Brush With Death (18 page)

“Is that right?”

“Thirty years. Thirty
years.
Longer than you've been alive, am I right?”

“Close enough.”

“Then one summer my husband was felled by a heart attack—high cholesterol, you know—and we had no children. Never been blessed . . .”

I was starting to get impatient, and wondered if Mrs. Henderson was as mentally alert as she had at first appeared. Where was she going with this?

“When my dear Charles died, I was at my wits' end. I spent weeks in a dark room, wondering what to do with myself. We'd planned to travel the world when we retired, and I felt cheated by fate. I was angry, of course—angry at Charles, angry at God. Furious, to be honest.

“I realized I had two choices. I could sit around in my widow's weeds and mourn what would never be, or I could embrace the gift of life and fulfill my dreams. So I took a leave of absence from Chapel of the Chimes and went to Europe. I spent several days in the National Gallery of Art in London, looking at its Raphael collection, then went to the Prado in Madrid, to the Louvre, and finally to Palazzo Pitti in Florence. I spent nearly a month doing nothing but drinking in Raphael's talent.”

“It sounds wonderful,” I said.

“The last stop was Rome. For an entire week I sat on a bench in the National Gallery at the Barberini, just gazing at
La Fornarina.
I was there when the museum opened first thing in the morning, and had to be shooed out at the end of the day. The guards took to calling me
Signore Fornarina.
”

“Is that so?” I said, wondering how soon I could excuse myself and leave. Mrs. Henderson was a nice old lady, and I admired her taste in art—it seemed unlikely she'd been the one responsible for the Tim O'Neill painting in the cemetery office, for example—but it didn't seem that she could tell me anything of interest. The thought of Cindy churned in my gut, and I felt the urge to go paint something.

“My dear, I am not losing my faculties.” Her eyes twinkled, and I blushed that she had read my thoughts. “There is a point to this story. Something was wrong with the painting.”

“With
La Fornarina
?”

“The very one.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“Unlike you, I'm not an artist, so I don't know how to explain what I saw. Something about it was just—off. It seemed, I don't know . . .
modern
somehow. And I wasn't the only one who thought so.”

Now she had my attention. It was hard to describe the feeling I got when I saw a top-notch forgery, except to say that it was a gut-level certainty that something was “off.” Did Mrs. Henderson share this rare talent?

“What do you mean you weren't the only one?”

“There was a fellow, an Italian fellow.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Anyway, it was all for naught. He went on his way, and I returned to Oakland. Still, I insisted we have the columbarium's painting assessed a few years ago. It was determined to be a nineteenth-century copy, and the provenance was in order.”

“Do you remember who did the authentication?”

She waved a hand. “The name escapes me at the moment. It's in the file at the columbarium.”

“The file seems to be missing. You wouldn't happen to know where it could be?”

“It should be right there, in the main file cabinet, as always. Let me see . . . the name started with a P. Powers? Phillips? No, Pitts—something Pitts. Dreadful little man, but he came highly recommended.”

My heart sank. Trained at London's esteemed Remington Museum, Dr. Sebastian Pitts had a long list of scholarly publications, each more pompous than the one before. Several years ago he had relocated to San Francisco's Brock Museum and become the City's reigning art expert. When Pitts spoke, the art world listened.

Too bad he was an idiot.

“Do you know if Dr. Pitts ran any tests on the painting?”

A timid knock on the door preceded the entrance of a petite housekeeper carrying a stack of towels; she quickly disappeared into the bathroom.

“I don't want to talk about the little baker girl anymore,” Mrs. Henderson said with a bluntness borne of age. Silence reigned until the housekeeper departed. “What else can I help you with?”

“Are you familiar with Louis Spencer's crypt?”

“Of course. Poor little thing died long before I started working there, but I remember his pyramid very well. Louis was Mr. Cogswell's cousin.”

“Mr. Cogswell? You mean Roy Cogswell?” I was math-challenged, to be sure, but the dates seemed wrong.

