Arsenic and Old Paint Read online

  “It showed up for sale at Mayfield’s Auction House last week. I’d like you to swing by there and take a look. But I’m pretty sure it’s a fake.”

  “Why is that?”

  “When it was x-rayed, a secret message appeared.”

  3

  Dear Georges: Should a true artist paint what he or she sees, warts and all?

  —Clear-eyed in Belgrade

  Dear Clear-eyed: Caravaggio painted fruit and leaves as he saw them, blemishes and all. Years later, Cézanne did the same, including tiny areas of rot in his exquisite bowls of fruit. Bien sûr, in the hands of a true master, there is no such thing as ugliness, only beauty re-envisioned. Do not the faults make the picture more beautiful?

  —Georges LeFleur, “Craquelure”

  Jarrah handed me an X ray.

  A sentence leaped out of the black-and-white image: Nature morte est un plat qui se mange froid.

  The artist had probably written the message in lead white before methodically covering it up with layers of paint. Invisible to the naked eye, the sentence was revealed when the lead in the pigment fluoresced under the X rays.

  The phrase looked as though it had been drawn by an artist’s paintbrush, I thought, probably a number nine or ten filbert, and the grammar was perfect. But the handwriting was not the upright, looping script drilled into every French schoolchild by stern-faced professeurs des écoles.

  “ ‘Dead nature is a plate that one eats cold,’ ” Preston translated literally. “Any idea what that refers to?”

  I shrugged and shook my head. “In French—in all the Romance languages—‘dead nature’ is the term for what is referred to as a ‘still life’ composition in English and the Germanic languages.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s a rare example of the northern Europeans having a sunnier outlook than their Mediterranean counterparts. I don’t understand its use in this context, but maybe it was Gauguin’s idea of a joke? Or maybe he used an old canvas that had been written on. In any event, by itself the sentence doesn’t suggest forgery.”

  “Except for one thing: the painting was tested before Augusta Confederated insured it. The message wasn’t there.”

  “Could it have been missed?”

  In point of fact, dealers, owners, even paid assessment “experts” might all have reason to conspire in keeping a fake painting on the market. For these folks, a fake is as good as an original if it could turn a profit. Only insurance companies—which pay out millions of dollars when an insured painting is stolen—stand to lose, and lose big, by being duped into insuring a fake. One way to make money fast is to insure a painting for millions and arrange to have it “stolen.” Lie to the insurance investigator, cash the check, and voilà—instant millionaire.

  Insurance companies are of course aware of the con and go to great lengths to avoid falling for it. It seemed unlikely that Augusta Confederated would skimp on the authentication before insuring a Gauguin, but it was possible.

  “I’m double-checking with the lab, but it’s a reputable group and I can’t imagine their technicians would have missed something so easily revealed by a simple X ray.”

  “True enough.”

  “Which leads me to the next question: if the Gauguin was genuine when we had it assessed, did its owner, Victor Yeltsin, sell the original and subsequently replace it with a forgery?”

  “You suspect fraud?”

  He nodded. “Yeltsin reported the painting as stolen, and filed an insurance claim to the tune of nearly ten million dollars.”

  “That’s a big pay-out.”

  “It’s a Gauguin.”

  “Maybe the original really was stolen, and someone knew the painting was missing and painted a copy to ‘show up’ at auction, see if they can slip it past the authorities. That happens.”

  “That’s why I’m investigating before making specific accusations.”

  “I’m still unclear how I can help other than to confirm what you already suspect: that the painting in your possession is probably a fake.”

  “I spoke with your business partner, Michael Johnson. According to him, you’re the ‘girl-wonder of the art forgery world.’ And your Uncle Anton seconded that view.”

  “You spoke with Michael? When?”

  “I called him last week. He said he was headed out of town, but thought he’d be back today.”

  “Really?”

  Preston gave me an odd look. It dawned on me I should at least pretend to know more about my business partner’s whereabouts than a potential client.

