Brush With Death (15 page)

“Hmm . . .”

“Mary, don't even think it.”

“Oh, all right. I still say it's weird, though. Anyway, there must be a master key that opens all these boxes. We could search the office.”

I tried to imagine riffling through Miss Ivy's desk, and conjured instead a visual of a cop shining his flashlight through the window and catching us red-handed, which I was fairly sure would get us bounced from the columbarium.

“I think we need an alternate plan,” I said.

“We could bury it in one of the courtyard gardens.”

“The gardeners are always fussing over those. One of them would probably dig it up.”

“There was an interment in the mausoleum yesterday. We could unseal the stone and put it in there.”

“There's a fresh body in there, Mare.”

“Eeewww.”

What to do, what to do . . . I recalled learning in my sophomore-year evolutionary biology class that humans rarely looked up because our ancient ancestors had almost never been attacked from above. Artists and architects, though, often located the most interesting details up high, out of harm's way. Craning my neck upward, I scanned the alcove's curved ceiling. The subtle up-lighting illuminating the room emanated from behind the wide cornice molding.

The molding. Of course.

But not here,
I thought. The box would be safer in another alcove.

“Help me move the scaffolding.”

We unlocked the wheels and dragged the creaky contraption out of the Chapel of the Madonna, down the hall past two alcoves, and into the Chapel of the Lullabies. Locking the scaffolding in place, I climbed up and peered over the edge of the cornice. A thick rope light snaked its way through the space behind the molding, but there was just enough room for the metal box.

Mary handed me the box and I set it in carefully. “How does that look?”

“It casts a shadow,” Mary replied. “A rectangular shadow. It's kind of obvious.”

“Hold on.” Standing on tiptoe, I rearranged the rope light so that it went around the box rather than beneath it. “Better?”

“It'll do.”

I hopped down and checked for myself. The light was irregular in that one spot, but from the floor the difference wasn't very noticeable.

We pushed the scaffolding back to the job site, where I unpacked the camera while Mary snagged a scraping tool and started fiddling with one of the niches. She hooted in triumph when the glass door swung open, and I tucked the camera pieces behind the funeral urn inside. I sent a silent apology to the niche's resident, Mr. Salvatore DeFazio, hoping he didn't mind the illegal sublet.

“What the heck are these supposed to be?” Mary demanded, fanning the air with the photographs.

“Let me see.” We squinted at the photos.

“Is that Fornie?” Mary asked. “Whoever took these is a lousy photographer.”

It was always difficult to study paintings thirdhand, through photos, but this much was obvious: the painting in the photo was not the cheap computer reproduction I had seen in the Chapel of the Allegories. The frame was different and the gloss was duller than the highly varnished copy. Whether or not it was a genuine Raphael was impossible to tell from the shadowy snapshot.

I put the photos in a brown paper bag left over from the other night's takeout, rolled the top closed, and placed it in the red plastic tub of art supplies. Mary and I returned the empty suitcase and camera bag to Manny's office and settled in to restore the lunettes.

After tonight's touch-up painting, we would let everything dry for a week before applying a nonyellowing polyurethane sealant. The last step could be completed using a ladder, so tomorrow the maintenance crew would disassemble the cumbersome scaffolding. The week of drying time might also allow me to figure out what the hell was going on with
La Fornarina
and to decide what to do with the metal box from Louis Spencer's crypt. I would retrieve the box when we returned to seal the painting.

Quiet reigned, and I lost myself in the sensuous pleasure of touching supple brush to creamy paint, of melding the hues of the wet pigments to create new tones. Oil paints allowed the underpaint to shine through, which was why the work of lazy forgers, who only painted the topmost layers, was so easy to spot.

“I wonder what's in that box,” Mary mused as we floated clouds in the still-wet azure sky. Last week I had taught her how to feather the whites, grays, and violets into the pliable blue paint so that the clouds appeared ethereal rather than cottony. “I saw a movie once, where this guy? He found a mysterious box that turned out to contain the mummified hand of his lover, complete with diamond engagement ring.”

“I'm pretty sure this box doesn't have a mummified hand inside.”

We painted in silence for a while.

