Feint of Art: (38 page)

I scowled. “You know, Annette, when you get all high-handed like this you’re not my pal anymore.”

Annette started to smile. “I’m afraid I’ll have to find a way to live with that, my friend,” she said. “Now, who did you say was the rightful owner?”

“Anthony Brazil. He owns a gallery downtown. Oh, and also Albert Mason. He does, too. A gallery. Runs one, I mean. Probably there are others.” Fatigue and the adrenaline crash were setting in. I took a big gulp of coffee.

She nodded and jotted down some notes. “They have proof of ownership?”

“Well, of course they—” I broke off. With the kind of company I’d been keeping lately, I couldn’t be confident that anyone was who they said they were. “I would assume so,” I amended.

“What do you think Harlan was doing here?” Annette asked, flipping through her notebook. It seemed unfair that I should be such a mess while she was as cool and confident as always.

“As far as I can tell, he was trying to get to the painting. He and Edward—” Oops. I’d forgotten about Edward. Oh, Lord, and Naomi, too. Maybe I should mention them. “You should know that Edward Brock is trapped in the closet in his office. With Naomi Gregorian. She’s an art restorer here at the museum.”

“Where are they?”

“In the closet.”

“In the closet?”

“In his office.”

“In his office?”

I was suddenly reminded of an old Danny Kaye routine about a vessel with the pestle and a brew that was true. I started humming.

“May I ask why?” Annette inquired.

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” I said.

Annette radioed another officer to check out Edward’s office, paying special attention to the closet. “Now,” she said firmly, “you were saying?”

“Right. From what I can tell, Edward and Harlan made some sort of deal to steal the Caravaggio from the Brock Museum. Edward would help Harlan switch the real
Magi
with a fake one, so nobody would know it had been stolen. Harlan would then fence the real painting and split the proceeds with Edward. Camilla Culpepper had a personal relationship with Harlan and was supposed to buy the original from him.”

Annette nodded. I’d been hoping she would fill me in on what else Camilla may have said, but it looked like I’d have to read about it in the papers.

“Then Emily Caulfield, Camilla Culpepper’s assistant, helped switch Camilla’s painting for another fake. I believe that Gordo, the Hulk, and the Fonz, the three bad guys from New York who were shooting at everybody, were also duped by Harlan. Harlan sold them what he said was the genuine Caravaggio, but Gordo discovered his
Magi
was a fake, so he came to get the real one and didn’t much care who he killed in the process. They’re also the ones who assaulted Pete, kidnapped me, and torched my studio. That’s about all I know.”

Annette’s expression suggested that I’d lost my mind. “And this Naomi Gregorian?” she said grimly. “Where does she figure in?”

“She doesn’t, she just works here. She happened by and opened the closet door. Somehow she ended up inside.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, not buying what I was selling. “Now what about this Colin Brooks character?”

“What about him?”

“He sort of happened to be a pretty good shot for an Egyptologist, didn’t he? And just out of curiosity, tell me: do most art curators carry weapons?”

Despite my doubts about Michael, I liked him. Maybe too much. In any event, whatever scores I had to settle with him did not involve the police. I cast about for a plausible explanation of his role in the gunfight, decided there wasn’t one, and said nothing.

Annette continued, “And does this Colin Brooks, our gun-toting Egyptologist, have anything to do with a man named Michael Johnson, art thief extraordinaire, currently wanted for questioning by Interpol?”

“Did you know Johnson is the most common last name in America?” I dodged.

She fixed me with a Master Interrogator stare and spoke slowly. “I’m going to ask you this once, and you damned well better tell me the truth. To the best of your knowledge, Annie, is Colin Brooks in league with Michael Johnson?”

I looked her straight in the eye and lied my head off. “To the best of my knowledge, Annette, Colin Brooks and Michael Johnson have never even met, much less worked together.”

The evil eye did not let up, but she leaned back a bit. “Anything else you can think of that might be of help?”

Well, there was the bit about my grandfather. And Anton, of course.

“Nope,” I said. “Can’t think of a thing. Oh, wait! An antiques dealer named Joanne Nash was also associated with Harlan somehow. She had a shop up in Yountville and was, um, found murdered. Over the weekend.”

