The Body in Bodega Bay (30 page)

W
e started out before eight. Monte Rio is a few miles inland from Duncans Mills and Toby's shop. We knew the road but wanted extra time to find the cabin and to allow for driving conditions. The night was wet and black. There would be no starlight or moonlight to aid our drive.

As we made the turn onto Highway 1, I remembered with regret that there isn't a single street lamp on the winding coast road. I prayed that my generally good night vision would help me hold to the center line, avoiding deep ditches on the right where the road has no shoulders. I was relieved when the lights of an occasional house set close to the road offered a moment of clarity. I felt safe enough on those stretches where moors on the left led to cliffs down to the sea, but when there was nothing on my left but a steep drop to the ocean, I just gritted my teeth. Thankfully, we encountered few cars, so I drove with the brights on most of the way. But I was keenly aware of potential crash sites.

“A little slower on the curves,” Toby advised. He takes this drive daily, so I wasn't about to doubt his judgment. I braked down to a safer pace.

In the deep dark, with nothing illuminated but the immediate road ahead, it was hard to gauge how fast we were covering ground. I asked Toby the time—I didn't want to take my eyes off the road to look at the dashboard clock. The landmarks familiar to me were invisible in the dark.

Finally we approached the lighted windows of the Indian restaurant that guards the bridge over the Russian River, just before Jenner. Once over the bridge, we turned in from the coast, to follow the river to Duncans Mills and Monte Rio. We had hardly spoken on the coast road, but now we began talking again. Who would be waiting for us in Monte Rio? Russian gangsters? Arnold Kohler? Or maybe Andrew Federenco and his bruiser son? How were we going to handle this?

As we reached the wide lanes and bright lights of Duncans Mills, we developed our strategy. Of course we would turn over the central panel in exchange for Angie. We could promise to give them Charlie's icon as well, as soon as we had it back from the restorer. What else could we do? What if they had no intention of letting us go? One step at a time. Right now the focus was on saving Angie.

The road narrowed at the bridge over Austin Creek, and after that the huge redwoods that bordered the road threw us into even darker obscurity. I concentrated on my driving. Soon enough we were at the Monte Rio crossroads. We took a hairpin turn to the right, followed the sign toward the center of the village, and crossed the metal bridge that spans the Russian River.

The caller's directions were to take a left just after the bridge, onto River Boulevard. That seemed a grandiose name for the narrow lane, which was posted with a sign reading “No Outlet.” But it must have been a thoroughfare in the old days when Monte Rio was a popular summer residence for San Franciscans. On either side, the road was jammed with vacation cottages, most of them weather-beaten. However, only a few of the buildings we passed had lights on. After a good half-mile drive, we reached the final block, where we had been instructed to seek the last house on the left.

There it was: a log cabin, tucked back farther from the street than any of the other houses. The cabin presented its side to the road, with the one window lit but curtained. The door would be to the right of the house, down the driveway. We didn't pull in there, though. We decided to turn around at the cul-de-sac and park our car on the road, facing out, headed toward home. We might want a quick escape.

“Are you ready?” I asked, glancing over at Toby, who sat with the icon cradled in his lap. It was wrapped in the cloth that had covered it in the box, which we'd left at home.

“Let's go,” he replied. “They've seen our headlights. They already know we're here.”

We closed our car door without locking it. We walked up the driveway and stood for a second in front of the doorstep. We could see a car parked on the grass behind the house. We mounted the wooden steps and knocked.

“Good. Right on time,” a voice that I recognized said as the door opened.

“You!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, me,” said George Greeley. He was holding a gun.

I stammered, “But I just talked to you. In Madison.”

“We talked on Skype. From here. I had a hunch you'd lead me to the other panels, and I was right. I just didn't know it would happen so soon.” He stepped aside to let us in. I stood there, not moving, dumbfounded, until he waved us inside with his gun. I entered first, then Toby, with our treasure in his hands.

“Where's Angie?” I demanded. I scanned the large living/dining room but didn't see her.