“I saw this other movie?” Mary continued. “Where a fortune was hidden in a box like that. Only it wasn't regular money, it was Confederate money, like from the Civil War?”

“Confederate bills aren't valuable, are they?”

“No. I mean, I guess collectors want them but I don't think they're worth much. But the bad guy didn't know that, so he killed a lot of people trying to get it.”

“What a moron.”

“Yeah. He was pretty cute, though.”

“You watch a lot of crappy movies, Mary.”

Mary snorted. “Like you don't?”

“At least they don't involve mummified hands or adorable psychopaths.”

“Maybe you should get out more. And why are you in such a bad mood?”

“Sorry, Mare.” I still couldn't bring myself to talk about Cindy. “Things have been a little nuts.”

She nodded and painted some more. “I also read this story one time . . .”

By the time midnight rolled around, I was ready to risk a curse from beyond and break into the metal box myself just to put a halt to Mary's speculation on its contents and endless plot summaries. I ushered my assistant out of the columbarium, wishing her luck facing her fears in the graveyard tonight and instructing her to call if anything went wrong. Then I locked the door and returned to put the finishing touches on the angels' wings. My arms and shoulders felt the strain of working overhead on the wobbly scaffolding, but I was determined to complete this phase of the restoration.

Suddenly I heard a noise. I could not be sure of its origin because of the incessant creaking of the scaffolding, so I held still for a minute.

Nothing.

I resumed painting, my hands busy but my mind free to wander. Why did Cindy leave the suitcase with me? Why hadn't she turned the box over to the cemetery? Was I supposed to return it to Louis' crypt? Had she been so absorbed in her own misery that—

I heard it again: something between a bump and a scrape.

Heart pounding, I glanced around. Nothing. The noise had seemed far away, but it was impossible to judge sound accurately in this place. Could it be Michael? Generally I didn't hear him until he wanted me to.

I set my palette on the scaffolding's wood planks, dropped my brush in the jar of mineral spirits, and climbed down. Padding softly to the alcove's arched opening, I stood stock-still and strained to listen.

Silence.

Probably my imagination running amok. It tended to do that. Still . . . I riffled through my tote bag until I found the travel-sized can of aerosol hair spray that an SFPD homicide investigator—who used to be my friend until the drug trafficking incident last fall—suggested I carry in lieu of mace. It was cheap, she had told me, legal, and effective when sprayed in an attacker's eyes. Unable to stand the suspense and emboldened by the thought that any miscreant would receive a snootful of Lady Clairol Extra-Firm Hold, I decided to investigate the source of the noise.

I stuck my head out the Gothic arch and peered up and down the hall. I saw only long banks of glass-fronted compartments holding bronze urns and boxes. No lovesick Roy Cogswell, no after-hours cleaning personnel. Nothing out of the ordinary.

My old sneakers were silent as I crept down the main hallway, through the Chapels of Peace and Rest, veering off through the Gardens of Prayer and Supplication and through the Chapels of Mercy and Resignation until I stumbled upon the Chapel of the Allegories, where the Raphael copy hung.
La Fornarina
seemed to smirk at my overactive imagination. Hussy.

I must have taken a wrong turn. The Chapel of the Allegories was a dead end.

There was the sound again, closer this time, and rhythmic.

Footsteps. Heading my way.

I was trapped.

I considered hunkering down and praying that whoever was approaching would walk past, but given the sins of my youth I thought it unwise to rely on the power of prayer alone. The Chapel's floor was made of stone, the walls were solid metal-and-glass compartments. Unless I was struck by lightning and reduced to a smoking pile of ash I didn't have a chance of joining the current residents.

That left the ceiling.

I glanced up. The compartments stopped about twelve inches from the nine-foot arched ceiling, creating a narrow shelf along three sides of the alcove. I might be able to squeeze myself in and hang on long enough for whoever was approaching to leave, as long as they didn't think to look over their heads.

Now all I had to do was get up there.

