Feint of Art: (37 page)

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I replied, batting my eyes. I felt a flutter in my stomach, but I didn’t know whether to attribute it to the recent gunfire or to Michael’s closeness. Just then a commotion in the hallway suggested that the authorities had arrived.

“We’re in here!” Michael shouted through the door. “We’re unarmed!” He turned to me. “Keep your hands up and move slowly. The police will have to sort out who’s who.”

Why was it that the last two men I’d spent quality time with both knew the best way to act in a police raid? Maybe I needed to give that one some thought.

“Do you think it’s . . . ?” I started, but Michael had already opened the door.

I peeked over his shoulder. The Hulk and the Fonz lay motionless on the floor, covered with blood. Gordo was nowhere in sight, though large red drops left a gruesome trail down the hall. Camilla Culpepper was slumped on the floor, stunned and disheveled. That should be quite a story to share with the girls over gin and tonics at the Belvedere Country Club. Apparently she was quite a shot.

The Magi
lay at our feet. A lot of people had been hurt because of this painting, I thought, so I should probably treat it carefully and not, say, put my foot through it, which was what I felt like doing. I tucked it behind some mops.

“So is it really a fake?” Michael whispered

“Not if you’re in the market for a genuine Georges LeFleur,” I said.

“Then where’s the original?” he asked, frustrated.

I shrugged. As if I would tell him, even if I knew.

Michael and I emerged with our hands up. Annette the Unconquerable looked, I was pleased to see, a little worse for wear.

“What in the hell happened here?” she demanded.

Behind her, Camilla Culpepper was being cuffed and read her rights while cops were swarming over the bodies of Harlan and the Hulk. The goon I called the Fonz was moaning while two paramedics bandaged his arm.

Michael started talking, portraying himself as a poor art curator caught up against his will in this web of lies and deceit. Colin Brooks was the name. Egyptology was his game.

Two officers led Gordo down the hallway, handcuffed and bloodied, no longer Mr. Suave in any sense of the word, while Camilla started to babble something that made it sound as though she and Harlan had been in cahoots. It seems they were very much in love and had planned to elope with the proceeds from selling the drawings and the fake Caravaggio, but then that dreadful Joanne woman and her sister, Quiana, had tried to steal their money.

Harlan and Quiana, Harlan and Emily, Harlan and Camilla. Evidently, this time at least, Harlan had been playing a few too many hands.

Michael was still droning on, all innocence and cooperation. I began to wonder if he was delirious.

“He’s shot in the shoulder,” I told Annette.

“Get that man to the paramedics,” she ordered a uniformed officer. “And stay with him.”

She turned hard eyes back to me. “You all right?”

I nodded, suddenly overwhelmed. The adrenaline high that had sustained me through the worst of the evening was giving way to a major energy crash and I needed to sit down—fast. I also felt a little nauseated. Without intending to, I slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

There was a loud and distinct ripping of cloth. I didn’t want to know, couldn’t bear to look, so I put my head on my knees. Someone draped a blanket across my shoulders.

The next thing I knew, a familiar tuxedoed figure was crouched beside me, speaking in soothing tones. I looked up to see Frank, his face inscrutable.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, always the lady.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m okay.” I still felt shaky, but the nausea had passed. It couldn’t have been the champagne. That was too long ago. Must have been the blood and the bullets that had taken the starch out of me.

“Let me help you up,” Frank said, and I felt a strong arm around my waist. Without thinking, I pushed him away, but immediately regretted it as black dots danced before my eyes and the noise of the hallway suddenly sounded very far away. A pair of arms wrapped themselves around me. “Whoa, there, now.” It was Frank again. “Why don’t you let me help you, Annie?”

“My dress . . .” I said inanely, focusing on the least important aspect of this crisis.

“Your dress, like you, my dear, is somewhat bedraggled. The good news is that you’d do very well in a wet T-shirt contest,” Frank joked softly.

I focused on him with effort. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d already left with the bimbo.”

