Chapter 14
I found one had to do some work every day, even at midnight, because either you’re a professional or you’re not.
—Dame Barbara Hepworth (1903-1975), British sculptor
I often paint late at night. The peace and quiet are soothing, and one may more readily hear the gendarmes approaching. —Georges LeFleur
I was picking my way across the sleeping forms littering the living room floor when a hand grabbed my ankle. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming, and looked down into the smiling face of cousin Catiz.
“Where’s Pete?” I whispered.
“He is next door, at our uncle’s house,” Catiz said. “But I am here.”
I hesitated. The men on the phone had not sounded like pros, though I supposed I was not the best judge of criminal expertise. Besides, Michael had once told me that amateurs could be more dangerous than seasoned professionals. Should I bring someone along to help rescue Mary? Someone, say, like a big, strapping Bosnian?
“Catiz, I was wondering . . .” I stopped, recalling how, not so long ago, Pete had been injured trying to help me. I’d vowed then never to endanger my friends again. Not intentionally, anyway. “Would you tell Pete that I had to run? Thank everyone for me?”
“Of course,” he said, crawling out of his improvised bedroll. “Do you need help?”
“No, thanks,” I said, appreciating his gallantry and muscled chest. “It’s just girl stuff.”
He nodded, kissed my hand, and watched as I hurried out to the truck. I swore as I realized that it had started drizzling again. Just perfect for racing to a crypt in the middle of the night.
As I drove, I pondered acting like a sane citizen and calling the police. But I couldn’t help thinking that a bunch of squad cars, sirens blaring, bearing down upon the cemetery in the middle of the night would worsen our cause. The voices on the phone seemed to be after Louis’ box, and I was ready to hand it over. Perhaps it was just that simple. Transforming a straightforward exchange into a hostage situation made my already loza-challenged stomach clench. I couldn’t let anything happen to Mary.
Ignoring the speed limit and the rain, I made it to the cemetery in less than fifteen minutes. The gates were shut, so I parked at the curb and unlocked the pedestrian access gate. Now what?
“Keep walking,” a short man in a goblin mask whispered as he materialized at my side and grabbed my arm. I jumped, swallowed hard, and remained silent. The man searched my bag, confiscated Mary’s cell phone, and shoved something hard into my right side. I couldn’t tell if it was a gun, a finger, or a toilet bowl brush, but figured it was best to assume the worst.
A second, taller masked man materialized at my left as we hurried along the curved access road. I shivered as we skirted the pond where Louis Spencer had drowned, so many years ago. In the distance I glimpsed his crypt. We headed up and over the hill, passing one of the cemetery’s older sections. I wasn’t familiar with this area, but in the misty, silvery light of the graveyard I spied a marker inscribed with the name Frederic Olmos Blood. How appropriate.
I tripped on a tree root, splashed in a puddle, and the taller ghoul steadied me with a hand on my elbow. “Step carefully,” he whispered, his voice low and surprisingly polite.
“Shut up,” whispered the other one.
Eucalyptus trees rustled in the wind, and wet grass clung to our shoes. The three of us were soaked by the time we halted in front of an old square crypt made of gray stone blocks streaked with black moss. The stones were crumbling from years of neglect, and the dank air of the crypt was redolent with mold and decay. The iron door had a small barred opening, as if the crypt’s inhabitants needed a peephole to check out visitors, and a shiny new padlock winked in the moonlight.
“Mare?” I called through the bars.
“Annie?”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m locked in a crypt!”
“She’s fine,” whispered the short man. “And you will be too, if you tell us where the box is. Otherwise I’ll just leave you two in there indefinitely, bound so you can’t call for help.”
“Annie!” Mary cried. “I’m totally freaking out here!”
“Maybe I’ll go ahead and shoot you before I leave you,” added the ghoul with a laugh. “The rats would like that.”
“It’s in the columbarium,” I said in a rush. I drew the line at bullet holes and rats. “In the Chapel of the Beatitudes. Now let her out.”
“Where in the chapel?” He shoved the gun under my chin.
“Near the ceiling, in the crown molding. There’s an inconsistency in the light. You’ll see when you get there.”
