Feint of Art: Read online

  I was going to kill my grandfather.

  “Okay, you two, that’s enough,” Inspector Crawford interjected. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Wilson, please see Ms. Kincaid to her car. I need to speak to the board.”

  Once again the Brock Museum had been the scene of my professional humiliation, and I hurried outside, Ichabod a silent escort. A few minutes later Crawford caught up with us as we started down the front steps. She looked royally pissed, but I wasn’t sure at whom.

  “How well do you know the Brock family?” she asked abruptly.

  “Not very. I met Agnes Brock when I worked here, because for all intents and purposes it’s her museum, but mostly I dealt with her secretary. The others I know only by reputation.”

  “What kind of reputation?”

  “Richard Brock and his wife, Phoebe, are socialites, and they crop up in the society columns,” I said as we reached the sidewalk and paused in the shade of a thirty-foot-tall palm tree. “I met them at a Christmas party, but I doubt they’d remember me. The interns used to call them Dull Dick and Fabulous Phoebe because he’s so boring and she’s such a clotheshorse. I never met their children. Rumor had it that Cousin Frederick wanted to bump off Mrs. Brock and take over, but that was probably just gossip.”

  “Any of the others?”

  “Only by sight, and then only because of the Brock brow ridge, which you must have noticed. Mrs. Culpepper would show up for events and board meetings, but I never really met her. I heard she had an eye for young men, but rumors are always swirling in a place like this. It’s just the nature of the institutional beast.”

  “Did you know anything about security when you worked here?”

  “Just procedure.”

  “Who would have access to the vault?”

  “Besides Mrs. Brock? Well, the head curators, of course. Probably Sebastian Pitts. But that wasn’t the sort of thing that concerned interns, and we weren’t allowed near the vault.”

  “What about the rest of the family?”

  “As far as I knew, they showed up for parties but weren’t involved in the museum’s day-to-day business. It’s been a while, though, so that might have changed. Agnes Brock always wanted the museum to remain in the family’s control.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she murmured, flipping through her notes. “What about the janitor?”

  “You mean Stan Dupont? I don’t think so. I never saw any Housekeeping staff in the vault, but then I wasn’t there myself. The current staff would be able to tell you more, surely.” I glanced at my watch. Quarter after twelve. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get going now.”

  The ten-minute walk to my truck helped clear my mind, but I still sighed with relief when I climbed behind the wheel and headed for the Golden Gate Bridge and points north.

  Two fakes, two forgers, and one murder were adding up to one big boatload of trouble.

  Chapter 7

  Those who are not skilled artisans should never attempt to forge Old Masters. Instead, they should use their lack of talent to forge twentieth-century art, for which a dearth of artistic ability is routine. Even advantageous.

  —Georges LeFleur, “Modern Masters?” unfinished manuscript, Reflections of a World-Class Art Forger

  My cell phone chirped and I snatched it up, hoping it was Grandfather. I stabbed blindly at the ON button, afraid to take my eyes off the busy approach to the Golden Gate Bridge. “Allô oui?”

  “Wee wee yourself, Annie.” It was Pedro. “What’s with the fran-SAY?”

  “Well, you know me”—I slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision with a faded blue Volkswagen Beetle that was covered with bumper stickers proclaiming its owner’s outré political beliefs—“I hate to miss a chance to sound Frenchified.”

  “Listen, nothing checks out on your Michael Johnson as a PI, with or without an X. Oh, and I overestimated. I only got eighty-two thousand hits on the name.”

  “Uh-huh,” I grunted.

  “There’s a Mike Johnson, but he’s sixty-four years old and lives in Eureka, so I’m thinkin’ he’s not your guy. There are sixteen other licensed private eyes named Johnson, but no other Mikes.”

  Just as I suspected. “Okay, thanks for trying,” I said, focusing on keeping my non-power-steering-equipped truck in its lane as I wheeled through the twists and turns of the wooded Presidio and headed for the Golden Gate. “What do I owe you?”

  “Dinner. A cheap one. It took me all of thirty minutes. You should learn to do this yourself, toots.”

