The Body in Bodega Bay (3 page)

He curled his lip and tried a nasal whistle, then slumped down. “Not now. I can't. But that line keeps running through my head. Remember when his partner gets shot at the beginning of the movie?”

“Sure I do. The woman, what's her name, did it.”

“And by the end Bogie is in love with her, but he turns her in because he's got this code that says when a man's partner is killed, he's got to do something about it. It doesn't matter what he thought of him, or whether the guy was good or bad, he's supposed to do something.” There was no hint left now of the imitation. Toby looked determined. “And damn it, I'm going to try.”

H
IGHWAY 1 FROM BODEGA BAY
to Jenner is a dazzling stretch of road. The two-lane tarmac spools up and down low, close-cropped hills and winds around treacherous horseshoe bends, while the ocean crashes against the bluffs and throws spume high into the air. At night the drive is dangerous, especially if the fog rolls in, but on a sunny afternoon it's breathtaking. You may pass a cow or two nibbling by a fence or, overlooking the sea, a row of tiny cottages, hardly more than shacks, really. They can't be enlarged, and they're on land that can't be developed thanks to strict state laws designed to preserve the coast. Without those laws, this slice of northern California would look like southern Florida, with high-rise condos and neon signs crowding the shoreline, but along Highway 1 there's nothing to spoil the views. I usually don't talk much in the car so Toby can concentrate on his driving and I can watch the ocean, which I never tire of. We were headed toward the shop, per Dan's instruction.

Just before Jenner, Highway 1 is joined on the right by Highway 116, which follows the Russian River on its way to the sea. After the turn, the drive hugs the river for about four miles until you reach the little town of Duncans Mills. That's right, without an apostrophe. The hamlet was founded in the 1870s by two brothers named Duncan who built a lumber mill there, so by rights it should be Duncan's Mill, or maybe Duncans' Mill, not that it matters. The town was leveled by the great earthquake of 1906, but it came back in the early years of the last century as a tourist destination. It was close to the river and the redwoods and was served by the Northwestern Pacific Railroad, so folks from San Francisco came up on vacation. The railroad and the mill are gone now, but there's a restored depot and an old passenger car on a defunct stretch of track, as well as a cluster of galleries, a craft shop, and a couple of cafés. The wooden buildings are a little ramshackle, and there's even a boardwalk between the shops that gives the place the air of an old cowboy town. The road splits the town in half, with shops and restaurants on either side.

Toby's store, on the left side as you enter from the west, isn't visible from the road. It sits behind the boardwalk stores with an entrance at the rear. It's large enough for a good display of furniture: oak table sets, desks and bookcases, carved bed frames, gilt mirrors, lamps and curios, with a selection of nineteenth-century paintings of modest worth, as well as a wall of framed prints. We drove around to the back and parked in front of the shop entrance. The door was fastened by an old brass lock, but when Toby introduced the key, it wouldn't turn. On closer inspection, the wood around the jamb was loose, and the door stood slightly askew on its bottom hinge.

“It's been jimmied,” Toby said with irritation. “Dan was right. We've had a break-in.” He pushed open the door.

At first glance, everything seemed orderly. But to Toby's eye there were signs of disarray. “Things have been moved around. Someone's been through this place.”

I looked again and saw that here and there a chair had been swiveled away from a table, some drawers had been left open, a back cushion of a Victorian sofa was turned down, and a rocker was sitting in the middle of an aisle. Someone had done a search. “Is anything missing?” I asked, looking around the large open showroom.

“I can't tell right off the bat.” Toby began a systematic tour of the room. His face was taut with concentration as he roamed the floor taking a mental inventory of his stock. After completing a full circle, he came back to where I was standing and said with a puzzled expression, “Nothing of mine that I can tell.”

“What about Charlie's things?”

“Ditto. Nothing obvious. The big pieces are all there. But I'll look again.” He did a second tour more slowly than the first, this time pausing at the wall of prints, then shaking his head. “Wait a minute.” He went over to a large oak desk that Charlie used for keeping his records and stared for a moment at an empty picture hook hanging on the wall above it. “That's what I thought,” he said, pointing to the empty space. “There was a Russian icon that he picked up for us at auction last week along with some other stuff. It was hanging above his desk. Now it's gone.”

“Was it valuable?” I asked, remembering Dan's question.

“I doubt it. Charlie wanted to do some research before putting it up for sale. To tell you the truth, I didn't pay much attention. It looked kind of dark, needed a cleaning. You know, religious icons aren't my thing.”

Or mine. Even though I'm an art historian, icons are out of my bailiwick. My work is on nineteenth-century painting, especially Impressionism and related movements, with an emphasis on women artists. “Can you describe it? What was the subject?”

“An angel with wings. Gold paint in the background. The frame had an odd shape, looked old. That's all I can say about it. Hold on.” Toby was rummaging through a pile of printed matter on the desk. “Here's the auction catalog. That should tell us something.”

He pulled a glossy catalog out of the stack and opened it to a page that had been marked by a Post-it. The catalog was from Morgan's, a low-end auction house in San Francisco that specializes in catch-all sales under the rubric of “Discovery Days.” Morgan's takes consignments that are generally beneath the notice of the high-toned auction houses, and their lots usually sell in the lower price ranges. For that reason the firm is frequented by dealers on the lookout for cheap finds. The lots are mainly furniture and oriental rugs, though now and then an interesting painting or print comes up for sale. Plenty of antique dealers in the Bay Area keep track of Morgan's auctions, but serious art collectors hunt elsewhere for more precious prey. This had been a typical two-day sale for Morgan's, covering a mix of objects ranging from art to carpets, posters, pottery, and what-have-you.

