Feint of Art: (20 page)

Damn.

I turned the knob and pushed the door open again, more slowly this time.

Nothing. No one.

I poked around, holding my breath while checking in the closet and under the bed. I was not sure why I thought a lack of oxygen would improve the situation. The bedroom was empty.

Tiptoeing back down the hall, I spent five seconds searching the tiny bathroom. A clear plastic shower curtain surrounded the tub, and the only scum in there was the soapy kind. Nothing larger than a small cat could conceal itself behind the toilet.

Satisfied there was no one in the apartment but me, I checked to see if my valuables were still there. The TV and the stereo were in the living room. That pretty much exhausted the list.

I was starting to think that this had not been a burglary. Petty crime was a problem in my neighborhood, but I had never been bothered. The other tenants were also professional women, and we were scrupulous about keeping our sturdy front doors dead-bolted and our eyes peeled for each other’s safety. My apartment’s third-floor location would also discourage the average junkie or junior high school kid. A professional thief could manage it, but why would a professional thief bother? Nothing I owned was worth anything. In fact, it was entirely possible that my meager belongings would inspire pity from a criminal.

Okay, I sighed. The bogeyman was no longer here and had not taken anything. So what had he, she, or it been looking for? I sat at my desk in a corner of the living room and tried to think. Could it have been one of the intruders from Joanne Nash’s place? If so, how had anyone connected me to her? And even if someone had made that connection, how had they known where I lived?

That stumped me, so I tried another approach. I was looking into two separate art forgeries: the drawings, which involved Harlan Coombs and Anton; and
The Magi,
which involved the Brock Museum, Ernst Pettigrew, and Anton. The only links between them were me and Anton, and I had nothing to do with forging them. I started feeling anxious again. I had only a few more days to find Brazil’s drawings and claim my reward money, and so far two people had been killed and Ernst was still missing. I needed to find Anton fast.

I vowed to try harder. I just was not sure how to do that.

Frustrated, I picked up the phone. Fourteen messages. Two of the morning calls were hang-ups, and one was from Inspector Crawford, asking to speak with me. There was a message from my father telling me, in his clipped, scholarly way, that he was disappointed to learn that I was charging Anthony Brazil for my services. What, did he think I was going to get involved with characters like the Hulk for old times’ sake? I could feel my blood pressure spike. I took a deep breath, deleted his message, and went on.

The next three calls were from what sounded like a very old woman trying to reach Thomas Surgical Supply on Fifty-First and Broadway. She seemed confused, but did not leave her number. I felt bad for her. I deleted those messages, too.

Mary had called to say she would be staying a few more days in Mendocino. Rats. I could use a dose of her cheeriness right about now.

The next message was from Grandfather, maddening as always, saying he hoped everything was working out and that he was certain Anton was safe. Oh? Care to elaborate, old man? Apparently not.

Two more hang-ups followed, and then a garbled message from Pete, who lost his English when he became excited. He had called at noon today. He said something about the studio, and unless I was mistaken there were sirens in the background. I felt my stomach clench. The last time I’d heard that many sirens, somebody had died.

Finally, there were two messages from Frank. He had called shortly after noon to say there was some trouble at the studio, but did not explain. He called again at two, to tell me to get my butt down there ASAP.

I tried to remain calm, but the truth was I would much rather that my apartment burn to the ground than anything happen to my studio. I could replace the contents of my home with a check from the insurance company and a trip to Target, but the contents of my studio—paintings and paints, business files, drawings and books and reference works, pencils and pastels and brushes—were uninsurable and would take years to replace. And oh my God!—John Steubing’s portrait!

I looked at the clock on the mantel over the closed-off fireplace and saw that it was five thirty. I snatched up the phone and called Pete, but there was no answer at the warehouse. Mr. Fat Cat Landlord had not left his number, nor did I have it committed to memory. There was nothing for it but to go to the studio. I still had my jacket on and my wallet and keys were in my pocket, so I hustled out the door.

