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Arsenic and Old Paint

AN ART LOVER'S MYSTERY

Hailey Lind

2010 · Palo Alto/McKinleyville

Perseverance Press/John Daniel & Company

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This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to real people, companies, institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for and limited to the publisher's first print edition of the book and related marketing display purposes. All other use of those designs without the publisher's permission is prohibited.

Copyright © 2010 by Julie Goodson-Lawes and Carolyn Lawes All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

A Perseverance Press Book

Published by John Daniel & Company

A division of Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, Inc.

Post Office Box 2790

McKinleyville, California 95519

www.danielpublishing.com/perseverance

Distributed by SCB Distributors (800) 729-6423

Cover image: Julie Goodson-Lawes

ISBN 9781564747402

Library Of Congress Cataloging-In-Publication Data Lind, Hailey.

Arsenic and old paint : the art lover's mystery series / by Hailey Lind.

p. cm.

ISBN (first printed edition) 978-1-56474-490-6 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1 Art thefts--Fiction. 2. Art forgers--Fiction. 3. Women detectives--Fiction. 4. San Francisco (Calif.)--Fiction. I. Title.

PS3612.I5326A89 2010

813'.6--dc22

2010006980

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To Susan Jane Lawes,

whose imagination and love of beauty

are second to none.

Can't wait to read your book!

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Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Shellee Leong and the good people of San Francisco's Cameron House, and to the spirit of Donaldina Cameron and all the denizens of Chinatown, past and present, from sixth-generation natives to the newly arrived. And to Jon Hee for his stories of tunnels and neighborhood history over dim sum.

From Julie: Thanks to the usual cast of wonderful characters who allow me to call them friend: Jace Johnson, Shay Demetrius, Suzanne Chan, Bee Enos, Pamela Groves, Jan Strout, Anna Cabrera, Mary Grae, Susan Baker, Chris Logan, Brian Casey, Kendall Moalem, and the entire Mira Vista Social Club. To all those incredibly supportive, talented writers who have taught me and laughed with me, especially my on-the-road roomie extraordinaire, Sophie Littlefield, and all the Pensfatales; the tavern gang (you know who you are—we miss you, Cornelia); and all my Sisters in Crime.

From Carolyn: Thank you to Janine Latus, Sandra Pryor, and Chris Casnelli for your unflagging friendship and support when it was needed most. To Scott Casper, Anita Fellman, Heather Jersild, Steve Lofgren, Buffy Masten, and Karin Wulf, who always see the joy in life. Thank you all for allowing me to be a part of your lives.

Finally, thanks from both of us to our wonderful, eternally supportive parents, Bob and Jane Lawes, for giving us the kind of childhood every soul should be lucky enough to experience. And lastly and most especially to Sergio Klor de Alva, the newest music sensation to emerge from Oaktown!

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Author's Note

Theories abound as to whether there are tunnels under Chinatown. As in this book, it appears that there were sewer pipes and coal chutes that may have been used from time to time, but nothing like the system of tunnels found in other locales such as Portland, Oregon. Any tunnels under Nob Hill are pure conjecture for the sake of fiction. The Fleming-Union and the College Club were entirely fabricated by the author.

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1

To all my fans: It is I, the great international art forger, Georges LeFleur. To all those who believe a man who exalts the beauty of the Renaissance cannot become part of the twenty-first century, I say,

''Bah.'' I may be a Luddite when it comes to egg yolk tempera, pure linseed oil, and crushed-earth pigments, but here I am, with my new blog, surfing these modern internets and sharing my knowledge, free for the asking.

—Georges LeFleur's blog, ''Craquelure''

(A web of fine lines indicating age, that results in greater beauty)

''What was that?''

''A ghost?'' Samantha teased me.

''Naw, that ain't no ghost,'' my temporary assistant, Evangeline, said with surprising conviction, her stage whisper reverberating down the wood-paneled hall. ''Sounded like a lady to me.''

We picked up our pace down the stairs. Although the day outside was bright and cheerful, as befit San Francisco in the early fall, inside the Fleming Mansion it was dim and gloomy. Sunshine struggled to find its way past the floor-length, hunter green velvet curtains to cast a pattern of shadowy prison bars on the intricate Turkish wool runner. A bone-deep mustiness permeated the portrait-laden walls: the smell of old money.

I longed to tear down the curtains and fling open the leaded windows, allowing the sun and fresh bay breezes to air out the place, but we were already sort of trespassing. Two rules had been made crystal clear to me when I signed the contract for this job: what happened in the club stayed in the club, and double-X chromosomes who wandered beyond the service areas would be summarily fired. According to my birth certificate, that meant me.

