Feint of Art: (33 page)

“Have you ever
seen
such a handsome couple?” a misty-eyed Bryan demanded, draping a black lace shawl around my shoulders while Ron and Paul beamed their approval.

Frank navigated the crowded streets of the Castro with ease as we headed across town to the Brock. The Jaguar smelled of buttery leather upholstery, the temperature control kept the air circulating at a perfect seventy-two degrees, and the heated bucket seat tenderly embraced me. I caressed the inlaid wood on the door. A person could get used to this.

Frank spoke his first words as we crossed Fell Street. “You look very nice.”

“Thank you, Frank,” I replied. “You do, too. But then, you always do. That’s why we’re always teasing you.” One martini made me honest. Two martinis made me stupid. Fortunately, I’d stopped at one.

“Is
that
why?” He looked at me, eyebrows arched.

Time for a change of subject. I wondered why our conversations always became so tense, and vowed that this evening would be a new beginning. After all, Frank was doing me a favor.

“So, what’s your girlfriend’s name?” I asked.

“Ingrid.”

“
Ingrid?
” I caught myself. “I mean, my, what a pretty name. Is she Swedish?”

“She was born in San Francisco but her family’s originally from Sweden.”

It seemed to pain him to answer.

“Ah. So where are
you
from, Frank?”

“What makes you think I’m not from here?”

I had to laugh. This was not a good move, for my breasts swelled up and nearly spilled over the red silk dam. Frank almost steered us into the back of a Volkswagen microbus that was double-parked in front of a head shop.

We both settled down.

“Let me count the ways,” I finally answered him.

“First, you dress too well. Second, there’s not a single soda can or crumpled piece of paper in your car. Third, you’re a tad on the formal side. Fourth—”

He interrupted. “What do you mean, ‘on the formal side’?”

“What I said. It’s a polite word for stuffy. You know. Stuck up. Tight-assed—”

“Got it. Go on.”

“What did you mean the other day in your office when you said you were scared of me?” I asked.

“Just that. You’re scary.”

“Am not.”

He looked at me, puzzled again. I sighed. Looked like ol’ Frankie and I were going to have to work on our communication skills.

Now was not the time, however. We’d arrived at the Brock.

The museum was lit up like a Christmas tree, and throngs of over-waxed, over-dyed, and over-medicated beautiful people were emerging from their BMWs and Mercedeses and Lexuses—or was that Lexi?—and sauntering up the front steps. When we pulled up, a nattily dressed young man hustled over to take Frank’s keys to the Jaguar. A second valet opened my door and held out his hand to assist me. I stepped gracefully out of the car, tripped over my skirt, used my hands to hold up my bodice, and fell into the valet’s arms.

Frank kept a good hold on me as we walked up the wide granite steps. He handed his gilt-edged invitation to the doorman, who was wearing a white wig and dressed in eighteenth-century splendor, the Brock crest stitched in gold on his crimson vest. I was perversely pleased to see someone tonight who looked even more uncomfortable than I.

I had to hand it to the Brocks, though. They didn’t do anything halfway.

The museum’s main hall, with its Carrera marble floors and soaring domed ceiling, had been transformed into a grand ballroom. A twenty-piece string orchestra played softly in one corner. I caught a glimpse of linen-draped buffet tables hugging the rear walls, piled high with delicacies. A glittering crowd filled the room with lively chatter, the men in black tuxedos, the women arrayed in brilliant silks and satins, their jewels winking in the subdued lighting.

Waiters dressed in red boleros, white shirts, and black ties discreetly roamed the room, some offering crystal glasses of wine, others carrying silver platters of enticing appetizers displayed on ornate doilies. There was an open bar in one corner, where two bartenders were frantically pouring drinks. Little twinkle lights were everywhere, along with huge bouquets of flowers in urns the size of my kitchen table, and in the center of the room, a fountain with a frolicking cupid at its center spouted champagne.

We were savoring our very dry, very fine champagne when I spied Anthony Brazil in the crowd, his signature bow tie replaced by a glorious sapphire and gold silk ascot. On his arm was a woman old enough to be his mother, clad in what looked to be a pearl-and-diamond breastplate. Apparently realizing he’d been spotted, he and his escort sidled over, and he acknowledged me with a slight nod.

