Feint of Art: (32 page)

Why was I fixating on the man, anyway? I’d call Bryan. If anyone would know how to crash an elegant party, it would be my friend Bryan Boissevain.

“Sorry, baby doll, but from what I hear, the Brocks are more uptight than an alligator at midnight,” he said. Bryan had grown up in a swamp in Louisiana, and although he cultivated his big-city persona, the bayou seeped out from time to time. “You couldn’t beat one of those invitations out of them with a stick. You know that better than I. Although you could hang around the employee entrance and try to sneak in.”

“I have to get in like everyone else,” I persisted. “Otherwise I’ll be challenged, which will cause a scene and defeat the whole purpose. Are you
sure
you can’t think of anyone to take me?”

“Honey pie, the gala’s in
two days.
Everyone who’s going has a date by now, believe you me. And think about this—” Bryan continued with a gasp. “If you
do
snag an invite, you won’t have anything to wear!”

Working in San Francisco as I did, I knew a lot of gay people, both socially and professionally. Most were pretty much like straight people. Bryan’s partner, Ron, for example, was about as straight as men came, a total corporate yuppie in his pin-striped suit and shiny shoes. Bryan was not like that. Bryan was the type of gay man who loved show tunes, Barbra Streisand, redecorating and cooking and fretting about having only two days to find the right evening gown.

“Tell you what, baby doll,” Bryan offered. “You get an invitation, and I’ll take care of the rest. I have this friend Paul who has absolutely the best salon for trannies.”

“But I’m not a transvestite, Bryan,” I said, surprised that I needed to remind him. Maybe I
should
pay more attention to my wardrobe and makeup.

“Honey pie, I know that, but the gala’s going to be a transvestite’s wet dream.”

Point taken. I had no idea how to dress for a gala. I didn’t own a formal gown and didn’t fancy the idea of storming the mall on Friday night, trying on prom dresses elbow to elbow with seventeen-year-old high school seniors. I would doubtless purchase some kind of pastel chiffon concoction, overcompensate with dramatic hair and makeup, and wind up looking like a really sad, badly dressed transvestite.

“Deal,” I said. “If I manage to scrounge up an invitation, we’ll go shopping.”

I hung up and tried a few gallery owners I knew slightly, most of whom responded to my plea to be my escort with shocked silence. After the umpteenth call, my ego couldn’t take anymore. This was pathetic.

Pedro had taken a fresh-air break and was back working on the computer. He looked up, concern in his eyes. “How about your friend the cop? Couldn’t she get you in?”

Well, duh. What good was having a new buddy on the police force if I couldn’t exploit the hell out of the relationship? I tried Annette again. She answered on the third ring.

“Inspector Crawford.”

“Annette, it’s Annie.”

“Annie, hi. Got your message. What have you got for me?”

“I’ll tell you in a second. First, though, and we’re just speaking theoretically here, if you wanted to get a person into the gala at the Brock, could you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. So, and I’m not being at all theoretical here, will you get me in?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is a police matter, Annie. You have no business being there.”

“Yeah, but . . .” I trailed off. What was I going to say? That I wanted her to use her influence to help me set up a possibly illegal business transaction?

“What information do you have for me?” she asked.

Maybe I’ll just keep that to myself, Inspector By-the-Book,
I thought crankily. Then I reconsidered. Annette was just being responsible. Maybe I should try it sometime. “I think Harlan Coombs will be there.”

“Oh?” Now I had her attention. “How do you know that?” she asked.

Oops. Hadn’t seen that one coming. What was I going to tell her? That I overheard it when an international art thief and I had fraudulently gained access to a rich woman’s home and I was stashed in the kneehole of her desk?

“I just heard it. You know. Around. And I think Coombs is behind the whole
Magi
thing.”

“You heard it ‘around,’ huh? Okay, Annie. But just as a point of clarification, I want you to know I’m not buying that for a second. Anything else?”

“Did you get those numbers I left on your voice mail?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me what you found out?”

“No.”

I thought about that. “Will you tell me if I tell you something else?”

There was a long pause.

“Annie, this isn’t how our relationship works.”

