Brush With Death (28 page)

“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.”