Brush With Death (35 page)

“Who?”

“Russell, from Bayview Cemetery? He was here looking at the headstones?”

“Oh, right. Helena recommended him. To tell you the truth, I find her fascination with that cemetery rather morbid. She hasn't been the same since our boy, Chad, died.”

“I'm sorry. That must have been awful.”

“It was my fault. Chad and I argued, and he stormed out.

He drove too fast, and . . .” Garner shook his head. “Helena blamed me, too, and our marriage never recovered. All she wants is a home overlooking her son's grave. Is that too much to ask?”

“It is if it means destroying other peoples' graves. There
are
loved ones in Potter's Field, Aaron.”

“No one
cares
about them! My son
died
there. Crashed through the fence at the top of the hill!” His face reddened in anger. “If his grieving mother wants a house there,
by God
she'll get one!”

“Whatever you say, Aaron. Good to see you again.” I pivoted and hurried down the narrow, gravestone-lined alley.

“Frank.”

His shoulders twitched as he stood with his back to me, searching through the top drawer of his office filing cabinet.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Mmmpht.”

“Glad to hear it. I'm doing much better, myself.”

“Mmmm.”

“Cat got your tongue? Or was it a hair of the dog?”

Frank turned to face me. “What, not even a hello this morning?”

“No time for that.”

“For a hello?”

“For a Talk. No time for Talking or Languaging.”

“I don't understand.”

“My point exactly. Do you know Aaron Garner?”

“Who do you think recommended you for the job that's kept you solvent lately?”

“What are you talking about? I knew Garner from the Save the Fox Theater campaign. I even recommended he hire Josh.”

“I know. And Aaron asked if I'd vouch for you both.”

“He
did
?”

“I was happy to do it. You're an excellent artist, and Josh seems like a good man, even though—never mind.”

“Never mind what? Out with it.”

“He's not the right man for you.” Frank's dark eyes held mine for a beat too long, and I flashed on the memory of his mouth on mine. I took a deep breath and looked away.

“Is Garner a good person?” I asked.

“He's a sharp businessman, and on the whole I'd say he's decent as long as you're not married to him. Why?”

“When you say ‘as long as you're not married to him' do you mean in the sense that he cheats on his wives, or in the sense that he kills people and buries the bodies in the basement?”

Frank slammed the file drawer shut. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“There are some odd goings-on at Bayview Cemetery. And I've just learned that Garner's planning to develop the portion of the cemetery known as Potter's Field because those residents don't own their land.”

“What residents?”

“Bodies, whatever. It's what they're called.”

“That's odd.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, a graduate student I met there died, a cemetery employee is in the hospital, and the columbarium's retired secretary is in a diabetic coma.”

“And you think one of the City's most illustrious citizens had something to do with all that? Annie, I wouldn't want Aaron Garner to marry my sister, but I rather doubt he's murdered anyone or engineered a diabetic coma. I don't think he'd even know how.”

“All right, different subject. You know Sandino believes me about the Raphael.”

Frank crossed his arms. “If he does, he's the only one.”

“Have your art squad friends turned up anything on a forgery of
La Fornarina
?”

“Not so far. Are you suggesting the painting is connected to these other events?”

“I don't know. But Cindy Tanaka—”

“Who?”

“The Berkeley grad student who died. Cindy had just sent paint flakes and threads from the columbarium's copy of
La Fornarina
to a lab to be analyzed. The results fit the painting's sixteenth-century origin.”

“Really?” He cocked his head and looked intrigued. “Who did the analysis?”

“Dr., uh, Brianna Something.”

“Dr. Brianna Something?”

“The last name escapes me.”

“What lab does Dr. Brianna Something work at?”

Busted. “Okay, she's a chemistry graduate student. But these tests aren't rocket science.”

Frank ran a hand through his hair. “You'd damned well better be sure of what you're saying if you expect me to bring it to Interpol.”

“Look, Frank, about last night—”

“Don't you dare bring last night into this discussion,”
Frank barked. “Either we're talking about art crime or we're talking about the two of us taking this relationship to another level. We are not mixing those two topics.
Ever.
”

“Frank,” I said quietly. “You know who my grandfather is.”

After a moment Frank let out a rueful chuckle and shook his head. “Don't I just? All right, get me the test results from your Dr. Brianna Something and I'll take it to the authorities.”

“Will do!”

“But, Annie, a favor? Make sure your grandfather and I never meet.”

“I think that would be best,” I said, gave him a smile, and turned to leave.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Frank said, grasping my arm and turning me to face him. He cupped the back of my head in one hand and gripped my waist with the other. His kiss was slow and thorough and very, very sexy.

After a long moment Frank lifted his head and ran his thumb across my bottom lip.

I tried to remember how to breathe.

“Just wanted to make sure last night wasn't a fluke. You'd better have a talk with Josh. Tell him it's over.”

Somehow I made it up the stairs to my studio, where I found a note from Mary indicating that she wouldn't be in today due to some Goth event. Having spent a night in the cemetery, Mary was now pink-worthy, and she thanked the gang effusively:

I added the note to the collection of Maryisms tacked to the bulletin board.

This was good, I thought. I could use some time alone. Since yesterday two people I knew had landed in the hospital, I had found semi-sort-of proof that a sixteenth-century masterpiece was floating around somewhere, and my handsome, by-the-book landlord had kissed me. Twice.

I called Summit Medical Center and received the welcome news that Mrs. Henderson had rebounded and was doing well. When I asked about Russell I realized I couldn't remember his last name, and figured “Curly Top” wouldn't be much help. The candy striper I spoke with was unable or unwilling to help, so I crossed my fingers for Russell's speedy recovery and decided to check on his status later with the grand pooh-bah of gossip, Miss Ivy.

