man, it would be better if we did not associate. At all.”
A few months ago Frank and I had worked out our mutual difficulties regarding the studio rent—I had trouble paying, he had trouble collecting—by striking a deal: I functioned as his on-call art restorer and expert, and he reduced the rent. Since Frank not only owned the building but also ran an art transportation service, it seemed like the perfect fit. I had not counted on Michael X. Johnson complicating my life.
Yet again.
“What are you saying?” My voice caught in my throat.
“I cannot have a tenant—much less a friend—who is in cahoots with an art thief, even one who claims to have gone straight.”
“But I’m not in cahoots with anyone! I’m one hundred percent cahoots-free!”
“Be that as it may,” Frank said as he opened a manila folder on the desk in front of him. He continued without looking up. “I can’t afford even the appearance of impropriety. My clients would pull their accounts so fast I’d be bankrupt in six months.”
“Surely you’re exaggerating. It’s none of your clients’ business with whom one of your tenants ‘consorts’—and may I add that Michael X. Johnson has never been convicted of art theft?” I did not mention that I knew for a fact Michael was guilty as sin.
“I can’t take that chance.”
“Are you throwing me out of the building?” I rasped. I loved my studio. I needed my studio.
“Of course not,” Frank said, his face softening. “I’m not an ogre, remember? But please—for both our sakes, do not continue your relationship with Johnson. He’s bad news, Annie. Very bad news.”
He closed the folder, picked up the telephone, and started dialing.
I had been dismissed. Guess I better tell Mom to cancel the caterer, I grumbled as I shuffled out to my truck. On the way home I rewrote the conversation with Frank in my head and dazzled my landlord with my biting, clever replies. I stopped at the Safeway on Grand Avenue to pick up something for dinner and found myself vacillating between buying a fifth of Stoli and splurging on a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk.
I got both.
The next morning I awoke with an upset stomach and a pounding head. Rats. Time to lay off the booze and chocolate. If I weren’t careful I’d turn into a fat, drunken, studio-less artist.
I glanced at the clock: ten thirty. Double rats. I had intended to get up early and accomplish a million and one things, but working the swing shift had played havoc with my biorhythms. Make that a fat, drunken, studio-less, unemployed artist.
My late rising wasn’t entirely the fault of the Stoli ice cream floats and strange work schedule. I had spent almost an hour on a fruitless round of international phone calls, and wound up leaving a trail of messages for Grandfather from Sussex to Sicily. After that, Frank’s assumption that my past associations would drive away his current clients had kept me tossing and turning half the night. I hadn’t been arrested since my seventeenth birthday—I didn’t count the two brief detainments for civil disobedience because, after all, protest marches were one of my few regular forms of exercise—but that one teensy accusation of forgery had made me an outcast. And as much as I denied it, the rejection of the legitimate art world rankled. I was happy with my faux-finishing business, but I missed the world of rarified galleries and fine museums. If nothing else, it would be nice to be able to take in an exhibit without feeling as though I had to avoid the security cameras.
On the other hand, if the preposterous story about La Fornarina was true, and I could help to return the masterpiece to the Barberini Palace, I might be able to redeem myself. It was a long shot, but what would it hurt to nose around a little? As my friends liked to remind me, I was the queen of long shots. Invigorated, I pulled on my overalls and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, made a thermos of Peet’s coffee, and packed a lunch of Sukhi’s samosas from the local farmers’ market. First stop: Roy Cogswell’s office. At the very least, he might be able to enlighten me as to why the Chapel of the Chimes displayed a computerized reproduction of La Fornarina labeled a nineteenth-century copy by Crispin Engels. Genuine Raphael or no, that was strange.
One thought occurred to me: if the original had been hanging in the columbarium all these years, its very anonymity had been its safekeeping. Just in case the staff had unknowingly replaced the real La Fornarina with a digital copy while they sent the precious masterpiece out to be cleaned, for example, it was best to be circumspect when asking around. The last thing I wanted to do was give someone the idea of selling the painting to the highest bidder on the black market.
