Brush With Death (17 page)

I gave him a mock salute as I climbed out of the truck.

“Keep yourself safe, Annie,” he said, his voice gentle. “No painting is worth your neck.”

“But what if
La Fornarina
really is there somewhere?” I mumbled, then slammed the truck door. I hated it when men got all reasonable and mature when I was still in the peevish stage of a relationship.

I marched to the front door, let myself in, and locked the solid oak door behind me. Gravel spurted as Michael drove away.

I spent a restless night, falling asleep at around three in the morning, and slapping at the snooze button when the alarm shrilled at eight. I took a shower and pulled on a clean pair of paint-stained overalls and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then caught my damp hair up in a covered hair band. One great thing about being an artist is that paint doesn't care how I dress, and most people cut me a lot of slack. Then again, if I didn't watch out I'd wind up looking like Einstein. People had cut him a lot of slack, too.

Much as I hated to admit it, Michael was right. I had gotten caught up in something that resulted in me scuttling through the columbarium's light well and jumping from roofs, and I didn't even know whether the ghouls were after Louis' box or an alleged masterpiece. Plus, a young woman was dead. Time to reevaluate the choices I was making. So what if the fate of one of the world's art treasures lay in my hands? Who did I think I was, a paint-splattered Joan of Arc? What I was
supposed
to be doing was finishing curtain rods for the Design Center and putting together drawings for a new mural for a mortgage broker's office in Alameda. Today I would return to the columbarium, retrieve the box, turn it over to the police, and let Frank's contacts at the FBI worry about whether a priceless piece of Italian cultural heritage was hidden in an Oakland columbarium amidst men who got their kicks wearing Halloween masks.

I emerged from my apartment to find the skies gray and chilly and smelling of rain. I hoped it would hold off until I got to my truck—I owned several umbrellas, but could never locate one when I needed it.

The unseasonable weather matched my mood as I started trudging the two miles to the columbarium. Last night's acrobatics had left me with a scraped knee, a sore butt, and assorted strained muscles, each of which complained vociferously as I walked along streets lined with charming houses and chunky apartment complexes. The older apartment buildings featured bay windows and elaborate marble entry halls, but the newer ones had been erected during the real estate boom of the 1970s, when aesthetics gave way to slapdash construction. The names of these flat-roofed, multistory, gravel-encrusted monstrosities, such as Mira Vista Manor and Royal Palms Courtyard, were so inappropriate that I wondered if the developers had been indulging in irony.

As I climbed the rolling hills, my thoughts turned toward last night. Apart from a few heavy objets d'art
,
the columbarium didn't contain much of commercial value. It seemed unlikely that the masked intruders had broken in to deposit a loved one's cremains. If they were after the metal box, why hadn't they grabbed me and demanded I turn it over instead of locking me in the toilet? Had they been planning on coming back for me, when I made my daring escape? And how did they know I had the box in the first place?

Michael wasn't off the hook in my mind, either. His sudden appearance at the columbarium—not once but twice in the past few days—was a big part of the reason I was even considering the wild idea that the columbarium unknowingly possessed a Raphael masterpiece. So perhaps the ghouls hadn't been after me or Louis' box at all, but were searching for
La Fornarina.

I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, my teeth clacked, and I swore a blue streak in French. That reminded me of my grandfather, and I realized I'd forgotten to ask Michael what he knew about the Italian fake buster, Donato Sandino. I made a mental note to get Michael's number from Mary.

On Piedmont Avenue, a charming street fronted by quaint stores, boutiques, and restaurants, I dodged a mother with tots in tow headed for a bagel shop and veered into Peet's Coffee for a caffeine boost. Pausing in front of the small Piedmont Theater, I sipped my strong French roast and gazed at a cheap apartment building that had recently been converted to an expensive retirement community. In front of the 1950s-era building of blocky beige concrete and sliding aluminum windows was a large wooden sign stating EVERGREEN PINES—ASSISTED LIVING FACILITY.

Manny had mentioned yesterday that this place was home to Mrs. Henderson, the columbarium's retired secretary extraordinaire. I thought of how Miss Ivy stuck her nose into everything, and realized that secretaries were like chambermaids: they knew where the dirt was. Perhaps Mrs. Henderson could allay my fears about
La Fornarina,
and I could get back to work with a clear conscience.

