The Body in Bodega Bay (7 page)

Al lifted the soiled glass and started working again with fresh cotton balls dipped in solvent. Once he was satisfied with the result, he gently lifted any remaining flakes of residue by gliding the edge of his scalpel at a low angle to the surface in a delicate movement. He repeated this process until the entire icon had been treated. Then, using clean balls of cotton, he swabbed the surface one final time until it glowed. “There!”

At first I thought we were looking at the same painting freshly renewed, just as the dull hood of a car seems newly painted after a rainstorm. But in another moment I realized that not only were the colors brighter, but the composition had subtly changed. Whereas the previous Virgin stared out at the viewer, cradling Jesus in a presentational pose, the Virgin in this painting looked tenderly into her infant's eyes, her head turned to the side, toward his. Jesus in turn looked into his mother's eyes, his fingers resting trustingly on her shoulder. The facial details of both figures were more convincing, compared to the first painting, and the brushwork more complex, as in the intricate design of the hem of Mary's robe.

“It's a different painting altogether. I believe it's the Mother of God of Feodor,” Al exclaimed, with brio. “The original belongs to the Temple of St. Feodor in Kostroma. This version clearly was done in the eighteenth century. You can notice elements of realism as the result of influences filtering in from the West. At the time, the style was controversial. Brighter colors and more detail. Oh, yes, I think the museum will be pleased.”

“That's amazing,” said Toby. I could tell he was getting into it. “But now how do you know there isn't still another painting underneath the one you've removed?”

“I don't,” said Al, evidently content with himself. “There's a remote chance that there's even an earlier image under this one, but the risk of ruining the icon would be too great. Now that I've got an eighteenth-century panel with an eighteenth-century image, it's time to stop.”

“Say you didn't stop. How would you know for sure you've gone too far?” Toby persisted.

“Well, if you get down to the gesso—that's the primer—then you're in the crapper, because that means you've gone and wiped out the original image. Goodbye, painting.” I was familiar with gesso. It's a white, chalky mixture that artists laid down on raw wood as a primer to create a smooth surface on which to paint. “Once you expose the gesso,” Al went on, “there's no going back.”

Toby nodded soberly. “But what if you'd found gesso underneath the layer you just removed? What would you tell the museum?”

Al raised his palms and contorted his features into an expression of mock horror, then confided with a grin, “Thank God for tenure.”

Toby laughed. “I thought you didn't believe in God.”

“It's just a saying. Besides, it never hurts to be polite.” Then Al looked at me, as if in warning. “But seriously, folks, it's a delicate business when you're dealing with an older panel, because the question always is when to stop. In this situation I was pretty confident, but yes, there's an element of risk.”

“That would be the case with ours, then, if we found it, wouldn't it?” I said.

“Exactly,” agreed Al.

Toby picked up the thread. “In our case, something you said earlier has been bothering me. If the same kind of supports were used in the nineteenth century as in the Renaissance, what makes you think our panel is any older than the nineteenth century?”

“I'll show you. Let's take another look at your picture.” Toby handed Al the photo showing the reverse of the panel. “See here?” Al asked, tracing his finger along the top horizontal wedge across the back. “This wood is of a lighter color than the rest of the panel, which suggests that these wedges are replacements of the originals. The early icon makers hammered their wedges into place but didn't use glue, and eventually the strips became loose and fell out. You wouldn't expect to find replacements in a panel of more recent construction. So my guess is that your icon dates back at least to the 1600s, if not earlier.”

I was thinking hard. “I can see why it's so important to examine the panels. But there was only one photo of the icon in Morgan's auction catalog, and the same was true of their catalog online. I checked. The picture was of the front of the icon, showing the angel. So how could anyone, say a prospective bidder, know what the back was like or that there was any reason to think this particular icon, listed with a low estimate at a secondary auction gallery, was much older and more valuable than its description?”

Al shrugged. “They couldn't.”

Toby, who had been staring at the cleaned icon, looked up at me. “You're right. That would explain why there weren't lots of bidders. No one was interested.”

“With two exceptions,” I pointed out. “Charlie.” I waited a beat.

Toby finished my sentence. “And whoever killed him.”

R
OSE CASSINI
, the consignor of the icon, had agreed to meet with us the next morning at her home in Cazadero. On the way, we stopped off in Duncans Mills so Toby could hang a “closed” sign on his shop for the second day in a row. Wednesday morning is a slow time for business anyway, we rationalized. That done, we continued east for another few miles on 116.

The road that branches off 116 leading up into the hills to Cazadero is called the Cazadero Highway, but it's a narrow country road, with a speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour. It weaves alongside Austin Creek through dense forest impermeable to the sun. And now it had begun to rain. They say it always rains in Cazadero—it's officially the wettest place in the state. As we drove, mist rose from the pavement, the leaves dripped gloom, and the scent of sodden pine needles thickened the air. If you want to get away from it all and your favorite outfit is a poncho, then Cazadero fills the bill. Otherwise, I wondered, why would anyone choose to live in this sequestered hamlet? It's got a fire department, a post office, two churches, a general store, an auto repair shop, a bakery, and a bar.

“How did she sound on the phone yesterday?” asked Toby as we approached the outskirts of town.

“Upset to think that her icon might have had anything to do with Charlie's death. She never thought it was particularly valuable. She seemed willing enough to talk when I told her we were helping the sheriff.”

“Did you mention I was Charlie's partner?”