A second later I hustled back in and grabbed a box of Triscuits to munch on the way to the City. Whatever was going on probably should not be faced on an empty stomach.

It was then that I saw it, propped in a corner of the kitchen: the ugly bronze elf.

The X-man had been here.

Abandoning me many miles from home, penniless and truckless, was not bad enough—he had to break into my apartment and go through my things? Why? What had he been looking for? That clinched it. The X-man must die.

No time for that now,
I thought, as I scrambled down the stairs, Triscuits under one arm, and raced to my truck.

Sunday evening traffic into San Francisco was awful, the freeway jammed with urbanites in SUVs returning from ski weekends in Tahoe, sunburned, grumpy, and aggressive. As I queued up to cross the Bay Bridge, tapping my toes, munching my crackers, and trying not to panic, I realized that I still had not charged the battery on my cell phone. Idiotic technology. Promised you would be in touch any time, all the time, and then did not deliver.

As I inched nearer the tollbooth I realized something worse. I had no money. None. I frantically checked the glove box, the ashtray, and the door pockets, then under and behind the seats. I came up with thirty-seven cents, nowhere near the three dollars the nice woman at the tollbooth would be expecting in a few minutes. So what happened if a driver had no money? There had to be some kind of procedure, right?

There was. They gave out tickets.
Expensive
tickets.

Twenty minutes later, newly ticketed and totally frazzled, I finally crossed the bridge, skirted the bay to China Basin, and approached my studio. I pulled in next to my landlord’s Jaguar and had not even planted both feet on terra firma before DeBenton was in my face, eyes blazing, hands on his hips, ready to eat nails.

“Where the
hell
have you been?”

“Just tell me what’s going on.”

“There was a fire. Possibly arson.” His voice was cold and accusing.

My eyes flew to the second story. “Arson! My studio?” I was so scared I was whispering.

“Yes, your studio. Fortunately, the smoke detector tripped the sprinkler system and automatically dialed the fire department,” DeBenton snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve been my tenant for less than a week and you’ve already been visited by the police, your truck’s been broken into, and now your studio has been set on fire. What
is
it with you?”

“With me? What is it with
me
?” I replied, my voice scaling upward. My studio had just gone up in smoke, everything I had spent the last few years working like a dog for may have just been destroyed, I couldn’t pay the rent, much less the rent increase—and this man thought it was somehow
my
fault?

As my grandfather always said, the best defense is a good offense.

“What about putting in a decent security system, Mr. ‘Secure Transport’?” I snapped. “Maybe if you stopped staring at the bottom line for a moment, you’d see that people’s lives and art are more important than your bank balance!”

As soon as I said the words, I regretted them. True, I was tired and stressed and scared spitless. But it wasn’t my landlord’s fault that catastrophe had sought me out once again. I had started to apologize when a large Bosnian jogged up and scooped me into a bear hug.

“Thank the heavens, my Annie. The police, they have come and gone. But they say you must go at your earliest convenience to make the further report.”

I came up for air. “Thanks, Pete,” I mumbled.

“I’ll need to speak with you when you’re free,” DeBenton said stiffly and stalked off to his office.

Pete supported me as I began the long climb to my studio, petrified about what I might find. The exterior door to the second-floor hallway stuck again, and I nearly lost it then and there. Pete spoke soothingly and yanked the door open with brute force. “I will lead,” he offered.

“No, let me go first,” I said. I had to see the place for myself. My mind was numb, processing the facts slowly, but already pondering where I would go from here. Did this mean the end of my business? Had I lost everything?

As I walked down the hallway I took in the extent of the damage. Everything was soaked—the walls, the floor, the bulletin board in the common area, everything. The firefighters had wrenched open the door to my studio, splintering the wood around the handle and separating the doorframe from the wall. My TRUE/FAUX STUDIOS sign, happily enough, was well varnished and so had not sustained serious injury. I pushed the door open slowly, stomach clenched and dread in every pore.

