Brush With Death (38 page)

“Sure. Aaron, Dick, Helena, and I all grew up here, went to Piedmont High together. Dick was in love with Helena even then, I think.” He looked at Helena. “When you married Garner it nearly killed him.”

Helena smiled in satisfaction, and again I wondered what it was about this woman that caused men to lust after her so. It had to be something unnatural.

“Let me get this straight, Roy,” I said. “If you found something valuable enough you could persuade the board not to sell Potter's Field to Aaron Garner and Billy Mudd, is that right?”

“Why do you think I've acted like such an idiot?”

“But then someone was trying to stop you and Russell. And Cindy.” And if Garner and Mudd didn't acquire the land, Helena wouldn't get her house with a view of her son's grave. How far would Aaron Garner be willing to go to ensure his ex-wife's happiness? Could he be putting those headstones from his yard to good use?

“Where's the painting you found in the sepulcher?” I said.

Roy stood, reached around the counter, and brought out a long cardboard tube. “Take it, it's yours. I can't do this anymore.”

I uncapped the tube and slid the painting out. For all I knew I would find Crispin Engels' copy, or even the cheap digital one. But the merest glance revealed the canvas was old, very old. I took the painting to Russell's desk and slowly unfurled it. Everything receded as Raphael's beautiful baker girl, his lover and perhaps his wife, gazed at me with utter self-assurance across the distance of five centuries.

I reminded myself to breathe, so exhilarated and frightened was I to touch Raphael's great masterpiece. I had to get it to the authorities, and fast. I had to—

The door flew open. It was Dr. Dick. With a gun. And, I presumed, bullets.

“
There
you are,” he said to Helena, who smiled coquettishly.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out Roy's weapon. “Don't even think about it, Dr. Dick,” I said, channeling Clint Eastwood.

He paused.

“Her gun's not loaded, darling,” Helena said, and Dick smirked.

I
knew
I didn't like that woman.

“Give me the gun, Annie,” Dr. Dick said. “Go on, now. Or I'll shoot Roy.”

I handed it over. Dick stuck it in my face, and pulled the trigger.

I knew for a fact the gun was empty, but the good doctor didn't. My heart leapt into my throat, and my bladder threatened to explode. Note to self:
in the future, avoid psychopathic physicians willing to shoot you in the head at point-blank range.

“Empty it is,” he said in a conversational tone. “Why would you threaten me with an empty gun?”

“It was worth a shot. So to speak.” I thought my voice wavered but it was hard to tell over the sound of my pounding heart.

Dr. Dick spotted the painting. “Lovely, just lovely. And it is the original?”

“Hard to say,” I hedged.

He shrugged. “The box, please.”

“What box?”

“The one from Louis Spencer's pyramid. Time to tie up the loose ends. As if it's not bad enough being forced to work with Garner on this housing development, I had to take care of all of these fortune-hunting idiots who were trying to stand in our way. The past few days have been very difficult. You have no
idea
what stress does to the gastrointestinal tract.”

At the moment, I thought I just might.

“Darling, Roy says the box only held worthless ashes,” Helena told him.

“I'm not about to take his word for it, pet,” Dick said with a smile for his wife. “I want to put everything back where it belongs, make sure nothing incriminating is floating around.” He held his gun to my head. “
Where's
the box?”

“If I tell you, what's to keep you from killing us?”

“Tell you what. Either you tell me if the painting is real and where the box is, or . . .”

Silence hung over the room like a thundercloud.

“. . . I'll destroy the painting.” Dr. Dick reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small vial of clear liquid. “This is concentrated sulfuric acid. Are you familiar with it?”

“Chemistry's not my strong suit,” I said.

“Never would have made it through medical school, then! Sulfuric acid is a combination of hydrogen, sulfur, and oxygen. It's highly corrosive. We used to sing a little ditty about it in organic chem class.

Helena laughed and clapped her hands.

Good Lord, she's as nutty as he is,
I thought. Dr. Dick was right. They were made for each other.

“If I pour this acid on the painting, the resulting exothermic reaction will eat right through the canvas,” he continued.

“You can't do that!” I protested.

“My dear, I assure you, I can. And I will.” He uncapped the vial. “Two little questions. Is the painting real? Where's the box?”

“But—”

“Is. It. Real?” Dick repeated, tilting the vial over
La Fornarina.

“
Yes.
Don't.
Please.
”

“That wasn't so hard, was it?” He recapped the vial and dropped it in his pocket. “Now, where's the box?”

“It's hidden.”

“Roy said he put it back in Louis' crypt,” the ever-helpful Helena offered.

“That was a decoy,” I said. If I told Dick I'd given the box to the police, what was to keep him from murdering us right here? I'd take my chances outside. “I know where the real one is.”

“Where?”

“In a crypt.”

“But not Louis' crypt?” He looked suspicious.

“No, another one, up on the ridge.” I met his eyes, hoping I sounded sincere. “Near the Locklear Memorial.”

“All righty.” He grabbed the Raphael with one hand. “Helena, pet, stay here. I don't want you getting your footies damp and catching a cold. The rest of you, come with me.”

I took a step toward him. “Please, Dr. Dick. Leave the painting.” The centuries-old paint and varnish would be able to withstand a little rain, but not much.

“I'm afraid I can't do that.”

“At least let me put it in the cardboard tube to protect it.”

“I never could resist a request from a pretty girl,” he sighed. “Go ahead, but hurry up.”

I carefully rolled
La Fornarina,
whose steady gaze seemed to reassure me, slipped it in the tube, and popped on the plastic cap.

“What are you doing here, Professor?” Dick looked over at Gossen. “You were so stubborn about not giving me Cindy's personal information, I assumed you were smart enough to stay out of it.”

