Feint of Art: (39 page)

“He did. Claims it was a tragic accident, although it’s not quite clear how one ‘accidentally’ shoots someone four times at close range in a museum at midnight and fails to call an ambulance. It seems Dupont had discovered Edward’s scheme to steal the Caravaggio and was blackmailing him. Edward also admitted to panicking and taking the security tapes, but he claims he left them in his office, where they disappeared. My guess is that they went up in smoke the next morning. His lawyer arrived and shut him up before he confessed to anything else, but he did finger Harlan for Joanne Nash’s murder. Said Nash double-crossed them, sold a fake instead of the real painting to the New York contingent, and split the money with her sister, Quiana. I guess that’s why the New Yorkers were gunning for Harlan. The Yountville police recovered some excellent fingerprints at her antiques shop, so we’ll see.”

I recalled Michael’s insistence upon our wearing the latex gloves, and silently thanked him. If the Yountville police had found our fingerprints at Joanne’s, we would have had trouble talking our way out of that one.

“The DA isn’t buying Edward’s self-defense story, by the way,” Annette continued, “although between the Brock family’s money and their political connections, who knows what will eventually happen. Edward also spilled the beans about the scheme to steal the original Caravaggio and replace it with a fake. How well did you say you knew Colin Brooks?”

“We met once or twice, that’s all.”

“Hm. He’s still missing. You be sure to let me know if you hear from him, you understand?”

“No problem,” I lied.

“We’re also holding Camilla Culpepper for manslaughter in the death of the man whose body we found in the basement hallway—a big, ugly dude named Thomas. Hired muscle, most likely. And for the attempted murder of the other two guys we found down there. Looks like they’ll both recover from their wounds eventually. We’re holding them for the murder of Harlan Coombs. Kind of a war zone, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” So the Hulk was dead. I tried to muster some sense of loss at the death of a fellow creature, but couldn’t manage it. “What about Ernst Pettigrew?”

“As far as we can tell, he was killed the same night as Dupont, and his body dumped in the Bay a few days later, to make it look like a suicide. I think one of this cast of characters was looking for that drawer key, and didn’t realize Coombs had it. And it turns out that Camilla Culpepper had an arrangement with Harlan, too. They were going to soak her husband for the cost of the original Caravaggio, but give him a fake they’d commissioned from some well-known forger.”

“Is that right? What
is
the art world coming to?”

“Guess you’re probably shocked to hear about such things, eh, Annie?”

“You have no idea, Annette. No idea.”

“The Brocks, by the way, are overjoyed to have the Caravaggio back. I think that for Agnes Brock it almost balances out discovering that her grandson and heir apparent is a thief and a murderer. Incidentally, I told her that you’re the one she should thank, not me.”

“I’ll bet she just loved hearing that,” I muttered. It would be a cold day in hell before that woman expressed gratitude to me for anything.

“I also suggested she give you a reward. I figured you could use it.”

“Yeah, well, I won’t hold my breath. Listen, there’s something I’ve been wondering about. What’s going to happen to Camilla’s dog?”

With Mr. Culpepper out of town and her mumsy wuzzums in jail, I figured it would take Emily all of ten minutes to drop the dog off at the pound before she fled town.

“Funny you should ask.” Annette sounded sheepish. “Miss Mopsy’s right here with me. She seems to be settling in pretty well, aren’t you, my widdle biddy Bopsy Boo?”

I smiled. Another dog lover heard from. “She’s a sweetheart, all right. Oh, Annette, one more thing: the other painting’s a fake, too.”

There was a pause.

“But if the Brock Museum has a fake, and the New Yorkers have a fake, and the Culpeppers have a fake, then where’s the real one?”

“Chicago,” I said without thinking.

“What? Why Chicago?”

“At the Fabulous Fakes Exhibit. It’s a long story.”

There was another pause. “Look, I’m just a cop, Annie. If the Brocks say their painting is real, it’s not my business to tell them otherwise. Well, I’ve got to go. Miss Mopsy here needs her walk.”

Frank gave me a lift back to the studio, where I’d left my truck. I’d locked my wallet and house keys in the glove compartment yesterday, figuring the last thing I needed to worry about during the gala was keeping track of an evening bag. Considering I’d managed to lose even my shoes, that had been a good instinct. Frank had kept my truck key for me, and handed it to me now. I thanked him for everything and was about to close the Jaguar’s door when he said, “Annie, hold it.”

I held it.

Frank looked unaccountably uneasy. “Listen, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I might be able to hold off on that rent increase for a little while. I have something in mind that could use a good eye—it’s nothing as exciting as what you’re used to, but I would be willing to trade some rent for your expertise.”

I was flummoxed. And to think, all it had taken for Frank to see things my way was one especially disastrous date.

“Plus, I was thinking about sprucing up the building a little. Maybe we could showcase some of your faux finishes in the hallways. You know, make the place more interesting and increase the property value. Then I could jack up the rent for the architects and computer designers. Come by my office tomorrow morning at nine, and we’ll hammer out the details.”

“I will,” I said, nonplussed. “And Frank—thanks for not leaving without me last night.”

“No problem,” he said with a shrug.

I stared as the Jaguar drove off. I didn’t have to worry about being thrown out of my studio! Relief washed over me. Ol’ Fender Bender there was a hard one to figure out.