“This is abominable,” Pete murmured as we looked upon a scene of utter chaos.

The cushions from the sofa and the two chairs had been tossed onto the worn Oriental rug, and papers and canvases littered the floor. Pigments were scattered liberally over every horizontal surface. Powders, several kinds of paint, pastels, and artist’s crayons had been ground underfoot, whether by the intruder or by the firefighters, it was hard to tell. The loose powders and pastels had mixed with the water from the sprinklers and the fire hoses to create bizarre watercolors on the wide wooden floorboards.
Modern art,
I thought dully.

It was hard to take it all in. It was hard to take.

My attention wandered to a far corner, near the pathetic ficus tree, where there were discernible scorch marks. Picking my way through the debris, I saw that someone had tossed a cigarette butt near an overturned can of turpentine. A good way to start a blaze, though I supposed it could have been accidental. I imagined that criminal types who break in and destroy places weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed.

My eyes searched for John Steubing’s portrait. It had been knocked off the easel and lay facedown on the heavy tarpaulin that protected it when I wasn’t working on it. I approached cautiously and slowly turned the canvas over, then sighed and relaxed a fraction. Oil-based paint did not absorb water, and the tarp had minimized the damage to the canvas. The portrait could be restored. A lucky break.

Maybe the only one.

“Who does such a thing?” Pete wondered, as if reading my thoughts.

I shook my head. As much as I would have liked to blame Michael for everything that was going wrong with my life at the moment, I was willing to bet that arson wasn’t his style. “I don’t know, Pete,” I responded listlessly.

Were they looking for the drawings, or
The Magi
? Had whoever tossed Joanne’s shop been responsible for this as well?

I tried to figure out how long it would take to dig myself out of this mess. I could hire some of Mary’s chronically unemployed musician friends to help clean up, and Mary and I would salvage what we could. Apart from John’s portrait, the only thing with any market value was my computer, which contained all my financial records. I made a mental note to call my insurance agent in the morning. I prayed I was up to date on my premiums.

“Come to the warehouse, Annie,” Pete said, startling me. “Wanna cuppa coffee?”

I smiled despite myself. Pete had learned English and

American cultural ways by watching the daytime soaps. “Wanna cuppa coffee?” had been Pete’s first English sentence. “Is Shane the father of Britney’s baby?” was his second.

“Tomorrow you will call the insurance. Come,” Pete said, steering me gently toward the door. “Tonight you must rest.”

The numbness was wearing off now, and I was starting to feel afraid. What if Mary and I had been here when whoever had done this arrived? I glanced up at Pete, grateful for his concern. It was reassuring to have six feet six inches of solid muscle by my side. We closed the shattered door as best we could, walked down the hall, and descended the wooden stairs.

As we passed DeBenton’s office, I thought of going in to apologize for my earlier rudeness, but decided I didn’t have the strength. I peered through his window and offered him a wan smile, but he was mopping up the mess caused by the runoff from the indoor rainstorm upstairs and didn’t see me.

Pete and I crossed the parking lot to the stained-glass warehouse, a vast room with row upon row of brightly colored glass in sheets, each about three feet wide and four feet high. The glass was made in Germany, Japan, and Eastern Europe, as well as in Washington and Oregon. Since it was Sunday, the warehouse was empty of the workers who usually milled about, carefully shifting fragile crates and sorting through the colorful wares. The dusty corner office was similarly deserted. Tomorrow the phone would be ringing off the hook and Pete’s employees would be hunched over computer terminals, tracking shipments of special-order glass and filling large architectural orders.

The last of the sun’s rays sifted in gently through a few gorgeously swirled panels that Pete had hung in the old multipaned windows near the loading dock. He decided coffee was too much for my nerves and instead brewed me a pot of chamomile tea. It was an endearing Old World gesture, although I must admit I would have preferred an endearing New World gesture like a shot of bourbon. Too edgy to sit, I wandered the warehouse aisles, looking at the magnificent glass and taking pleasure in an art form about which I knew almost nothing.