Another sound split the tomblike silence.

A woman's scream.

The three of us gaped at each other for an instant before charging down the rest of the stairs to the second-floor landing, across the hallway,

through an open bedroom door, and into an old-fashioned en suite bathroom.

Samantha, in the lead, stopped short. I bumped into her, and Evangeline—nearly six feet tall and built like an Olympic shot-putter—

plowed into me, throwing me off-balance and causing me to clutch at Sam, who stumbled forward. Our Keystone Kops routine came to a halt as we took in the scene.

The man in the bathtub looked ill. The sword protruding from his bony white chest didn't help.

A curvy blonde with a cheap dye job knelt by the side of the claw-footed tub and sniffled, her blood-curdling screams having subsided to high-pitched whimpers. She wore a black-and-white French maid's outfit, complete with a stiff lace apron and cap, and her name, Destiny, was stitched in gold thread on her right shoulder.

Not so long ago I would have been screaming and whimpering right alongside her, but now I just felt woozy. In the past year and a half I had tripped over a few dead bodies. Apparently a person could get used to anything.

Chalk one up for personal growth.

What bothered me most at the moment was the way the sword's hilt swayed in the air...to and fro...to and fro...as if keeping time to a soundless beat. The movement started when the maid let go as we piled in. Which implied that she had been wielding the sword. Which, in turn, suggested that Destiny-the-maid had just stabbed Richie-the-rich man to death in his bathtub.

I heard Samantha repeating, ''Oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord'' in her Jamaican sing-song lilt as she hurried from the bathroom to the bedroom and snatched up the receiver of the old-fashioned black desk phone.

Evangeline followed her, dropping with a whoosh onto a soft leather armchair next to the huge stone fireplace.

The flames from a gas jet hidden behind a fake log cast an incongruously cheerful glow across the dark bedroom. More heavy velvet curtains covered the arched floor-to-ceiling windows and shielded the ornate Victorian wallpaper and Oriental rugs from the sun's rays. Above the fireplace mantel, in lieu of the cheesy oil painting of an American Revolutionary naval battle so beloved of men's social clubs, was an empty set of brackets suitable for hanging a musket.

Or a sword.

I heard Samantha giving the 911 operator the street address, though it was probably not necessary. The Fleming Mansion is well known in the city. The forbidding historic brownstone holds pride of place at the summit of chic Nob Hill, and is home to the Fleming-Union, one of the most exclusive men's clubs in the country. The membership list is a closely guarded secret but is said to include past and present U.S. presidents, and the board regularly turns away mere corporate moguls, especially those who had committed the unpardonable sin of being born female. By and large, San Franciscans aren't big on gender or class deference; most of us refer to the Fleming-Union as the ''F-U.''

We four women were sorely out of place in such a masculine domain. I doubted the place had witnessed this much concentrated estrogen since the strippers from the last bachelor party decamped.

''Destiny, come away from there,'' I said gently, beckoning to the maid from my position in the bathroom doorway. Personal growth or not, I was not entering the Marbled Chamber of Horrors.

''What... What happened?'' The maid seemed rooted in place, her gaze fixed on the corpse. ''Who coulda done such a thing?''

I refrained from stating the obvious: she coulda. The flickering light from the ancient wall sconces gave an amber tint to Destiny's features, smoothing the crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes and making her appear younger than the forty-something she probably was. I scarcely knew her, but seldom loath to leap to conclusions, assumed any maid who plunged a sword into her wealthy employer's chest probably had an excellent reason.

I passed my flashlight beam over the scene. Even taking into account the fact that he was dead, the deceased looked unwell, more like an inmate at a tuberculosis sanitarium than an imminent threat. He appeared to be middle-aged, his blank dark eyes sunken into his skull and underlined by half circles. His body was frail, the ribs outlined beneath pale, almost translucent skin. A white towel was draped around the crown of his head, and a handful of dark hairs speckled his scrawny chest. He was unshaven, with tufts of black hair poking out from beneath the folds of the towel. One arm hung over the side of the tub nearly grazing the floor, the fingernails broken and discolored. The other floated in the water as if playing with the blank letter-sized piece of paper that drifted about on the surface.

A single drop of blood oozed from the chest wound and slowly made its way down his ribs. Shouldn't there be more blood, I wondered, enough to tint the water? My stomach lurched.

''The police are on their way,'' Samantha called out, still holding the phone to her ear, and I heard the faint wail of a siren.