“Very good. Did you open it?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t need a curse from beyond the grave,” I said. “Haven’t you heard what happened to the folks who opened King Tut’s tomb?”
“Hey, I saw that show—” the tall ghoul whispered.
“Shut up, idiot!” the shorter goblin hissed. “You’d better be telling the truth, lady. For your sake, and for hers.”
He opened the heavy Master Lock, shoved me hard, and I stumbled into the crypt, knocking over Mary. Before we could scramble to our feet the iron door clanged shut and the padlock was snapped and locked. I shook the door anyway, watching through the peephole as the masked ghouls disappeared over the hill.
Trapped in a crypt. I tried to decide if this was better than being locked in a toilet and figured it was a draw.
“Annie?” Mary said in a thready voice from the shadows.
“I don’t suppose you brought my cell phone?”
“They took it.”
“A flashlight? Tools, maybe? Some way to get us out of this hellhole?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You didn’t bring anything? Some heroine you are.”
“Listen, Mare, it’s nearly three in the morning! I wasn’t thinking very clearly.” Considering I’d been drinking unidentifiable liquids with Uncle Sidran all evening, it was amazing I’d been coherent enough to answer the phone.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I realized my assistant’shands were bound behind her. “Turn around and let me untie you.”
“Did you at least tell anyone where you were going?” Mary asked over her shoulder.
“They warned me not to,” I protested, struggling with the thick rope and trying not to dwell on the obvious: I should have left word with someone as to my destination. I wondered how much I could blame on the fuzzy aftereffects of loza.
“Shit, Annie! You of all people should be carrying a damned gun by now!”
“So says Ms. Gun Control. If I’d brought a gun—some-thing I don’t want and can’t afford—they would have just taken that, too. Maybe even used it against us. And need I point out that if you hadn’t insisted on spending the night in a cemetery, none of this would be happening?”
“It’s not my fault!”
“I didn’t say—wait a minute. Where’s Evangeline?”
“Cops busted her for trespassing a couple of hours ago. I hid behind some trees so I could bail her out. But after the cops left those masked creeps blindsided me. What’s taking you so long?”
“Hold still, this rope’s putting up a fight.” Whoever tied her up must have been a sailor or an Eagle Scout or a psychopath, because he sure knew what he was doing.
I finally managed to pry the stiff binding off her wrists. As Mary rubbed her skin, I searched for a way out, cringing as my fingertips encountered dust and cobwebs and the dried-out husks of things I didn’t want to think about.
“You drove your old truck here, didn’t you?” Mary asked, sounding tired.
“No, I brought the Porsche. It seemed like a special occasion.”
Mary snorted.
“Of course I drove the truck. Why?”
“Because if you had a nice, normal car, you could point your thingy at it and set off the car alarm. You know, attract someone’s attention.”
“My truck doesn’t even have power windows,” I said. A spider—or something with a disturbing number of ticklish legs—darted across the back of my hand and I did the Icky Bug Dance, stomping my feet and shaking my hands.
“What are you doing?” Mary asked.
“Spider. I think.”
“Ha. Just be glad it’s not a cockroach. You should’ve seen the one I found yesterday in my apartment. It must’ve been six inches long—”
“Mary, swear to God, if you say one more word I’m going to choke you.” I hated cockroaches with a passion bordering on insanity.
“Figures,” she muttered.
“That’s enough!” I snapped, impatient with her uncharacteristic whining. “I came here in the middle of the night to rescue you. A little gratitude would be appreciated. Now help me find a way out of here.”
“I already looked,” she grumbled. “There isn’t one.”
I kept searching—there wasn’t anything else to do—and for a few minutes all was silent.
“I am so creeped out right now,” Mary said.
“I know, Mare. But two’s company, right?”
I thought she nodded, but it was hard to tell in the shadowy crypt. The three small windows were covered with iron bars, so even if we managed to break the glass without slicing our wrists open and inadvertently committing suicide, the bars would prevent our escape. The crypt’s floor, ceiling, and walls were cold, hard stone. I tried not to think about the bodies that inhabited the six sepulchers lining the walls.