It came as no surprise to me that the icon Charlie had marked for bidding, listed as lot 87 on day 2, had a presale estimate of $1,000 to $1,500. In the heady world of art auctions, that's small potatoes. Next to a color photo of the icon, someone (Charlie presumably) had written “$800,” which was either what he planned to be his highest bid or what he paid for it. The brief catalog description read: “A Russian icon on a wooden panel, eighteenth or nineteenth century, showing the Archangel Michael. Originally part of a triptych.” Underneath the photo were the work's dimensions: 8" × 4.8". It was small, about the size of a Kindle. It took no great expertise to determine that the painting once belonged to a triptych—a work in three parts in which two side panels, when closed, cover a central panel, and in which all three panels, when open, face the viewer. The panel was shaped like a little door, curved on top, with straight sides. Two grooves on the left side of the little door marked where it once had been attached to a central panel, probably larger in size, so that the two side doors could fold into it. Plainly, this was the right wing of a triptych. Missing were its complements.

A religious icon of uncertain age wouldn't be hugely valuable, I guessed. Nor was the image that impressive. Unless the photo was indistinct, the surface of the painting was clouded with grime. I was looking at a frontal view of a slender, winged figure in armor bearing a raised sword in his right hand and holding an empty scabbard in his left. Billowing around him was a cloak in a dull red color. The iconography was correct. Here was a typical pose of the warrior archangel Michael. Yet as a work of art meant to inspire devotion, the image seemed rather dull. The face was flat and without expression, with large eyes peering blankly at the viewer. The drawing was minimally competent, with hardly any modeling; the paint seemed indifferently applied, the colors sallow. The edges of the panel were indented, and there were no background features other than the chipped gilt sky. As I said, I'm no expert on icons, but this one struck me as mediocre. Who would want to steal it, I wondered, let alone kill somebody for it?

Toby had been leafing through some hanging files in a deep drawer on the right side of the desk. He fished out a manila folder. “Here's Charlie's file on the purchase. Maybe it'll tell us something.” He emptied its contents on the desktop. There was a bill of sale from Morgan's marked “paid” in the amount of $960, which confirmed a winning bid of $800 plus a 20 percent buyer's fee. As a dealer, Charlie wouldn't have paid sales tax, because he'd bought the work for resale. There was also an envelope containing a few color prints of photos that Charlie had taken to document his acquisition. One was of the back of the panel, which might prove useful in revealing details about the painting. The others were photos of the front, including several close-ups of various parts of the icon. Charlie's photos reinforced my impression from the catalog that the image was coated with grime and that its underlying colors had lost whatever richness they might once have had.

I shared my thoughts with Toby, and we both shook our heads at the possibility that this unprepossessing work might have been the motive for a brutal crime. On the other hand, how likely was it that the break-in at the gallery was unconnected to the murder? As a coincidence, that strained credulity. “Better call Dan,” I said.

Toby went to his desk, in the opposite corner from Charlie's. While Toby spoke with Dan, I studied the photos again but gained no additional information. The men spoke for a few minutes. Then Toby said, “He wants to talk to you.” He passed me the phone.

“Hi, Dan.”

“Hi, Nora. Based on what Toby's been telling me, this icon that's missing wasn't worth that much, and you don't think it's an important work of art. That right?”

“Well, maybe I shouldn't be jumping to conclusions. Russian icons are way out of my area. But Toby told you what Charlie paid for it, and frankly, judging from the photographs, I wasn't surprised by the price. It doesn't strike me as a masterpiece. Of course, we probably should get an expert opinion.”

“That's more your department than mine. How would you feel about helping me out on this one? What I need to know is whether the theft and the murder are connected. You've worked with us before. Are you interested? Same terms as usual?”

What Dan meant was that I'd recently worked as a freelance consultant to his department on two cases, one involving art theft and another involving art fraud, helping to clear up questions of value, authenticity, and provenance. The pay wasn't much, but the work was intriguing, a nice real-world break from my usual scholarship.

“Sure. What would you like me to do?”

“Start by talking to the auction house. See what more you can find out about the sale, who set the estimate, whether it was reasonable, who else might have been bidding, who the seller was, that sort of thing. And then see if you can locate someone who'll help us with the value. Maybe there's more to this than meets the eye. You could save me a lot of time running down that angle.”

“I'll get started right away.”

“Thanks. Do you still have some of my business cards?”

“At home I do, yes.” They would be my credentials for my link to the sheriff's office.

“Great. Let me know as soon as you come up with anything. I'll be in touch.”

I ended the call and passed the phone back to Toby, who said, “Good. Dan wants us to help.”

I thought better of pointing out that Dan had asked me, not us, to lend a hand. Toby needed to be included. I needed Toby to feel better. “I'll start making some calls. Can I use your phone? You know how my cell phone cuts out here,” I said.

“Of course. I'll talk to the other shop owners to see whether they heard or saw anything unusual or whether there were any other break-ins over the weekend.” Toby headed for the door. He seemed energized now that he had a purpose.

“That's not a bad idea,” I said. “I'll stay right here.”

My first call was to my kid sister, Angie, who was scheduled to arrive on Thursday for a two-week visit, which had been planned a long time ago. I had the quarter off and wasn't expected back in the classroom until April. My goals for the break were to finish an article I was writing and to clear some time to be with my sister, who was looking forward to a respite from winter in Massachusetts. I had met goal one, but life was messing with goal two. When Angie didn't pick up, I left a message to call me back. I didn't want to disappoint her, but I also wanted to let her know that some of my time might be taken up by an investigation.