''I'm not supposed to be here,'' the maid mumbled. She tore her eyes away from the body and looked around, as though surprised to find herself in the room. ''None of us are supposed to be here!'' She bolted for the door.

''Destiny, stop!'' I shouted.

Evangeline, more comfortable with action than with words, grabbed the maid around the waist and lifted her clear off the floor. Destiny let out a string of vile curses and dug her French-tipped nails into Evangeline's forearm. Kicking and screaming, the maid reached back and tried to grab Evangeline's hair, but my assistant's signature buzz-cut was too short and spiky to grip.

''Need a hand here, Annie,'' Evangeline grunted.

I started toward them, but Destiny's flailing legs kept me at bay, so I picked up the wooden desk chair and approached the twosome like a lion tamer.

''Calm down, Destiny, it's okay,'' I soothed, though it was doubtful she heard me above her vitriolic shrieking. ''Take a deep breath....''

Footsteps pounded up the stairs and a frightened-looking security guard stumbled into the bedroom and stopped short, mouth agape. I recognized him as the boyish blond who sat at the club's back door signing the staff in and out and guiding limited-edition Bentleys and DeLoreans into the club's coveted parking spots. He was clearly out of his comfort zone.

Close on his heels were two San Francisco police officers.

The cops pulled their guns and assumed the shooting stance. ''Put her down!'' one cop yelled at Evangeline. ''Put her down now. Don't move!

Nobody move!''

Nobody moved except Destiny, who added spitting to her repertoire of wailing and kicking.

'' You!'' One cop focused on Evangeline. ''Let her go. Now!''

Evangeline promptly released Destiny, who fell to the floor on her butt before bounding to her feet and bolting for the door. Unsure who the evil-

doers were, one cop kept his eye and gun on the rest of us while the other launched himself after Destiny, tackling her in the doorway.

More uniformed police thundered up the stairs and poured into the room, eyes wary, radios crackling. The tension eased when they spied the first responders, and then the interminable discussing and speculating began.

All talk halted when a woman materialized at the top of the stairs. The cops fell back, making way as if she were Moses and they the Red Sea.

Tall, more striking than pretty, she wore a dark gray tailored suit and royal blue silk blouse, and projected an imperious air. The type of woman who never had to ask twice.

Inspector Annette Crawford.

Of all the cops in all the towns...

''Are you the only homicide detective in San Francisco?'' I asked as she approached.

''Are you the only artist and faux finisher who sniffs out murder scenes? Oh, that's right, you are,'' the inspector replied, her sherry-colored eyes giving me the once-over. ''I happened to be on duty. Besides, whoever called 911 asked for me by name.''

''That would be me,'' Samantha said, holding up her hand. ''I thought it might reduce the need for lengthy explanations. Hello, Inspector.''

Inspector Crawford and I had met last year, when a museum custodian had been murdered to hide the knowledge of a stolen, and forged, Caravaggio masterpiece. Since then, our paths had crossed at crime scenes more often than either of us would have liked. I admired the intelligent, acerbic inspector, and had once entertained the notion that we might become friends, but circumstances had made friendship difficult. Especially the part where I kept ending up on the wrong side of the law.

On the other hand, I no longer hyperventilated in the presence of what my felonious grandfather, the internationally acclaimed art forger Georges LeFleur, called ''the constabulary.''

Score two for personal growth.

After scoping out the scene and issuing orders, Annette led the way down the cop-clogged hallway to a small sitting room, whose flocked burgundy wallpaper and gold-leaf trim gave it the appearance of a down-at-heels bordello. Plopping onto a tufted velvet settee that looked more comfortable than it turned out to be, I watched Annette settle gracefully into

a blue brocade armchair, her notepad and pen at the ready. What would it be like, I wondered, to be able to literally poke at a corpse one minute and then appear ready to sit down to tea with the queen, the next?

''I hear I missed a good time,'' the inspector said. ''The men said something about breaking up a catfight?''

''That makes it sound like we were mud-wrestling.''

''So what did happen?''

''We were trying to keep Destiny from leaving. She wasn't cooperating.''

''Okay, we'll come back to that. Let's take it from the top, shall we?''

The inspector's eyes shifted to an ornate hunting scene in oils hanging on the wall behind me. '' Please tell me there isn't a forged painting here somewhere.''

''Not that I know of. I'm working, actually. Upstairs, with Sam and Evangeline.''

''Doing what?''

''Stripping wallpaper in one of the attic rooms, where—''

''You're in the wallpaper business now?''

