Brush With Death (9 page)

“That's
so
awesome,” Mary sighed.

“It created quite a scandal because Raphael was already engaged to the niece of a Vatican cardinal. The painter delayed the nuptials for six years, dragging his feet until his betrothed finally died.”

“Bummer for her,” said Evangeline, stifling a belch.

“Others believe
La Fornarina
was another woman, whose portrait had been commissioned by Raphael's powerful patron, Agostino Chigi, at whose villa Raphael and Margherita lived. Chigi married
his
longtime mistress, Francesca Ardeasca, in a ceremony conducted by the pope in 1519. Still other art historians argue that Raphael didn't paint
La Fornarina
at all, and that it should be attributed to his student, Giulio Romano.”

“But, Annie,” said Pete. “If she is lovely, this painting, what does it matter who the woman was or who painted her?”

“Because if Raphael didn't paint
La Fornarina,
then it's just a nice Renaissance painting,” I insisted. “It isn't a genuine Raphael.”

“Can't argue with that logic,” Mary said. “Annie, tell them the best part.”

“There is more?” Pete asked as Mary handed him a slice heaped with what appeared to be half a pound of cured meat, glistening with oil and dripping with mozzarella. Now that I was sated, just looking at all that cholesterol made me wish for a bowl of oat bran.

“There's some speculation that Raphael and Margherita were secretly married,” I continued. “
La Fornarina
has an expensive pearl bauble on her turban, a jewel that was much too pricey for the daughter of a mere baker. It would, however, be an appropriate wedding gift from the great Raphael. And here's the best part. ‘Margherita' means ‘pearl' in Italian.”

“Hol' on. I thought a margarita wuz a drink,” Evangeline interrupted. “We had a coupla bitchin' pitchers of margaritas with our fish taco platters at Chevy's last week.” She and Mary whooped and high-fived. Pete looked impressed.

“The drink was named after a woman, who was named after a pearl. Or a daisy. Same word in Spanish and Italian. Do you guys want to hear the story or not?”

“Yes, please, Annie,” Mary said with a wink.

“Yes, please, Annie,” Evangeline echoed with a giggle.

In the past few months Mary and Evangeline had become fast friends, and in the process regressed a dozen years in maturity.

“Okay, then,” I continued, mollified. “There are other clues supporting the secret marriage theory. For one thing, Raphael signed the painting on the woman's blue armband, indicating a possible attachment to her. During the romantic age of the late 1800s, the story caught the public imagination. The artist Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres painted five different portraits of Raphael and
La Fornarina.
The French writer Balzac wrote about the love affair. And Pablo Picasso did a series of erotic drawings of Raphael and his lover caught
in flagrante
by the pope.”

“Imagine being busted by the pope while you're doing it,” Mary said. “Now, that's what I call a buzz kill.”

“What are the other clues?” Pete asked, intrigued.

“A few years ago art restorers at the Galleria Nazionale discovered myrtle and quince bushes—the traditional symbols of love, fidelity, and fecundity—in the painting's background, and, most importantly, a small ring on
La Fornarina's
left hand. The bushes and the ring had been deliberately painted over, either by Raphael or by one of his students. After Raphael's death, the woman believed to be
La Fornarina
entered a convent where she was known as ‘
la vedova Margherita,
' which means ‘the widow Margherita.' ”

“That's so romantic,” Mary breathed.

“I still don' geddit,” Evangeline said.

“Which part?”

“Who painted
Da Fornicator
?”

“It's not important,” I sighed. I checked my watch, got to my feet, and brushed pizza crumbs from my overalls. “It's just a pretty story.”

“C'mon, Evangeline,” said Mary. “I'll explain it to you on the way to Oakland. Did you bring your stuff for the overnight?”

“I really wish you would reconsider, guys,” I said, thinking of last night's grave robber. True, the ghoul in the green mask had been scared off by a woman who weighed less than the average Great Dane, but what if he returned with reinforcements? “I heard there's been some trouble at the cemetery recently.”