  “Naw, you know I like having you on call, snookums. Oh, and Pedro, one more thing. Actually, two things. I need Ernst Pettigrew’s address.”

  “The Brock Museum dude who disappeared? Have you checked the phone book?”

  “Uh, nope. Good idea. Okay, second item: I need background information on a friend of his, Quiana something. Q-u-i-a-n-a. I don’t have a last name, but she’s Ernst’s girlfriend. Maybe a live-in.”

  “What’s this guy to you, Annie?” Pedro asked. “You’re not involved in this Brock thing, are you?”

  As far as I knew, Pedro did not know about my less-than-completely-lawful past. So why did my friends always assume I would slip off the straight and narrow at the drop of a paintbrush?

  “No, I’m not ‘involved.’ Just say no if I’m asking too much.”

  “Don’t get snippy, m’ija. I was just curious. I’ll check her out. You be careful.”

  “Thanks, Pedro. You’re a pal.”

  I zipped around a lumbering tourist bus and onto the bridge. This maneuver required concentration. The graceful Golden Gate carried six lanes of traffic, two lanes headed north, two lanes headed south, and two lanes in the middle that changed directions during commute hours. Nothing separated you from the oncoming traffic except itty-bitty plastic rectangles stuck in the asphalt. To make things still more interesting, the cars were usually buffeted by gusting ocean crosswinds. However, the view from the bridge was spectacular, and I probably would have appreciated it had I not been so intent on maintaining my death grip on the steering wheel.

  Safely aground on the other side, I entered Marin County, passing the quaint town of Sausalito on my right. Steadily expanding development had been rapidly chewing up former grasslands and spitting out high-tech companies, chain restaurants, and those god-awful McMansions so beloved by nouveau riche computerites.

  This time when my cell phone rang, I risked a glance at the caller ID. It was an international number. “You are in very deep doo-doo, old man,” I told my grandfather.

  “Cherie!” Grandfather’s resonant voice sang through the static.

  “I’m serious, Georges,” I said, using his Christian name, as I often did when I was angry with him. “You have got to tell me what’s going on. Now.”

  “Going on? Zis I do not understand. Whatever are you talking about, my darling girl?”

  I took a deep breath and counted to ten. “The Magi, Grandpére.” The old reprobate got all warm and fuzzy when I called him Grandpére. Worth a shot. “Ring a bell?”

  “Mais non! Ce n’est pas possible! Who in ze world would be audacious enough to forge ze great Caravaggio’s lost painting?” Grandfather’s French accent was getting thicker by the second, a sure sign he was lying through his expensive false teeth. So much for warm and fuzzy.

  “Who said anything about a forgery, Grandfather? All I mentioned was the name of the painting. Don’t tell me you’re losing your edge. Listen, old man, I saw the painting with my own two eyes, and it’s yours right down to the hatch marks in the background and the perfect lighting. Don’t even try to deny it. This is serious stuff. One person’s already been murdered over it.”

  Silence followed. Georges delighted in fooling rich people and stealing their money, but he abhorred violence. “Murdered? Who?”

  The minute his accent slipped, I knew I had his attention.

  “Stan Dupont, a janitor at the Brock Museum and a very nice man,” I said, stretching the truth a bit. “On top
of that, the head curator, Ernst Pettigrew, is missing and I can’t seem to find Anton.”

  “What does Anton have to do with this?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Ah, cherie, I don’t see how you can tie your dear old grandpapa into this. I may have executed a charming copy for a distinguished client, but zat is all,” he replied, sounding more relaxed.

  “Who, Georges? Who commissioned the forgery? And when?”

  “I can’t hear you, darling! Allô? Allô? Ah, ma petite, I am zo zorry, we air lozing ze connection . . . Annie, we air lozing ze connection . . .”

  “Georges! Don’t you dare hang up! Grandfather!”

  Dead air. I stabbed the OFF button savagely, wishing I could throw the phone at my grandfather’s elegant gray head. “We air lozing ze connection” my ass. With only one eye on the road, I switched the phone on and poked the tiny button that would automatically return Grandfather’s call.

  A woman answered. “Allô oui?”

