the most obvious suspect.” Mason lowered his voice and leaned toward me conspiratorially. I leaned forward, too, so that our foreheads were almost touching. Frankly, it was kind of creepy.
“I heard that The Magi is a fake and Ernst killed the janitor to hush him up,” Mason whispered.
I leaned back. That was absurd. Ernst was no killer. Moreover, if he were, and he wanted to silence anyone who knew the Caravaggio was a fake, I would have been the first to go. Last time I checked, I was still alive and kicking.
“Why would Ernst kill the janitor to cover up a crime and then disappear? Wouldn’t that just make him look guilty?” I asked. “Besides, don’t tell anyone, but I heard from a very good source at the Brock that Dupont was involved in a love triangle, and that Ernst was in Cabo San Lucas wooing a wealthy donor, some old friend of Agnes Brock’s.”
This was how nasty rumors got started, and I was happy to do my part. I was, after all, a forger’s spawn.
I thanked Mason for his time and started toward the door.
“By the way,” he said, “I would be willing to offer a small reward in the event that my drawings were recovered.”
I turned back to him and smiled. “I believe twenty percent of the market value is the going rate.”
Mason looked as if he’d swallowed a bad oyster. “All right. Twenty percent.”
Before I left I got it in writing.
As I wandered out of the gallery and rode the elevator down to the street, my mind was on Ernst. What in the world had happened last night? I kept imagining Ernst calling me up and amusing me with some long, involved tale, told in his cute Austrian accent. The scene ended with Ernst announcing that his model girlfriend, Quiana, was too skinny and too vapid. He had never realized how much he missed my idiosyncratic take on the world, until—
Get it together, Annie, I told myself. Not only is that not going to happen, but deep down you know you don’t want it to, anyway.
Here’s what else I knew: while I was at the café waiting for Ernst, somebody killed Stan Dupont and Ernst Pettigrew dropped off the radar screen.
Here’s what I did not know: everything else.
No, wait. I also knew that Anton Woznikowicz had forged The Magi as well as a number of sketches that Harlan Coombs used to defraud gallery owners, such as Anthony Brazil and Albert Mason. And at some point before the murder, Harlan had disappeared.
So what did it all add up to?
Darned if I knew.
“Annie! Hey!” Mary called as I wandered onto the street.
Mary looked like an angel on steroids. For reasons known only to herself, she had donned a sparkly tuxedo jacket over her vinyl vest, put on fingerless black lace gloves, and exchanged her usual Doc Martens for leather motorcycle boots. The very outfit I would have chosen for a bike ride through inner-city traffic.
Now that I had Anton’s address, I could call off the gallery walk in favor of dinner. But gossiping with Albert Mason had provided a lot of information, and a possible commission, for very little effort. I figured it couldn’t hurt to shake down a few more artsy types. Somebody had to know something. In the art world, somebody always did.
“You want to grab something to eat first, or should we work up an appetite by assaulting some gallery owners?” I asked Mary.
“Assault and battery, by all means.” Mary smiled, her big blue eyes blinking disingenuously.
“Let’s hold off on the battery, shall we?” I said, not entirely sure she was kidding. Those boots looked like they could kick some serious butt.
We walked toward Chinatown, then turned down an alley crammed with small tables and umbrellas. Well-dressed San Franciscans lounged in the late-afternoon sunshine, enjoying colorful salads of tapenade-topped pan-seared tuna with endive, and watercress with blood oranges and cinnamon-infused almonds. My mouth watered as we headed for the next street over, where there was a clutch of small, understated, and very
“I heard that The Magi is a fake and Ernst killed the janitor to hush him up,” Mason whispered.
I leaned back. That was absurd. Ernst was no killer. Moreover, if he were, and he wanted to silence anyone who knew the Caravaggio was a fake, I would have been the first to go. Last time I checked, I was still alive and kicking.
“Why would Ernst kill the janitor to cover up a crime and then disappear? Wouldn’t that just make him look guilty?” I asked. “Besides, don’t tell anyone, but I heard from a very good source at the Brock that Dupont was involved in a love triangle, and that Ernst was in Cabo San Lucas wooing a wealthy donor, some old friend of Agnes Brock’s.”
This was how nasty rumors got started, and I was happy to do my part. I was, after all, a forger’s spawn.
I thanked Mason for his time and started toward the door.
“By the way,” he said, “I would be willing to offer a small reward in the event that my drawings were recovered.”
I turned back to him and smiled. “I believe twenty percent of the market value is the going rate.”
Mason looked as if he’d swallowed a bad oyster. “All right. Twenty percent.”
Before I left I got it in writing.
As I wandered out of the gallery and rode the elevator down to the street, my mind was on Ernst. What in the world had happened last night? I kept imagining Ernst calling me up and amusing me with some long, involved tale, told in his cute Austrian accent. The scene ended with Ernst announcing that his model girlfriend, Quiana, was too skinny and too vapid. He had never realized how much he missed my idiosyncratic take on the world, until—
Get it together, Annie, I told myself. Not only is that not going to happen, but deep down you know you don’t want it to, anyway.
Here’s what else I knew: while I was at the café waiting for Ernst, somebody killed Stan Dupont and Ernst Pettigrew dropped off the radar screen.
Here’s what I did not know: everything else.
No, wait. I also knew that Anton Woznikowicz had forged The Magi as well as a number of sketches that Harlan Coombs used to defraud gallery owners, such as Anthony Brazil and Albert Mason. And at some point before the murder, Harlan had disappeared.
So what did it all add up to?
Darned if I knew.
“Annie! Hey!” Mary called as I wandered onto the street.
Mary looked like an angel on steroids. For reasons known only to herself, she had donned a sparkly tuxedo jacket over her vinyl vest, put on fingerless black lace gloves, and exchanged her usual Doc Martens for leather motorcycle boots. The very outfit I would have chosen for a bike ride through inner-city traffic.
Now that I had Anton’s address, I could call off the gallery walk in favor of dinner. But gossiping with Albert Mason had provided a lot of information, and a possible commission, for very little effort. I figured it couldn’t hurt to shake down a few more artsy types. Somebody had to know something. In the art world, somebody always did.
“You want to grab something to eat first, or should we work up an appetite by assaulting some gallery owners?” I asked Mary.
“Assault and battery, by all means.” Mary smiled, her big blue eyes blinking disingenuously.
“Let’s hold off on the battery, shall we?” I said, not entirely sure she was kidding. Those boots looked like they could kick some serious butt.
We walked toward Chinatown, then turned down an alley crammed with small tables and umbrellas. Well-dressed San Franciscans lounged in the late-afternoon sunshine, enjoying colorful salads of tapenade-topped pan-seared tuna with endive, and watercress with blood oranges and cinnamon-infused almonds. My mouth watered as we headed for the next street over, where there was a clutch of small, understated, and very
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