''Not normally. The club wanted to convert the attic rooms into overflow guest chambers, but there was a roof leak, which damaged the wall coverings. See? The water came all the way down into this room, as well.'' I gestured to the corner where ugly rust and black stains marred the old yellow-and-brown wallpaper, which was pulling away from the wall in some places. ''The contractor who repaired the roof is a history buff, and recognized the wallpaper as an original William Morris print dating from the nineteenth century, when the Fleming Mansion was built.''

The contractor, Norm Berger, was an incongruous mixture of good ol'

boy and amateur local historian. We'd worked on a few jobs together, and had become semi- sort-of friends. Or at least as good a friend as I could be with a man whose favorite T-shirt bore the slogan WILL FART FOR

FOOD.

''The board chairman, Geoffrey McAdams, hired me to re-create the look of the ruined Victorian wallpaper, using paint. Milk paints are preferable to wallpaper because they allow the walls to 'breathe' so that the plaster doesn't develop mold, which means—''

''That's fine,'' she said, waving off my treatise on plaster and paint. I adore talking about restoration and the artistic process; wind me up and it

can be hard to shut me down. Annette knew me well.

''Where's your assistant, Mary Grae? Upstairs?''

''Thailand.''

Annette raised one eyebrow.

''She has a friend who opened a bar in Bangkok, and...it's a really long story involving a punk rock band, a beer bottle collection, and a gangrenous thumb. You sure you want to hear it?''

''Never mind. Mary's out of town, got it. Sam's your new assistant?''

''Evangeline Simpson's giving me a hand until Mary returns. Sam's here today because of the wallpaper.'' I lifted a purple-patterned paper curl caught in the bib of my scruffy overalls: Exhibit A. ''Sam and her husband renovated three Victorians, so she knows a lot about removing old wallpaper.''

''Given the club's reputation, I'm surprised they allow women to work here in any capacity other than housekeeping.''

''Most of the women do have to wear those French maid outfits,'' I conceded. As far as I was concerned, that sort of thing belonged behind closed doors, between consenting adults. ''I prefer my overalls.''

''Tell me something I don't know. Such as how you got this gig.''

''The contractor gave them my name, and Frank DeBenton, who installed the security system, vouched for me.''

''How is Frank?''

''Technically, he's not talking to me, but since he vouched for me I guess there's still hope.''

''Where are all the club members, anyway?'' Annette asked. ''Other than you three, a few housekeepers, and the parking lot guard, this place is deserted.''

''Most of the staff is on vacation while the members are on a retreat in Sonoma County. You know, like the Bohemian Club?'' The Bohemian Club is a super-secret fraternal society whose elite membership engages in an annual male bonding retreat that, rumor suggests, involves pagan rituals, cavorting nude in the forest, and urinating on centuries-old redwood trees. I didn't get it, but I wasn't really the target audience. ''The board asked me to finish the job while they were gone.''

''Don't want your arty self polluting their rarified atmosphere?''

''Something like that.''

A cell phone trilled, and Annette answered, murmuring softly. It occurred to me that the F-U boys would have a collective aneurysm when they returned from their fresh air frolic to learn that not only had one of their own been murdered in the mansion, but also an African American woman was running the investigation. The thought made me smile.

Annette snapped the phone shut, dropped it in her jacket pocket, and resumed the interrogation. ''Continue.''

''We were working upstairs, but when I plugged in a hairdryer to dry some plaster, a fuse blew. This place not only has the original wallpaper, it must also have some of the original wiring. We were on our way downstairs to look for the electrical panel.''

''All three of you?''

''Sam's better at electrical stuff than I am, and Evangeline refused to be left alone. This place creeps her out, and I can't say I blame her. Even in the middle of the day it's full of shadows. Feels like bad juju.''

''And by juju you mean...?''

''Negative energy.''

''Have you been hanging out in Berkeley again?''

I nodded. ''I'm taking a yoga class.''

''How's it going?''

''I pulled a groin muscle, but I'm learning to breathe.''

Annette smiled and nodded. ''Go on.''

''The three of us were coming down the staircase when we heard a woman screaming. We found Destiny in the bathroom with the, um, body.''

''Do you recognize the victim?''

''Never saw him before.''

''How well do you know Destiny?''

''I've seen her around, but we haven't had any real interaction. She's one of the few housekeepers working during the retreat.''

''Describe what you saw when you entered the bathroom.''

''The man was in the tub, just as he is now, with the sword....''

Something about the gruesome tableau nagged at me, like an itch in the brain that I couldn't scratch.

''Where was Destiny?''