  “I wasn’t aware that his cell phone had service...where he is,” I improvised. I had been calling Michael’s number for a week, with no response. “And you say you spoke to Anton?”

  “He assured me you were the woman for the job.”

  Anton Woznikowicz wasn’t my real uncle—for that matter, I wasn’t entirely sure “Anton” was his real name, either. There’s a lot of this sort of thing in my life. Still, I had known him since I was a teenager learning the fine art of forgery from my grandfather in Paris. I still remembered one long, rainy weekend when Anton taught me the basics of traditional tempera, using egg yolks as a medium; afterwards he made us delicious egg-white omelets. Painting and cooking, he insisted, were two sides of the same coin. It worries me that the closest I come to producing an edible meal is dialing my local Thai food delivery service.

  I sat back, munched on a peanut, and thought. Jarrah Preston might be a fancy-pants international insurance investigator, but he had a thing or ten to learn if he was willing to take the word of a once-and-future scoundrel like Michael. And “Uncle” Anton’s reliability was just as suspect, albeit for different reasons. Why would both of them have recommended me for this job?

  I glanced up to find Jarrah’s near-black eyes studying me. The inspection went on so long I glanced down to be sure I hadn’t dribbled peanuts down my chest. There was a high-energy intensity to him that made me nervous. A slow smile spread across his face.

  “Mr. Preston, I’d like to help but I don’t want to give you any false hope. I exchange e-mails with people about the treasures—and I use that term loosely—they find in their grandmother’s attic. If I suspect something is stolen, I report it to the FBI and let them do the investigating.”

  “Call me Jarrah,” he said with a confident half smile. “As I said, I don’t know this town like you do. I’d like you to sniff around, ask a few questions, that’s all. I’m not expecting miracles.”

  I shook my head.

  “And whether or not you actually locate the original, my company’s willing to pay an obscene amount of money for your time and expertise.”

  I stopped shaking my head.

  “Do I detect a change of heart?”

  “You had me at ‘obscene.’ ”

  I pulled a notepad out of the desk drawer and jotted down a to-do list, beginning with 1. Find painting. I figured I’d elaborate from there.

  “Okay, let’s start at the beginning,” I said. “Mayfield’s Auction House notified you that it had acquired a Gauguin that was listed on the Art Loss Register?”

  The international Art Loss Register helps art dealers, museums, and honest citizens avoid being scammed by forgers, thieves, and those who traffic in stolen goods. Most insurance companies require such a listing before they pay a claim.

  “Yes. The auction house ran the required search, and found that it matched the description of the missing painting.”

  “And the painting has its provenance papers?”

  He nodded.

  “One thing I still don’t understand,” I said. “You’re an investigator. Why hire me?”

  “As I said, you have a unique background—”

  “I don’t buy it, Jarrah,” I interrupted. Once I had recovered from the uncommon thrill of not having my past held against me, I realized that Jarrah Preston’s stated reason for hiring me wasn’t plausible. I painted forgeries—at least I used to—I didn’t hunt the
m down. “A licensed PI or a retired SFPD inspector would be far more familiar with the local black market than I am. Why me?”

  Jarrah smiled. “Well done.”

  I eyed him for a moment, trying to decide if that crooked smile was endearing or menacing. One thing for sure, it was patronizing. “Well done?”

  “You’re not easily fooled.”

  “Just wait. You don’t know me very well.”

  “Well enough. You have something else going for you. Victor Yeltsin happens to be a member of the Fleming-Union.”

  Uh-oh.

  “I understand you have access to the mansion.”

  “Limited access. Very limited.”

  “You could poke around a little.... Perhaps you could blend in with the housekeeping staff.”

  I flashed on a visual of myself in a French maid’s costume. Not happening.

  “How did you know I was working there?”

  “Johnson mentioned it. Lucky coincidence, eh?”

  “Very lucky. Very coincidental.” I watched him closely. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about David’s painting called Death of Marat?”

  “Remind me?”