As I reached for my apron, I realized I was still wearing the torn blouse and skirt, which were not improved by having been slept in. My trusty painting overalls were still clammy from yesterday's downpour, and I'd neglected to replenish the clothes in the armoire. Since Samantha never arrived at her studio before ten, I called and asked her to bring me something to wear.

At last I settled in to put the finishing touches to the Design Center curtain rods. I cleaned off stray gold and silver leaf, checked to be sure the glazes had been applied evenly, softened the antiquing effect by buffing lightly with steel wool, and started inspecting each and every one of the five hundred wooden curtain rings.

Samantha showed up an hour later with a colorful muumuu concoction that looked regal on her but downright silly on me. She insisted the outfit was an old one and that I should feel free to splatter it with paint. As I slipped it on, I caught a subtle whiff of patchouli, a scent I associated with Sam and warm friendship, and it lifted my spirits.

I returned a few phone calls, updated my calendar, and wrote Josh an e-mail on the progress of Aaron Garner's house renovation. As I finished the business report I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Should I tell Josh what had been going on at the cemetery and columbarium? Should I break up with him? Should I chuck it all and join my grandfather in his game of international hide-and-seek with Interpol?

I typed
Hugs, Annie,
and signed off.

Wrapped in my floaty muumuu cocoon, I shuffled over to the velvet couch and took a nap, woke up forty minutes later groggy and combative, took advantage of a pause in the rain to walk to a deli for a turkey-and-Napa-mustard sandwich, ate half of it, and spent the rest of the afternoon sketching drawings for a mural that would transform a mortgage broker's office into a scene from
Pirates of the Caribbean.
Why a mortgage broker wanted to remind his clients that they were being robbed by high interest rates was beyond me, but I had to hand it to him—there weren't a lot of brokers with such imagination.

At seven, I ate the other half of my sandwich while mulling over the
New York Times
crossword puzzle and listening to an NPR report on mud slides in the Santa Cruz Mountains, and avoided thinking about Frank. By nine I had caught up on my paperwork—a rare occurrence—inventoried the painting supplies, and straightened up the studio. I had even cleaned the innards of the espresso machine with a vinegar-and-water solution, the way you're supposed to but I never had.

By nine thirty my desk was clear, the drawings were finished, and the studio sparkled. Only one thing remained: admit that I was afraid to go home. I was scared in a different way to drop in on Frank again, and I wasn't up for a serious discussion with Samantha or for dealing with Bryan's boundless enthusiasm. Coping with Mary's Goth-and-musician-filled apartment was never an option. So I took a fleece blanket out of the steamer chest. It wouldn't be the first time I'd spent the night in the studio.

But it was the first time I'd awakened with a hand over my mouth.

Chapter 19

—Julia Morgan (1872-1957), American architect

An artist creates something from nothing, nurtures it lovingly, and when it is complete sets it free to follow its destiny. I have tried many times to explain this to the FBI.
—Georges LeFleur

I bit it.

“Ow! Not nice, sweetheart.”

“Michael, what the hell is
wrong
with you?” I demanded and sat up. “What are you
doing
?”

“I just didn't want you to scream,” he said, shaking his injured hand. “Why are you sleeping in your studio?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“I felt like it.”

“Afraid to go home, huh?”

“Why would you think that?”

Michael shrugged. “Why aren't you at your boyfriend's?”

“Josh is out of town.”

“I was referring to Frank DeBenton. What's going on between you two?”

“How did you know I was at Frank's last night? Are you
spying
on me?”

“It's my job to know such things.”

“You don't
have
a job.”

“Come on. You're coming to my place.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Not to
your
place, I'm not. You'll take me to someone else's place.”

“God save me from women with good memories.” He grabbed my shoulder bag. “What's that you're wearing? You look like a reject from a luau. And you smell a little funky, pardon me for noticing.”

“Turn around while I change.”

“I've seen you in your undergarments before, remember? And a very pretty sight it was, too.”

“Michael, if you don't turn around this minute, I swear I'll—”

“You'll what?”

“Tell my grandfather you've been a cad.”

Michael turned his back with a put-upon sigh. I scrambled into my decrepit overalls and running shoes, which were, thankfully, dry.

“Let's go.”

The night air was chilly and wet and smelled of the brine of the bay. Jazz played softly on the CD player in Michael's truck as we drove across town to North Beach.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“A little place I stay when I'm in the City.”

He pulled over and expertly maneuvered the large truck into a minuscule parking space on Green Street, just a block off Columbus. It was nearly two in the morning, and with the bars about to close raucous partiers streamed onto the sidewalks shouting jovially at the top of their lungs.

“Lively neighborhood,” I said.

“I like it.”

Michael nodded toward a stucco duplex, and we climbed a flight of interior stairs carpeted with an ornate oriental runner. At the top of the stairs he unlocked a glossy, deep red door, which opened onto a decent-sized room lined with bookcases groaning under the weight of art tomes and artifacts. The rosy wood floors and creamy walls glowed in the warmth of the light cast by old-fashioned brass floor lamps with fringed shades. A faded brocade love seat and two soft burgundy leather chairs sat before a huge window with floor-sweeping burgundy velvet curtains that framed a view of the lights of Columbus Avenue. To the left of the living room, a black-and-white-tiled kitchen sported a stainless steel refrigerator-freezer and a Wolfe range, and gourmet copper cookware hung from an iron pot rack. White wood cabinets with glass doors revealed a collection of charming French crockery and crystal stemware. A tall wood wine rack made up one wall of a cozy breakfast nook outfitted with a café table and black wrought-iron chairs. Somebody—Michael? —had spent a lot of time and money to make this a home.