''Kneeling over him. She was...sort of...touching the sword.''

''What do you mean, 'sort of touching'?''

''She was holding it.''

''Stabbing him?''

''No, the sword was in his chest and—'' I took a deep breath. Murder made me queasy; I hadn't outgrown that ''—she had both hands on the hilt.''

Annette scribbled furiously, and I hastened to add, ''Maybe she was trying to pull it out.''

''Mm-hmm.''

''No, really. She seemed confused, asked me what happened, who would do such a thing. It could be, she discovered the body and grabbed the sword as a reflex. You know, trying to help him.''

''Could be.''

''We don't know—''

Annette reached into her jacket pocket, took out a well-worn brown leather case and flipped it open, revealing a shiny gold badge. ''Oh look, I am still a detective. I thought for a moment we had switched roles.''

Chastened, I held my tongue. Despite our earlier tussle, something about Destiny tugged at my heart. I couldn't imagine her as a cold-blooded murderer, capable of running a man through the chest with a sword.

Still, the inspector was right: I wasn't a detective, and I didn't know anything about Destiny. Maybe her usual mild manner and sweet face masked a homicidal soul. Maybe she was working through some childhood issues by stabbing a man who reminded her of her father/grandfather/pervy uncle. Maybe she'd changed one too many sets of five-hundred-thread-count Egyptian-cotton sheets and decided to off the first rich snob she encountered. I'd done a brief stint as a summer housekeeper at the Olive You Motel in my hometown of Asco, and by the time my first coffee break rolled around I was prepared to wield the toilet bowl brush to inflict grievous bodily harm upon the first rude guest to cross my path.

''What did you do then?''

''Sam called 911. That's when Destiny freaked out and Evangeline grabbed her.''

''And you threatened her with a chair?''

''I was just trying to get her to calm down, and help Evangeline.''

''Did Destiny say anything?''

''She said she wasn't supposed to be here. That none of us were supposed to be here.''

''Did she indicate what she meant by that?''

''When I was hired the board told me in no uncertain terms to stay out of the public areas and to use the rear servants' stairs, never the main stairs.''

''Why?''

''I'm the hired help. And I don't have a penis.''

On that note a middle-aged officer entered the room and mumbled something in Annette's ear. As he turned to leave I forced myself to meet his eyes and smile like an innocent person.

When I was a mere stripling, my grandfather Georges had not only trained me in the techniques of art forgery, but had also implanted a deep and abiding distrust of officialdom in its many guises. I was starting to run out of patience with this trait—I was thirty-two years old, for crying out loud, surely the shelf life of Georges's teachings had expired—and reminded myself that I was entirely, one-hundred-percent blameless. This time.

''Is that it?'' As Annette cocked her head, her pounded copper earrings flashed in the light, accentuating the strong planes of her otherwise unadorned face. ''Any other details, no matter how insignificant? Did you see anyone, hear anything else?''

I shook my head. Annette wrote another note to herself in her notebook.

''Annette, what will happen to Destiny? Are you going to arrest her?''

''Let's see.... She was found standing over the victim, holding the alleged murder weapon with both hands, and tried to flee the scene. What do you think?''

''But you don't know that she—''

''Do I need to bring out my badge again?'' Annette looked up from her notes, and her tone softened. ''I'm not going to railroad an innocent woman, Annie.''

''Do me a favor?'' I dug a business card out of my wallet. ''Give her this?''

''I doubt she requires the services of a faux finisher,'' Annette said, and glanced at the card. ''A defense attorney?''

''Sounds like she needs a lawyer.''

Annette stuck the card in her notepad. ''Anything else?''

I shook my head.

''All right. Should you think of something, get in touch.'' The inspector rose and handed me her business card. ''In case you've forgotten the

number.''

''Thanks.''

''Believe it or not, it's good to see you again, Annie. I want to speak with your friends for a few minutes, then you'll be free to go.''

''Annette, I hope this doesn't sound heartless, considering the circumstances, but I really need to get back to work. The attic's one floor up, you won't even know I'm here.''

When I had mentioned this project to my Uncle Anton, an art-forger-turned-art-restorer whose decades of hands-on experience made him a font of useful information about the chemistry of paint and dyes, he'd subjected me to a lengthy lecture on the dangers of ''killer wallpaper.'' I had delayed stripping the paper until I tested for nasty toxins like lead, arsenic, and mercury in the original dyes to be sure I wasn't about to accidentally melt my brain or those of my friends. Now the clock was ticking on the club members' return, and I prided myself on finishing jobs on time, as scheduled.

