Brush With Death (23 page)

“Nice digs you've got here, Sebastian. I see you're doing well.”

“Indeed. Indeed, I am. Please, won't you have a seat?”

Pitts' affability tweaked my antenna. Our interactions had never been even remotely civil. What was he up to?

I took a seat in a wingback chair and faced Pitts across the broad expanse of his antique walnut partners desk.

“I don't understand the name, though. Why
Windsor Art Appraisals
?”

Pitts smiled. “An old family name.”

Not
his
family name, I thought, but it beat
Pitts' Art Appraisals,
hands down.

“I was surprised to learn you'd left the Brock Museum,” I said.

“It was not an easy decision, no, not easy at all, but one must follow one's destiny, mustn't one? I approached Mrs. Brock late last year with the idea of striking out on my own. She was most encouraging, of course. Such a dear, dear woman. I am proud to count her among my closest friends and supporters. She agreed that what this city needs is a really top-flight art expert, someone to encourage the development of private art collections in the homes of our finest citizens.”

“Can't argue with you there.”
Too bad the city doesn't have one yet.

“As I was saying to the governor just the other day, the chief obstacle to the creation of a respectable amateur art collection by private citizens such as yourself, my dear, is a dearth of knowledge on rarified topics,” he continued with what I suspected was his scripted sales pitch. If the name-dropping fool thought to sell me something, he was plumb out of luck. Even if I had money to invest in art, why would I? If I wanted to hang a masterpiece in my apartment, I would just forge one.

“As I said to my close, personal friend the mayor, we in Northern California are blessed with an abundance of natural and man-made wealth,” he droned on, “and we owe it to ourselves—indeed, we owe it to future generations—to grow it.”

“Grow what?”

“The wealth.”

“What about art?”

“That, too.”

“Sebastian—you don't mind if I call you Sebastian, do you?—I hope this doesn't sound rude, but I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about.”

Pitts leaned back in his chair and smiled like the Cheshire cat. “I am simply saying, Annie, that in my new venture I perform a public service by assisting clients in cultivating a love of beauty. And despite what you and your grandfather may think, I do have a trained artistic eye. Oh, perhaps I am not as gifted as others—never let it be said that Dr. Sebastian Pitts, Esquire, is not a modest man—but I like to think I've learned a little something over the years. Not the least through my various run-ins with those of your ilk.”

“I have an ilk?”

Pitts winked and I repressed a shudder.

“You know of whom I speak, Annie. Your grandfather is an amazing man.”

“We agree at last.”

His smile faltered for a moment; then, having decided I was joking, he chortled. “Ah. Aha! Still the same old Annie. Quick with the quips.”

“My ilk's like that. We're the quicker quipper uppers.”

“Just so,” he said, looking confused. He leaned forward.

“May I confess something, Annie?”

“Sure, why not? My good friend the archbishop says confession's good for the soul.”

“Over the years we've had our little, er, ‘professional disagreements, ' shall we say? But because of you, I'll never look at Old Master drawings the same way. ‘Credit where credit is due' has always been my motto.”

Dr. Sebastian Pitts, once my sworn enemy, was acknowledgingnot only my talent but my grandfather's as well? Was this some sort of trap? Was Pitts wearing a wire?

Calm down, Annie,
I scolded myself. No FBI agent in his right mind would recruit Pitts. Maybe he had mellowed. Maybe, in his new line of work, he'd realized I was no threat to him. Maybe he'd contracted a brain-eating virus. I decided to accept his olive branch, but to keep my eyes open.

“I, uh, thank you, Sebastian. That's very kind of you to say.”

“You're welcome. So. Annie Kincaid. What brings you here today?”

“Do you recall assessing a painting for Oakland's Chapel of the Chimes a few years ago?”

He nodded. “I did it as a favor to Mrs. Brock. She asked me to help out a friend of hers, the wealthy philanthropist Aaron Garner.”