After several more minutes of fruitless searching I gave up and sat, wet and shivering, on the grimy floor next to Mary. Think, Annie, think. No cell phone, no one knew where we were, no nothing. On the plus side, we weren’t in any immediate danger and the ghouls had seemed more intent upon retrieving the hidden box than hurting us.
“Hey, it’s not so bad,” I said, draping an arm around her. She leaned against my soggy shoulder. “It’ll be morning in a few hours. And at least we’re out of the rain. All we have to do is keep our spirits up—so to speak—until the gardeners show up. They come to work early, right?”
Mary didn’t say anything.
“Mare?”
“The thing is . . .”
“What?”
“I sort of took the box. Temporarily.”
“You what?” I dropped my arm and glared at her.
“I was going to put it back!”
“Mary, that’s not the point! Why did you do something like that?”
“I couldn’t stand the suspense. I had to know what was in it.”
“You realize this means those ghouls will be back?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Why not?”
“I switched it with another box. You know, in case you checked to see if it was still there. It kind of depends on whether or not the ghouls open it, and figure it out.”
“What did you put in the box?”
No response.
“Mare?”
“Mr. DeFazio.”
“Mr. De—you mean his ashes?”
She nodded.
I covered my head with my arms and curled into the fetal position, icky things be damned.
“I mean, it’s not like he’s gonna care, right? Guy’s dead, right?”
“Where’s the original box?”
“Evangeline and I buried it. That’s how come we got caught by the cops.”
“Why would you bury it?”
“Just till tomorrow. I was gonna ask Dante to come back for it. I couldn’t get back in the columbarium ’cause the staff locked up when they left, and then Evangeline was freaking out, said I couldn’t carry it on the motorcycle with us. Besides, the new guitar player at my apartment keeps going through my things. Can you believe the nerve of that guy? Just because I borrowed some of his indigo eye makeup—”
“Where did you bury the box, Mare?” I asked, trying to keep her on track.
“Under the redwood trees.”
“In Potter’s Field?”
“Annie! I wouldn’t desecrate a grave.”
“You desecrated a niche!”
“I didn’t think of that. That’s kind of creepy, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“But we buried the box under the trees, where there are no graves.”
“Yes there are, they just aren’t marked. That’s Potter’s Field.”
“You mean, like Artie the Pothead Potter?”
Artie belonged to the pottery co-op at the DeBenton Building. He was the only tenant besides me who set off the alarm, and he had the excuse of habitual drug use.
“A potter’s field is an area set aside for people who don’t have the money to buy a plot. I have no idea where the name comes from.”
“It’s from the New Testament, the Book of Matthew,” Mary said in a defeated tone of voice. “After Judas returned the thirty pieces of silver he’d been paid to betray Jesus, the priests used the money to purchase a field to bury foreigners. They bought land that was no good for farming, where artisans dug clay for pottery.”
Because of her current take on life, it was easy to forget that Mary had been brought up in a Pentecostal church. One of her party tricks was to name all the books of the Bible, in order. When she was really drunk she would reel off the “begats” in a single breath.
“The band Anthrax sang a song about it. Tom Waits did, too,” she added. “I can’t believe I buried the box where there are bodies. Do these potter people have coffins, at least?”
“I guess so. It’s not a mass grave, or anything. They’re just buried closer together and without headstones. And they don’t own the land.”
I thought of the vagrants and friendless folk who had ended up buried in Potter’s Field, and wondered if it mattered to them. Did their souls linger, unable to shuffle off this mortal coil until they were reunited with home and loved ones? What if they had no home or loved ones? What about professional vagabonds, like my grandfather? Then again, Georges claimed Paris as his spiritual home. He’d probably want to be buried in Père Lachaise, the final resting place of such immortals as Mozart, Chopin, and our very own Jim Morrison.
I shifted, trying to get comfortable. The marble sepulcher was cold against my back, the stone tiles hard beneath my rear.
“So what was in the box?” I asked. If the ghouls were going to murder us over it, I wanted to know what the hell was in there.
“A couple of photographs. Some little metal toys, an old pocket watch, a few cards and letters. It looked like junk, frankly. I didn’t get to go through it ’cause Evangeline was all freaked out, she wouldn’t even look. She was standing guard near the road, which was why she got busted and I didn’t. Good thing I buried it, huh, or the cops would have taken it.”
