Arsenic and Old Paint Page 3

  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.

  “We both take our coffee black,” I said. “You know that, right?”

  “Coffee is to you the elixir of love, yes? And love must be celebrated.”

  What could I say to that? I took the cup he held out and waited. He took a deep breath, blew it out, and turned to face me. At six foot four, two-hundred-plus pounds, Pete made an incongruous little boy.

  “Evangeline.”

  “What about her?”

  “Do you think Evangeline, she likes me?”

  “Evangeline?”

  “She is so lovely,” he said, a dreamy note in his voice. “She is so... What is the English word...”

  Robust? Hearty? Strapping?

  “...delicate.”

  I didn’t see that coming. Evangeline was about as delicate as a runaway truck.

  “So you like her? Have you asked her out?”

  “No, no. This I cannot.”

  “Why not? She won’t bite.” At least, I hoped not.

  “I can’t just talk to her.” He blushed and fussed with the napkins.

  “Sure you can. Pete, you’re a good-looking man. Very handsome. Even better, you’re kind and sweet, and you have a good job and a good heart. You’ve got a lot to offer.”

  He blushed some more and started to rearrange the couch pillows. “I—”

  The studio door banged open and in strode my assistant Mary, a pink plastic bag clutched in each hand and a worn purple knapsack on her back. “Heya!”

  Mary was dressed, as usual, in some sort of gauzy, multi-layered concoction in different shades of black. Her chipped nail polish, her boots, her eyeliner—all black. The only exceptions to the mourning look were her bright blue eyes, pale skin, and long blond hair.

  “Mary! How was Thailand?”

  “Awesome; I’ve got stories. But I’m out of money. Hope you have some work for me.”

  “As a matter of fact I do,” I said, watching as she dropped the bags, shrugged off the knapsack, and sprawled on the floor. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “Me, too,” she said, riffling through her things. “Now where is that... Aha!” She held up an airplane-sized bottle of tequila. “I knew that sucker was in there somewhere. I brought presents for you guys.”

  She handed me a pair of small bronze
birds on round bases engraved with stamps.

  “They’re called opium weights.”

  “Opium weights?” I asked. “What line of work do you think I’m in?”

  “I don’t think they were really used for opium. They’re in all the curio shops. And this is for you,” she said, handing Pete an intricately painted mask. “I thought of you when I saw it.”

  Pete looked delighted. “I am touched. She is beautiful, this mask. I will wear it near my heart, always.”

  “I was thinking you could hang it on your wall, but whatever.”

  “You came straight from the airport?” I asked.

  “It’s a work day, right? It’s not, like, still the weekend is it? I kind of lost track of the days. Everything got all jumbled when we crossed the International Date Line and I never got it straightened out. Kind of like going backwards in time, except not.”

  Pete nodded gravely. Mary took a swig of tequila, jumped up, and donned a painting apron. “Hey, did you know Chinese vampires hop?”

  I had long ago given up trying to follow Mary’s thought process.

  “The Chinese, they have vampires?” asked Pete.

  “Sure,” said Mary.

  “Who hop?” I said.

  “That is their name?” Pete asked. “Who Hop?”

  I tried not to laugh.

  “Every culture’s got vampires,” Mary said. “It’s, like, universal. Thing is, though, they’re all way different. Like, a lot of places? They only have female vampires, who get that way when they die in childbirth, which is kind of like blaming the victim if you ask me. The Chinese vampires, though, are the coolest, ’cause they hop instead of walking like normal, and hold their arms out stiff in front of them, like this. Like a mummy. How awesome is that?”

  “Sure you don’t want to rest a bit after your trip?” I asked, trying to erase the visual of a Chinese vampire hopping toward me, arms outstretched like a zombie.

  “Slept on the plane. And I so totally need to make money ’cause I sort of misjudged things by a credit card payment or, ya know, several. Tricia says hi, by the way.”

  Tricia was the friend who was opening the bar in Bangkok, and who somehow wound up with a gangrenous thumb. I figured it was best not to ask.

  Pete stood. “We will speak again, Annie, yes?”

  “Call me later. We’ll figure something out.”

  “Figure out what?” Mary asked.

  “Nothing,” Pete and I said in unison.

  I put Mary to work creating sample boards for a faux-finish job scheduled for next week. In theory sample boards demonstrated to clients what the faux finish would look like so that they could change their mind before we started painting the walls. This didn’t always succeed. My wealthy clients tended to be rather high-strung, and many’s the time I’d been stuck repainting rooms multiple times until we got it “just right.” But at least when they’d signed off on the boards, I got paid for each new round of faux finishes.

  Mary and I were mixing glazes in subtle shades of putty and beige, this year’s exciting color palette, when the door opened again and a stranger stuck his head in.

  “G’day. I’m looking for Michael Johnson?”

  “I’m his partner, Annie Kincaid. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “D’you suppose we could speak in private?”

  “Of course. Why don’t we go next door?” I said.

  The man was short, just a little taller than I, with a thick prizefighter’s physique. His face sported two prominent scars, one running from beneath his left ear to the side of his neck, the other slashing down his right cheek. The scars were probably the result of a simple accident—I’d narrowly escaped similar injuries when I caught my head in a storm drain at the age of seven; long story—but they lent the man a sinister air. This was mitigated by a broad smile and his clothes: he wore khaki shorts with a multitude of pockets, a black T-shirt with a slogan for something called the ALL BLACKS, and scuffed tan hiking boots. Except for his modern clothing, mocha skin, and jet-black hair, he might have stepped out of one of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s rollicking portrayals of feasting Flemish peasants.