“Yes, and she said anything she could do to help, she would.”

“Let's hope she can. What are we looking for?”

“A small wood-frame house painted red, on the right side of the road just past the Cazadero sign. Slow down. I think that may be it.”

Toby eased up and pulled over. The house—a cabin really—was set well back from the street under a stand of pines. A shingle hanging from the roadside mailbox said “Cassini.” It had been a long time since the house had been painted. The siding was still recognizably red but faded. Moss clung to the roof. A rusty Dodge from another era sat on a dirt driveway in front of a small garage with a sagging door. The yard grew wild, but a big pot bursting with daffodils brightened the front porch.

Rain lashed the yard as we hurried to the door, which opened just as we gained the stoop. “Come in out of it,” Rose said as she waved us inside. “You can hang your things up here.” She pointed to a row of pegs next to the entrance. In contrast to the dilapidated exterior, the inside of the house was warm and welcoming. There were hand-loomed mats scattered on the pine floor and brilliant throws and blankets draped over the simple furniture, which consisted of wicker chairs, side tables, and a sofa. An old pine dining table was covered with an inviting tablecloth glimmering with gold threads and many shades of green. As I took things in, a smile rose to my lips, in response to which Rose said simply, “I'm a weaver. Do you like them?”

“Oh yes, they're beautiful! Did you make all these?”

She smiled and nodded. She was used to compliments about her work. “A number of shops around here carry them. It keeps me busy.”

We hung our wet things on the pegs and she led us to the table, where a pot of coffee and a platter of brownies awaited.

Rose Cassini was still an attractive woman, though she looked to be in her late sixties, perhaps even a few years older. Like so many other local women of her generation, she retained the style of a flamboyant youth: long hair gone white, which she wore in a thick bun held by a silver clasp; dangling earrings, also silver, matched by a wide silver bracelet; jeans and a shaggy pullover; no makeup. Tall enough to look commanding, she had kept her figure mostly, had full lips, creased cheeks, and dark, inquisitive eyes that searched our faces as we pulled chairs up to the table.

“Help yourself,” she said, extending the platter to Toby, then me. “Made them this morning, so they're fresh.” She poured each of us a cup of coffee.

“Thanks for agreeing to see us on short notice,” I said.

“Listen, I'm glad to have company.” Her manner was friendly and frank. “I have to tell you it was quite a shock when you called about this business. I mean the man who was killed. What was his name again?”

“Charlie Halloran,” said Toby. “We were partners.”

“That's what your wife said. You know, I spoke to him on the phone right after the auction.”

Rose had mentioned her conversation with Charlie when we'd agreed to meet, but then we spoke only briefly. “Yes,” I said, “I know he asked the auctioneer for your phone number. Can you tell us about it?”

“The auctioneer gave me his name and number and said the man who bought the icon wanted to get in touch with me. I was curious, so I called him.”

“Do you remember exactly what he said when you spoke to him, Mrs. Cassini?” I prompted.

“It would be Ms. Cassini, actually. But please call me Rose. Yes, I remember the conversation clearly enough. He was very pleasant, polite. He asked me what I could tell him about the provenance of the icon—you know, where I had gotten it—and whether I would mind telling him whether I was also the consignor of another lot that he had bought, which, it so happened, I was.”

The second part of her answer caught me off guard.

“What lot was that?” asked Toby. He was surprised too.

“The storyboards,” she said.

We both looked blank.

“You see,” Rose continued, “both lots were listed in the catalog as ‘the property of a lady'”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“which is the terminology they use in these auctions. I can tell you I got a good laugh out of that. Me, a lady? Anyhow, your friend wanted to know if I was the ‘lady' in both cases. I told him yes I was, and then he wanted to know more about the storyboards and whether I had any others I might want to sell and whether I had any other icons I might want to sell, too.”

“This is the first we've heard about any storyboards,” said Toby. “Can you tell us what they were?”

“The sketches for
The Birds
, you know, the Hitchcock film.”

Toby pursued the point. “Charlie bought some sketches for
The Birds
at the same auction? And you were the consignor?”

“That's right.”

He raised a finger to his lips. “Come to think of it, he did say something about buying some movie memorabilia. But he wasn't specific. What did they look like?”

“Wait a sec,” I interrupted. “I'm going to have to relate all this to the sheriff's department, and I better get it all down.” I brought out a pen and notepad and then turned to Rose. “So the first thing Charlie asked you about was the provenance of the icon and the next thing he asked you was whether you were the consignor of some Hitchcock memorabilia?”

“That's right.”

“And this was artwork connected with
The Birds
?”

“Right. Back in the early '60s I had a boyfriend named Peter who was an assistant to the art director for Alfred Hitchcock, and these were some of the storyboards that he had drawn while they were working on the film. And as a matter of fact, Peter was also the one who gave me the icon.”

I caught Toby's eye. Rose seemed primed to continue, so neither of us made a comment.

“I told all that to your friend, and he seemed really interested in the coincidence that the storyboards and the icon had come from the same person. And I said it also seemed odd to me that one person would bid on both items. He said it wasn't that odd. He explained he was a dealer and sold antiques as well as popular culture stuff. ‘Collectibles,' I think he called them. Then he asked if I had any other Russian icons or any more Hitchcock material to sell, and I said no, and he said that was too bad and thanked me and rang off. That was it. I didn't think any more about it until you called.”

Toby glanced again in my direction. “Could you describe these storyboards to us?”