''Sorry, no. You'll have to wait until we've finished processing the crime scene. I'll have an officer go upstairs with you while you retrieve your things, and escort you out.''

There was no point in arguing. Inspector Crawford Hath Spoken.

''When do you think I'll be able to get back to work?''

''I'll keep you posted,'' she said over her shoulder as she headed for the door.

The unscratchable itch suddenly presented itself. ''Annette, wait.''

She paused, one hand on the doorknob.

''It sounds silly, but... You're going to think I'm nuts.''

She lifted a single eyebrow again. Apparently that ship had sailed long ago.

''The murder scene reminded me of a painting.''

''A painting.''

''David's Death of Marat.''

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2

Betrayal can be beautiful: it is the source of exquisite pain, and therefore a fountain for great art. Always remember: artists must suffer for their art...but a lovely bottle of wine makes the suffering much easier to bear.

—Georges LeFleur, ''Craquelure''

''Isn't David a statue by Michelangelo?''

''No—actually yes—but this has nothing to do with Michelangelo,'' I said. ''Jacques Louis David was a painter who supported the French Revolution. The Death of Marat is one of his best-known paintings.''

''Who was Marat?''

''One of the most radical of the French revolutionaries, which if you think about it is saying a lot. He was assassinated in his bathtub.''

''Stabbed?''

I nodded. ''By a woman, something Corday. Charlene...no, Charlotte, I think.''

I couldn't remember what I ate for lunch or the names of influential clients I had met three times, but when it came to art-related trivia, I was a rock star.

''How did she manage to corner him in a bathtub?''

''Marat suffered from a skin disease that was relieved by cold water. He spent so many hours soaking in the bathtub that he habitually worked there.

Corday was a moderate revolutionary who didn't like Marat's penchant for guillotining political opponents; she got in by claiming to have information about an uprising, but instead she stabbed him in the heart. In David's painting, Marat's head is wrapped in a white cloth, his arm is drooping to the floor, and in his hand is a piece of paper—a petition from his assassin, Corday.''

''Talk about your bad juju,'' Annette said. ''What else can you tell me about this painting?''

''David painted two other revolutionary martyrs, but only The Death of Marat survived the counter-revolution. I imagine it's in one of France's state collections, but I'd have to look it up.''

''And you're saying the murder scene was staged to look like this painting?''

''It sure looks like it.''

''If that's true, we may be dealing with a lunatic.''

''Or someone sending a message.''

''About what? The French Revolution?''

I shrugged. ''You asked if I noticed anything unusual. You have to admit this fits the bill.''

''Write down the name and artist. I'll compare it to the crime scene photos.'' She handed me her pad and pen, then gave me a searching look.

''How well known is this painting? Would a normal person have heard of it?''

Annette considered my endless store of Fun Facts about Fine Art to be

''eccentric'' because she was too polite to call it ''freakish.'' I suspected what bothered her most was the contrast between my expertise in art and forgery and my dearth of common sense in other areas: cooking, balancing my checkbook, staying out of jail....

''It's well known in France, both because of its history and because of its beauty. The poet Baudelaire praised the painting's visual elegance.''

''What about Americans?''

''Most wouldn't recognize it unless they'd studied art or French history,'' I conceded.

''That's what I thought.''

* * *

Evangeline turned down my offer of a ride in the cramped cab of my two-seater truck, declaring her intention of picking up some takeout from her favorite Pakistani restaurant and holing up in the apartment she was subletting from my vacationing assistant, Mary. It wasn't an apartment in the strictest sense, just the dining room of an old Victorian in the Mission District that was separated from the rest of the flat by a blanket slung over a clothesline. But to Evangeline it was home.

She also muttered something about looking for another job. ''No offense, Annie,'' she honked in her upstate New York accent before heading for the bus stop. ''But you're kinda scary. I never did see no dead bodies where I come from.''

Given all we had been through in the past year I didn't blame her.

Sometimes I thought I wouldn't hang out with me if I had other options. I

needed an assistant, though, because for the next few weeks I had a full painting schedule in addition to running my new Internet art assessment business.

Not to mention coping with my ex-felon of a business partner who, despite the terms of his parole, had taken an unauthorized leave of absence.

Samantha and I climbed into my little green Toyota truck and headed across town towards our studio building in China Basin. Sam spent her days creating one-of-a-kind jewelry, while I ran a mural and faux-finishing business, True/Faux Studios. My real love was portraiture, but faux finishing was much more lucrative. The days of artists becoming celebrated revolutionaries while making a living painting portraits were long past.

