Shooting Gallery (10 page)

Pascal looked incredulous. “What kind of art world do
you
live in, toots?”

“I meant
lethal
enemies. Most artistic types are content with stabbing each other in the back figuratively, not literally.”

“I wouldn't know. I have nothing to do with Seamus McGraw.”

“But you knew him, didn't you?”

He grunted.

“You studied together,” I pointed out. “And you were both represented by the Brazil gallery.”

Another grunt.

“Did you two use the same stone supplier, Marble World?”

“Seamus worked in metal, not stone. They're very different media, technically and aesthetically, as you would know if you'd ever worked in three dimensions,” he said, escorting me to the door. “Look, I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. But tell the Hewetts I said to go fuck themselves.”

“Why don't I just tell them you'll think about it?” I hedged. “They're ready to start legal proceedings. Imagine a bunch of strangers in here with a warrant, pawing through your stuff, confiscating
Head and Torso
and who knows what else.” Did I know how to hit an artist below the belt, or what?

Pascal's pale visage reddened under his heavy five-o'clock shadow. “And tell your goddamned friends to stay out of my hallway and away from my windows,” he said angrily. “You guys can't sing for crap, either. Oh, and have a nice day.”

The door slammed shut behind me.

Out in the hallway, I found Bryan and Levine sprawled on the red satin pillows sipping wine, Mary and Sherri slouched against the wall eating the last of the chocolates, and Pete and Tom in the stairwell breathing hard, ropes slung over their shoulders.

“Proud of yourselves?” I asked the two adventurers. “Just what did you hope to accomplish with that stunt? Did you even
notice
that I was trying to talk with our elusive sculptor?”

Tom refused to meet my eyes and Pete looked abashed.
What a couple of goofballs
, I thought fondly. “Let's pack it up and head home, guys. I'd say our first stakeout has been a qualified success.”

—Georges LeFleur, in
What's Cookin', California?

 

After tidying up the hallway outside Pascal's studio, the party broke up. Mary had a gig at a new club downtown, and Sherri and Tom tagged along for moral support. Pete took off for his mother's house in Hayward in anticipation of tomorrow's big Sunday dinner, and Bryan and Levine opted to head to the Mission District for some tequila-lime fish tacos.

I was more tired than hungry, so I decided to head home. Hopping into my truck, I drove across the Bay Bridge to Oakland, exited at Grand Avenue, and veered right toward Lake Merritt. The meandering lake was highlighted by a necklace of romantic white lights, and even at this hour its two-mile path was crowded with energetic joggers, strolling lovers, and cranky Canada geese. It was one of those warm, clear, late-November evenings that explained why rents were so high in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Home sweet home was a once-grand Victorian built for a prosperous grocery merchant in 1869 and chopped up into apartments for working stiffs one hundred years later. I lived on the third floor in what used to be the maid's quarters, tucked up high under the eaves. What the building lacked in modern conveniences, such as decent electrical wiring, it made up for in graceful details, such as the intricate fantail window in the foyer and the elaborately carved newel posts on the stairs. The old Victorian's faded elegance was warm and welcoming, like the embrace of a beloved elderly aunt, and at the end of a long day I always looked forward to coming home.

I parked in the lot behind the house, let myself in through the solid mahogany front door, grabbed my mail from the hall table, and trudged up two flights to my apartment, my footsteps echoing in the silence. The building's other tenants were also single professional women who spent most of their waking hours on the job or out with friends, so I was not surprised to have the house to myself. But when I rounded the turn on the second-floor landing I came to a sudden halt. A light shone from under my door and the dead bolt lock had been thrown.

Someone was in my apartment.

I hesitated to call the cops. Among my varied acquaintances were one or two who were capable of breaking in and making themselves at home, and certainly none of my grandfather's felonious cronies would allow a mere dead bolt to stand in their way. I would never hear the end of it if I had one of Georges's friends thrown in the slammer. Surely a stranger bent on evil deeds would not be so blatant as to leave the door unlocked and the lights blazing.