I entered the columbarium through the front door, but halted in my tracks when I spied Cogswell near the conference room chatting with Billy Mudd, a contractor I knew only too well. In this land of crunchy granola environmentalists, Mudd’s business cards introduced him as BILLY THE EVIL DEVELOPER. I had to give the man points for honesty.
Last year Mudd and I had squared off at a town meeting over his plans to replace the Fox Theater, an aging art deco palace, with a concrete parking garage. The forces of historical preservation and all-around righteousness—bolstered by Aaron Garner’s deep pockets—had prevailed, and Mudd had held it against me ever since. A few months ago he had driven me off a posh Alamo job site by hinting to the owner that I’d had a few run-ins with the law.
If only he knew.
Hoping the men were too engrossed in conversation to notice me, I backed into a narrow apse and glanced out a leaded window overlooking the vast graveyard. Frederick Law Olmsted, the famous landscape architect who created New York City’s Central Park, had also designed the beautiful Bayview Cemetery, its rolling hills offering a serene venue with breathtaking views of downtown Oakland, the bay, San Francisco, and the Golden Gate Bridge. A handful of dog walkers, several joggers, and a gaggle of young moms pushing strollers took advantage of the cemetery’s willingness to act as a de facto park.
The view reminded me of a new friend who ate lunch in the cemetery most days, and who might be a source of information about the goings-on at the columbarium. Breezing past the reception counter, I nodded at Miss Ivy, ignored her glower, and poked my head into Manny Ramirez’s office.
“Hey, Manny. How’s tricks?”
“Annie! The murals are looking great!” he said with a big smile. Manny’s ergonomic desk chair protested as he leaned back, one outsized hand fiddling with a marble pen set he’d received for being chosen Alameda County’s Accountant of the Year two years running. In his early thirties, Manny wore his shock of shiny black hair combed forward across his broad forehead in a style originated by Julius Caesar and revived by George Clooney. Thick-rimmed, retro-style glasses perched on a large nose that presided over a wide mouth. Manny wasn’t fat, just extralarge, as if his parents had ordered him from the Super-Sized Infants menu. “Looks like you’re making excellent progress.”
“We are. We reattached the canvases to the walls last week,” I said. “Now it’s time for the fun part—painting and gilding.”
“That’s super. I can’t wait to see how everything turns out.”
“You and me both. Listen, I wanted to pick your brain about something. Join me for lunch on the hill?”
He glanced at a grease-stained brown paper bag sitting atop a utilitarian metal bookshelf. “Let me see . . . lunch alfresco with a lovely, talented artist? Does this mean I have to split the bologna-on-rye that I fixed this morning with my own two hands?”
“I’ll trade you half a bologna-on-rye for some samosas from the farmers’ market,” I offered. “I’ll even spring for a soda to wash ’em down.”
“Best offer I’ve had all week,” Manny said as he pulled on a light blue windbreaker.
I retrieved my shoulder bag from my truck, bought Manny a can of orange soda from the vending machine in the employee lunch room, and found him waiting for me at the cemetery gates. Making up for yesterday’s rain, today was sunny and mild, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. We chatted about the plans for Manny’s upcoming wedding as we climbed the winding road, passing the memorial to Civil War veterans, with its stack of real cannonballs that the National Park Service replenished whenever vandals made off with a few. A large tan Buick crept past us, the faces of its elderly occupants marked by age and loss. Two men in dark blue jumpsuits operated a machine that dug a grave for an interment. The muted roar of lawn mowers and whine of weed whackers revealed the presence of the fleet of gardeners at work in the distance.