“Anthony. How nice to see you this evening,” I said properly. Earlier today Bryan and I had pondered how I should behave tonight, and we decided I should pattern myself after Queen Elizabeth. The second, well-mannered one, not the first, decidedly bawdy one. “May I present my escort, Mr. J. Frank DeBenton? Frank, this is Mr. Anthony Brazil.”

Frank ruined the effect of my royal graciousness by staring at me as if I’d lost my mind, and Anthony introduced his companion as Catherine Marvin, whom I now recognized as one of the wealthiest women in the city. Her late husband, Melvin, had made a fortune importing cheap footwear from Southeast Asia. Rumor had it that Melvin’s real money hadn’t come from rubber flip-flops, but high-grade heroin. I figured with a name like Melvin Marvin the guy was destined to go bad. Two years ago Melvin had dropped dead of a heart attack in the arms of his longtime mistress. According to the word on the street, after the funeral the new widow’s first act was to send the mistress back to Topeka with a comfortable pension and a warning that the checks would cease if she ever opened her mouth about Melvin. Catherine’s second act was to burn all known photographs of Melvin, as well as all his personal belongings. She was now spending what was left of her merry widowhood redecorating her Victorian Gothic mansion and making the Marvin money respectable by becoming a patron of the arts. For a social-climbing art dealer like Anthony Brazil, she was quite a catch.

Anthony glanced at me, looking rather nervous. “Why, I hardly recognized you, my dear. You look very . . . nice.”

“Thank you, Anthony,” I purred. “You also look very . . . nice.” Two could play the snotty game.

“Perhaps you would be good enough to call me in the morning about that business we were discussing last week?”

“Certainly,” I replied, grinning as he rushed to lose himself and his upper-crust date in the crowd.

“What was all that about?” Frank asked.

I tried for offhand. “Oh, some drawings he wants my opinion on.”

He wasn’t buying it. “Uh-huh. Your talents seem to be . . . much in demand these days.”

I was saved from answering by a waiter who just then offered up a silver platter of exquisite shrimp puff pastry. I bit into one and nearly fainted from joy.

As we chatted, I began to relax. Maybe it was the champagne kicking in, maybe it was the music and the party atmosphere, but Frank seemed to be loosening up, too, discreetly pointing to the other guests and telling amusing anecdotes about them, some of which he swore were true.

A waiter hurried by, carrying a tray of Chinese steamed dumplings. I loved those things and gestured to him, but he was looking elsewhere, and Frank had to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. The waiter jumped, sending two of the dumplings skidding onto the marble floor. Mumbling his apologies, he handed the tray to Frank, then began cleaning up the mess with cocktail napkins. Frank looked around, clearly not comfortable holding the tray.

I had to laugh. “I take it you’ve never been a waiter?” “It never was a goal of mine,” he admitted. Still, although Frank’s collar was as white as snow, there was something about him that suggested he was no stranger to physical labor.

“I waited tables for four long, hot summers when I was in college,” I reminisced. “At a truck stop in the Central Valley, off Interstate 5, no less. You haven’t lived unless you’ve schlepped steak and eggs for exhausted truckers at three in the morning. The work was awful, but the truckers were good tippers. And if they weren’t, I usually managed to spill coffee in their laps.”

Frank grinned. I could get used to that smile.

The waiter stood and reclaimed his tray, mumbled more apologies, and hurried away. Something about him nagged at me. “Did that waiter look familiar to you?”

“First valets, now waiters,” Frank teased. “I take it you have a thing for working stiffs?”

“Tell you what, Frank. I need to eat something, or I’m going to get drunk on this champagne and make fools of us both. My friends at the salon wouldn’t let me eat today. They were afraid I’d burst out of this dress.”

Frank peered over the edge of his champagne flute and gazed at my cleavage as if to assess the danger of that happening. I felt a jolt of electricity and my face grew warm, so I turned away, ostensibly to survey the buffet offerings. And then, hearing a rustle of fabric and a rattle of jewelry behind me, I froze.

“Why,
Frank
,” gushed Agnes Hilary Cuthbert Brock. “I’m
so
glad you could come. Isn’t everything simply
divine
? Couldn’t you simply
die
to see my Caravaggio? No peeking, now. The unveiling will be at nine o’clock sharp, and not one minute earlier! Do tell me, Frank, where is that
charming
Ingrid creature?”