The glass double doors whooshed open as I approached, and my senses were assaulted by the pervasive smell of disinfectant and overcooked cafeteria food. But the foyer was pleasant, with cheerful art on the walls and tall green potted plants in the corners.

I approached a blue-haired woman seated at a tall reception desk and asked for Mrs. Henderson.

“I'm afraid you're too late,” she replied, her wrinkled face a study in concern. “She's gone.”

“Gone?” My heart sank. Half a century in service to the columbarium, and then she passes away within two years of retirement.
Let that be a lesson to you, Annie.
“I'm sorry to hear it. Do you know if there will be a service?”

“Beg pardon?”

“A memorial? I'd like to let her old friends know.”

“Oh, my dear, you misunderstood me. Mrs. Henderson's not
dead.
Good gracious.”

“Oh.” I felt like an idiot. I must have death on the brain. “Well, I'm glad to hear that.”

“No, no, not
dead.
” The receptionist giggled, and I wished she would stop. “She had a hair appointment this morning.”

“Do you know when she'll be back?”

Blue Hair glanced at the large round clock on the wall behind her. “Should be any time now. Are you a family friend?”

“One might say that.” Then again, one might not.

“Would you like to wait? She shouldn't be long.”

“Thank you.” I took a seat on a slippery vinyl sofa and tried to ignore the receptionist, who was recounting my faux pas to a tiny woman with skin the color of tobacco. The two women shook their heads and laughed, and repeated the story to an old man in a plaid shirt who pulled up in an electric wheelchair.

Looked like I was to be the butt of many a joke at Evergreen Pines. Cancel my donation to the AARP.

I reached for my cell phone, patting my pockets until I remembered that the device was languishing somewhere in the dropped-glass ceiling of the columbarium. It dawned on me that I had no clue how to retrieve my cell phone voice mail from any other phone. Still, the person I most wanted to hear from was Cindy Tanaka. Yesterday's events came back to me with a wave of sadness. . . . Cindy would never call me or anyone else. All night I had been pushing an idea to the back of my mind, trying to ignore it. What if Cindy hadn't killed herself? What if there was something in that box worth killing for?

“The van's returned from the beauty parlor,” Blue Hair called out.

Lost in thought, I jumped at the sound of her voice.

“Goodness gracious, you're a nervous Nellie,” she laughed again. “You may go see Mrs. Henderson now, if you'd like. Take the elevator to the third floor, follow the green line to the end, then follow the red line. Suite 327 will be on your left.”

I exited the elevator and, feeling like Dorothy on the road to Oz, followed the line of green linoleum tiles that snaked along a dim interior corridor. The décor was Early Hospital Utilitarian: beige Formica surfaces abounded, and heavy railings were screwed into the walls to assist those with unsteady gaits. Nurses and nurses' assistants in bright pastel smocks and white pants padded about on crepe-soled shoes, filling out forms, counting pills into trays of white paper cups, and murmuring amongst themselves. An old man slumped in a wheelchair rolled himself along with one sneaker-clad foot, his whiskered chin resting on his chest. No one paid the slightest attention to me, and I was surprised that a stranger would be permitted to wander about unchallenged.

I had always envisioned my own old age spent in a quaint village in the south of France, or on some sunny beach in Mexico. I vowed to start saving money, soon. Too bad I was scarcely able to pay my bills. It made it tough to build a retirement portfolio.

The green line at last dead-ended. A red line branched off to the left, and a blue line branched off to the right. I turned left to find a pair of double wooden doors, above which a sign announced the entrance to THE REDWOOD WING. The doors opened onto a tasteful hallway painted a soft rose and decorated with glass sconces, the floor covered in Italian ceramic tile. Several oak doors were propped open, allowing the frenzied excitement of game shows to drift into the hall, though there were no other signs of life. By the time I found suite 327, I was a bit unnerved by the whole scene.

A brass plate on the wall to the left of the door was inscribed MRS. HENDERSON. PLEASE KNOCK. I knocked.