  “French revolutionary, Neo-classical...”

  “Oh, right. Dead bloke in a tub?”

  “I thought you were in the business of insuring art. Doesn’t that require a certain amount of art knowledge?”

  “I study up on what I’m after. Ask me anything you want to know about Gauguin, and I’ll wager I know it.”

  “It just so happens that there’s a police investigation at the Fleming Mansion at the moment. I don’t suppose the missing Gauguin would have anything to do with that?”

  “What kind of investigation?”

  “Someone was...murdered.”

  “Bloody hell!” Jarrah looked genuinely shocked. “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know who he was, but the scene was pretty gruesome.”

  He shook his head and blew out a breath. “I’m looking for information on a painting nicked years ago from Yeltsin’s home. I don’t see how it could be connected to a recent murder at the Fleming-Union.”

  Silence reigned while I pretended to study the photos. I’d spent more than thirty years on this planet without giving a second thought to the Fleming-Union; all of a sudden I’m offered two jobs there? Coincidences tend not to bode well in my life.

  Still, I needed a new vehicle, and I was bone-tired of worrying about making the rent every month. Preston was offering the kind of financial boon I had been hoping for when I decided to go into this business with Michael. So why was I so worried?

  Because I wasn’t an idiot.

  If there was one thing I had learned over the last couple of years, it was to be cautious when, for instance, a smiling half Maori shows up out of the blue with an inflated check and no personal references. I would go along with him for the moment, but before involving myself in anything too dangerous or stupid I would have to check him out.

  Jarrah picked up the X ray. “There’s an old saying, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ D’ya suppose that’s what this message means?”

  “Hard to tell. Forgers are an odd group. Many have an axe to grind with the art establishment. It might be a phrase the artist paints under all his fakes, like a signature. I’ll have my guy run a check on known forgers, see if it rings any bells.”

  “My guy” is Pedro Schumacher, a dear friend who knows how to use Google’s advanced search function, but I saw no reason for my deep-pocketed client to know this.

  Jarrah patted the stack of papers. “You’ll find most of what you need here: a copy of the original police report, profiles of the individuals I’ve interviewed, and information on the painting’s last owner, Victor Yeltsin.”

  “Who brought the Gauguin to Mayfield’s Auction House for sale in the first place?”

  “A man named Elijah Odibajian.”

  I dropped a peanut.

  “As in Balthazar and Elijah Odibajian, the Brothers Grimm of Bay Area real estate? Those Odibajians?”

  “Elijah seems to have disappeared, up the boohai, as we Kiwis say. I’m off to run him to ground.” Jarrah sat back, his black eyes twinkling. “Big brother Balthazar insists he knows nothing, but I’d like you to talk with him. As it happens, Balthazar’s a member of the Fleming-Union, as well.”

  “How handy.”

  “He’s a bit of a dag, I’ll warn you.”

  “Translation?”

  “Rather difficult. A hard case.” He smiled that strange smile again. “But I have a feeling you’ll have a way with him. As the saying goes, Ka timu te tai, ka pao te torea, ka ina te harakeke a Hine-kakai.”

  “Oh sure, I say that all the time.”

  “It means, ‘The oyster catcher swims when the tide is ebbing and the flax of Hine-kakai burns.’ ”

  I had no idea what Jarrah Preston was talking about, and wondered what I was getting myself into. But as my grandfather was fond of saying, The road to wealth is strewn not with rocks but with boulders, Annie. Bring your hiking boots.

  * * *

  Preston left me with the case file, a fat retainer, and an uneasy feeling that there was more to this case than he was letting on. I glanced down at the computer screen.

  Google had obligingly answered my earlier query, and produced a full-color illustration of David’s magnificent painting of a dead bloke in a tub. The Death of Marat was housed in the Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts in Brussels, I read, and there had been no reported thefts or scandals associated with it. Studying the painting—the position of the body, the letter in Marat’s hand—I was more convinced than ever that the poor schmuck at the Fleming-Union had been arranged to mimic the painting.