As world-famous cities went, San Francisco was not large, so I was not surprised that Aaron Garner ran in the same circles as Agnes Brock. After all, Frank DeBenton knew the same people through his business ventures and charity balls and such. Still, it was disconcerting to realize that so many of my patrons—and enemies—were connected. It reminded me that I might have to change my name and relocate one day.

“Do you remember your findings?” I asked.

“It was what it claimed to be—a copy of
La Fornarina
by a minor English painter. Can't remember the name right off.”

“Crispin Engels.”

“That's it. I saw immediately the painting was a charming, albeit maladroit effort.” He fixed me with a piercing stare. “Please don't tell me your grandfather painted it.”

“Certainly not,” I sniffed. “Did you conduct a fiber or paint flake analysis?”

He shook his head.

“X-ray diffraction, or fluorescence, maybe?”

“They weren't necessary. It was clearly labeled a copy, and the provenance was in order. The only mystery was why the columbarium bothered having it assessed in the first place. I had the sense the old woman pushed for it.”

“You mean Mrs. Brock?”

Now he looked offended. “Don't be absurd. I am referring to some secretary at the columbarium. Why Roy Cogswell listened to
her
is beyond me. She was a pushy old broad.”

So much for Pitts' mellowing.

“Not like the lovely Helena . . .” He trailed off, a faraway look in his eyes.

“Helena the cemetery docent? You know her?”

“We met that day, and our paths have since crossed from time to time. A magnificent woman. Tortured, alas. She lost her only child in an automobile accident, you know. Tragic. Simply tragic. I wonder, have you heard if she ever got her house with a view of her son's grave and the bay?”

“I have no idea.”

“Money wasn't a problem, that's for sure. Mr. Garner could afford the best.”

“Why would Aaron Garner buy Helena a house?”

He looked surprised. “It is customary for a husband to provide a home for his wife.”

“But she's married to Dick Somebody. He's a doctor.”

“She remarried after she and Garner split. You didn't know? Helena was Garner's first wife. It was their son who died. I was able to mitigate her maternal grief somewhat by acquiring for her the rarest of treasures, an
original
Tim O'Neill landscape of cottages nestled in a verdant valley. Perhaps you've seen it? Helena hung it in the cemetery offices. How typical of her to wish to share such beauty with others.”

“
You
bought her the O'Neill?”

“Oh-ho! I'm afraid my pockets are not that deep. Aaron Garner paid for it, but I
arranged
for the extremely rare purchase of an original. O'Neill is a close, personal acquaintance of mine.”

“But, Sebastian, Tim O'Neill mass-produces posters that he calls paintings,” I protested.

“He's one of our most successful modern artists,” Pitts pointed out. “Let's please refrain from the old debate about what is art and what is illustration. Why, even the great Norman Rockwell—”

“But O'Neill signs his work with ink mixed with drops of his
blood
! He hires artists to dab ‘highlights' on posters and charges
thousands
of dollars! He—”

Noting the disapproving look in Pitts' eyes, I caught myself. “But as you say, they sure are pretty,” I added lamely.

A grandfather clock chimed. I needed a drink.

“Allow me to take you out for a cocktail, my dear,” Pitts gushed as he stood up and came around the desk, and I wondered if Pitts and I were on the same wavelength. Had the earth tilted on its axis? “We'll toast our new friendship and let bygones be bygones. Have you ever considered going into the business of art authentication? Why, with your unique, er, talents and my client list, we could do very well. Very well indeed.”

“I don't know, Sebastian,” I said, rising from my chair. “I usually talk people
out
of buying things.”

“There's a good deal more money to be made in selling art than in rejecting art, Annie. Why don't you think about it? Come, let's talk over spirits.”

Looping his pudgy arm through mine, Sebastian Pitts escorted me downstairs and over two blocks to Wolfgang Puck's Postrio Restaurant. There we enjoyed a drink called an Agnes Road made of ice-cold vodka, lime juice, and cranberry juice, shaken like a martini. By the time we were on our third, I was considering taking Pitts up on his business offer. As my grandfather always said,
Work smart, not hard, chérie.