  “Georges LeFleur, s’il vous plaît, madam,” I said.

  “Comment?” she replied, using the polite version of “huh?”

  “Monsieur Georges LeFleur, s’il vous plaît,” I repeated more slowly.

  “Quoi?”

  “Georges LeFleur! Don’t give me that crap, madam! I know he’s there!” I was shouting now, having given up on both politeness and fran-SAY. I could have sworn I heard Grandfather chortling in the background, delighted with his clever ruse.

  “Bof!” The woman hung up.

  Shit! Shit shit shit! Georges was in this up to his fake French neck. And he would not tell me anything until he was good and ready.

  Why would anyone commission two forgeries of the same painting? One could be used to replace a stolen original, but two? For that matter, why bother to replace the original with a forgery? Why not just steal the damn thing and be gone, like a good thief should?

  I mulled this over as the truck steadily ate up the miles to Yountville. Soon small towns began to dot the landscape. In the summer the two-lane Route 29 was bumper to bumper as refugees from the city hurried to relax in the mud baths and natural hot springs of Calistoga, and to indulge themselves at the many picturesque wineries and top-notch restaurants. Today, in midwinter, the traffic slowed to a crawl only once or twice, so I arrived at my destination before three o’clock.

  Yountville was a small collection of fine homes, adorable shops, and exquisite restaurants, all surrounded by vineyards. I was eager to check out the Dusty Attic, but was hot and sticky in my suit and a little woozy from a lack of food. Yountville was the kind of town where even mom-and-pop stores sold cappuccino, fresh pasta salads, and sandwiches made of sun-dried tomatoes, portobello mushrooms, and locally produced goat cheese served on freshly baked, grilled panini. I ordered one of each, and while the proprietor whipped up my lunch, I changed my clothes in the restroom. At home again in my jeans, T-shirt, and running shoes, I took my food to a picnic table at the edge of a vineyard.

  As I sat gazing out at the gently rolling hills covered in bare grapevines, enjoying the sunny February day, I pondered what I might find at the Dusty Attic, or what I even wanted to find. Other than Anton or the stolen drawings, that is. There was nothing to connect Anton to the shop except the word of the Stranger in Vesuvio’s, which was not exactly an unimpeachable source.

  The fact of the matter was that, although the need for money and the obligations of friendship drove me to find the drawings and Anton, the whole thing was starting to get a little scary, especially now that the Brock family knew that I knew about The Magi, which meant that the whole damn art world would soon know that I knew. Including the murderer.

  Then again, now that the forgery of The Magi was out of the bag, I was not in danger from anyone who may have killed Dupont to keep that knowledge a secret. Assuming, of course, that was the reason he had been killed.

  But what I could not figure out was why The Magi had been forged twice. The most common use for a forgery was to hide the fact that the original had been stolen or sold. But if this was the case, it seemed unlikely that the Dusty Attic had anything to do with that particular painting. It would be like trying to sell Elvis Presley’s Rolls-Royce at Smilin’ Sam’s Used Car Lot—it was going to stick out amid the banged-up Fords and Chevys.

  So the Magi forgeries must have been commissioned to disguise the fact that the original had been stolen from the Brock. If so, who was likely to be involved?

  Ernst Pettigrew? Maybe he had switched the paintings—after all, he had access to the vault where the painting was stored—and had brought me in as part of the cover-up. Ernst knew my background. Had he been setting me up? A famous painting goes missing, a shocked curator discovers the fraud, and voilà! a former forger is on hand to take the fall.

  But if this were true, why would Ernst have disappeared? I was starting to fear that he was gone for good. I hated to even imagine it. Then again, it was almost as unthinkable to believe that Ernst had taken part in anything criminal.

  On top of everything else, I had gotten so caught up in The Magi imbroglio that I had forgotten the real money-maker in this mess: the missing drawings. They were far more easily bought and sold than a masterpiece painting and could be stashed in a small antiques store if they became too hot to handle. Where better to hide them than out in the open, among far less valuable sketches and paintings? Perhaps Anton had dumped the drawings at the Dusty Attic until things cooled off, or asked Joanne to sell the sketches, no questions asked.