“Don't worry. She's all right.” He went toward the back of the room and unlocked the door that led into the single bedroom. “They're here,” he said. “You can come out.”

Angie staggered into the main room of the cabin, calling my name. I rushed over to comfort her, then realized when she didn't return my hug but stood with her arms squeezed together that her hands were taped tightly at the wrists.

“Over there,” Greeley commanded, pointing to where he wanted her to sit, at the table. “And you two over there.” He gestured toward a wicker couch. “Sit.” We obeyed.

“So you were lying. You never got any suspicious phone call,” Toby said accusingly. “The business about a second Russian gangster was a ruse.”

“
Da
,” said Greeley, imitating the voice I'd heard on the phone. “Is pretty girl, your sister. Too bad I cut off ear.” He laughed at his own impersonation.

The pieces fell into place. “You're the one who attacked Sophie,” I said. I remembered Greeley's delicate hands. I checked out his feet: small for a man's, like the shoe prints left in the flour.

He shrugged. “When Al Miller told me on Monday about the icon you discovered at the Graton Bakery, I couldn't pass up the chance. I took the red-eye and flew in yesterday.”

“You monster!” shouted Angie. “You nearly killed her.”

“That was regrettable. I'm afraid I hit her harder than I meant to. But now I have both panels. And you are about to give me the third. Hand it over, please. Slowly.” Toby had it balanced on his knees. He started to stand up. “No. Stay as you are. Just hold it out to me.” Toby did as he was told. Greeley took the package with one hand and shook the cloth aside. His other hand held the gun, pointing at Toby. He looked at the icon, front, back, and sides, careful not to takes his eyes off us for more than a second at a time. He walked back a few steps and placed the icon on top of a cabinet.

Toby said, “And let me guess. You were the one who drove by today while we were digging up the box.”

Greeley smirked. “I've been following you since this morning. I couldn't believe my luck.”

Angie, who had been fretting throughout this interchange, burst out, “It's my fault, Nora, I couldn't help it. He grabbed me as I was coming out of the hospital. I tried to get away but he had a gun.”

“It's not your fault, sweetie.”

Greeley was talking freely, so I pressed him. “How did you know where to find my sister?”

“I already told you. I was watching your house. I overheard you talking with her as she was getting in her car to go to the hospital. I figured taking her would give me the leverage I needed, and I was right.” Greeley laughed once more. “I improvised. All right, I've answered enough of your questions. Now you're going to do exactly as I say. I don't like violence, but you know I'll use it if I have to.”

“It won't do any good to steal the triptych,” I argued. “You'll never be able to sell it. It'll be too well known. No one will touch it.”

“You don't know Russia,” said Greeley. “There are new billionaires who won't care whether anyone else ever sees it again as long as it's theirs. As long as they have it all to themselves or to show off to friends in their private hideaway. Not to mention the real Russian mafia, which would pay a fortune to lock it in a safe as collateral for future drug deals. It won't be in any museum or well-known collection or ever be seen at auction. As far as the world is concerned, it will disappear again just as it disappeared five hundred years ago. But someone will own it. And I'll be a rich man.”

“It's not too late to stop before you make things worse,” said Toby.

“Isn't it? Armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, kidnapping—I don't think they'll let me off with a warning, do you?”

“You'll regret this,” said Toby, playing a weak card.

“Oh, please. I'll tell you what I'd regret—I'd regret spending what's left of my pathetic life in Wisconsin, where everyone I know is a professor and I'm still an instructor. I'd regret having a crummy old age trying to live on a pittance from Social Security and whatever's left of my lousy pension after that beady-eyed bugger of a governor gets through wrecking the system, that's what I'd regret. And guess what? I won't regret for a minute living in a fancy villa on the Black Sea, sipping vodka and eating caviar for the rest of my days.”

“Fine,” said Angie defiantly. “Go live in Russia and see how you like it. It stinks over there. But you've got what you want. Now let us go.”