“I was gobsmacked by the whole thing—” Gossen stammered.

“Never mind,” Dr. Dick interrupted him. “Wrong place, wrong time, eh? Come along now.”

Ever the genial host, Dr. Dick ushered Roy, Dr. Gossen, and me outside, where we huddled in the shelter of the cottage's portico. “All the way up there?” he asked with a twinge of annoyance, as though I had suggested we park in the farthest corner of the Wal-Mart lot. “Not the nicest afternoon for a stroll, is it? Do you know, I think a little murder-suicide in the crypt by a despondent art forger might be just the ticket.”

He gestured with his weapon and the four of us started hiking. Within minutes we were soaked, and I tried to ignore the rivulet of water running down my back. I scanned the gray landscape, but though the cemetery was open for business, there wasn't a living soul in sight. Accustomed to bright sunshine as their birthright, Californians are bewildered by bad weather, and tend to hibernate at home watching videos until the sun comes out again.

Dr. Gossen slid on the muddy asphalt path, and Roy Cogswell sniveled and wrung his hands. Neither promised to be much help engineering an escape. If we were going to get out of this alive I would have to take action. I just didn't know what.
Grandfather,
I beseeched,
give me some ideas here. I need your help.

Run, chérie!
Vite!
Hide!

“Dr. Dick,” I said. “You don't really want to hurt anyone, do you? Why don't you take the painting and go? It's worth a fortune, you know.”

“You think I want the painting? I just didn't want my old cousin Roy here to use it to stop our housing project. I'll return it to the Barberini Palace, where it belongs.”

“That's very admirable,” I said, trying to resurrect the camaraderie we'd enjoyed over coffee and scotch a lifetime ago. “Really.”

He gave me a crooked, raffish smile. The rain had plastered his silvering hair to his head, but he was still a good-looking man. Were it not for the fevered glint in his eye, and the fact that he was pointing a gun at me, he might have been a charming escort.

“And if I let you go you'll promise not to say anything, is that it?” He laughed. “You'll keep quiet about Cindy and Henderson and Russell?”

“Of course I will. What . . . what did you do to Mrs. Henderson?”

“The nosy old broad was renewing her questions about
La Fornarina
's authenticity, and blabbing it to the world in her biography. Cindy told her darling Billy all about what she had learned from the old lady, and Billy mentioned it to me. Henderson urged Cindy to hide the painting, but the girl refused to tell me where, so I gave her a few medications to keep her quiet for good. Then I went to the retirement home, where I blended right in. No one questions a doctor in a white coat. I simply gave Henderson a quick shot of a placebo in place of her insulin, and readjusted the calibration on her glucometer so she went into a diabetic coma. One great thing about knowing how to save lives is that you also learn how easy it is to take them.”

“That's horrifying.”

He shrugged. “Now do you see why I don't think you'll keep your mouth shut?”

Oops. “Sure I will.”

“I've been lied to by plenty of patients, Annie. I know when someone's telling me the truth and you, my dear, are fibbing.”

Dr. Dick might be crazy, but he wasn't stupid.

“Were you the one who trashed my apartment?” I asked, hoping to keep him talking.

“I'm surprised you could tell,” Dr. Dick said in a disapprovingtone. “Really, my dear, you should tidy up more often. Your apartment was a mess.”

“I like it that way.”

“One of your kind neighbors let your ‘uncle' in the building's front door, and then I simply picked the lock. Young women should be more careful. I needed to know what you were up to. You're awfully curious for a faux finisher.”

“We're like that.”

“It's a pity,” he said ominously.

Our soggy foursome slogged its way up the hill. I spied the stack of Civil War cannonballs and flirted with the notion of clonking Dick on the head with one, but couldn't figure out how to distract him long enough to pry one loose from its mortar. I imagined myself kneeling in the mud pawing at the cannonballs while Dr. Dick blew me away.

“Annie, take comfort from the fact that you will go to your heavenly reward knowing a priceless masterpiece has been saved. It will be discovered with your bodies, and repatriated to Italy where it belongs.”

What a dick.

As we neared the crest of the hill I thought I saw something move. But the clouds were low and visibility was poor, and try as I might I could make out nothing more inspiring than silent, stone angels.

All of a sudden a large brown head popped up from behind the Gandolfi family monument.
Pete!
My friend gestured incoherently and ducked back down as Dr. Dick whirled around. He eyed me with suspicion and I tried to look defeated. It wasn't much of a stretch.

“Where is it?” Dr. Dick demanded.

“A little farther,” I said, remembering that Pete had planned to meet his mother, Evangeline, his cousin Catiz, and assorted Bosnian relatives to work in the cemetery today. If I could stall Dr. Dick for a few more minutes we might get out of this alive.

Over the pouring rain and the rumble of thunder I thought I heard a car approaching. A big white truck emerged from a rain cloud, sped up the hill, crossed a patch of grass, and slid to a halt on the hill above us. Billy Mudd jumped out of the cab.

Dammit!
The odds were bad enough before, but with Billy here—

“Dick, you piece of
shit,
” Billy snarled.

Dr. Dick aimed the gun at him, and grabbed me by the arm. “Stay out of this, Billy. I've got everything under control.”

“Like hell you do. Let these folks go. This has gone far enough.”

Well, who knew? The Evil Developer had a conscience after all.

I had hoped Dr. Gossen and Roy would seize the moment to escape, but both men were rooted in place, gawking. One would think they'd never been kidnapped at gunpoint before.

“We're on the same side, Billy,” Dick said in a soothing “there, there, Doctor'll make it all better” voice. “Go home and let me take care of this. I'll call you later.”

“Dick—”