“Don't worry, I've got my can of mace,” Mary said. “And if we get busted I promise I won't mention your name.”

I glared at her. I was jittery about any interaction with the police, and had recently learned that if someone knew a painting was stolen and didn't alert the authorities, that someone could be prosecuted, in some instances more seriously than the thief. Even worse, there was a statute of limitations on criminal acts, but not on criminal knowledge.

This was the sort of thing that kept me up nights.

The happy campers wrapped up the leftover pizza, grabbed Mary's sleeping bag and tote, and lumbered out of the studio. As I stood in the door watching Evangeline's leather-clad form bump into the wall twice as she made her way down the hall, I wondered how she and Mary would secure their gear, plus their two ample bodies, on Evangeline's BMW motorcycle for the trip across the bridge to Oakland. I decided I didn't really want to know.

“I have always found this Evangeline to be a very handful woman,” Pete murmured. His soft brown eyes were shining and there was a goofy half smile on his face.

Well, well,
I thought. “I think you mean ‘handsome,' Pete. But you're right about one thing. Evangeline
is
quite a handful.”

Chapter 5

—Francis Bacon (1909-1992), British painter

—Georges LeFleur

At the end of my first year in business I had been shocked to discover that the IRS expected me to pay hefty self-employment taxes even though True/Faux Studios had lost money. As my unsympathetic tax accountant commented: “You gotta pay your taxes. Business is ninety percent paperwork whether you're selling art, paper clips, or pigs' snouts.”

Kind of took the glamour out of the old day job.

Then again, being self-employed allowed me to deduct the cost of art supplies as a business expense, which was a boon for an artaholic like me. More than once I had assuaged my woes with a ream of expensive Belgian linen canvas or a pot of powdered pigment. And though I wouldn't be caught dead wearing fur, I was known to salivate over brushes of sable and rabbit hair.

I spent the next few hours blasting partway through the mountain of paperwork that is the reality of running a business: keeping the books and paying estimated quarterly taxes to the IRS and the State Board of Equalization; filling out reams of forms for Mary's biweekly check; making sure my insurance policies and business licenses and resale numbers were current; updating inventory and supplies so we didn't run out of boiled linseed oil in the middle of faux-finishing a ballroom; developing a Web site for increasingly computer-dependent designers and the public; and every now and then taking clients to task for “failing to fulfill their contractual obligations”—i.e., not paying me.

Given my family history one might think I would know that a love of art did not always accompany a sterling character, but I still took it as a personal insult when clients— usually the wealthiest ones—tried to stiff me.

My cell phone rang and I leapt on it, hoping for Cindy or Michael. It was Josh. I gave him the rundown on Aaron Garner's renovation, and he made me laugh as he described the moneyed inhabitants of Aspen. We lingered for a while on the phone. Josh was sweet and steady, and I pondered why I doubted my relationship with one of the few men I knew who had no unclear, possibly nefarious motives in wanting to be with me.

After hanging up, I spent a few minutes tidying up the studio, gathered my things, switched off the lights, and headed downstairs. Maybe tonight I'd catch up on my sleep deficit. Great. Thirty-two years old, single, and I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home and an early bedtime.

Maybe I should get a cat.

As I descended I noticed the lights blazing in the office of DeBenton Secure Transport. Peeking in the window, I saw Frank DeBenton sitting behind a massive desk, his neatly combed head bent low over paperwork, and felt a perverse satisfaction that my landlord worked even longer hours than I.

I opened the office door and poked my head in. “Heya, Frank.”

His dark eyes swept over me, and I felt the little
zing
I had been getting lately around Frank. He sat back in his chair and gave me a slow smile.

Dammit!

“We've missed you around here, Annie,” Frank said in his deep, deliberate voice. “The alarm hasn't tripped once since you began working in the East Bay. And hardly anyone uses the fire escape anymore.”