“It would have been better if they had,” I pointed out. “I should have turned it over to them the minute I laid my hands on it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I thought it might have something to do with La Fornarina. ”
“And ’cause you’re stubborn as a mule.”
“There is that.”
“How come you had the box in the first place?”
I gave her a quick rundown on my encounter with Cindy Tanaka at Louis Spencer’s crypt.
“Do you think the box is connected to her death?” Mary asked, her voice troubled.
“I don’t know. It seems awfully coincidental, but the police are convinced it was suicide. Maybe they’ll investigate more when we tell them what happened tonight.”
“Um, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I’m kinda in trouble already. I didn’t want to tell you ’cause I knew you’d worry.”
Oh Lord. “What did you do this time?”
“Hey! You should talk.”
“Sorry. What happened?”
“There was a little dustup at the club last week, and I’m kinda on probation. That’s also why I hid when the cops came. Think Evangeline will understand?”
“Oh, sure. It’s a matter of sisterly solidarity.”
“That’s what I figured, too. That’s why we can’t tell the cops what happened tonight. They might start wondering what I was doing here.”
“But if those ghouls return—”
“I bet we could take them. They only got the upper hand ’cause they surprised me, and I freaked out a little bit when I saw those masks. I mean, I was all alone and it is a graveyard.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” I said.
She leaned her head on my shoulder. Despite spending hours in this crypt she smelled of shampoo and baby powder. I felt a surge of protectiveness and rested my head back against the sepulcher.
I awakened to the sounds of rain and a distant car engine. Blinking at the dim light that fought its way through barred windows and cobwebs, I extricated my arm from beneath Mary’s head, wincing at the needle pricks that signaled the resumption of circulation, and struggled to my feet. Through the little window in the door I spied Helena walking near the access road, sheltering herself with an umbrella decorated with Monet’s Water Lilies. With her were Pete’s mother and aunt, huddled together under a plain black umbrella, listening as the docent pointed to various markers and chattered nonstop.
“Is someone there?” Mary croaked from behind me. “Yell!”
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure why I was hiding from the head docent, except that I didn’t like her and she obviously didn’t like me. Plus, I suspected Helena’s first instinct would be to call the cops. Better to try our luck with a kindly gardener.
The women headed down the path. Pressing my face against the door to scope out the scene, I felt it move. All of a sudden the door swung open, and I stumbled out.
“Annie!” Mary scrambled after me. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I said, pointing to the padlock, which hung open on the metal hinge.
Mary and I gaped at each other; then I closed the door and we scurried across the cemetery as fast as we could, brushing dust and cobwebs and all manner of crypt detritus from our clothing and hair but getting soaked as we ran through the rain. As we skirted Potter’s Field, I noticed a section of the border fence had been recently repaired and at the edge of a much older section of cemetery stood a shiny new monument to the memory of Chad Garner.
Aaron Garner’s son. I had painted his portrait what seemed like ages ago, long before getting involved with his grieving mother.
Mary and I detoured around the brick cottage housing the cemetery’s offices and headed for the main gates. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Curly Top at the leaded glass window, watching us with flat, expressionless eyes.
Back at my apartment, Mary ducked into the shower while I checked my messages. Two, both from Josh. I sighed. I had to do something about that relationship, and soon. Josh deserved someone who would value him for his many virtues, and I deserved someone who would value me despite my lack of same.
The bathroom door opened and a cloud of steam escaped.
“It’s all yours!” Mary called out. She’d been in a great mood since she realized her night in the cemetery meant she’d achieved a Goth Personal Best. “There may not be much hot water, though.”
I stood under the frigid spray long enough to scrub myself raw in an effort to rid my pores of dank, stale, moldy crypt air.
I made coffee and sourdough toast, and my assistant and I sat at my pine kitchen table, sipping, munching, and avoiding one another’s eyes. I was dressed in a fresh white T-shirt and comfortable old jeans. Mary was too tall for my pants, so I lent her a short black skirt and a Grateful Dead T-shirt that had hitched a ride home from the Laundromat last week.
The arms of my Krazy Kat kitchen clock read nine thirty. I cleared my throat. “About Evangeline . . .”