“Please?”

There was a shorter pause. “The first call was to the residence of a Mr. and Mrs. Robert Culpepper in Belvedere,” she said. “The second was to the Gray Goose Inn in St. Helena.”

“Oh?” I said. I knew about the Gray Goose, but the other was news. Camilla Culpepper was working with Edward as well as with Harlan Coombs? Interesting. I thanked Annette and prepared to say my good-byes.

But Annette wasn’t the type to miss a trick.

“I thought you had some more information for me,” she said.

“Uh, yeah, right,” I stalled, wondering which of my many new acquaintances I should rat out. Ooo, how about Emily? Anyone who would kick a dog deserved a nice, long talk with my pals Homicide Inspectors Crawford and Wilson.

“I thought you might want to know that Emily Caulfield, Camilla Culpepper’s personal assistant, is linked to Harlan Coombs in some way,” I said. “She’ll be at the gala, too, with Camilla. You know, the gala I should be going to as well.”

“Uh-huh,” Annette replied, clearly unimpressed by this last-ditch attempt. “Okay, thanks.”

“Wait!” I said. “Have you heard anything about who killed Ernst Pettigrew?”

“The preliminary findings suggest suicide, but it’s still under investigation. Tell me anything you know.”

“I know it wasn’t a suicide—Ernst wasn’t the type. Was there anything in his pockets when he was found?”

“In his pockets?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you interested in the contents of Ernst Pettigrew’s pockets?”

I didn’t even try to answer that one. “What about Stan Dupont? Was there anything in his personal effects, like a combination or a key?”

“The man was a janitor. He had a million keys.”

“But no special little key in his pocket, or something?”

“I think you should tell me what you’re after, Annie.”

“I was just thinking that, you know, maybe one of them had something that someone was after. Something that had to do with why they were killed, with the fakes or something. Maybe a safe-deposit key? I don’t know. It’s just a hunch.”

“I’ll check,” she said tersely and hung up.

That evening I took Pedro to dinner at Fiori d’Italia in North Beach as a thank-you. He had managed to download several years’ worth of data from my hard drive to install on my new computer—when and if I got the insurance money. I vowed that one day, when I made it big, I’d surprise him with whatever it was that computer geeks coveted. Maybe more memory. I wish I could buy myself more memory. That would be cool.

I didn’t sleep well that night, awakening at seven on Thursday morning with the remnants of a vivid dream involving a dwarf, a donkey, and the Miami Dolphins football team composed in part by Michael, Frank, Edward, Mr. Suave, the Hulk—and me as the quarterback.

I spent the day continuing to organize the studio. Sam helped me move the furniture back, but the finer cleanup took several more hours of sorting and organizing. Afterward, I returned a few query calls, set up a meeting with a prospective client, and returned the call of a contractor prepping the wall for my mural in the St. Francis Wood neighborhood. Finally, Mary and I went to OfficeMax, where we filled a cart with supplies and a few essential non-essentials like coffee filters and M&M’s, then to the art wholesale outlet, where we stocked up on items that had been ruined, such as sketch paper, two rolls of canvas, and specialty paints. I was living on credit at this point and could only hope to have some way to pay the bills next month.

That evening Samantha and Reggie prepared a huge dinner of Jamaican jerk chicken, red beans, and rice in honor of Pete’s recovery, and we took it over to his apartment, where we spent the evening eating our fill and celebrating our friendship. Pete had recovered sufficiently to be bored with his convalescence. With all his stitches, he looked like a grumpy Bosnian Frankenstein.

The following day was Friday, and since I had to swing by a new interior designer’s office first thing in the morning to show her my portfolio, I didn’t get to the studio until nearly eleven. As I started for the stairs I saw Frank in his office, hunched over some blueprints. By now I was desperate.

I opened his door and said, “You don’t have a date, do you?”

“Nope.” He didn’t bother looking up from his desk.

“You can’t go alone, you know.”

“Yes I can.”

“No you can’t. Not to the Brock.”

He took the bait. “Why not?”

“Because although this may be San Francisco, the Brock is very Old World.
Everyone
has to have an escort.”