Last fall I had gotten a reputation for setting off the building's shrill alarm, even though I had done it only once. Come to think of it, I had only used the fire escape once, too.

But as my mother used to tell me, once was enough to ruin a girl's reputation.

“Very funny,” I said, plopping into one of the two cushy red leather chairs my landlord kept for clients and visitors.

“Aren't you working at the columbarium tonight?”

“The paint needs to dry.” I knew from painful experience that if we jumped the gun the still-volatile underpaint would mingle with the new overglazes to create an all-around muddy disaster. The only remedy would be to start over from scratch.

“Mmm.” A man of few words, Frank.

“May I ask a question?”

“You just did.”

“You're a
riot,
Frank.”

My landlord was looking especially handsome tonight. Last fall Frank and I had taken tentative steps towards developing a personal relationship, but just as we were about to head off to have Thanksgiving dinner with my parents, Josh had shown up and Frank had backed off.
It was probably just as well,
I thought. He was smart and funny, but he was a real straight arrow. Which explained why my mother was planning the wedding and I was doing my level best to ignore those pesky
zings
. Frank was a security man who hung out with law-and-order types. I was an insecurity woman who ran around with wanted-by-the-FBI types. I feared Frank might have to turn me over to the cops one day, or testify against me in court, and it was difficult to build a relationship when one person was looking for an escape route. Literally.

Not to mention I already had a boyfriend. Good ol' Josh.

Frank grinned.

“Fire away,” he said.

“Are you familiar with Raphael's
La Fornarina,
which is supposed to be in the Galleria Nazionale at the Barberini Palace . . . ?” I trailed off as Frank sat back in his chair and laced his fingers over his flat stomach in his customary “We Need to Talk” posture. It never ceased to amaze me how his warm brown eyes could turn so cold, so quickly.

“Go on.”

“You okay, Frank?”

“Jim dandy. Continue.”

“You're cozy with art security types. I was wondering if you'd heard anything about the Barberini's
La Fornarina.
”

“Like what?”

“Like whether it's been sold.”

He shook his head.

“Removed from the museum for restoration?”

Another head shake.

“Replaced by a forgery?”

“You're the forgery expert, Annie.” Frank's voice became quiet and measured, a sure sign he was agitated. “I transport fine art, but
La Fornarina
has never been under my care. Cut to the chase and tell me what you're fishing for.”

“There's a version of the painting in the Chapel of the Chimes Columbarium, and it's been brought to my attention that—”

Frank interrupted. “Are you saying you saw a painting you believe to be a genuine Raphael?”

“Not in so many words.”

“What
did
you see?”

“A cheap copy. One of those created by paint jets and a computer, you know the kind.”

Frank nodded.

“But it was labeled a copy from the nineteenth century.”

“Let me get this straight,” Frank said, running a large tanned hand over his face. “You saw a computer-generated copy of Raphael's
La Fornarina
that was labeled a nineteenth-century copy, and this prompted you to imagine Raphael's original wasn't in the Barberini Palace?”

“When you phrase it like that it sounds kind of silly.”

“Is there any way to phrase it that
doesn't
sound silly?”

“I know it's a wild idea, Frank, but my gut's telling me something is wrong. Another scholar swears the one she saw in the columbarium was the original. Maybe it was switched with the computer copy. I know there's nothing substantial to go on at this point, but I would feel a lot better if I knew the original Raphael was safe. And, um, an original.”

“Who's this ‘other scholar'?”

“She's a, uh . . . Okay, she's an anthropologist. But you know as well as I that academic training only goes so far in this field. I don't have an MFA either.”

“Yes, but you're a former art forger. Which brings me to my next point. You're far more qualified than I to determine the authenticity of a Raphael masterpiece,” Frank said, his head tilted to one side. “Not to mention you have more contacts in the art underworld. So why are you asking me?”