Firing up the truck, I pulled out of the parking lot. It was early on Sunday morning, and apart from a few joggers and assorted health nuts, most of San Francisco was still tucked in bed. Traffic on the Bay Bridge was light. As usual, it was warmer in the East Bay than in the City, and I rolled down the window and enjoyed the balmy morning air as I drove to Fanny’s Café on San Pablo Avenue for a latte to go. In my stocking feet and wrinkled ball gown I felt like a disreputable Cinderella, but I was beyond caring. Being sophisticated Berkeleyites and all, the café’s other customers pretended to ignore me, and I caught only one or two surreptitious stares.

At last I headed home, parked in back of the house, let myself in the front door, and trudged up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, holding my skirt in one hand and the latte in the other. All I could think about was how delighted Grandfather would be to hear the news: his fake
Magi
was hanging in the Brock Museum, displayed as an original, while the real Caravaggio was hanging in the Fantastic Fakes exhibit in Chicago, displayed as a fake. Georges and his felonious cronies would be high on life for a week.

But what would happen to the real Caravaggio when the Chicago exhibition was over? The thought gave me pause. It needed to be taken care of, before some unscrupulous lowlife caught wind of it and . . . and speaking of which, where had Michael gotten to? Had he figured it out, too?

Was the pope Catholic?

I entered my apartment and locked the door behind me. With a sigh I went into the bedroom, stripped off the ruined dress and filthy stockings, and slipped into a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and my Birkenstocks. I wiggled my toes. Heaven.

I scuffed down the hall to the kitchen and flopped into a chair. As I reveled in the latte’s rich flavor, my eyes were drawn to the evil elf, perched in a corner of the kitchen. It leered at me, a souvenir of better times—of another time, anyway.

What caught my attention, though, was the envelope in the elf’s little hands.

The envelope that hadn’t been there yesterday, and that had my name on it, written in a bold, unfamiliar script.

I set the latte down and approached the elf cautiously, as if it might, at any moment, spring to life and attack me. I snatched the envelope out of its hands. It was thick, but gave no clue to its contents. I tore it open.

Inside was a round-trip plane ticket to Chicago, departing Oakland International Airport tomorrow afternoon at 12:40. The enclosed note read:

I sat at my kitchen table for a long time, thinking.

I could make the meeting with Frank tomorrow morning at nine to discuss the break in the rent and still have time to catch the plane. However . . .

Annette had specifically requested that I not leave town. I was supposed to give her a formal statement about what had happened last night at the Brock gala.

I had a good friend who was recuperating from injuries sustained in the course of trying to protect me.

I had several faux-finishing jobs that were due and John Steubing’s portrait to finish.

I had bills to pay.

In short, I had a life and obligations here, and none of them included the X-man, or my grandfather, or Anton, for that matter.

I pondered some more. Then I picked up the phone.

“Mary? It’s Annie. Could you watch over Pete and the studio for a few days? I’m on my way to Chicago.”

Annie’s Basic Old Master Glaze
(For faux finishing walls and furniture)

 

⅓ Mineral spirits
⅓ Artist’s quality boiled linseed oil* or a commercial
alkyd faux-finishing liquid (available at most paint retailers)
⅓ Alkyd tinted wall paint

 

*Linseed oil is the traditional painter’s medium but it tends to be very shiny and slow-drying. It also may yellow over time, making blue finishes especially difficult to achieve. For a completely matte finish and shorter drying time, substitute a commercial alkyd faux-finishing liquid.

 

 

Mixing Glaze:
Mix all ingredients well before and during the project. If any pigment is not thoroughly mixed, it will show as a blotch on the wall. A large mayonnaise jar full of glaze is usually sufficient for an average living room, but it is always best to mix extra glaze. It is very hard to achieve exactly the same color in a different batch of glaze!

 

Basecoat:
Remember that the wall base paint will show through the glaze coat. The base is typically lighter than the glaze, but the color choices and combinations are limited only by one’s imagination. A typical parchment finish is a raw sienna glaze over a Navajo white base coat; burnt umber creates a mellow brown antique feel; burnt sienna gives an orangey-red earthy glow. Choose an eggshell latex paint for an even base coat surface that will not absorb too much of the glaze. While painting the wall with the base coat, paint a few big pieces of heavy cardboard or scrap lumber to test your glaze color intensity as well as to practice your technique. Allow the base coat to dry for forty-eight hours before faux-finishing.

 

Glaze is a translucent film of pigment which alters but does not hide the base coat. The best way to learn how to achieve the finish you want is to experiment. Apply the glaze coat to a base-coated surface with a regular brush or sponge, then try any of the following:

Glazing a wall is a fast, intense job usually best done with a helper. Starting in the uppermost left corner (for right-handers, the opposite for lefties), one person begins painting the glaze on the wall loosely with a brush. The second person follows, creating the desired texture, moving to the right and down the wall rapidly. Both of you should move back and forth quickly so that the “edge” of the glaze is never allowed to dry; if it does so, it will create a “hard edge” that is impossible to mask. Similarly, going back “into” glaze that is already drying usually creates a blotchy mess; it is better to leave light or missed areas alone and feather in fresh glaze afterward, when the surface is completely dry.

 

Nobody’s Perfect:
If you do happen to end up with a lot of blotches and hard edges, try over-glazing with another coat of glaze, either in the same color or a coordinating one. Or just go with the “old plaster” theme—paint in a few more “cracks” and “veins,” and pretend you did it on purpose. If all else fails, you can start all over again, this time approaching the wall as an experienced fauxfinisher. Just remember: it’s only paint!

Hailey Lind is the pseudonym of two sisters, one a historian in Virginia, the other an artist in California. Their identity is a closely guarded secret . . . unless someone really wants to know.