by Lind, Hailey
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Author’s Note
Annie’s Guide to Marbling
Praise for the Art Lover’s Mysteries
Shooting Gallery
“The art world is murder in this witty and entertaining mystery!”
—Cleo Coyle, author of the Coffeehouse Mysteries series
“An artfully crafted new mystery series!”
—Tim Myers, author of A Pour Way to Die
“Lind’s latest creatively combines mystery, humor, and interesting art tidbits. The unique characters—including aging art forgers, art thieves, and drug smugglers—add depth to this well-plotted cozy.” —Romantic Times
“[A] fast-paced, thoroughly enjoyable novel.”
—Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine
Feint of Art Nominated for an Agatha Award
“Feint of Art is full of action and wit, not to mention clues and dead ends and dead ends and clues. Readers are in for a treat with this extremely well-written debut.”
—Once Upon a Romance Reviews
“Annie Kincaid is a fun and fascinating new sleuth whose adventures are delightfully different. . . . This is a series to watch.” —New Mystery Reader Magazine
“The writing in Feint of Art is breezy, and the story hangs together very nicely, with lots of humorous dialogue and situations . . . a rollicking good read.” —Mystery News
“A fun plot and lots of action. If you enjoy Stephanie Plum, I’d urge you to give Hailey Lind’s book a try.”
—Coffeeshop Writers
“A fun and fast-moving mystery novel that is sure to delight . . . loaded with interesting information about the art world and the shadowy world of art forgers and forgeries.”
—Spinetingler Magazine
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, July 2007
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes and Carolyn Lawes, 2007
All rights reserved
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To Jace,
who doesn’t suffer fools but makes an exception for us . . .
and to all the schoolteachers and librarians
who insist upon educating our children.
Acknowledgments
Thanks are due to so many people! To the women and men of the FBI for answering a multitude of strange and suspicious questions about art crime, criminal enterprise, and firearms; to Chapel of the Chimes and in particular Allison Rodman, whose warmth adds to that of this beautiful and peaceful place; to Susan Baker and Bee Enos, RNs willing to discuss all sorts of ways to kill people and not think less of the one inquiring. Special thanks to Shay for Pete’s malapropisms and the mud slide, and so much else. To Kendall, for her smile and her sweet friendship through the years. To Camille Minichino, Margaret Dumas, Simon Wood, Ann Parker, and all the Sisters (and Brothers) in Crime. To our extended family for a truly boisterous welcome in Seattle, and Sherri at the lounge at the Sixth Avenue Inn—a patient and wondrous waitress. To Chris Casnelli, Scott Casper, Anita Fellman, Steve Lofgren, Sandra Pryor, Anna Cabrera, Mary Grae, Suzanne Chan, Pamela Groves, Jan Strout, and the entire Mira Vista Social Club (including honorary members) for unflagging friendship. To Kristin Lindstrom, agent extraordinaire, and Kerry Donovan, editor nonpareil. To Bob and Jane Lawes, Susan Lawes, Sergio Klor de Alva, and Malcolm Martin for— well, everything. And finally, to all the independent book merchants who keep books and those who read and write them alive, armed only with stubborn tenacity, a passion for reading, and a whole lot of humor!
Chapter 1
He who possesses most must be most afraid of loss.
—Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), Italian painter and inventor
He who hungers most must be most afraid of a buffet.
—Georges LeFleur (1932- ), art forger extraordinaire
The sweet-faced boy, one arm curled around his cocker spaniel puppy, paid no attention to the swaying and bobbing of the sagging helium balloons near the doorway. Fluffy brown teddy bears, shiny toy trucks, and wooden alphabet blocks lay at his feet, but Louis Spencer didn’t notice them. He never would.
Louis Jonathan Spencer, “Our Sweet Angel,” had died in 1937 at the age of six.
“I can’t believe his family still leaves toys for him after all these years,” I whispered.
“They don’t.”
The young
woman finished measuring the doorway with a heavy carpenter’s tape and jotted the dimensions on a pad of paper. With a delicate frown of concentration, she clicked her ballpoint pen closed, stuck it under the hinge of her clipboard, and stowed the items in a large canvas carryall. Picking up a complicated-looking camera the size of her head, she squatted and began snapping photos of the many offerings to the memory of Louis Spencer.