  But why?

  The more I thought about it, the surer I was that Destiny couldn’t be the killer. Among other things, it was hard to imagine her having the requisite knowledge. She seemed more like an ex-stripper than an art history major.

  I reminded myself that this wasn’t my problem. Annette Crawford and the SFPD were on the case, I was in no way implicated, and despite the staged reconstruction of a famous painting, it didn’t even have anything to do with stolen or forged art.

  Unless of course Jarrah Preston was lying through his Kiwi teeth.

  I dialed my guy, Pedro Schumacher.

  “You need somebody to post bail again?” Pedro answered without preamble.

  “No, I—”

  “Then don’t bother us. I finally got my woman to take a long lunch, and we’re napping.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry! Did I wake you?”

  “No, we’re napping.”

  “Oh. Then why did you answer the phone?”

  “I’m just giving you a hard time. I knew it was you.” I heard a woman laughing in the background. “We high-tech folks have this little gadget, Caller ID, that tells us who’s calling. I think it’ll catch on one day.”

  A self-employed computer geek with a genius IQ, Pedro spent his days rescuing his corporate clients from multi-million-dollar software snafus and his nights reveling in hardboiled detective fiction. We had been friends for years, and his longtime girlfriend Elena Briones happened to be an attorney who had helped me out on more than one occasion. I had the sneaking suspicion my antics kept them entertained.

  “Funny. I have a couple of things for you to look up,” I said. “And I’m getting paid this time, so keep track of your hours and eventually I’ll pay you a tiny fraction of what your skills are worth.”

  “Hearing your lovely voice is payment enough, mi amor.”

  “You’re such a charmer, Pedro.”

  “It’s a Latin thing. Whaddaya need?”

  “A background check on an insurance investigator named Jarrah Preston, employed by Augusta Confederated Insurance.” I spelled the name. “He’s from New Zealand. I’d also like you to search for any cases of forged paintings that involve hidden messages.”

  “Like how many animals can you find hidden in the drawing of Ol
d MacDonald’s Farm? Man, I loved those. Remember Highlights magazine?”

  “I liked those, too. But that’s not what I mean.”

  “How else would you hide a message?”

  “By painting over it. The lead in certain types of pigment fluoresces under X rays. Look for a French phrase that translates into ‘Dead nature is a dish best served cold.’ ”

  “ ‘Dead nature’? Twisted.”

  “You speak Spanish, Pedro. It means ‘still life.’ ”

  “Dead nature’s more interesting.”

  “One more thing: I need information on a Victor Yeltsin, and Balthazar and Elijah Odibajian.”

  “As in the Odibajian brothers? The Brothers Grimm of Bay Area real estate?”

  “I read that article, too.” This was an exaggeration. I had read the headline but hadn’t gotten around to the article, which at the moment resided in a two-foot-tall stack of “to be read” newspapers slowly yellowing in a corner of my bedroom. “Would you look them up, please?”

  “Don’t need to. I can tell you all you need to know right now: those boys are bad news. I don’t know much about Elijah, but Balthazar is a major player whose opponents have a habit of abruptly moving out of state or disappearing altogether. More what you’d expect in Jersey than in kinder, gentler San Francisco. Steer clear of that guy.”

  “I just want to ask a few questions.”

  “What about?”

  “Elijah, the younger brother, brought a stolen painting to Mayfield’s Auction House for sale.”

  “He stole a painting?”

  “Hard to say. He had it in his possession. Actually, he had a copy in his possession.”

  “He stole a fake?”

  “Another good question. All I know for sure it that he was trying to sell a fake.”

  “Rewind. I’m confused.”

  “A painting was stolen seven years ago, and the insurance company paid the claim. Recently a copy of that painting turned up for sale at Mayfield’s Auction House via Elijah Odibajian. The insurance guy wants me to help him figure out if the painting was original when it was stolen, and where the original might be.”