“Good gracious, no. Bernard Cogswell, Roy's father. He was the director of Chapel of the Chimes for decades, long before Roy took over. Bernard and Louis Spencer were inseparable as children, I was told.” She rolled her wheelchair over to the window, where colorful pots of winter flowers bloomed, and began inspecting their leaves. “Both boys were from local Piedmont families. The way I heard it, they were playing in the cemetery one day when Louis fell in the pond and drowned, right before Bernard's eyes. I always thought that was why Bernard pursued a career in the death business.”

“The death business? Is that what you call it?”

“I spent fifty-one years being circumspect, my dear. Do you know how many ways I know of
not
saying ‘dead'? The day I retired I swore, as God was my witness, never to use a euphemism again.” She pinched off a faded azalea bloom. “Death is a business like any other. Those of us who work in the industry learn to accept that—or we find another job.”

“I can imagine. Mrs. Henderson, did you ever hear anything about valuables in Louis Spencer's crypt?”

“Oh, sure, Bernard used to say there was a fortune in those crypts, and he said he knew because of the things buried with Louis. But I think he was all talk. Just because something's old doesn't mean it's valuable—just look at me.” She laughed at her joke. “Still, if you ask me, Bernard was drawn to the business in a way that wasn't healthy. He was a very religious man, but he seemed, shall we say,
enthralled
by the business of laying the dead to rest. It fairly consumed his life. I wasn't afraid to tell him so, either. Years of faithful service provide one with a degree of latitude.”

“I'll bet he wasn't happy to hear that.”

“Oh, he didn't pay much attention. In those days mere secretaries—especially female secretaries—weren't accorded much status, no matter that it was I who actually ran the place. What bothered me most, though, was what Bernard did to his boy.”

“What do you mean?”

“After his wife died, Bernard moved with his son into the caretaker's cottage. I never understood why. It's not as if he couldn't afford a real home. That was no place to raise an impressionable motherless child, surrounded by graves, grief, and the rituals of death. Roy grew up to be as morbid as his father.” Mrs. Henderson rolled herself over to the bathroom and emerged with a long-spouted watering can. “As for me, I like flowers.”

“You have quite a green thumb. May I help you with that?”

“Sit, sit.” She waved me off and started to water the plants. “The secret to healthy flowers is to give them water that's just slightly warm. Try it, you'll see. I planted the gardens in the columbarium.”

“There's a full-time gardener now.”

“Don't I know it. I used to tend the gardens, keep the books, answer the phones, console the grieving . . . everything. It took a dozen employees to replace me.”

“Your life sounds fascinating,” I said. “You should write your memoirs.”

“Actually, I—”

A loud knock announced the arrival of a portly, middle-agednurse. Dressed in squeaky white athletic shoes and a tunic printed with somersaulting bears, she carried a plastic pail brimming with bottles and cloths. “Mrs. Henderson, how are we today? Time to check our insulin before our massage!”

“Going to join me, are you, Nurse Hamilton?” Mrs. Henderson replied tartly. The nurse pursed her lips and glanced at her watch. “And I was so enjoying our little chat, Ms. Kincaid.”

“I should go anyway,” I said, getting up. “I've got to get to work. It's been wonderful meeting you, Mrs. Henderson.”

“Anytime, my dear, anytime. I do so look forward to company. Perhaps we could go for a stroll one fine sunny day.”

“Would that be all right?” I asked, looking at the attendant.

“She's not a prisoner,” Nurse Hamilton said as she began unloading her supplies and rolling up her sleeves. “You just have to check her insulin and keep her from sweets.”

“I keep
myself
from sweets, thank you very much,” snapped Mrs. Henderson.

“It's a date,” I said. “Soon, I promise.” Handing Mrs.