I caught a faint whiff of patchouli oil and looked over at my calm, steady friend. With her long, thick locks, her penchant for wearing bright African-print fabrics, and the slight Caribbean lilt that was intensified under the influence of stress or too many mojitos, Samantha Jagger scored about a twenty on the Cool-o-Meter scale of one-to-ten. I looked at my paint-splattered overalls and worn athletic shoes. I cleaned up okay, given sufficient time and motivation, but even on my best days the Cool-o-Meter hovered around four and a half.

Neither of us was in a chatty mood, but I needed a distraction from the ominous sounds emanating from beneath the hood.

''Talk to me so I don't have to listen to the engine's death wail.''

Sam was game. ''How's your love life?''

''Nonexistent.''

''C'mon, I've been married for twenty-one years. I have to live vicariously. Tell me the good stuff.''

''I'm afraid there's not much to tell these days.''

Not long ago I had broken up with Josh, a sweet, decent carpenter because I decided he was a little too sweet, and a lot too decent, for the likes of me. Sam was rooting for me to hook up with our studio building's straight-arrow landlord, Frank DeBenton, but he had treated me with icy aloofness since I announced my intentions to set up shop with an art thief.

The criminal in question, Michael, was sex-on-wheels but bad news, all of which was a moot point at the moment. He had been AWOL for the last week.

My mother advised me to find a nice, steady computer engineer with health insurance and a 401(k) plan. For the moment I was doing a fairly

good job sublimating with chocolate.

''Frank's being exceedingly polite to me,'' I said.

''He's not thrilled about your new online business. Or should I say, your new business partner. What's his full name, Michael X. Something?''

''Michael X. Johnson is his current moniker.''

''Meaning?''

''It's the name he uses on the paperwork. I've given up trying to discover his real one.''

''Was forming a business partnership with a man whose real name you don't know such a good idea, d'ya think?''

''There were extenuating circumstances.''

''Such as?''

''Poverty. Besides, Doug—Michael's parole officer—believes that thieves like Michael can sincerely repent their lives of crime and be rehabilitated.''

Sam laughed. ''Let me guess: Doug's a Buddhist from Berkeley.''

She wasn't far from the mark. I, on the other hand, was a lapsed Presbyterian from a small Sacramento Valley town—by way of Paris—who believed that felons such as Michael could sincerely rue getting caught and develop a healthy respect for the authorities.

Last spring I had come to the realization that I would never attain economic stability—much less comfort, still less retirement—through my art studio alone. So when the allegedly reformed art thief I knew as Michael X. Johnson proposed we join forces to offer online assessments of art and antiquities, it seemed like a relatively straightforward cash cow.

Besides, the FBI's Art Squad was in on the whole thing. With their approval, Michael and I set up a website offering online assessments, while sending out a few rumors that we might be morally flexible when it came to assessing less-than-legitimate art. Despite the Hollywood archetype, most thieves are neither clever nor suave—Michael being the exception that proved the rule—and every so often a crook would contact our website looking for an online assessment of a stolen work of art. We forwarded the information to our ''handler'' at the Art Squad, and collected a hefty reward if the FBI arrested the perp.

Last week, using information from our site, the police tracked down two Riker's Island corrections officers who had swiped a Salvador Dalí drawing from the prison lobby and replaced it with a twelve-dollar poster. It

had taken the prison authorities eight months to notice their Dalí was missing, and the thieves might have gotten away with it had they not quarreled over the value of the purloined piece and decided to seek an outside opinion.

The naiveté of the average art criminal had paid the last few months'

rent with a few dollars to spare, and I had begun to dream about cutting back on my faux finishing to concentrate on portraiture. First things first, though: I was shopping for a new truck. I planned to call it the Thief Mobile.

I pulled into a parking spot right in front of Frank DeBenton's office, next to one of his armored cars. In addition to owning the building, our landlord Frank ran his own secure transport business specializing in—

ironically enough—valuable art and antiquities.

My gaze lingered for a moment on the sight of his dark, well-coiffed head bent, as usual, over the papers on his desk. I missed him. A couple of months ago, it looked as though our growing mutual attraction might be able to overcome our differences in temperament. But shortly afterward, Frank threw a memorable hissy fit in which he vowed to disown me as a friend, a tenant, an employee, and a romantic interest if I ''took up'' with the likes of Michael X. Johnson. The FBI must have gotten to him, because he finally agreed to rent the X-man and me a small office space right next to my faux-finishing studio. But since then Frank had treated us both with exquisite politeness, a sure indication that he was pissed.