At last we arrived, slightly winded, at the Locklear Family Memorial, which had been built on a scale commonly reserved for public monuments. In addition to the twenty-foot-tall central cylinder bearing the bas-relief likenesses of assorted Locklear kin—a homely bunch, judging by their squinty eyes and drooping jowls—the memorial boasted a circular stone bench that was a favorite graveyard haunt for locals in the know. It was Manny’s favorite lunch spot.
From our hillside perch we enjoyed a crystal clear view of downtown Oakland and, across the bay, San Francisco’s distinctive skyline marked by the pyramidal Transamerica Building. My gaze drifted down the hill to the bobbing helium balloons that indicated Louis Spencer’s crypt below us. I still hadn’t heard from Cindy Tanaka. Probably just busy at school, I told myself. I wondered what the police had learned about the grave robbery, and decided to inquire at the cemetery office after lunch.
I handed Manny his soda, poured myself a cup of Peet’s coffee from the thermos, and set out the samosas, peach chutney, and hot lime pickle. One of the best things about working nights and sleeping late was having lunch for breakfast. I wasn’t a scrambled-eggs-and-pancakes kind of gal.
“I wanted to ask you about some of the art at the columbarium,” I began, breaking open a crusty samosa, a savory Indian pastry stuffed with potatoes, vegetables, and spices.
“Miss Ivy said you were asking around,” Manny mumbled through a mouthful of bologna sandwich, which he had insisted on finishing before partaking of the samosas. “I’m a numbers cruncher, remember? I’m not so good with history. You know who you should talk to? Old Mrs. Henderson. She was secretary to the director for fifty-one years, been here longer than Cogswell.”
“No kidding?”
“Can you imagine working here for that long? That’s dedication.”
“Or lack of options.”
“You’re too young to be so cynical,” Manny laughed. “By all reports, Mrs. Henderson loved this place.”
“Maybe she has family buried here,” I suggested, struggling with the concept of doing anything for fifty-one years. I had a wee problem with commitment. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“She’s at a retirement home off Piedmont Avenue. Evergreen Something-or-other. You should look her up.”
“Maybe I will. Tell me, Manny. What do you know about the painting in the Chapel of the Allegories, La Fornarina?”
“I know that she’s sexy as hell,” he said with a wolfish grin. “What about it? It’s a copy from the 1800s. Henderson loved it, had it hanging in her office for years. When she left she made a big deal about getting the Alcove of the Allegories ready for it. Even finagled a grant to renovate it.”
That cheap digital reproduction hadn’t been hanging anywhere until recently, I thought.
“What kind of grant?”
“The columbarium enjoys the support of a handful of benefactors who provide targeted grants for special projects. Henderson was a real whiz at grant writing, as is Miss Ivy, believe it or not. Aaron Garner—the rich guy with the weird hair?— paid for the restoration of the Fornarina alcove. As a matter of fact, he’s funding the alcove you’re working on, too.”
“Really? I’m working for Garner in the City. I didn’t realize he was funding the mural restoration as well.”
“I don’t know what we would do without him. He’s devoted to the place.”
My cell phone shrilled out the Mistah F.A.B. hip-hop tune Mary had downloaded when I wasn’t looking. That was two weeks ago, and I still hadn’t figured out how to change it back.
Amused, Manny watched me root around in my bag for the phone. “You’re a rap music fan, are ya?”
“Not so’s you’d notice,” I muttered, flipping the phone open just as Verizon bounced the call to voice mail. I recognized the number: Mary. I’d call her back later. “My assistant did it.”
“Mary?”
“Mary.”
“Ah.”
“Sorry about that. How did the columbarium come to own a copy of La Fornarina?”
He shrugged. “It’s been here forever. The architect, Julia Morgan, may have purchased it in Europe when she bought a lot of other things.”
“Tell me about that.”
“When Chapel of the Chimes was nearing completion in the twenties, Lawrence Moore, the director of the columbariumand crematorium, sent Morgan and her artist friend— Doris Something-or-other—on a buying trip to select art and artifacts. Morgan picked up the Roman fountain in the Gregorian Garden on that trip, as well as the Medici lapis-and-malachite table in the Main Cloister.”