Georges said this as part of his campaign to convince me to follow in his felonious forging footsteps. All things considered, I preferred an occupation that didn't include the risk of spending one's golden years as a guest of the state.

Chapter 12

—Berthe Morissot (1841-1895), French painter

—Georges LeFleur

“When's the last time you spent a sunny Sunday in Golden Gate Park?” Bryan demanded over the phone too early the next morning.

I groaned, snuggled deeper under the covers, and regretted not turning the damned contraption off last night.

“None of that, now,” Bryan chastised. “Up and at 'em!”

“Bite me.”

“Aren't we Miss Grumpy Pants in the morning? Rise and shine!”

“I need my beauty sleep.”

“Ain't nothin' wrong with you that a dose of fresh air won't cure, baby doll. Besides . . .” Bryan paused dramatically. “Annette will be there. It's the perfect chance for you two to make up.”

I opened my eyes. “It's against my principles to sell out to the Man,” I grumbled.

“Don't be absurd.”

“Okay, it's against my principles to sell out to the Woman.”

Bryan snorted. “You
know
you want to, sweet cheeks. Don't even try to tell me you haven't missed her. You and I both know you need all the friends you can get in law enforcement.”

I hesitated, tempted.

“C'mon, it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood!” Bryan sang. “We'll picnic on the grass and frolic in the sunshine.”

“Annette agreed to picnic and frolic?” Annette struck me more as the champagne-brunch-at-Chez-Panisse type.

“Get your carcass out of bed, missy, and meet us at the concession stand at Stow Lake. Elevenish. I've packed the food and wine, so you don't need to worry about a
thing.
”

I sighed. “All right. But if Annette is mean to me, I'll make you pay.”

“Honey pie, if anybody's mean to you, they'll have to answer to me.”

Smiling, I lounged for a few more minutes, gazing at the bright green mulberry leaves dancing in the breeze outside my bedroom window. The clouds had parted, and brilliant sunshine poured in. I was due at Pete's mother's house for dinner tonight at six, but until then I'd planned on sleeping in, and then trying to track down a certain masterpiece. If Sebastian Pitts' assessment could be trusted—a big if—it meant the nineteenth-century Engels had been at the columbarium a few years ago but at some point had been replaced by a digital copy. Sandino thought the Barberini's
La Fornarina
was “off,” so the whereabouts of the genuine Raphael remained an open question. What if the columbarium had had the original all along? I wouldn't put it past Pitts to fail to recognize an original masterpiece, especially since he hadn't bothered to run any scientific tests.

I had considered going back to search the columbarium, but it was Sunday and there were services in the chapel. And Bryan had a point: a day of sun and fresh air would be good for me. If I spent any more time cooped up in the columbarium I'd end up as sallow-faced as Roy Cogswell or Curly Top Russell. And short of getting arrested again, when would I have another chance to see Annette? Maybe she'd be willing to look into Cindy's death for me.

I threw back the covers and shuffled down the hall to the kitchen, where I put water on to boil, then climbed into the bathroom's claw-footed iron tub for the world's shortest shower. My subconscious had heard my neighbors running the water all morning, which meant it would be hours before hot water was available from the old Victorian's ancient boiler, which I half suspected was still fueled by whale oil. Over the years I had learned to live with the inconvenience because the alternative was to pay more rent. I gritted my teeth to keep from howling as needles of icy water pierced my flesh.
Do it for the whales,
I told myself.

Through the splatter of the shower I heard the telephone ring and hesitated, shampoo dripping down my face. If I fled the cold water to answer the phone I'd never find the strength to get back in, and I could hardly spend the day with suds in my hair.

Besides, it was probably Josh. He had a knack for calling at the worst possible moments. Josh called every day. Sometimes twice.