Since my back was to them, I thought it might be best to just keep on going and disappear into the crowd. Unfortunately, Frank had other plans. I felt his warm hand on my bare shoulder and heard him begin to introduce me.

Agnes’s watery blue eyes bulged and her face turned a bright red. “You!” she squawked. “How ever did
you
get in here?”

Couples standing nearby ceased their conversation and looked over to see what all the excitement was about.

“Hello, Mrs. Brock. I—”

“Get out of my museum this minute, you—you—dubious person!” she spat, and with a grand sweep of her arm she pointed dramatically to the front entrance.

I was impressed, both with the gesture and with the fact that of all the names she might have called me, she’d limited herself to “dubious person.”

“Now, Mrs. Brock, you’re causing a scene,” I said in a low voice, hoping an appeal to decorum would help.

It did, a little. I didn’t dare look at Frank.

Agnes took in the curious stares and regrouped. “I will not tolerate any further slander of my Caravaggio, young lady,” she said, more quietly. “I—”

“Mrs. Brock, please. I’m not here for anything even remotely connected to the Caravaggio,” I said, improvising as I went along. “Frank’s charming Ingrid creature is out of town, and he was without an escort, that’s all. Besides, I thought it might be a chance for me to make amends.”

I hazarded a glance at Frank. He looked stunned. The best I could hope for, at the moment, was that he would hold his tongue.

“Very well, Ms. Kincaid. If I have your assurance that you will behave yourself, I will refrain from asking Security to escort you from the premises. But no more scenes.” She swept off regally.

There was a very awkward, very long silence.

“Perhaps you’d like to tell me about the circumstances under which you left the Brock’s employ?” Frank finally said through clenched teeth, anger and suspicion radiating off of him.

“It was a mutual decision,” I replied curtly. This was the sort of thing that always seemed to happen when I played by the rules. Maybe Grandfather was right. Maybe I should bag the respectable life and go paint forgeries in Paris. At least I’d make some decent money. And they had really good coffee in France.

“In what sense was it mutual?” Clearly Frank was not ready to drop the subject.

Aw, screw it. “In the sense that if I hadn’t left voluntarily, Agnes would have had me arrested,” I said.

“Any particular reason?” A muscle in his jaw had begun to twitch.

“It was a long time ago, Frank. Let it go. It’s really none of your business, anyway.”

Why did I feel I owed everybody in the world an apology for my past? Did they offer me one for theirs?

“It
is
my business that you are not welcome here,” he said heatedly. “It
is
my business that you finagled this date with me under false pretenses. You’ve made me look like an idiot in front of one of my most important clients.”

Oh. Well, he had me there.

“Frank, I’m sorry,” I said, chastened. “I didn’t think—”

“Of course not. Have you ever thought about what
I
might be feeling, Annie? And for future reference, you might keep in mind that I detest being played for a fool.”

“Played for a—Now wait a minute,” I protested. “It was nothing like that.”

“Wasn’t it? Excuse me. I need some fresh air.” He strode away stiffly.

That’s just great, Annie,
I muttered to myself as I made a beeline for the champagne fountain.
You have perfected the art of repelling men.
As I concentrated on filling my glass without splashing any liquid on Paul’s red silk gown, I felt annoyed with Frank, but mostly with myself. I had been so focused on the gala that I hadn’t given any thought to what it might mean for him to be escorting someone who had been banned from the Brock. Given his line of work, I should have realized that he would know Agnes. And it was stupid to have assumed I could manage to avoid Agnes all night.

These unpleasant thoughts were derailed, however, when I spied a familiar figure standing near a huge floral arrangement.

The X-man was back.

Wasn’t he wanted by the police? How stupid could he be, to stand out there in the open like that, in a museum filled with the City’s movers and shakers?

I scouted out the room and finally glimpsed Inspectors Crawford and Wilson hovering near an archway leading to the Early American collection, both dressed to the nines and trying to fit in. Just your average gorgeous black woman in a beautiful amethyst velvet gown, paired with an ugly, skinny white guy pulling at the collar of his ill-fitting tux.