I was lying through my teeth, but I was counting on the fact that Frank didn’t know me well enough to realize it. He hunched his shoulders.

“Aw, c’mon, Frank,” I said impatiently. “I need a date. You need a date. We’re the perfect couple.”

“Why do you want to go so badly, Annie?” he asked, finally looking up. “I would’ve thought you’d hate this kind of thing.”

Frank didn’t know about my connection to the Brock, eh? That was good. So what kind of answer would Frank respect? One that involved money, I’d bet.

“You’re right,” I said. “A fancy ball is not my cup of tea. Normally. But everyone who’s anyone in the art world will be there. Lots of rich folks. It’s important that I be seen there and make those kinds of connections.”

Frank seemed to be thinking this over. “Give me one good reason why I should take you.”

“Because we’re friends.”

“No, we’re not. I’m your landlord. Keep going.”

“I’m a lot of fun to be with.”

“You do shake things up. But perhaps I’d prefer a more relaxing evening.”

“It would be a nice thing to do.”

“What—rescuing you once already this week doesn’t earn me nice-guy status?”

“Because . . . because your mother would approve.”

Frank looked me up and down. “Oh, I doubt that.”

I was stumped. “The only reason you wouldn’t is if you were being mean and ornery.”

He turned back to the blueprints. “Mmphht.”

“What was that?”

“I said, all right. You win.”

“We both win, Frank,” I said solemnly.

He fiddled with the pen in his hands and gestured to my overalls. “Just, please—promise me you’ll wear something . . . appropriate.”

Elated, I blew him a kiss. “Don’t you worry, Frank,” I said. “You’ll see. I look
great
in sequins. And I have a feather boa to match.”

Frank grinned.

“I’ll just bet you do,” he said.

—Georges LeFleur, “Tools of the Trade,” unfinished manuscript,
Reflections of a World-Class Art Forger

 

There’s no one like a successful transvestite to teach a woman how to dress. Especially if the woman needs a little help. And I certainly did.

Bryan and Ron picked me up at my studio on Saturday morning at eleven and ferried me over to their friend Paul’s salon in the Castro, which catered mostly to the alternative crowd. Not being a salon type, I’d never been there. But on this day, escorted as I was by Bryan and Ron, my predicament was taken as a professional challenge, and I was given special treatment.

Seven hours later I emerged, sloughed, waxed, descaled, highlighted, styled, and starved. Armed with an industrial-strength straightening iron and an impressive assortment of chemicals, Paul had expertly beaten my hair into submission. The usual riot of frizzy curls was now swept up into a sleek French twist that managed to look both regal and alluring. However, even with Bryan’s last-minute alterations, I could barely fit into the floor-length, embroidered crimson gown that Paul had selected from his cramped closet. The low-cut, form-fitting silk hugged my body like a too-tight glove, cinching at the waist and following the line of my hips and legs, interrupted only by the thigh-high slit up the left side. A line of black pearls edged the low neckline, highlighting the impressive display of my bare chest. When I bent over to adjust the strap on my scarlet stiletto heels, a slight ripping sound issued from somewhere behind me, so I was forbidden lunch. By evening I was ravenous, nervous, and afraid to sit down.

But I had to admit that I looked fabulous. I didn’t look much like myself, but I did look fabulous. Bryan presented me with a pair of beautiful black pearl chandelier earrings to top it all off and smiled proudly at me.

I had arranged for Frank to pick me up at Paul’s at a quarter to eight. Although the boys wouldn’t let me eat, they did allow me one martini to take the edge off. It hit pretty hard on an empty stomach, and by the time Frank pulled up in front, I’d been regaling the gang with Frankie stories for an hour. I watched from the back room as Frank ran the gauntlet and endured my friends’ flamboyant teasing with good humor. In his elegant traditional tuxedo, my landlord looked more handsome than ever.

Interesting.

As I made my grand entrance, I noted with satisfaction that Frank’s eyes widened, taking in my décolletage and the length of leg revealed by the skirt’s slit. Offering nary a clever or biting remark, he held out his arm.