Brush With Death (39 page)

“We've got a lot of money wrapped up in this project, Billy, and so far your role has been on the up-and-up. It would be a shame for you to be implicated in this.”

Billy seemed to hesitate.

“Ask him about Cindy Tanaka, Billy,” I said.

“What about her?” Billy replied.

“She didn't kill herself—” A pistol jammed into my side and I fell silent.

“Shut up!” Dr. Dick screamed. “Shut up or I'll—”

A pot of plastic flowers flew past his head, and Dick swung around and started firing wildly at fog-shrouded memorials.

“Take cover!” I yelled, and wrenching my arm from Dr. Dick's grip I dove behind Billy's truck. Dr. Gossen and Roy scrambled to join me, Billy jumped behind a headstone shaped like a weeping willow, and Dr. Dick staggered under a barrage of stones, sticks, dead flower arrangements, a pair of pruning shears, a broken rake, several sprinkler heads, a Mr. Igloo cooler, and at least three pairs of athletic shoes. I could have sworn a Civil War-era cannonball or two sailed past. Only the fact that none of my Bosnian friends had grown up playing America's favorite pastime saved Dr. Dick from severe head trauma.

I heard a rumbling sound, and in the blink of an eye part of the path and hillside gave way with a great
whoosh.
Billy's truck creaked and groaned before rolling onto its side, wiping out several small headstones and clipping Billy, who clutched at the grass briefly until the truck started sliding downhill, dragging him with it. I heard Dr. Dick laughing until the ground collapsed beneath him and he too was carried along as the mud slide picked up momentum. For a split second I thought Dr. Gossen, Roy, and I would be spared, but a sudden jolt beneath us had us slipping and sliding, groping and grasping. As we tumbled down the hill I grabbed for something solid, digging my nails into a man's skinny leg and getting clocked in the mouth by someone's elbow. We slid ten, twenty, thirty feet. Everything was dark and wet, so slippery that it was impossible to gain purchase as rocks and stumps, branches and headstones plunged down the steep hillside, creating a solid wall of mud. I felt myself doing somersaults and couldn't tell which end was up, so I concentrated on holding my breath and trying not to panic. As they said in the '70s,
go with the flow.

After what seemed like an eternity the slide slowed and finally stopped. I scraped the mud from my eyes, spat out a mouthful of muck, and took a deep breath. We had been depositedat the bottom of the hill, near the main cemetery gates. Flailing around and trying to stand up, I felt a mass of sludge settle in the rear of my overalls and tried not to think of the graveyard effluvia that encased me. The clinging mud made it hard to move, so I rested for a moment and took in the scene. Billy's truck was lodged at the base of a large oak tree, and on the edge of the slide zone I saw Helena run out of the cottage and take a swing at Mama Pete, who ducked and started walloping the docent about the head and shoulders with a muddy bouquet of plastic daisies. I heard Pete and Evangeline calling my name, but hesitated to reply in case Dr. Dick was near, prepared to shoot me for the sheer joy of it.

Quel soulagement!
And ze Raphael?

Merde!
I plunged my arms into the lake of mud, searching for the cardboard tube containing the precious painting. A few yards away Dr. Gossen sat shaking his head and looking befuddled. Rain had washed the mud from the professor's face, and the paleness shone in the dim light.

“Are you hurt?” I called out.

He shook his mud-caked head.

“Help me, then! We need to find the tube with the painting!”

We crawled around the slide zone, feeling for the tube.

“I found something!” he shouted.

I slithered toward him and together we excavated it. It wasn't the cardboard tube. It was an arm.

I did a quick head count. Billy Mudd was resting near his truck, Roy Cogswell was being assaulted by an outraged Bosnian mother, and Dr. Gossen was with me. The arm belonged either to a disinterred body or to Dr. Dick.

“Annie!”

“Pete! Over here!” I called. He, Evangeline, and Catiz slogged through the muck and helped us dig out the body.

“You hokay, Annie?” Evangeline asked, her mild blue eyes worried.