“The crypt’s not even endowed,” she continued. “That’s why it’s falling apart.”
The camera’s insistent strobe light flashed through the night’s darkness, lending the pyramid-shaped stone-and-concrete crypt an incongruous disco effect. In the sporadic illumination I caught glimpses of the interior beyond the rusty wrought-iron gate. A broken stained glass window in the shape of a cross with a rose in the center bowed under its own weight, and had been protected from further disintegration by an overlay of cheap chicken wire. Despite the damage and makeshift repair, I could easily imagine sunlight cascading in through the window, filling the crypt’s interior with the soft brilliance of fine jewels.
Near the door an intricate floor mosaic was covered with a thin layer of mud and leaves, while bald patches in the abstract pattern revealed that dozens of the exquisite blue and metallic gold ceramic tiles had long since been lost or destroyed. The marble figure of little Louis Spencer, embracing his beloved dog, was missing two fingers and bloomed with a bad case of greenish white lichen. My own fingers itched to restore the water-stained canvas of angels that sagged from the steep ceiling.
“I’m Cindy Tanaka,” the young woman said as she dismantled her camera and packed it, piece by piece, into a large black leather bag. “I’m writing my dissertation at Cal on the phenomenon of public grieving. Louis Spencer’s crypt has become a place for strangers to make offerings to a little boy who died before most of them were even born. What are you doing here at this hour?”
“My name’s Annie Kincaid,” I said. “I’m restoring some paintings at the Chapel of the Chimes next door.”
“That right?” Cindy’s cool, dark eyes swept over me. Her pencil-slim figure was clad in pressed khaki chinos, a crisp white blouse, and spotless striped espadrilles, and her straight black hair was swept off her smooth forehead with a wide pink band. My not-so-lithe figure was dressed in its usual business attire: a paint-stained black T-shirt, faded denim overalls, and scruffy running shoes worn without socks. My curly brown hair was piled in a messy knot on top of my head, anchored by an artist’s paintbrush. My chic friend Samantha, a jewelry designer, had complimented my use of the brush as “fashion-forward,” but the truth was I could never find bobby pins when I needed them.
“Nice to meet you.” As I held out my right hand, I noticed the tips of my fingers were stained a virulent shade from the vermilion I had been using while painting angels’ robes, and my thumb was smeared with the burnt umber glaze I used for antiquing.
Cindy shook my multihued hand with her firm, clean one. We gazed into the crypt, our flashlights illuminating slices of the inky interior.
“What’s with the Egyptian motif? I noticed another pyramid nearby, as well.”
“It was popular in the twenties and thirties, when a lot of the Great Pyramid excavations were going on. I’m trying to decipher some of the hieroglyphs, but I think they’re mainly decorative,” Cindy mused. “It’s funny, there’s something special about this crypt. People bring things here all the time. A lot of them sit for a while, meditating or praying or talking to themselves. Sometimes they let me take their pictures.”
“Is it open to visitors?” I asked, nodding at the bouquets of flowers and small toys strewn about the floor.
“No, they throw those things through the bars. Bayview Cemetery keeps the crypts locked. There’s no telling what would happen if they didn’t. Speaking of which, how did you get past the front gates?”
“I’m working nights, so I’ve got a master key,” I said, playing my flashlight’s beam across the interior of little Louis’ sepulcher. “I was taking a break when I noticed your light up here on the hill and got curious. But what are—”
I squeaked, jumped, and dropped the light.
“Something wrong?” Cindy asked, frowning.
“Sorry, I thought I saw something move.” My heart pounded as I bent to retrieve the light from the lap of a drooping Raggedy Ann doll. I pointed the beam through the gate but everything was still. “Guess it’s just my imagination.”
“Cemeteries at night,” Cindy said with a shrug as she crouched down to zip up the camera bag. “A lot of people get jumpy. It was probably just a rat.”
“That’s a comforting thought,” I murmured.