“Come in!” a hearty voice replied, and I entered a large space laid out more like an apartment than a nursing home. On the right was an oversized door leading to a spacious bathroom, its white tiles gleaming. Straight ahead of me a wall of windows offered a view of misty rain clouds hanging over the hills of Bayview Cemetery. Near the windows a blue-and-white-striped love seat and a rosy brocade armchair were arranged around a low coffee table. Against the left wall a hospital bed was draped by an exquisite blue-and-white wedding ring quilt and matching pillow shams. The nightstand held a brass reading lamp and numerous prescription bottles mixed in with a forest of cheerful greeting cards. The floor was carpeted in a creamy Berber, and the pale yellow walls were hung with framed photographs of beaming, gap-toothed children as well as colorful crayon pictures drawn by childish hands. A silver bowl of potpourri on the oak bookshelf helped to mask the antiseptic smell from the hallway.

What drew my attention, though, was the framed and matted poster of
La Fornarina
above an antique writing desk. On the desk was a vase overflowing with daffodils and a faded eight-by-ten photograph of a couple. The woman looked like a middle-aged Mrs. Henderson; the man was gray-haired and leaned upon an elaborate silver cane.

“And who might you be, young lady?”

Mrs. Henderson had bone-white, tightly curled hair, and wore a high-necked lace blouse and gray wool skirt. A crocheted rainbow-colored shawl hugged her thin shoulders. Large, naturally misshapen pearl earrings hung from her earlobes, and a matching string of pearls encircled her throat. The backs of her clasped hands were dotted with liver spots, and her long, graceful fingers were manicured. A plain gold wedding band adorned her left ring finger. Mrs. Henderson appeared to be in her seventies and, except for the wheelchair she sat in, radiated good health and humor. Cloudy brown eyes sized me up.

“I'm Annie Kincaid,” I said, hovering in the tiled entry. “I'm sorry to drop in on you unannounced.”

“You aren't planning to steal from me, are you? Kidnap me? Do evil deeds?”

“I, uh . . .”

She smiled. “Come in, come in, Ms. Kincaid. You have an honest face.”

So much for the saying “with age comes wisdom.”

She waved me into a chair at a café table graced by a hand-tatted doily and an Italian fruit bowl with two shiny Macintosh apples. On the wall next to the table a curio cabinet displayed a collection of ornate silver. I felt like a scruffy scullery maid encountering the lady of the manor.

“Tell me about yourself, Ms. Kincaid,” Mrs. Henderson said.

“I'm a faux finisher. I have a studio in San Francisco.”

“Ah, a businesswoman! Are you here to sell me something?”

“Uh, no. I'm an artist, and—”

“An artist . . . Young women these days have opportunities of which the women of my generation could scarcely dream. How I envy you, my dear.”

“It has its ups and downs”—boy, did it ever!—“but on the whole I wouldn't change a thing.”

“That's the spirit! Well, Ms. Kincaid, since you're not here to pick my pocket nor to decorate my humble abode, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

I smiled and started to loosen up. Mrs. Henderson's old-fashioned manners put me at ease. That is what ladies of the manor do when scullery maids come a-calling.

“I'm working on a project at the Chapel of the Chimes. I understand you were the director's secretary for fifty years.”

“I was the director's secretary for
fifty-one
years,” she sniffed. “I tell the girls I've seen more dead bodies than
this
place ever will, and believe you me—that's saying something.”

“Would you mind if I asked a few questions?”

“Fire away.” She cocked her head and looked at me expectantly.

“What can you tell me about
La Fornarina
hanging in the Chapel of the Allegories? I see you have a poster of it here, as well.”

Mrs. Henderson grew still. “They say it's a copy. A nineteenth-century copy by Crispin Engels.”

“Yes, that's what I was told, as well.”

We stared at each other.

“Have you ever been to Rome, my dear, to the Barberini Palace Museum?”

“A long time ago, as a child.”

She gazed out the window. “I always loved
La Fornarina.
After twenty years of service, I asked to hang it in my office, and Mr. Cogswell agreed. For the next thirty years the little baker girl looked over my shoulder as I worked.”