I hoped.

Moving stealthily, I mounted the last few steps. On the landing next to the door was a brass spittoon where I stashed umbrellas and similar outdoor junk, including a sturdy oak stick I used while hiking last summer with Mary in Wildcat Canyon. I picked it up, slowly turned the doorknob, pushed the door open, and flattened myself against the wall. Nothing happened.

Okay, I thought, this is ridiculous. I was tired, crabby, and wanted a nice, long bath to wash away the residue of the gritty hallway, the dusty studio, and the miasma of Pascal's grim hopelessness. I was going in.

Holding the walking stick high in my right hand, I peered into the living room. The futon couch had been made up with my old blue-and-white striped flannel sheets and a yellow plaid wool blanket. My burglar was remarkably domestic.

“Honey!”

“Mom?”
My voice was muffled by a Chanel-scented embrace. “What are you doing here?”

A stylish blond woman in her late fifties, Beverly LeFleur Kincaid held me at arm's length and looked me over from tip to toe. “What's the wizard's staff for, dear? And why are you covered with dust?”

“I, er . . .” I dropped the heavy stick in the brass spittoon and shut the door.

“You're looking awfully thin these days, honey. Are you sure you're eating enough?”

I loved my mother.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” I asked. “Why didn't you call?”

She shrugged and started straightening the mélange of books and magazines on the coffee table. “Oh, I just needed to get away for a couple of days, and you gave me a spare key to your apartment, remember? I hope you don't mind.”

“No, of course I don't mind. But are you and Dad okay?”

She moved on to the messy bookshelf, efficiently alphabetizing my collection of cheap paperback mystery novels. “Why do you ask?”

I was the only one of my peers whose parents were still married, and with a shock I realized how much I counted on their normality to balance out my eccentric life.

“Just wondering,” I said evasively. “You've never needed to get away before.”

“Well, here I am. So what shall we do?” My mother's sweet, slightly husky voice betrayed her excitement. “Oh no! How thoughtless of me! Do you have a date tonight?”

I could not bring myself to admit to my mother that her wild artist daughter had planned to take a long soak and go to bed early, just as she had for the past few weekends. I glanced at the rhinestone-encrusted Krazy Kat clock on the kitchen wall: It was a quarter of eight on a Saturday night and I was ready to pack it in.

I was more middle-aged than my mother.

“Are you all right, dear?” she asked with concern. “We could stay in if you're tired.”

“No, no, I'll be fine. I just need a quick shower to freshen up. What did you have in mind for tonight?”

“Something exciting. I know! Let's go to Berkeley!”

Only someone from a small Central Valley college town like Asco would stand within a stone's throw of San Francisco and opt to go to Berkeley in search of A Good Time. Then again, my mother had been a student at the University of California in the late sixties, so her experience with the town was no doubt more avant-garde than mine.

“Berkeley it is,” I said, enjoying her enthusiasm. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Take all the time you need, honey,” she said gaily. “The night is young and you'll want to look your best for the Berkeley beaux!”

Berkeley beaux my patootie
, I grumbled to myself as I scuffed down the short hall to the bathroom. Which was less likely to turn out well, I wondered, trolling for hot guys with my mother in tow, or finding an outfit she would think suitable for a big night on the town?

I took a brisk shower, toweled off, shook out my damp curls, and applied a fast coat of mascara to my eyelashes. Toilette accomplished, now came the hard part. My favorite clothes were comfy and artistic, which virtually guaranteed my chic mother would march me back down the hall to “change into something more appropriate.” Thanks to last night's escapade my little black dress needed dry-cleaning. I sighed and wished, for Mom's sake, that I were more of a girly girl. Rooting through my messy closet I finally unearthed the black wool skirt I wore with a bland suit jacket for stodgy business meetings, some thigh-high black nylons, and a fuchsia camisole that I paired with a low-cut black cashmere sweater. I selected some dangling crystal earrings, slipped my feet into low-heeled black sandals, and looked in the mirror: monochromatic enough for Berkeley, fashionable enough for my mother, comfortable enough for me.