Mary nodded. “I’ve got fifty bucks in the toe of a boot in my apartment. Think her bail will be more than that?”
“I’ve got a better idea. Let me call Elena.” Elena was my friend Pedro Schumacher’s girlfriend who had left the Oakland Public Defender’s Office a few months ago to open her own shop. I had always wanted a friend with a criminal defense practice, and could not have been happier had the pope commissioned me to paint his portrait.
Elena agreed to meet us at the city jail, and Mary and I piled into the truck, popped in an old White Stripes tape, and sang as we headed for Seventh Avenue. On the way we passed a metal sculpture of letters spelling out THERE.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mary sounded peeved. I often had that reaction to modern art, myself.
“It refers to the Gertrude Stein quote about Oakland. You know the one, ‘There is no there, there.’ ”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mary repeated.
“It’s a popular misconception that Stein was referring to Oakland being boring—she grew up here—but she was actually talking about the fact that her childhood home had been torn down. It’s one of the world’s most misunderstood quotes.”
Oakland was a great, historic, and really interesting city. It was the home of the Black Panthers, the founding chapter of the Hell’s Angels, and the silver-and-black attack of the Raiders football team. Gorgeous examples of art deco architecture lined Broadway, the waterfront offered ample views of the cities across the bay, and serene Lake Merritt hosted flocks of migratory birds as well as Italian gondolas. There was a bustling Chinatown, a vibrant Latino quarter, and shops stocking African, Caribbean, and Ethiopian goods. It was also one of the nation’s most ethnically diverse and integrated cities. Unfortunately, there was no denying that it suffered from a serious inferiority complex living in the shadow of stunning San Francisco and notorious Berkeley.
“It’s not even funny,” Mary said.
“It’s not supposed to be, Mare. It’s supposed to be deep.”
“You know, Annie, you’re kind of weird.”
“I’m not weird, I’m educated.”
“Same thing sometimes.”
We parked at a meter and joined the mélange in the police station. Weaving through the throng, I heard numerous languages spoken in tones ranging from the stoic to the hysterical. Elena and Pedro greeted us warmly, and after waiting an hour, filling out pages of forms, and a mad dash to the cash machine, we bailed Evangeline out. Elena told us Evangeline would likely get a stern lecture on trespassing and a stint in community service when she returned for her hearing. I treated everyone to a leisurely lunch at Tamarindo’s, then dropped Mary and Evangeline on Piedmont Avenue to pick up Evangeline’s BMW motorcycle.
I checked the clock on my dashboard and decided upon today’s agenda. All I wanted to do was to stretch out on my futon sofa at home and take a nice, long nap. The gray, rainy day seemed to second the notion. But it was almost two in the afternoon on a Monday, and I was supposed to be checking on Aaron Garner’s house construction. I opted for a large Peet’s coffee and headed for the City.
The renovation was progressing well, and I thought Garner would be pleased when he returned. The men digging in the garden had unearthed more headstones and lined them up along the side of the house so that the little alley resembled a narrow graveyard.
Today Norm was wearing a ripped and stained navy blue T-shirt that read I’M THE ONLY HELL MY MAMA EVER RAISED. A roll of blueprints stamped ETHAN MAYALL, ESQUIRE was shoved under one beefy arm. Norm gave me his version of a smile as he stood at the top of the back stairs and watched me approach.
“I got a new joke. Wanna hear it?”
“Not if it involves private parts or bodily functions.”
He shrugged and went on to the next subject as we walked around the house to check the trim details. I handed him a copy of the paint schedule, which I had sent to the housepainters, and promised to follow up with the “smart house” technician who was wiring the place for computers.
“Ethan’s been bustin’ my balls again,” Norm complained.
“Keep that dick-wad away from me, will ya?”
“He’s the architect, Norm. He’s supposed to have some say in the project.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“Maybe so, but he’s an asshole with blueprints.” I flicked the roll under his arm. In this business He Who Held the Blueprints reigned supreme, for without them the City would not issue construction permits.
“Garner called this morning. He’s comin’ home tomorrow.”
I nodded. Josh had mentioned this in his messages.