“Those are amazing pieces,” I said, recalling the ancient fountain’s gorgeous mosaic and the shimmering stones of the Medici table. “Manny, is the columbarium in financial trouble?”
“I can’t discuss privileged information with you, Annie, you know that,” Manny said as he doused a samosa with chutney and lime pickle. “These are yummy, by the way.”
“Have another.”
He nodded. “I can tell you this, though. There’s been talk that the columbarium may need to sell off some of the more valuable artwork to pay for the earthquake retrofit.”
“Which pieces are they thinking of selling?”
He shrugged. “Well, there’s the miniatures collection. But I think Roy’s already spoken with you about that. I wouldn’t worry about La Fornarina, though. It was assessed a few years ago and isn’t worth much.”
“Who did the assessment?”
“I don’t recall offhand. I could look it up if you’d like.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Any special reason?”
“I know a few people in the field, that’s all.” My non-answer seemed to satisfy the accountant, who started munching another samosa. “I saw Roy Cogswell talking with Billy Mudd earlier. The management isn’t thinking of selling some of its land to Mudd, is it?”
“They couldn’t, even if they wanted to.”
“Why not?”
“Because the cemetery doesn’t own the land, the residents do. ”
“What residents?”
With a sweep of his arm Manny gestured to the hills below us.
“You mean the dead people?”
He nodded. “We call them the residents.”
“That’s . . . different.”
“Can you think of a better alternative?”
I thought of several. None was better.
“How can dead people own real estate?”
Manny laughed. “It’s not as creepy as it sounds. It works like this—living people purchase the plots of land in the cemetery, or the boxes or niches in the columbarium. It’s a real estate transaction, same as buying a house or a condo. Legal deeds, the whole shebang. Upon the owner’s death, the title to the land reverts to a trust in perpetuity. The trust is structured so that the land can’t be sold without a vote of the board and the residents.”
“The dead people.”
“That’s right.”
“So that would make a vote unlikely.”
“Yep,” Manny said with finality. He checked his watch and began stuffing the remnants of his meal into a crumpled brown bag. “All this talk of death has put me off my lunch, Annie. Remind me of that the next time you ask me out.”
“A columbarium accountant who eats in a cemetery every day should have a stronger stomach,” I said, noting that in addition to his sandwich, Manny had managed to choke down three samosas and taken a huge bite out of a fourth.
“I’m a deeply sensitive soul,” he said with a wink. “Back to the salt mines. Coming with me, or are you going to stay awhile?”
“I think I’ll soak up a few rays, while they last. Hey— good luck deciding on your reception hall.”
“Thanks, but it’s not up to me. Never underestimate the power of a future mother-in-law. Soda’s my treat next time,” Manny said and started to amble down the road.
I watched as he stopped to chat with one of the gardeners; then I shoved the thermos and sack of leftover samosas into my shoulder bag and picked my way down the hill and around the tombstones to Louis Spencer’s crypt. I was several yards away when I spotted a hunched old man wearing a mangy overcoat and a black beret placing a nosegay of violets on the pyramid’s steps. The man scuttled away as I approached.
Except for the violets everything was as it had been the other night. The iron gate was still ajar, the balloons and toys and flowers remained, the sad-looking Raggedy Ann stared at me unblinkingly. No yellow police tape warned intruders away, no black fingerprint dust marred the surface of the white marble statues. Then again, it had been a simple grave robbery. It seemed doubtful the busy Oakland Police Department would be pulling out all the stops to find ghoulish fingerprints.
I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, pulled the gate open, and slipped inside. In the light of day the crypt felt more poignant than sinister, and the splashes of light filtering through the cross-and-rose stained glass window highlighted the evidence of decay and neglect.
I peeked behind the sepulcher. The ghoul’s tools were still there.