“What bimbo?”

“You know what bimbo.”

“No I don’t.” Frank sounded honestly puzzled.

“The woman you were talking to—the one with no body fat but enormous hooters.”

“Francesca?” Frank sounded shocked. “She’s an old friend.”

Oh, please. The name was as fake as the boobs.

“She’s not old enough to be an ‘old friend,’ Frank. I don’t care who she is or what you do with her—though you should know that Frank and Francesca is too cute for words. I mean, come
on
—I just thought it was kind of inconsiderate of you, considering Hildegard.”

Frank looked me over as if to determine if I’d sustained a brain injury. “Who’s Hildegard?”

“Oh, right—I meant Helga.”

“Helga?”

“Heidi?”

“You mean Ingrid, don’t you?”

“It’s about time you remembered her!” I nodded triumphantly.

Frank smiled. “There’s an old saying, Annie. ‘You leave the dance with the one who brought you’.”

“I thought that was ‘You dance with the one what brung ya,’ ” I replied.

“No, that’s ‘You smooch the one that brung ya,’ ” he said.

“No, it
isn’t.
Besides, you hate your date,” I said, with a little sniffle. It had been a very long evening.

“I don’t hate my date,” he said patiently. “I’m annoyed with my date, but that doesn’t mean I intend to leave her stranded.”

Whether Frank was here out of a strict adherence to dating protocol, or because he gave a damn about what happened to me, didn’t much matter at the moment because his arms were strong, warm, and welcome.

Annette appeared again, an island of efficiency in a sea of chaos. “I need to speak with Annie,” she said. “Mr. DeBenton, take her to the grand hall upstairs, would you, please? I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

The grand hall was empty now except for the uniformed officers and a few damp partygoers wrapped in blankets, like me. We looked like a bunch of
Titanic
survivors, the bejeweled ones from first class.

I saw Emily talking to a cop, but Miss Mopsy was nowhere in sight. The crackle of police radios and the murmur of official personnel filled the air. The area near the buffet table was a shambles, with slivers of paté and imported caviar spread across the floor. Forgotten scarves and dropped gloves and other debris were also strewn around.

Frank guided me to an armchair near the entrance. The double doors were propped wide open, and I gratefully gulped deep breaths of fresh night air. He took a seat in a chair beside me. I couldn’t help but notice that, unlike me, he didn’t look at all bedraggled.

“Kind of a fiasco, huh?” I ventured.

“Just a bit.”

“So much for a relaxed evening. I’m sorry, Frank.” He shrugged.

A screech pierced the air.

I had heard it once before, during an incident involving a whoopee cushion and the Throne of Power.

“My Caravaggio! Where is my Caravaggio?”

Agnes Brock. Who else.

History will redeem the truly gifted art forger. Guido Reni copied the Carracci brothers so brilliantly that his works were considered genuine for many years. Although many are no longer so authenticated, Reni’s fakes are now nearly as valuable as the genuine Carraccis
.

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

 

I had to hand it to Agnes. She sure knew how to make an entrance.

“You!” she screeched, zeroing in on me despite my efforts to blend into the wallpaper. She pointed dramatically with a long, bony finger tipped with a bloodred nail that looked as if it were sharpened regularly with a whet-stone. “I knew you would be trouble the moment I spotted you! Frank! What is the meaning of this?”

“Mrs. Brock, please, try to remain calm,” Frank said soothingly as he positioned himself between us. “I’m sure this will all be sorted out to your satisfaction in the next day or two.”

Fat chance of that,
I thought.

“But, but . . .” Her shoulders slumped and all at once she looked old and confused. I felt a spurt of sympathy. Even though it wasn’t really my fault, I had had a hand in ruining her gala. Frank put an arm around her and escorted her to her office.

I tipped my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, too exhausted even to think. In fact, I may have snoozed briefly. I heard footsteps approach and cracked one eye open. It was Inspector Crawford. Her gown was also wrinkled and stained, though nowhere near as tattered as mine. I wondered if she had borrowed her dress from a transvestite, too, but didn’t dare ask. Even in San Francisco few women could hear, “Did you borrow your dress from a transvestite?” without being at least mildly insulted.

