Brush With Death

Table of Contents

 

 

“The art world is murder in this witty and entertaining mystery!”

—Cleo Coyle, author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries series

“An artfully crafted new mystery series!”

—Tim Myers, author of
A Pour Way to Die

“Lind's latest creatively combines mystery, humor, and interesting art tidbits. The unique characters—including aging art forgers, art thieves, and drug smugglers—add depth to this well-plotted cozy.” —
Romantic Times

“[A] fast-paced, thoroughly enjoyable novel.”

—
Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine

“
Feint of Art
is full of action and wit, not to mention clues and dead ends and dead ends and clues. Readers are in for a treat with this extremely well-written debut.”

—Once Upon a Romance Reviews

“Annie Kincaid is a fun and fascinating new sleuth whose adventures are delightfully different. . . . This is a series to watch.” —New Mystery Reader Magazine

“The writing in
Feint of Art
is breezy, and the story hangs together very nicely, with lots of humorous dialogue and situations . . . a rollicking good read.” —
Mystery News

“A fun plot and lots of action. If you enjoy Stephanie Plum, I'd urge you to give Hailey Lind's book a try.”

—Coffeeshop Writers

“A fun and fast-moving mystery novel that is sure to delight . . . loaded with interesting information about the art world and the shadowy world of art forgers and forgeries.”

—Spinetingler Magazine

SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, July 2007
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes and Carolyn Lawes, 2007

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Printed in the United States of America

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Acknowledgments

Thanks are due to so many people! To the women and men of the FBI for answering a multitude of strange and suspicious questions about art crime, criminal enterprise, and firearms; to Chapel of the Chimes and in particular Allison Rodman, whose warmth adds to that of this beautiful and peaceful place; to Susan Baker and Bee Enos, RNs willing to discuss all sorts of ways to kill people and not think less of the one inquiring. Special thanks to Shay for Pete's malapropisms and the mud slide, and so much else. To Kendall, for her smile and her sweet friendship through the years. To Camille Minichino, Margaret Dumas, Simon Wood, Ann Parker, and all the Sisters (and Brothers) in Crime. To our extended family for a truly boisterous welcome in Seattle, and Sherri at the lounge at the Sixth Avenue Inn—a patient and wondrous waitress. To Chris Casnelli, Scott Casper, Anita Fellman, Steve Lofgren, Sandra Pryor, Anna Cabrera, Mary Grae, Suzanne Chan, Pamela Groves, Jan Strout, and the entire Mira Vista Social Club (including honorary members) for unflagging friendship. To Kristin Lindstrom, agent extraordinaire, and Kerry Donovan, editor nonpareil. To Bob and Jane Lawes, Susan Lawes, Sergio Klor de Alva, and Malcolm Martin for— well, everything. And finally, to all the independent book merchants who keep books and those who read and write them alive, armed only with stubborn tenacity, a passion for reading, and a whole lot of humor!

Chapter 1

—Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), Italian painter and inventor

—Georges LeFleur (1932- ), art forger extraordinaire

The sweet-faced boy, one arm curled around his cocker spaniel puppy, paid no attention to the swaying and bobbing of the sagging helium balloons near the doorway. Fluffy brown teddy bears, shiny toy trucks, and wooden alphabet blocks lay at his feet, but Louis Spencer didn't notice them. He never would.

Louis Jonathan Spencer, “Our Sweet Angel,” had died in 1937 at the age of six.

“I can't believe his family still leaves toys for him after all these years,” I whispered.

“They don't.”

The young woman finished measuring the doorway with a heavy carpenter's tape and jotted the dimensions on a pad of paper. With a delicate frown of concentration, she clicked her ballpoint pen closed, stuck it under the hinge of her clipboard, and stowed the items in a large canvas carryall. Picking up a complicated-looking camera the size of her head, she squatted and began snapping photos of the many offerings to the memory of Louis Spencer.

“The crypt's not even endowed,” she continued. “That's why it's falling apart.”

The camera's insistent strobe light flashed through the night's darkness, lending the pyramid-shaped stone-and-concrete crypt an incongruous disco effect. In the sporadic illumination I caught glimpses of the interior beyond the rusty wrought-iron gate. A broken stained glass window in the shape of a cross with a rose in the center bowed under its own weight, and had been protected from further disintegration by an overlay of cheap chicken wire. Despite the damage and makeshift repair, I could easily imagine sunlight cascading in through the window, filling the crypt's interior with the soft brilliance of fine jewels.

Near the door an intricate floor mosaic was covered with a thin layer of mud and leaves, while bald patches in the abstract pattern revealed that dozens of the exquisite blue and metallic gold ceramic tiles had long since been lost or destroyed. The marble figure of little Louis Spencer, embracing his beloved dog, was missing two fingers and bloomed with a bad case of greenish white lichen. My own fingers itched to restore the water-stained canvas of angels that sagged from the steep ceiling.

“I'm Cindy Tanaka,” the young woman said as she dismantled her camera and packed it, piece by piece, into a large black leather bag. “I'm writing my dissertation at Cal on the phenomenon of public grieving. Louis Spencer's crypt has become a place for strangers to make offerings to a little boy who died before most of them were even born. What are you doing here at this hour?”

“My name's Annie Kincaid,” I said. “I'm restoring some paintings at the Chapel of the Chimes next door.”

“That right?” Cindy's cool, dark eyes swept over me. Her pencil-slim figure was clad in pressed khaki chinos, a crisp white blouse, and spotless striped espadrilles, and her straight black hair was swept off her smooth forehead with a wide pink band. My not-so-lithe figure was dressed in its usual business attire: a paint-stained black T-shirt, faded denim overalls, and scruffy running shoes worn without socks. My curly brown hair was piled in a messy knot on top of my head, anchored by an artist's paintbrush. My chic friend Samantha, a jewelry designer, had complimented my use of the brush as “fashion-forward,” but the truth was I could never find bobby pins when I needed them.