I scanned the wall for a foothold. The compartment doors were set flush with each other with no toehold between them. A better bet seemed to be the projecting metal prongs that studded the walls to the left of each compartment, a few of which held cone-shaped vases, their flowers drooping. I grasped the prongs of an empty vase holder with my right hand, and reached up to grab another with my left. My right foot stepped gingerly on one about a foot from the floor. I steadied myself, tried not to fall backward, and lifted my left foot, hoping to scale the wall like Spider-Man.

I was about three feet off the floor when the metal hoops began to bend under my weight. My fingers and toes scrambled for purchase, but the pesky law of gravity tugged me backward. I made one last effort, pushing hard against the prongs beneath my feet to boost myself within reach of the next row of vase holders.

The sound of my not-inconsiderable derriere landing with a thud on the hard stone floor reverberated through the alcove. The approaching footsteps halted for a moment, then sped up. Adrenaline shot through me, my butt smarted fiercely, and my breathing was labored. I tried to breathe through my nose, but the snorting was even noisier than the panting. I leapt to my feet and flattened myself against the wall to the left of the arched alcove doorway, the can of hair spray in my right hand. Checking to be sure the can's nozzle was pointed in the proper direction so that I didn't inadvertently blind myself, I held my breath and waited.

A figure rushed through the doorway. I screamed, leapt out, and unleashed a barrage of Lady Clairol at a ghoulish green face. The masked figure yelled, and gloved hands flew to its eyes. Adrenaline pumping through me, I lowered my head and drove my shoulder into its solar plexus, ramming the figure against a bank of niches. It yelped as the vase prongs dug into its back. My knee slammed into the ghoul's groin, and he collapsed on the floor. The ghoul clutched at my legs as I darted toward the doorway, but I kicked out, hard, and shook him off.

Down the hallway I sprinted, past row upon row of alcoves, up the stairs, down another hallway, and up yet another set of stairs. I heard swearing and grunting from somewhere behind me, and the sound of footsteps slapping on the floor as the ghoul took up the chase.

Skittering around a corner into the Chapel of the Beatitudes, I saw a green Halloween mask lying on the floor. It was not the warty one my attacker had been wearing, nor was it the elongated one the grave robber had worn the other night with Cindy. What—was there a costume wholesaler down the street? And was I dealing with one guy with a mask fetish, or could there be a whole club of graveyard lunatics running around in Halloween disguises?

And where the
hell
was the exit?

Calm down, Annie.
Now was not the time to panic. Cursing my lamentable navigation skills, I crouched behind a winged sculpture in the Garden of Peace to try to get my bearings. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the flash of a tall figure and took off again, darting into the newer mausoleum wing, with its soaring cathedral ceilings and shiny pink marble crypts. Stars winked through the atrium high overhead, but the sound of footsteps spurred me on. I dashed back across the balcony connecting the new addition to the older part of the columbarium, hoping to lose my pursuer in the maze of short hallways and dark alcoves. Skidding to a halt in the Alcove of Repose, I squatted behind a baroque fountain flanked by two white stone benches.

Taking care not to make any noise, I inched Cindy Tanaka's map out of my bib pocket. From the Alcove of Repose it was a quick jaunt down the hall, past the bathroom, over to the stairs to the Main Cloister and the exit. I memorized the route, shoved the map back into my pocket, and listened for my pursuer.

All was quiet.

I crept toward the alcove doorway, looked about, and darted down the hall. I had reached the small bathroom when something hit my back, shoving me violently through the door, where I fell to the hard tile floor. The door slammed behind me, and in the pitch-black I thought I heard the jangle of keys and the sound of metal scraping and clicking. I threw myself against the door, but it was locked from the outside.

Trapped like a rat in the bathroom of a columbarium. It lacked dignity.

On the plus side, I was alive and only slightly worse for wear. My labored breathing echoed in the absolute darkness. I swung my arms blindly in the air until my fingertips found the string pull for the overhead light. I switched it on and, sight restored, spied a window behind the toilet. Climbing onto the toilet seat, I examined the small colored glass window of quatrefoil design that overlooked the Main Cloister at least twenty feet below. Generations of sloppy paint jobs had sealed it shut and I had no tools with which to pry it open. And even if I shattered the beautiful glass, I would break a leg—or more likely my neck—if I jumped to the hard tile floor below.