“I'm fine, thanks. I'm so glad you guys were here.”

“No kiddin'. We was about to leave 'cause of the rain, but we thought we'd wait and see if it cleared up. Whoa! This guy's a goner, ya ask me.”

“Dick!” I heard Helena scream. “My darling Dick!”

“Did you call 911?” I shouted, but she ignored me and ran full-throttle toward us, fell to her knees, and started pawing through the mud.

“We need something to dig with,” I said to Pete.

“We will get.” Pete spoke rapidly to Catiz, who sent a hovering cousin to fetch the tools the Bosnians had brought to clean up Potter's Field. With the aid of shovels and trowels we unearthed Dr. Dick. Helena threw herself on him, sobbing, and I pushed her aside to see if he was alive. I thought I felt a thready pulse but he was unconscious.

“Get help!” I said, and as Pete bounded off toward the cemetery office I turned on Helena. “
Now
don't you wish you'd called 911?” It was a cheap shot, but considering her beloved husband had intended to murder me—with her endorsement—I thought I was entitled.

“Everyone! Listen up! This is extremely important. We're looking for a cardboard tube, the kind posters come in. It's got to be around here somewhere.”

Leaving Dr. Dick to the ministrations of his beloved Helena, the rest of us fanned out across the slide zone to search for the missing Raphael. I felt a tightening in my chest, which meant either I'd inhaled a lot of mud or I was starting to panic. Even if we found the painting, the odds of being able to restore the damage wrought by tons of mud and graveyard debris seemed overwhelming.

“I've got it!” Billy yelled, holding up a muddy tube. “It landed in the cab of my truck.”

Bien fait,
chérie,
my grandfather whispered.
Ze great Raphael would zank you eef 'e could.

“Jeee-sus, wouldja get a look at my truck?” Billy muttered as we sat on a bench outside the columbarium.

After giving my statement to a bone-weary Detective Hucles, I had called Frank from the office. He arrived in an armored car and whisked
La Fornarina
away, promising to take it straight to Donato Sandino at the Getty Museum. The Italian fake buster would unleash the battery of restoration skills he'd mastered during the Arno River flood to repair any damage Raphael's masterpiece may have sustained.

I watched Pete, Mama Pete, Evangeline, Catiz, and several other cousins gesticulating energetically as they gave their statements, and wondered if the cops would be able to figure it all out. An ambulance escorted by a squad car had taken Dr. Dick and Helena away. Dr. Dick was alive but just barely, and I'd heard the EMTs puzzling over the terrible third-degree burn on his thigh. The vial of sulfuric acid must have been crushed during the mud slide.
Let that be a lesson to you, Dr. Dick,
I thought. Nobody messes with the little baker girl.

Miss Ivy, who'd had the presence of mind to call the fire and rescue squads when she heard the hillside give way, was distributing warm blankets and mugs of steaming coffee. It wasn't Peet's, but at the moment it was manna from heaven.

It was still raining, but at this point clean water could only help the situation. The straps and bib of my overalls sagged, and the mud-filled pants rode low on my hips. I'd been trying to scoop the muck out of them, but this proved hard to do and still remain a lady.

A flatbed truck rolled by, hauling the contorted mess that used to be Billy's pickup.

“I'll bet your insurance covers it,” I said. “You know, mud slides, acts of God . . .”

Mudd glared at me with a baleful expression.

“I have to confess that I was surprised when you came to our rescue, Billy. Don't take this the wrong way, but I never pictured you as one of the good guys.”

He shook his head. “Cindy and I met here, you know, when she was photographing some of the crypts. I know it's kind of weird, but sometimes I just sit in this cemetery, and enjoy the peace and quiet.” He paused and his voice lowered. “I thought Cindy killed herself because of me. Because of
us.
I've got a wife and kids. What the hell was I thinking?”

“Never again,” Billy said, his chin thrust out. “It's the straight and narrow for me from now on.”