“Don’t worry, it’s locked up tight,” she said, with a hint of condescension. She grabbed the gate and rattled it to prove her point. “Believe me, no one could possibly—”
Something leapt out from behind the bronze urn next to the sepulcher. I caught a glimpse of a distorted green face and shrank against the cold stone wall as a tall figure barreled toward us. Throwing one shoulder against the wrought-iron gate, the ghoul burst through, knocking Cindy flat on the ground, and tore down the curved access road, its long, dark cape flapping in the breeze. Swearing a blue streak, Cindy scrambled to her feet and gave chase, all five feet, one hundred pounds of her. Graceful as a gazelle, she took off like a cross-country runner, leaping over grave markers and zigzagging around monuments until she was nearly abreast of the fleeing creature. Scampering onto the roof of a burial chamber burrowed into a hillside, Cindy hurled herself onto the ghoul’s back, sending them both sprawling into the shallow drainage ditch at the side of the road.
I sprinted toward the dark forms as they thrashed and rolled and emitted muffled shrieks. Cindy seemed to be holding her own, but when I was still twenty yards away the ghoul broke free and half ran, half hobbled toward the main gates, shielding its face with the cape.
“Cindy! Are you all right?” I cried as I helped her to her feet.
“Go after him!”
“Are you insane?”
“We can’t let him get away!”
“I don’t think—”
“Dammit!” Cindy swore as we watched the ghoul disappear into a grove of fragrant eucalyptus trees at the edge of the cemetery. She was covered in mud and grass stains, and her pink headband had fallen out. A green rubber Halloween mask of an elongated, howling face dangled from two fingers. “Shit! Why didn’t you follow him?”
“Because he was hiding in a crypt!”
“Did you at least get a good look at him?” she asked, her lips pressed together in dissatisfaction.
I closed my eyes. “Tall. Thin. Green.”
“I know that,” she said waspishly, shaking the Halloween mask at me.
“I think he had white hair,” I offered, recalling a glimpse of stringy hair on the neck of the retreating figure.
“Are you sure it wasn’t a wig?”
“I guess I wasn’t, um, focusing,” I said. My artist’s eye usually took note of anatomical details, but during midnight encounters with graveyard ghouls all bets were off. I looked at Cindy warily. What kind of a person tackled a ghoul in a cemetery?
“I’d like to know what he was up to,” Cindy muttered, brushing dirt from her blouse.
“You said people liked to hang out here,” I replied, rescuing her pink headband from the ditch and shaking off some leaves. “Isn’t that what you’re writing your dissertation on?”
“Respectable people hang out at crypts in the daytime. At night you’re looking at a whole different breed. We’re talking druggies or Satan worshippers.”
Ick, I thought.
“Still,” she continued. “Junkies and Dark Lord types don’t wear cheesy Halloween masks and capes.”
“What’s that?” I asked as my flashlight beam illuminated a rectangular object the size of a shoe box lying in the grass a few feet away.
“I thought that guy dropped something,” Cindy said, picking it up.
It
was a dull gray metal box, rusted in spots, with a small, keyed latch. The sole embellishment was a simple cross with a rose in the center, echoing the design of the stained glass window in Louis Spencer’s crypt.
“Is it—um—an urn or something?” I quelled a desire to flee as I envisioned a tornado of ashes bursting out of the box and devouring us.
“I doubt it. I’ve never seen an urn like this.”
We stared at the box for a moment.
“Let’s go back and check out the crypt,” Cindy said with a determined look on her face. She started marching up the hill toward Louis Spencer’s final resting place.
I reluctantly fell in step. For the past few weeks I had been restoring two murals in the Chapel of the Chimes Columbarium, adjacent to Bayview Cemetery. As I learned only after I accepted the job, a columbarium is similar to a mausoleum but holds urns of cremated remains, known in the business as “cremains.” Designed in the early twentieth century by the renowned architect Julia Morgan, Oakland’s Chapel of the Chimes was a glorious Romanesque-Gothic building decorated with fabulous mosaics, colorful murals, and elaborate carvings.
One of the commission’s stipulations was that I paint at night to minimize the disruption to the columbarium’s visitors. Disconcerted at the idea of working in the midst of grieving families, I had been happy to oblige. But adjusting to the swing shift had been more of a challenge than I’d anticipated, and halfway through the evening I often fought waves of drowsiness. Twenty minutes ago I had taken a break from the neck-breaking work to get some fresh air. I had not bargained on encountering Cindy— much less a masked ghoul—and at the moment wanted nothing more than to return to the restoration. Paint, unlike so many other things in my life, was eminently predictable.