  Or maybe she was a friend whom he visited for a weekend, who had nothing whatsoever to do with anything. Except—she had taken that portfolio from his studio as if she knew what was in it—or what should have been in it.

  So many questions, and only one way to get some answers.

  I gathered up my crumpled napkins and empty coffee cup, tossed them in the trash can on my way to the truck, revved the engine, and drove off toward the Dusty Attic.

  I felt a surge of hopefulness. Joanne and I might hit it off. We would commiserate over rascally old art forgers and the ways they could better apply their talents. She would lean back, reach under the counter, and bring out a portfolio of genuine Old Master drawings worth tens of thousands of dollars. “Here you go, Annie,” she would say to me. “I want them to be well taken care of, and I know you’re the woman for the job.” Hmm.

  I had a Thomas Guide for Napa County, so I found Landacre Street easily enough and pulled up in front of the Dusty Attic. It was a cute bungalow, one of several on the street that had been turned into boutiques and curio shoppes. Dormer windows indicated a second story, and I wondered if Joanne Nash, like many small-business owners, lived above her shop.

  I climbed out of my truck and crunched up the gravel path to the front door. I would have thought that a warm, sunny weekend afternoon would bring out a few customers, but there were no signs of life. On the front door hung a cheerful buttercup-yellow wooden sign, decorated with hand-painted blue pansies, that announced the shop’s hours were WED. THRU SUN., 10 TO 5. It was now three thirty on Saturday.

  I pounded loudly on the periwinkle-blue door, in case someone was in a back room, and waited, but got no response. I tried calling Joanne’s number on my cell phone, but the machine picked up once again. Finally, I followed a neat brick pathway around the side of the house. A white picket fence surrounded the small garden, which was filled with carefully tended flower beds of irises and daffodils, outlined by box hedges. At the rear of the yard, under a mulberry tree, sat a white wicker chaise longue. It was serene and inviting, the neighboring yards scarcely visible through the leafy foliage.

  Knocking on the back door, I called out for Joanne, but once again there was no answer. Frustrated, I returned to the front of the house and peeked in the window to the left of the door, trying to see around the pink chintz café curtains. But what with the bright sun outside, the shadowy gloom inside, and Joanne’s apparent disinterest in window washing, I could not see much of anything.<
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  I pressed my nose against the glass and cupped my hands around my face to block out the light. As my eyes adjusted I began to make out a great jumble of stuff, but it was clear that the mess within was not the usual antiques shop potpourri. Bits and pieces were tossed everywhere: books lay on their backs, pages fanning the air; furniture was overturned and the stuffing ripped out; shards of smashed china and pottery littered the wood floor. Either Joanne Nash was the world’s worst antiques dealer, or something out of the ordinary had happened in there.

  Intent as I was on surveying the damage, I forgot to worry about a lurking murderer.

  Until I felt a puff of breath on the back of my neck.

  I yelped and whirled around, leaping several feet in the air. Despite my frenzy of activity, I accomplished nothing that would have helped in terms of self-defense. The moment I landed on earth again a large hand covered my mouth and I was backed up against the dirty window. Luckily—I supposed—the body pressing into mine was a particularly nice-smelling one.

  The X-man was back.

  “Shut the hell up,” he growled.

  I looked over his shoulder to the parking lot, chagrined to see that not only had he walked up behind me while I was peering in the window, but he had driven a red Jeep into the gravel lot and parked without my noticing. Maybe this was not the best time for self-reflection, but I thought I might want to reconsider the whole cloak-and-dagger thing. I did not seem to have much aptitude for it.

  Just then, a car came down the street toward us, slowing as it approached. Michael leaned into me and ducked his head, his lips gently brushing my cheek, as if we were indulging in a lovers’ sweet embrace right there in the doorway of the Dusty Attic. Well, this was a town for honeymooners. The car rolled on past.

  We shared a look as Michael reached around me to try the front door. Locked. Pivoting neatly on his heel, he walked along the front of the building and around the corner.

  I hustled along behind him. “What are you doing here?” I demanded