“What a night,” she said, sinking into a chair. “Well, Annie, in the immortal words of Ricky Ricardo, ‘you’ve got some ’splainin’ to do.’ ”

I nodded, though I wasn’t taking any bets on how coherent my explanation would be.

“Any idea where your Egyptologist friend got to?”

“I thought he was with the paramedics,” I said, surprised.

“So did I,” Annette said wryly. “Apparently we were both wrong. I hope he didn’t take off with the painting.”

“He didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve got it.” I could tell from her expression that Annette wasn’t convinced. Perhaps the fact that I wasn’t clutching a large oil painting made her skeptical. “Or I think I do. It’s in the supply room downstairs, where we were hiding. I took it from Harlan.” I had actually taken it from Michael, but Harlan was in no position to rat me out. “Which reminds me,” I added. “I have to check
The Magi
for the missing drawings.”

“
Sit,
Annie. I’ll check this out, and I’ll be very careful. By the way, you were right about the key, we found one on Harlan Coombs. Security traced its serial number to an archival drawer, and we found records of overseas bank accounts, including one in Dupont’s name.”

“So Stan Dupont was in on the whole thing?”

“Seems like it. It’s not quite clear yet. We’re still looking for a common link among the players.” She stood. “Don’t you
dare
move a muscle, my friend.”

I watched her stride toward the service door, nodding to Frank, who was carrying a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. He handed it to me, and I silently blessed his thoughtfulness.

“So, no dramatics, eh, Annie?”

“It was the situation that was dramatic, Frank, not me. Be fair.”

Our eyes met for a moment, and for the life of me I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Was he angry? Disgusted? Did he think I was horribly embarrassing? Adorably sexy? What? I wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to see me again, considering I had dragged him into the middle of what was sure to become one of San Francisco’s most talked-about galas ever. He probably wouldn’t rent to me now, even if I could afford it. Looked like it was time to start collecting cardboard boxes for moving day.

“You do realize you could have been killed tonight,” he said.

“I’m kind of getting that impression.”

“Is that what this was about? Some missing drawings?”

I nodded glumly. “Well, it’s mostly your fault, you know.”

“Excuse me?”

“If I hadn’t been so desperate to make money because you doubled my rent, Frank, I might have been more cautious. Anthony Brazil was going to pay me a lot of money for finding those drawings.”

I thought my logic was impeccable, if a touch self-serving. Frank didn’t seem to be buying it.

“What were you thinking, going after those guys?” he demanded. “What the hell kind of artist gets shot at, anyway?”

“I’m guessing you’re angry here, Frank.”

“Hell yes, I’m angry.”

“Exactly how is my welfare any of your concern?”

“Look, I saved your life once—”

“Sure, throw that in my face! Of all the two-bit heroics—”

I was saved from my unruly tongue by Annette, who hurried over to us from the direction of the Blue Room. I immediately felt chagrined that my temper, once again, had gotten the best of me. After all, Frank was innocent of anything having to do with either the Caravaggio or the drawings, which was a good deal more than I could say for a lot of people right now.

Frank yielded his seat to Inspector Crawford and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, an unyielding expression on his face.

“Where’s
The Magi
?” I asked Annette, avoiding Frank’s eyes.

“With Dr. Pitts. He’s looking it over for damage. What a piece of work that guy is.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I said wearily, running a shaky hand through my snarled, damp hair. “Did you find the drawings?”

“Yes, we did. You were right. They were behind a canvas insert, behind
The Magi.
”

Well, whaddaya know. I basked in the glow of having done something right. “Great! Can I have the drawings now?”

“I’m afraid not. They’re being held as evidence.”

“But—”

“Annie, don’t even waste your breath. The drawings will be released when they’re no longer needed by the district attorney, and not a moment sooner. Understood?”