Henderson one of my business cards, I left the women to continue what had the earmarks of a familiar debate. I hurried along the red line, through the double doors to the green line, down the elevator, and out of Evergreen Pines, taking great gulps of the rain-fresh breeze to clear the cloying mixture of potpourri and disinfectant from my lungs.

The rain started coming down harder, and I hurried through the drops as I headed toward the columbarium, reviewing my conversation with Mrs. Henderson in my mind. If the suspicions of a graduate student and a retired secretary were to be believed, Raphael's sixteenth-century masterpiece had until recently been hanging in Chapel of the Chimes, labeled a nineteenth-century copy. Presumably, it had then been switched with the cheap digital reproduction. Of course, neither woman was an unimpeachable source. Cindy Tanaka's reasons for believing the painting was genuine, whatever they were, had gone with her to the grave. Mrs. Henderson seemed sharp as a tack, but by her own admission had no formal training in art. I supposed it was possible that she had an innate flair for recognizing fakes, but that alone would not be sufficient to make a credible accusation. My natural talent had been honed by years of tutelage at the knee of my grandfather, an acknowledged art expert. Authentication was a tricky business, and forgers made fools of even those with years of training and experience.

And speaking of fools . . . I made a mental note to look up Sebastian Pitts, who might have stumbled across something pertinent without realizing it. Then I made a mental note to remember my mental notes.

I picked up the pace and at last reached the carved stone arches of Chapel of the Chimes Columbarium.

Two police cars were parked in the circular drive.

Chapter 9

—Mary Cassatt (1844-1926), American painter

The best fruit is plucked from the branches without delay.
—Georges LeFleur

Only an hour ago I had vowed to go to the police with the metal box from Louis Spencer's grave. Now that the police had obligingly come to me, I found my heart pounding and fought the urge to flee. Childhood habits die hard, and my adult interactions with the authorities had not laid those fears to rest.

Calm down, Annie,
I scolded myself.
You're not the center of the universe.
The cops could be here for any number of reasons.

I entered the Hall of Tranquility but veered into the office when I spied the officers speaking with Roy Cogswell in the Gregorian Garden. Miss Ivy's lip curled as she gave me the once-over, and I had the distinct impression she did not approve of my rain-soaked artistic attire. I didn't think much of her outfit, either: she wore a short skirt with a black-and-white Holstein cow pattern, a wide patent leather belt, and a tight red sweater cut low enough to display much of her bony, freckled chest.

“Why are the police here?” I asked, wiping the rain from my face with my sleeve.

“There was a break-in last night.”

“No kidding? Is anything, uh, missing?”

“Not that we've discovered, but we're still checking. Did you hear or see anything?”

“No, but I left early.”

“The police want to speak with you,” she said, sucking on her teeth. “I've been calling you at home.”

“I'll talk to them. Listen, did the woman who left the suitcase for me the other day say anything?”

Miss Ivy's lips were pressed together so tightly that it looked as if she had to pry them apart through sheer force of will. “I am not a storage locker attendant.”

“I know, I'm sorry. I had no idea she would be bringing it in,” I replied in the soothing tone I used with crying infants and snarling dogs. “Did she mention her name?”

“No.”

“Do you remember what she looked like?”

The secretary gave me an odd look. “Isn't she a friend of yours?”

“Yes, but I'm just not sure
which
friend, if you see what I mean.”

“Pretty girl. Asian. Petite. Seemed in a hurry.”

Cindy Tanaka.

“And did she say anything?” I asked, trying not to sound eager.

She shook her head.

“Anything at all?” I persisted. “It's important.”

Miss Ivy crossed her thin arms over her flat chest. “This whole thing is odd. Very odd. I think—”

I followed her gaze over my shoulder, where a cop stood next to Roy. Whatever I did, it would not be wise to mention Michael, in case he had returned to the columbarium last night as I'd asked. I should also keep mum about the metal box and
La Fornarina,
at least until I had a chance to speak with Sebastian Pitts. And if I told them about being chased through the columbarium last night they might well wonder why I had failed to report it.