Shooting Gallery (5 page)

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Aw,
geez
! Swearing at my stupidity, I thrashed through the litter on top of my desk until I unearthed the memo. “Dear tenant: On November 19th the building's alarm system will be activated . . .”
Get to the point, Frank. Get to the point.
Skimming frantically, I spotted the alarm company's emergency number and grabbed the telephone.

“Evergreen Alarm Systems, what is your code?” an exceedingly calm woman singsonged.

“I accidentally set off the alarm in my studio! How do I turn it off?”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'll need the code before I can assist you in disabling the alarm.”

“I don't have the code!” I yelled, the persistent clamor jangling my nerves. “It's a new alarm system and I don't have the code!”

“If you are a legal tenant you were provided with the code.”

“I have no code!”

“Then I have no alternative but to notify the police,” the woman declared coolly.

“Listen to me, please,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I'm calling you from my studio. Would I do that if I were a burglar?”

“Ma'am, if you do not know the security code then you must remain in the building until the police arrive,” Ms. Evergreen replied, sticking to her guns. “Remain in the build—”

I slammed down the receiver. Remain in the building my ass. If Frank DeBenton found out I'd set off the new alarm he would evict me for sure. I dove out the window and thundered down the fire escape, snatched up the paint rod extension, and raced around the building to the parking lot. I skidded to a halt and tried to hide the six-foot pole behind my back.

My landlord, Frank, was leaning against my truck.

Rats.

 

“Mindy at Evergreen Alarm Systems sends her regards,” Frank DeBenton said as the blaring alarm came to a sudden and blessed end. Slipping a sleek silver cell phone into the pocket of his elegant suit vest, he crossed his arms over his chest and nodded his dark brown head. “Good evening, Annie. Is that a paintbrush rod extension or are you just glad to see me?”

I tossed the rod into the bed of the truck, where it landed with a resounding clang. “What are you doing at the office so late on a Friday, Frank?”

“I was having a drink with a client and came by to drop off some papers. I'd just pulled up when Mindy called to say some idiot had set off the alarm and phoned her. Said the woman didn't sound like a burglar, so she decided to call me instead of the police.”

“More bungling than burgling, wouldn't you say?” I asked, swatting flakes of white windowsill paint from the skirt of my little black dress, which had earlier tonight been respectable, even fashionable. I was a mess magnet.

“That was my guess, too. How've you been lately, Annie? I haven't seen you around.”

“I, uh . . . I've been keeping busy.”

“Business is good?”

“Yeah, sure,” I lied. The self-employed learned to always insist that business was good, especially when it wasn't. “Business is great.”

A smile hovered on Frank's lips. It made me nervous.

“What?” I demanded.

The smile broadened.

“Sounds like you've had quite an evening,” he said enigmatically.

“You don't know the half of it,” I muttered.

“As a matter of fact, I do. The client I was meeting tonight was Mayor Green. He told me about your discovery at Brazil's new gallery. You're the talk of the town.”

I collapsed against the truck. “Just for the record, I had
nothing
to do with
anything
. I was a model citizen and answered all the cops' questions, and you know how I feel about that.”

“I didn't imply that you were involved, Annie.”

Silence filled the space between us. Suddenly tired, I gazed up at the night sky. The glow of millions of electric lights in the Bay Area obscured what should have been a spectacular display, but a few hardy stars managed to shine through. I tried to remember their names. I had learned the constellations years ago at Girl Scout summer camp, shortly before I'd been drummed out of the corps for conduct unbecoming.

Frank stirred and I wondered if he was thinking about the stars, or, more likely, about the bottom line.
Might as well face the firing squad,
I decided with a sigh.

“I don't have the rent money yet, Frank. I screwed up. I should be good for it soon, if you can just wait a few more days.”

“Is that why you've been avoiding me?”

“I wouldn't say I've been avoiding you exactly.”

“So that wasn't you in the battered green pickup truck peeling out of the parking lot yesterday when I drove up?”

His voice, low and attractive, contained a note of suppressed humor. Was he making fun of me? Probably. Was I in any position to complain? Not really.

“It's not like I'm slacking off, Frank. It's just that I'm working sixty hours a week as it is and I still can't make ends meet. I should probably start looking for a new studio.” I stared into the distance, fighting a wave of self-pity. I didn't ask for much out of life, just the chance to create my art without risking arrest and imprisonment. Why was that so hard?

“A new studio?” Frank asked, startled. “Isn't this a good location for your business?”

“Of course. Most of my clients are in the City. But the rents are too high.”

“So there's no other reason you're considering moving?”

“No, I love it here. The studio space is perfect, my friends are here, and my landlord's a decent sort,” I said, giving him a sideways glance. “Most of the time, anyway.”

“And he's about to prove that this is one of those times,” he replied. “Had you responded to any of my many phone messages, Annie, you would have known that I've been trying to propose a somewhat unorthodox business arrangement.”

“I said—”

“I heard you,” I replied, thinking quickly. “Just how ‘unorthodox' is this arrangement? Because I've had about as many surprises as I can handle in one night.”

“It's not that kind of proposition, Annie,” he said, his dark eyes holding mine. “As you know, DeBenton Secure Transport moves artwork for a number of top museums and dealers. From time to time accidents happen and I need the services of a top-notch art restorer. But the work must be done discreetly.
Very
discreetly.”

“As in, I keep my yap shut and no one ever finds out?”

“Precisely.”

“And in exchange for my services you are offering what?”

“I extend your lease for three years, and reduce the rent five hundred dollars a month in lieu of a retainer. You'll be my resident art expert.”