Mom was ready to go, wearing a beautiful red wool jacket, a red-and-white horizontal striped knit top, and snowy white linen pants. As I steered my mother's silver Honda sedan north towards Berkeley, I pondered how long I would be able to keep a pair of white pants clean. I gave it five minutes, tops.

A cruise up and down Telegraph Avenue turned up hordes of homeless people, a handful of grungy carryout pizza places, and several crowded venues blasting hip-hop. None of these fit the bill, so I drove my disappointed and slightly disoriented mother to a bustling pub on Shattuck Avenue.

“Everything's changed so much,” she murmured for the tenth time as we claimed a prime table near the French doors that opened onto a patio where a band played New Orleans-style jazz. “I guess I've been away longer than I thought. I wouldn't have recognized the town.”

“It's been thirty years since you spent any real time here, Mom,” I pointed out after we'd placed our drink orders. “I can't remember the last time the students at the university boycotted classes to protest anything.”

“Is that so?” she said politely, though she seemed distracted. She took a surprisingly unladylike gulp of her Santa Barbara chardonnay and blurted out, “Tell me about Seamus and Robert.”

I choked on my club soda with lime. “Seamus McGraw and Robert Pascal? How do you know . . . ? I mean, what do you . . . ?”

My mother looked over my head and smiled brightly as strong hands gripped my shoulders.

“Don't tell me this is your mother?” A deep voice, redolent of tobacco and whiskey, whispered in my ear. “I've missed you, sweetheart.”

My stomach flip-flopped and my heart sped up, which pissed me off. I brushed the hands from my shoulders and twisted around. “Don't you ‘sweetheart' me, you lying, stealing, double-dealing, abandoning, no good piece of—”

He laughed, my mother gasped, and a couple of frat boys at the bar turned to watch. I bit my tongue and scowled. The new beard emphasized Michael X. Johnson's piratical character, but there was no mistaking those piercing green eyes or that dazzling smile. The ensemble was topped with lush, wavy, dark brown hair, and the attached body was tall, broad shouldered, and slim hipped. In Bryan's immortal words, the man was finer than fine.

“I'm afraid Annie is angry with me, and rightly so,” Michael explained to my mother, his eyes twinkling. I wanted to slap him. “I stood her up, but believe me it was not by choice. I had an unavoidable professional obligation.”

True enough, I thought, if by “unavoidable professional obligation” one meant “absconding with a priceless Caravaggio.”

“Won't you introduce me to your charming companion?” he asked, eyeing my mother.

I cleared my throat and reminded myself that for Bryan's sake I needed to be civil. There was plenty of time to kill Michael after he had given me the stolen Chagall. “Mom, this is . . . ?”

“Michael Collins,” he supplied smoothly. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Beverly Kincaid,” Mom said, holding out her hand and nodding pleasantly.

Michael cupped her hand in his. “The resemblance was not immediately apparent, but I see it now. It's the eyes. And the smile. Your daughter has the most astonishing smile, Mrs. Kincaid.”

And with that he drew up a chair, signaled the waitress for a Guinness stout, and joined our little party.

“I understand you're a talented watercolorist.” Elbows on the table, Michael leaned toward my mother and cranked the charm up to high. Mom nearly slid to the floor.

I watched, nonplussed. Was Michael, the international art thief and occasional object of my unrequited lust, putting the moves on my mother? And was my mother, the thoroughly domesticated and loyal wife of my father, responding?

“Could I talk to you for a minute?” I asked Michael in a strained voice. “Outside?”

“You two stay right here and have a good chat,” my mother said, standing up. “I'll just go find the little girls' room.”

We watched as she made her way gracefully across the teeming room.