Shutting the gate behind me, I proceeded down the hill to the cemetery offices that were housed in the old caretaker’s cottage. Inside, an elderly couple sat at a desk conferring with a pale, curly-haired young man in an ill-fitting blue blazer. Three women in colorful, embroidered saris perched on a brown Naugahyde sofa and paged through a catalogue of caskets. A young couple murmured in German as they perused a map of the graves.
Death and mourning I could deal with. What appalled me was the Tim O’Neill painting hanging over the large stone fireplace. I assumed it was genuine, though I couldn’t be sure. My talent for aesthetic profiling was most accurate when I felt an affinity for an artist, and O’Neill’s work left me not just cold, but frozen. A self-proclaimed “painter of radiance,” O’Neill mass-marketed digital reproductions of his soft-focus paintings of flower-filled villages and romantic ocean views. At a thousand dollars a pop, he was making a fortune. It wasn’t bad enough that cemetery visitors were coping with the loss of a loved one; they also had to deal with O’Neill’s cheesiness?
Get a grip, Annie, I thought. Everyone has a right to an opinion—and O’Neill’s more popular than you’ll ever be. Plus, unlike you, he hasn’t broken any actual laws.
Other than the law of good taste.
I approached the long reception counter and nodded at the plump, fiftyish woman whose name tag indicated she was HELENA—HEAD DOCENT.
“Good afternoon and welcome,” she said with a subdued smile. Helena’s straight blond hair was cut in a pageboy. A single strand of pearls encircled her neck and a coral sweater-set complemented her salmon-toned lipstick. I tried to calculate the odds that there would be a time in my life when my lipstick matched my clothes. The smart money was on “fat chance.”
“This may sound odd,” I began, “but did anyone report a grave robbery the night before last?”
Helena’s smile congealed like day-old egg yolk. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the curly-haired man glance at us, but everyone else seemed preoccupied with thoughts of death.
“Come with me, please,” Helena said frostily, and I followed her down a narrow hall to a small conference room.
She slammed the door. “Who are you?” she demanded as she took a seat at the head of an oval table of dark polished cherry. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m Annie Kincaid. I’m restoring some murals in the columbarium.” I sank into an upholstered chair. “The other night I met Cindy Tanaka, and—”
“Who?”
“Cindy Tanaka. She’s a graduate student doing a research project involving Louis Spencer’s crypt?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“She’s researching public manifestations of death, or something like that, and—”
“Never heard of her.”
“Perhaps someone else might know more about—”
“I assure you, Ms. Kincaid, nothing happens in this cemetery that I don’t know about. I’ll grant you that, from time to time, teenagers vandalize the unendowed section, or meet in groups to howl at the moon, or whatever it is they do when they should be at home in bed, but there have been no incidents of grave robbing. Why, the very idea . . .” She pursed her orangey lips and glared.
I became aware of the aroma of samosas and coffee emanating from my shoulder bag and filling the small, stuffy room. What with the smell, my ratty overalls, and my paint-stained T-shirt, I feared I wasn’t putting my best foot forward. I tried again.
“You’ve never heard of a Berkeley graduate student named Cindy Tanaka doing work on public mourning?”
“I assure you, I have not.”
“She was taking pictures of Louis Spencer’s crypt.”
Helena’s lacquered pageboy swung as she shook her head.
“But she had a key to the gates.”
“Impossible.”
“Look, Helena, I’m not making this up,” I said, frustrated. “I met Cindy here, in the cemetery, the night before last. And there was a, uh, incident.”
“What kind of incident?”
“A man in a green mask tried to remove a metal box from Louis Spencer’s sepulcher.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“This is terrible,” Helena said and stood up. “I’ll look into it immediately.”
The head docent scurried out of the conference room. Unsure whether or not to follow, I lingered for a moment before retracing my steps, leaving my business card on the counter in the reception area and heading out to the street.
As I emerged I saw Billy Mudd leaning against my truck. What fun.