Sam caught my eye and smiled knowingly as I wrenched my gaze away from the man. We clomped our way up the exterior wooden stairs and down the second-floor hallway, then hugged good-bye and retreated to our respective studios, seeking the solace of art. It had been one hell of a Monday morning.

I paused to straighten the wooden sign I had painted recently: BACCHUS ART APPRAISALS

ONLINE ART & ANTIQUITIES ASSESSMENTS

''WHAT'S IN YOUR GRANDMOTHER'S ATTIC?''

WWW.ARTRETRIEVAL.COM

Easing open the door, I fostered a tiny spark of hope that Michael X.

Johnson—or whatever his real name was—would be sitting behind the

gleaming antique mahogany partner's desk he had insisted on buying when we set up shop. I tried to visualize him with a bag of Peet's French Roast coffee beans in one hand, a recovered art masterpiece in the other, and a plausible explanation for his recent absence on his sexy lips.

The office was empty.

I hadn't been able to bring myself to admit to Sam, or to anyone, that the X-man had skipped out on me. Again. But it was time to face facts: Going into business with a known art thief and convicted felon had been a mistake—especially for an ex-forger like me who had aspirations to legitimacy. A wise woman would have known this from the start, but I've always been a little slow on the uptake—especially when felonious tendencies are masked by a pair of sparkling green eyes and a deep, smoky drawl.

Still, sooner or later someone official was going to figure out that the X-man had disappeared. I would be up to my ears in FBI harassment if I didn't inform on him.

Tossing my satchel onto a silk-upholstered hassock—another new item

—I changed out of my grimy overalls into a red-and-black patterned skirt, simple black tank top, and black crocheted sweater. I exchanged my worn athletic shoes for a pair of low-heeled leather sandals, smoothed my curly brown hair, and checked out the overall effect in the full-length mirror inside the door of the armoire that held several changes of clothes. Since starting the desk job, I had been dressing less in paint-spattered clothing and more in acceptable business-wear such as skirts and blouses. People—male people, especially—had noticed. It seemed my mother was right: having the appropriate wardrobe was more important than frivolous things like, say, knowledge and talent.

I sank into a plush leather desk chair, powered up the computer, and logged on to an art search site. While it loaded I drummed my fingers on my new desk, wondering how much I could get for it down in the Jackson Square antiques district. While I was at it, I could hock the leather chairs and silk hassock my absent partner had insisted on purchasing before his inconvenient disappearance.

This was the crux of the last argument I had with Michael: I insisted he prove he had bought the furniture in some sort of above-board retail relationship. Feigning hurt, he informed me he had used the company credit card.

What company credit card? I shrilled. We don't have any money, how can we have credit?

And you call yourself an American, he said. Some capitalist you are.

Michael, we're going to go bankrupt before we get this business off the ground if you keep spending like this.

You're caffeine-deprived again, aren't you? he said, targeting my weakness like a heat-seeking missile. I'll just make a quick run to Peet's.

Back in a few.

That was a week ago. He never returned, leaving me vaguely insulted, overworked, and under-caffeinated to boot.

Like now. I needed a fix. Not just any coffee would do, either. It had to be Peet's.

I taped a note to the door telling anyone who might stop by that I was next door, and went to my studio, where I found a large man in the little kitchen area. My heart soared. It wasn't Michael-the-thief, but he would do in a pinch.

''Annie!'' boomed my Bosnian-born friend, Pete Ibrahimbegovics.

''Cuppa Joe?''

Pete ran the stained glass warehouse across the parking lot from the DeBenton Building. We'd been friends for years, and among his many charms was that he was the only one in our circle who could coax something approximating espresso from my cranky garage-sale cappuccino machine. This talent had earned Pete a lifetime pass to the studio and free access to my stash of Peet's coffee beans.

''Love one, thanks. How'd you know?''

''Oho, I know you by now,'' he chuckled. ''You are joking me with this.

Annie, I must speak with you.''

''What's up?''

''I come today because I have a very important question. Please, sit and I will attend you and you can answer my question.''

Uh-oh. The last time Pete had a Very Important Question to ask I wound up drinking too much loza and spent the night trapped in a crypt. I had already encountered a dead body today. A woman could only take so much.

Pete balanced two cups of coffee plus a hand-painted ceramic bowl of sugar and pitcher of cream on a vintage decoupaged tray and joined me on the purple velvet couch. He set the tray on the antique steamer trunk that

doubles as a coffee table, and fanned out an abundance of napkins, spoons, and small plates.