  “Shout if you need anything, Annie,” Mary said, eyes narrowed. “You know how thin the walls are in this place.”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  I led the way next door to the Bacchus Art Assessments office.

  “So you are the famous Annie Kincaid,” he said with a broad accent as he sank into a leather chair.

  “Famous?”

  “Within certain circles.”

  That gave me pause. My grandfather Georges is a notorious and entirely unrepentant art forger, currently on the lam in Morocco. I was once implicated in a European art scam myself. And though I had worked hard over the last several years to build up a legitimate decorative painting business in San Francisco, my current—though absent—business partner was a convicted art thief.

  It was hard to know which “circles” the stranger was referring to. And more to the point, whether or not I was supposed to own up to my membership in any of those rarified cliques.

  “What can I help you with?” I evaded.

  “I need your help finding a painting.”

  “We deal with art assessments here. We’re not really investigators, per se.”

  “No worries. I am.” Reaching into his pocket, he handed me a cream-colored business card:

  JARRAH PRESTON

  SENIOR INVESTIGATOR

  AUGUSTA CONFEDERATED RISK

  LONDON–PARIS–MOSCOW

  Preston’s white teeth flashed brilliantly against his dark face. “I’m a glorified insurance agent, but not to panic—I don’t sell policies. As it happens, Augusta Confederated has a painting in custody that we have reason to believe is not the one we originally insured. I hear that when it comes to art, you have, shall we say, a special expertise.”

  “I’d be happy to assess your painting, but I’m not qualified to track down a missing one. Why not go to the police? Or, presuming it’s worth more than a hundred thousand dollars, or older than one hundred years, you could turn it over to FBI’s Art Squad. I could give you a name.”

  “For the moment, I’d like to take a, shall we say, less formal approach.” He flashed another smile. “You may have noticed from my accent that I’m not from around here.”

  “Australia?” I guessed.

  “New Zealand. A Kiwi through and through. Maori on my mum’s side.”

  I tried to think of something relevant to New Zealand besides sheep and the Lord of the Rings movies, but only one thing came to mind. “I hear you have a fence made of toothbrushes in New Zealand.”

  “Just outside of Te Pahu,” he nodded. “In my estimation, though, it doesn’t come close to the interest of the Cardrona Bra Fence.”

  “A fence made of bras?”

  “A bunch of bras hung on a fence, more like. Officials declared it a danger to public decency, took about a hundred bras down, and a thousand more took their place. That’s what made it art.”

  I smiled at the thought.

  “But I’m not here to talk about bras,” Preston said.

  “That’s a relief. I spent all day yesterday talking about girdles with a client.”

  Preston chuckled. “Point is, I’m a stranger in your beautiful city. I don’t know the local smuggling routes, and I don’t have contacts among the city’s black market fences. I understand you and your partner do.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “I’m not the law, Ms. Kincaid. I’m not concerned with your past, or Michael X. Johnson’s for that matter. Quite the contrary. I’m in need of information of a highly specialized nature. I’ve admired your work—and your partner’s—for some time.”

  Our eyes met, and I realized he was serious. He liked me because of my shady past. It was a novel sensation.

  Preston’s wide mouth twisted into an odd but pleasant grin, and he set a battered leather briefcase on the desk between us. U
nlocking it, he extracted several bags of honey-roasted peanuts from Qantas Airlines and handed me one.

  “D’ya mind? I haven’t had lunch.” He pushed a thick file folder toward me. “In here are photographs of a painting stolen seven years ago. Can you tell whether or not it’s genuine?”

  Whoever he was, Jarrah Preston had piqued my curiosity, and my appetite. I munched as I leaned forward and started flipping through the file. I stopped chewing when I realized what I was looking at.

  It was an exquisite Gauguin, but not one I had ever seen. Couched in tropical greenery and lush flowers, a couple embraced, their erotic intent made clear by their positions. Many great artists had produced erotica, but I had never heard of Gauguin doing so. His nudes of thirteen-year-old girls were suggestive, often distasteful to modern sensibilities, but they were not explicit. Not like this.

  I felt my cheeks redden at the overt sexuality of the painting. I was no innocent, but it was disconcerting to have a strange man watch me as I studied erotica. Forcing myself to ignore the content, I focused on the artist’s technique.

  Paul Gauguin’s Post-impressionist style is primitive in its simplicity, making the artist’s work easy to duplicate—on the surface. But the mark of a true Gauguin is his use of hue and tone. The French banker–turned–island-hopping bohemian played with combinations of complementary colors, overlapping and combining them in ways that fool the eye and render the pigments more vivid than they really are. Particular shades of green and orange placed next to each other, for instance, create the illusion of a shimmer.

  Gauguin’s exceptional understanding of color means that his works do not reproduce well in photographs. They have to be seen in person to be appreciated. The same is true of van Gogh and, indeed, most of the Impressionists as well, whose art was all about the interplay of light and pigment, color and texture.

  “It’s not an obvious forgery,” I said, clearing my throat. “As far as I can tell from the photo, the colors and brushwork are consistent with Gauguin’s work. But I can’t determine if it’s genuine or a good fake without seeing the actual painting. You say you have it in custody?”