“Ah,” said Greeley. “I'm afraid I can't do that. Not just yet. You see, someone might tattle before I can get clear of here.”

That sounded ominous. “Then what are you planning to do with us?” Toby demanded. “You said if we brought you the icon, no one would get hurt.”

“And no one will, unless you try something foolish.” He went to the refrigerator and brought out a bottle of white wine, already uncorked. “This won't be too unpleasant. You're all going to enjoy a nice glass of wine and then take a nap. And while you're snoozing, I'll quietly take my leave.” I now noticed three wine glasses on the table. Greeley poured the wine and dropped a small, white tablet into each glass.

“What are you putting in there?” I asked.

“A harmless drug called Rohypnol. You'll sleep until tomorrow and maybe feel a little woozy when you wake up. But otherwise, you'll be fine. You might not remember everything about tonight, which is a plus. And even if you do, I'll be long gone.”

“Rohypnol,” said Toby. “The ‘date rape' drug.”

“Some people call it that,” Greeley acknowledged.

“Date rape!” cried Angie. “That's the last straw.” And with that, she suddenly launched herself across the room and caught Greeley, just as he was pivoting toward her, with a deadly kick that landed where it hurt the most. “That's what happened to the last guy who tried that on me,” she said. He let out a howl and sank to his knees, clutching himself with his left hand, while managing to hold on feebly to the gun in his right. “And this one's for Sophie,” she added, stepping back to deliver the coup de grâce. The second kick landed in the same place, or rather, on the cupped hand that fruitlessly shielded his squashed privates. Toby cringed. Greeley crumpled like a newspaper, and his gun went clattering across the floor, stopping a few feet in front of me. I picked it up.

By then Toby was on top of him. He hauled Greeley up by his shirt collar and pushed him roughly down into a chair. With his free hand, Toby reached out for the gun, which I gave him. Greeley was whimpering. “I bet that smarts,” said Toby, with grim satisfaction. “All right, Nora. Now we call Dan.”

But first I ran over to Angie and embraced her. I gave her a fierce hug. I was laughing and crying at the same time. “Who needs Michael,” I said, “when I've got you?” I covered her cheek with kisses. “Angie, my warrior angel!”

S
IX MONTHS LATER
, we were all standing in the lobby of the UC–Berkeley Museum, attending the reception for the world debut of Andrei Rublev's restored masterpiece,
The Old Testament Trinity Triptych
. Al Miller had organized the exhibition. The place was packed, as the publicity had been tremendous.

Angie had taken a vacation from her “sojourn” to join us for the big event. She looked a little different, with her hair cut short and her face without makeup. But Angie could never be anything but beautiful. She wore roomy black pants topped by a white embroidered blouse. I was surprised she was allowed embroidery.

Observing me looking over her clothes, she winked and said, “I haven't taken the plunge yet. But even the nuns wear street clothes, you know.”

“You look happy,” I said. “I'm glad you could be here for the opening.”

“I am happy,” she replied. “And I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

The museum was only a temporary home for the newly acclaimed artwork, pending resolution of the multiple lawsuits that already had been filed. Let me see if I can get this right. As the holders of two of the panels, Toby and I were being sued by Andrew Federenco, Tom Keogh, Charlie's brother, the University of California–Davis, and the Russian government. Of course, each had a different claim. Federenco wanted the entire triptych, which he claimed had been stolen by his cousin. That meant he was also suing Sophie for the panel that Peter had given her. Tom Keogh argued that Charlie had bought the Michael panel for purposes of resale while legally still his business partner, so Keogh was entitled to half the proceeds from any sale. Charlie's brother claimed ownership of the same panel, citing Charlie's will, which named him as the heir. The University of California–Davis had dibs on the central panel, which, they pointed out, had been dug up on their land. And the Russian government was suing everybody, including the museum, on grounds that the triptych was a national treasure that had been spirited out of the country illegally. It was shaping up to be another epic case like
Jarndyce v. Jarndyce
in that Dickens novel, a dispute that dragged on for generations until everything had been eaten up by legal costs.