“‘Resident art expert,' eh?” I repeated, tempted but hesitant. “I like it. But let's be clear about one thing: I don't do restoration work that alters the value of a painting or its attribution.”

The line between restoring art and forging art was a thin one that I preferred not to cross. To the best of my knowledge Frank was unaware of my past, and I hoped to keep it that way. I didn't think he would appreciate the irony of a former art forger working for an art security business.

“Not a problem. I'm referring to straightforward repair work, that's all. I would also like your opinion on questions of authenticity from time to time.”

“Okay, then,” I said, beaming. “It's a deal.”

We shook hands solemnly. His grip was strong, yet gentle, his long fingers enveloping mine.

Not that I noticed.

“Just let me know when you need me,” I said, thinking that a bubble bath and a hot rum toddy would really hit the spot. With the wolf no longer baying at my studio's door, I could relax for the first time in months.

“How about now?” he asked, pushing away from the truck.

Or not.

“Now's good,” I said cooperatively.

We crossed the parking lot to one of DeBenton Secure Transport's blue-and-silver armored cars emblazoned with the logo of a roaring lion, where Frank used a complicated series of keys and codes to open the rear doors. He climbed in and extended a hand to assist me, a chivalrous gesture I found both charming and annoying. I inched into the car, trying not to flash Frank in the process, which was not an easy task in heels and a short skirt. Switching on the overhead dome light, he locked the heavy doors behind us, hunkered down in front of a shallow wooden crate, lifted the lid, and took out a thick layer of foam packing material. Finally he removed a white silk cloth to reveal an eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch painting.

It was a Picasso, a colorful oil painting of a woman. At least I thought it was a woman.

“Amazing, isn't it?” he asked, his tone reverential.

“Yeah, sure. Amazing.”

Frank looked surprised. “You don't like Picasso?”

“Of
course
I like Picasso!” I lied. “What's not to like? It's
Picasso
!”

“I can't believe you don't like Picasso,” he said with a shake of his handsome head. “And to think you once called
me
a Philistine. Anyway, the question is: can you fix it?”

Fix what? There were no slash marks, no ink blots, no greasy pizza stains. Just a bunch of lines, pattern, and color.

I had to ask. “What's wrong with it?”

“The bright red mark? In the middle of the woman's breast?” He pointed to a red line in the center of an angular splotch that looked unlike any breast I had ever seen. “It wasn't there when I took possession of the painting. I'm investigating how it happened, but I can't surrender it to its owner in this condition.”

“Oh,” I said, squinting at the red squiggle. “How do you know it's not supposed to be there?”

“And here I thought you were the human art detector.”

“Modern art's too cold and calculated,” I explained. “I need to
feel
the art. Now if it were from Picasso's Blue Period . . .”

“Feel, schmeel,” he scoffed. “The question is, can you fix it? I can't turn over a defaced multimillion-dollar painting.”

“Okay, okay, don't get your knickers in a twist. Got a flashlight?”

Frank pulled one out from under a jump seat and turned its bright beam on the painting. I touched the surface of the red line gingerly, then tilted the canvas and examined it from the side.

By golly, it looked like a crayon mark.

Last summer, during a visit to my hometown of Asco, my two young nephews had reintroduced me to the wonders of Crayolas. I'd immediately bought a sixty-four pack, and Mary and I had experimented with them on all kinds of surfaces, including canvas. If I was right, it should be a relatively simple matter to lift the colored wax from the Picasso.

I glanced at Frank. Not only did I wish to bolster my reputation as “Annie Kincaid, Girl Wonder of the Art World,” but in view of our new business arrangement, I needed my landlord to believe that he was getting his money's worth. So as he waited patiently, I cocked my head, frowned, and hmm'd. I squinted some more, sat back on my heels, and put my hands on my knees, bowing my head as if concentrating intently. Finally I shook my head and sucked air in through my teeth, making that reverse hissing sound that usually accompanies estimates for auto repairs.

“Well, Frank, here's the story,” I said crisply. “I can help you. Yes, I can. But it's not going to be easy. I'll have to examine the mark under the magnifier to determine exactly what we're dealing with here, then do some tests to assess the pigment adherence index and the media distillates. I'll also need to analyze the canvas support integer, as well as the existing paint refraction, with a spectrum magnetometer. The last thing we want to do is to disturb the Master's original pigments and media.”

Frank looked mystified, which wasn't surprising considering I had just spouted a whole bunch of hooey. If my original assessment was correct, then all that was necessary to remove the red mark was a careful application of low heat and wax-absorbent paper, a technique familiar to many a parent whose child had scribbled on the good linen tablecloth.

“I'll have to work on it in my studio, though,” I said. “Will it be safe there?”

“Let me install some heavy-duty locks on the windows first. They're too easy to break into at the moment,” he said as I avoided his eyes. “I'm also hiring a security guard, starting tomorrow. The painting should be safe enough so long as no one knows it's in your studio. I'll bring it upstairs in the morning. Will you be around?”

“I'll be here,” I said.

Our eyes met and my pulse quickened at the fond expression on Frank's face.

“Thank you, Annie. I can't tell you what a relief this is. I discovered the damage three days ago and have been trying to get ahold of you ever since,” he said, carefully wrapping the Picasso in the packing material and securing the crate.

“Sorry about that. I thought you wanted the rent money.”

“In the future, if you fall short with the rent, come talk to me. I don't know why you make me out to be such an ogre.” Throwing open the rear doors of the armored car, Frank climbed out and offered me a hand. I stumbled into him during my descent but otherwise managed to remain upright.