I was skeptical, but who was I to say? I'd read that
Fatal Attraction
had driven an entire generation of philanderers into temporary fidelity. If a movie could inspire better behavior in an audience, then perhaps the murder of a young woman could reform Billy's character.

“You couldn't have known what Dr. Dick was up to, Billy,” I said. “He fooled all of us.”

“Maybe so. But I'll never know, will I? And Cindy paid the price for my mistakes.”

There wasn't much to say to that, so we watched the crowd begin to disperse and the squad cars leave. One of the cops signaled that we could go.

“Well,” Billy sighed. “If you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment with a marriage counselor.”

Now that it was safe to return to my apartment, I was looking forward to a long, hot shower. Assuming hot water was available. At this point, I'd settle for a long, cold shower. Anything to remove this clinging mud.

I was searching my bag for my truck keys when Michael approached, twirling a huge yellow-and-black-striped umbrella on his shoulder. He was dry and gorgeous and smelled as delicious as ever. He lifted one foot onto the bench and leaned on his knee.

“This is probably an inappropriate thing to say, under the circumstances, but that wet T-shirt you're wearing is making me hot.”

“You're incorrigible,” I said with a reluctant smile. “How did you know I was here?”

“The mud slide's been all over the news. I figured if there was a natural disaster you had to be involved.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Plus, Frank called. He asked me to tell you that Sandino's crew is at LAX waiting for him to arrive with the painting. They're as eager as a heart transplant team.”

I smiled, relieved. Now that Sandino had the original Raphael, both the painting and my grandfather were safe. For the moment anyway.

“The Italians are offering a nice reward for the relatively safe return of their national treasure. You can afford to go hang out on a beach in Hawaii for a while, see how much trouble you can get into amidst coconut oil and mai tais,” Michael said.

“Loitering in the Louvre is more my style,” I replied. “But any reward money should go to the columbarium. They were the ones who kept the Raphael secure all these years, and they need the cash to preserve Potter's Field.”

“You did good work, Annie,” Michael said. “I'll make sure the right people know.”

“We were lucky,” I said, shuddering at the memory of Raphael's great masterpiece buried beneath tons of mud, degrading by the soggy second. “It was nearly destroyed.”

“As your illustrious grandfather is fond of saying, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. If not for your quick thinking, who knows what might have happened.”

“Dr. Dick said he was going to give it back to the museum.”

“And you're taking the word of a homicidal doctor?”

“I guess you're right.”

“Of course I'm right. I'm always right.”

“Listen, I've been thinking,” I said. “You say there's good money in the art retrieval business?”

Michael looked surprised. “Let's put it this way—you'd have to paint half a lifetime to earn the equivalent of a single reward.”

I mulled that over. Working at the columbarium had taught me that life was short. I was thirty-two years old, owned a successful San Francisco faux-finishing business, and still had to work like a dog to make ends meet. When I started True/Faux Studios five years ago I'd known it would never be a gold mine, but I hadn't realized how all-consuming it would be. How much longer would I be willing to sacrifice all the other joys life had to offer—a dog, beach vacations, a mortgage—just to scrape by? Unless I landed a sugar daddy, won the lottery, or joined my grandfather in the family forgery business, I would spend the next thirty years laboring away with little to show for it.

“Would this business involve graveyard mud slides and homicidal physicians?” I asked.

“So far it's pretty much about e-mails.”

E-mails sounded good. I could handle e-mails.

“I wouldn't want to give up my studio.”

“You wouldn't have to. Just cut back on the jobs you don't want to do anyway.”

“And we'd be partners?”

“Absolutely.”

“I want sixty percent.”

He laughed. “Twenty-five.”

“No way.”

“Thirty.”

I glared at him.

“Forty-five.”

“
Fifty
-five, plus business cards engraved ‘Kincaid and Johnson.' ”

“Johnson and Kincaid.”

“It was my idea!”

“Kincaid and Johnson sounds like we sell men's clothing.”

“Fine. But I want
genuine
engraving on the business cards, not the cheap printed stuff.”

“Your name in raised type, eh?”