“And I’m only hearing of it now?”

“I didn’t kill her, Annette,” I said waspishly.

“I never suggested you did,” she replied. “Go on with your story.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “Joanne Nash’s sister, Quiana, was
also
associated with Ernst, and Harlan, and Edward. Quiana would probably be a good person to talk to.”

“I guess I’ll be making a few calls to Yountville,” Annette said, closing her notebook and recapping her pen. “Anything else you want to add? Anything at all?”

It took an effort just to shake my head.

“You can go for now,” Annette said. “Don’t leave town, though. I imagine I’ll have a few more questions for you.”

“Sure, you bet.” At the moment I was willing to agree to just about anything if it meant I could go home.

“And Annie?”

“Yes?”

“Get some sleep,” she said with a small smile. “That’s an order.”

“Aye, aye, Inspector.”

 

Miracle of miracles, my black lace wrap was still in the coat-check room, so I retrieved it and waited on the museum’s front steps while Frank brought the car around. The night was cold and crisp and beautiful, and I could hear foghorns blowing somewhere in the distance. The minute I hit the Jaguar’s warm leather seats, I fell into a stupor.

The next thing I knew I was being gently shaken and told to wake up. I opened my eyes and saw I was in a parking garage.

“Where are we?” I croaked as I climbed out of the car.

“My place,” Frank replied.

“Why?”

He headed toward a bank of elevators in the rear wall. I followed him like a tired puppy. “Because I’m going to ravish you,” Frank said as he hit the button for the top floor. “Why else?”

“Unngh?” I replied. It appeared I was de-evolving.

“You’re in no shape to drive, Annie. Believe it or not, I’m tired, too, and I don’t feel like driving to Oakland and back.”

When the elevator doors slid open, we stepped into a thickly carpeted hallway. I was so exhausted I could have happily curled up there.

Frank’s apartment was sparsely but exquisitely furnished, but what caught my eye was the signed Casseri poster leaning against one wall. Works by the Art Deco master were extremely valuable, and I knew that a similar—but unsigned—lithograph had sold at Bloomberg’s Auction House last year for just over thirty-five thousand dollars.

While I was gawking, Frank disappeared into another room and then returned with a pile of linens, which he tossed on the couch. “There’s the bathroom,” he said, “and there’s the kitchen. Make yourself at home. Good night.”

“What, no kiss?”

Frank cocked his head to one side, took a step toward me, and kissed me lightly on the forehead. His lips were warm and soft, and I leaned into him for a moment.
That Bratwurst is one lucky girl,
I thought idly.

“Good night, Annie.” Frank went into his bedroom and closed the door.

I sank onto the couch, exhausted, but suddenly not a bit sleepy. I stared at the T-shirt on top of the pile of linens. Maybe I should get changed? But I had so much to think about . . . Man, the couch was soft. Down-filled? But of course, I thought, right before I fell asleep.

I awoke, disoriented, in a beautiful room flooded with sunshine. My eyes found the Casseri and I remembered: Frank’s place. Sitting up, I shook my head to try to clear the cobwebs. It didn’t work. I shuffled over to the window and looked out at a breathtaking view. It was one of those unbelievable San Francisco days, with an azure sky and puffy white clouds that looked exactly like skies and clouds always did in really bad watercolors. The air was crystal clear, and I could see across the bay to the Berkeley and Oakland hills. I glanced back at the elegant living room. Frank must be loaded, I thought.

I took stock of my own situation. I had expended a great deal of time and energy, had risked life and limb, and had succeeded only in giving just about everybody a reason to hate me. I ran down the list. Frank was being kind but probably thought I was stupid—and scary. Anthony Brazil would denounce me when I told him that his drawings were being held indefinitely, and indiscreetly, by the police, as would Albert Mason and any number of other dealers, I was sure. Paul and Bryan would not be pleased when they found out that I had ruined their fabulous dress. Michael was probably in jail and would hate me as soon as I was compelled to testify against him. Annette wasn’t going to want to be my friend anymore once she discovered that I’d lied to her. The Brocks—well, nothing new there.