“I told him about those grave markers. He sounded pretty excited and said something ’bout doin’ some kinda cemetery exhibit. Says he wants to talk to you about it.”
“Why me?”
“How should I know? I ain’t your damned secretary, a’ight?”
“Hey, Norm, how do you get approval to develop a subdivision?”
“It’s a pain in the ass. In the City you have to apply for permits and variances, then start the environmental review. Takes years.”
“Is it the same in Oakland?”
“Dunno. Ask Garner. He’s the subdivision king.”
“The what?”
“How’d you think he made his money? He builds upscale communities in Danville and Blackhawk. Made a shitload kowtowin’ to yuppies who wanna impress their friends.”
“I thought Garner was a history buff.”
“He is. But there’s a huge market in bulldozing orchards and puttin’ up high-class spit n’ cardboard miniestates. Strictly bidness.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Why? It’s in his blood. His great-grandfather, whatzahoozits, made his money developin’ subdivisions. When San Francisco was the wild Barbary Coast, full o’ gold miners and whores, Garner started buyin’ up land and promotin’ Oakland as a safe place to raise your kids while you took the ferry to your office in the City.”
“Oakland was the safe alternative?”
“That was back when there was nothing in the East Bay but oak trees and whatever Indians and Mexicans the Europeans hadn’t killed or run off.”
“You should volunteer with a local history association, Norm. You know an awful lot about this area.”
He snorted. “My dad was the one. Never shut up about this stuff. Well, time to get to work.”
“One more thing,” I said. “Do you know Aaron Garner’s ex-wife?”
“Which one? There’s a whole bunch.”
“Helena.”
“Sure, I know ’er. She was two wives ago. Lives down the street,” he added, jerking a muddy thumb in the direction.
“Down this street?”
“Yup. The big brownstone.”
“Wasn’t that a Designers’ Showcase house?”
Once a year a bevy of interior designers descended upon one of the City’s nicer homes to showcase the latest trends in furniture and interior design. As soon as the house had been pimped, the place was opened to the hoi polloi, who paid a hefty fee to tromp through the palaces of the wealthy and gawk at how the other one percent lived.
This particular home stuck in my mind because, at the behest of a designer I was then wooing, I had agreed to paint a guest bathroom with an absurd mural that made the occupant feel like a bird in a cage. The wraparound mural had a claustrophobic effect, and was a blatant rip-off of a famous Calistoga muralist, but I had been new in the business. It took me a few years of owning my own studio before I said no to anything short of out-and-out forgery. I remembered the home’s windowless basement had been transformed into a mirror-lined, chandeliered ballroom, and an attic room had been labeled “the artist’s atelier,” though there was so little natural light no working artist would ever have used it. All in all, it was a rambling, somewhat monstrous, mansion.
Norm shrugged and lit a Marlboro.
“Does anything about Helena strike you as, you know, odd?”
“She lost her kid a while back, so I guess she’s had it kinda hard,” he said, blowing out a cloud of tobacco smoke. “Tell you one thing. I wouldn’t touch that broad with a ten-foot pole. High-maintenance, society type. Me, I like girls that drink beer from the bottle.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“If the interrogation’s over,” Norm said, “I gotta go.”
I finished up with the tile layers, consulted with the painters, and went out to deposit my paperwork in the cab of my truck. It was still raining, the anemic sort of drizzle that often passes for rain in the Bay Area. After a day of this I was already getting seasonal affective disorder. As I turned around, Curly Top Russell was standing behind me, holding an umbrella over our heads.
“Hey, Annie.”
“Russell!” I took a step back. The cemetery employee had not mastered the concept of personal space. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Garner asked me to look at those headstones you found,” he said, a spark in his pale eyes. “Could you show them to me?”
“I’m late for an, uh, appointment a few doors down. The headstones are in the alley at the side of the house.”
“Oh. Want me to walk you?”
“No, thanks, I’m good,” I said.
He didn’t move.
“Let me know what you think. Bye.” I brushed past him and hurried down the flower-edged sidewalk to a massive brownstone structure from the late nineteenth century. I climbed the curved marble steps to the carved mahogany doors and pushed the old-fashioned doorbell.
As I waited I peeked back down the street.
Russell stood in the driveway in the rain, watching me.