Let’s see, who else? Naomi was no great loss, either, but her feelings for Michael did make me feel kind of sleazy. Mary would shortly be out of a job, and I would soon be out of a studio, since Brazil was not going to pay me for drawings I had found but couldn’t give him. I sure hoped my grandfather didn’t find a reason to spurn me, because I had a feeling I’d be needing to flop on the floor of his atelier for a while.

On top of everything else, I needed to pee and to eat something, in that order. And fast.

I tiptoed down the hall to the guest bathroom, used the toilet, washed my hands, and splashed water on my face but, in an all-too-rare act of self-preservation, did not look in the mirror. I was very much afraid that I wouldn’t be able to handle it this morning.

One pressing need taken care of, I headed toward the kitchen in search of food and heard the muffled sound of a running shower.

In the refrigerator, I found two takeout Chinese food containers, picked one up, and opened it cautiously. I was always on guard when looking into closed containers in my fridge—as a friend of mine once said, if it fights back, it’s time to throw it out. Frank’s leftovers not only did not sport whiskers, they smelled fabulous and looked even better. Chicken and mushrooms in black bean sauce. Yum. I pulled open a drawer and found spatulas and wine openers and all manner of yuppie kitchen gizmos. I tried the next one and found chopsticks. Perfect.

Leaning against Frank’s kitchen counter, I munched away and studiously avoided thinking about the mess I had made of my life.

“I never could get the hang of those things,” Frank said from behind me.

I started at the sound of his voice and inadvertently squeezed the chopsticks, flipping chicken and black bean sauce into the air. It skittered down the front of my once-beautiful dress and landed with a splat on the white ceramic tiles of the kitchen floor.

I looked at Frank. He looked at me. “Jumpy?”

“A little, I guess,” I mumbled, wanting to cry. “I’ve positively ruined this dress.” As if on cue, a black pearl popped off the neckline, fell to the floor, and rolled under the fridge. I watched it, speechless.

“Well, it has seen better days, I suppose,” Frank replied, handing me a paper towel. While I cleaned up the chicken, he turned to the stove and put some water on to boil. “I don’t have coffee, I’m afraid. I drink tea at home. Can I fix you a cup?” Frank leaned against the counter, hands in the front pockets of a pair of jeans with creases so crisp they must have been pressed with an iron.

“Thanks, but I’ll get coffee later. Do you iron your jeans?” I had to ask.

Frank looked at his pants. “No. They come this way.”

“Mine don’t.”

“I mean they’re like this when I get them back from the cleaners.”

“You
dry-clean
your jeans?” Wait until the gang heard about this!

He looked puzzled. “I dry-clean everything. I don’t have time to do the laundry.”

“Everything? Including your, um, jockey shorts?”

Frank smiled. “I don’t wear jockey shorts. So—I’ve got eggs, toast, and cereal if you’re hungry.”

“No, thanks,” I answered, waving the carton I was holding. “I hope it’s all right that I helped myself. This is perfect breakfast food, in my book.”

Frank nodded, grabbing the whistling kettle and pouring himself a nice cup of tea.

“Beautiful place you’ve got here,” I said. “That couch was mighty comfy.”

“I like it,” he replied, pleased. “I haven’t quite finished moving in yet.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“About a year.” He smiled wryly. “It’s been hard to find the time to settle in.”

The phone rang. Frank picked up the kitchen extension and said, “DeBenton.”

I would have rolled my eyes if I hadn’t been preoccupied slurping up a lo mein noodle. Could Mr. Iron Jeans here take himself any more seriously?

“Yes, she is.” He handed me the receiver.

It was Annette. “So, tell me,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “how was he? Or did you fall asleep?”

“What?”

“Frank. He’s obviously got a little thing for you.”

“Inspector . . .”

“No luck? I suppose it was a long evening. Maybe next time, huh? When I couldn’t get you at home, I thought I’d try Frank’s.”

“I’m kind of surprised at you, Annette.”

“I’m a cop, Annie. I’m not dead.”

“Oh. Good point.”

“Anyway, I’m calling for a reason. I thought you’d be interested to learn that last night Edward Brock confessed to the murder of Stan Dupont.”

“He didn’t!”

Frank looked up. I mouthed, “Edward killed Dupont,” and his eyebrows shot up.