The Body in Bodega Bay (21 page)

“I'm afraid I can't on Friday.” I explained my mission to have the icon examined and, possibly, restored in Madison.

“Well,” Angie persisted, “as soon as you get back, will you come with me to see Sophie?”

I gave in. “All right. If you think it will help you, I'll come. Sometime next week. Meanwhile, will you feel okay about being here without me till Saturday?”

“Are you kidding? I'll have a blast. This is the greatest place for just knocking around. After seeing Sophie this morning, I spent hours in Graton at the shops, and I took a super walk in the hills there. Sophie says I need to be alone more and explore what makes me really happy.”

“She sounds like a psychotherapist. Is that what angel reading is like?”

“I don't know about that, but Sophie helps me hear what my angels are saying. They think I need a change of course.”

“You said that a few days back. Are they any clearer now on what sort of change you need?”

“No, and Sophie said the angels won't tell me directly. I need to look for the answer within myself. So she's recommending that I take a long walk every day and see what surfaces. That's what I can do while you're gone. It'll be like being on a silent retreat.”

“Good. I'll only be gone a few days. Then we'll see Sophie together.”

“Cool beans! Oh, I almost forgot. Sophie gave me these quartz crystal points, one for each of us.” Angie rummaged in her bag and brought out two clear crystal cylinders. Each had a point at the end. “You put this on your night table when you go to bed, with the point facing your head. And while you're sleeping, the crystal helps you open your channel to spiritual receptivity. Will you try it?”

“If you want me to,” I said. Why not?

D
an called late that evening, after Angie had gone to bed. I had left a message earlier telling him about our discovery, and he wanted to hear the details. He apologized for the late hour, but he also had major news about the investigation.

“Wait a second. Toby's here too. I'll put you on speaker.”

“Hi, Dan.”

“Hi, Toby. Well, I think we've got our killer. Mikovitch. The Russian.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as we can be without a trial. We have a positive ID from Interpol, including dental records and a rap sheet as long as your arm. He had links to the Russian mafia and specialized in art theft. We figure he got wind of the icon through the online auction catalogue but too late to bid on it. What tipped him off that it might be valuable, I don't know. Interpol says the Russian mafia's been on a worldwide watch for old triptychs for some time.”

“And you're sure he's the one who killed Charlie?” Toby asked again.

“It's a strong case. We tracked down his motel and searched his room. I sent a batch of stuff for lab analysis. The results came back today. They found traces of Charlie's blood on the rubber soles of a pair of shoes that were in the Russian's closet. The shoes had gunk in the treads that matched the debris in the bottom of the rowboat that was used to transport the body. It was him, all right.”

“So, circumstantial evidence.”

“We've got more than enough for an indictment. He's the guy. I figure it happened like this. The Russian gets Charlie's number from the auctioneer, tells him he'd like to make an offer on his purchase. They meet, my guess being at your gallery. Charlie gets scared, puts him off, hides the icon—now we know where. The Russian comes back some time later. What happens next I'm not sure, but for some reason they end up out on the bay shore, where the murder takes place. Either he forces Charlie to take him there, or Charlie leads him there unknowingly. Why that particular place, I can't tell you.”

“Dan,” I interrupted, “I think I have some idea what they were doing out there.” I filled in what I now knew about the Gaffney house, the set of
The Birds
, and Peter Federenco's connection to the site. “It could be they were on the trail of the remaining icon panels.”

“You think those panels are buried out there somewhere?”

“If they still exist.” I hadn't said as much before, but yes, that's what I did think. I remembered the dream I had the night before Charlie's funeral, when he appeared to me as a stone head walking across the grass. He couldn't speak but he was trying to tell me something by casting his eyes downward, toward the ground. I kept the dream to myself but said, “At least it's a possibility.” I looked at Toby, and he nodded in agreement.

“Okay, let's work on that assumption,” said Dan. “It may explain the crime scene. Nothing else does. But as I said before, I still don't think the murder was premeditated. First of all, the Russian didn't find what he was after. Second, it wasn't a smart place to kill someone. Maybe Charlie bolted, maybe he grabbed for the knife—we can't know—but there was a struggle and the Russian stabbed him. Then he panicked.”

“That's when he saw the rowboat tied up nearby and decided to take Charlie out to the sailboat,” Toby added.

“That's how I see it. Then Mikovitch searches Charlie's apartment, the gallery, and then your house, but each time he comes up empty. So he puts you under surveillance, follows you, and you know the rest. End of story.”

“So it's over,” I said.

“It looks that way. We're still investigating. My chief question is whether the Russian was working alone. Now fill me in on how you discovered the icon.”

Toby walked Dan through the process.

“Hold on a minute,” Dan said. “You're saying that Tom Keogh demanded the table back? Is there any chance he could have known that Charlie hid the icon in the leaf tray?”

“No way that I can think of,” Toby said after a pause. That idea hadn't occurred to us.

“Besides, I thought you told us you had the killer,” I added. “I hope you still don't think Tom was involved.”

“Just asking. I'll talk to Keogh again, anyhow. You were saying that your professor thinks this icon could be worth a bundle?”

“Potentially. I'm planning to take it out of town to have it examined,” I explained. “I guess I should have cleared that with you first. Would that be okay?”

“For you to take it out of town? I don't see why not. It never was stolen property in the first place, since Charlie hid it, and now it seems it belongs to you. I think Toby said he had the bill of sale.”

“That's right,” said Toby.

“Well, good luck then. Let me know how you make out.”

We chatted with Dan for a little while longer, then said goodbye. We sat quietly for a few moments. Toby let out a deep sigh.

“What's wrong? Isn't that good news? Dan says the guy who was chasing us was the killer, and now he's dead.”

Toby looked dejected, not relieved. “I thought I'd feel closure when the case was solved. I don't.”

“You were even there.”

“You mean the crash? That's not how I pictured it would end. I wanted justice, not revenge. I wanted a confession or at least a trial and sentencing. It may be over, but it doesn't feel like it.”

“I think you need some serious cheering up.”

“I guess I do. What have you got in mind?”

Now that Dan thought the murder solved, I felt a weight lifting. I felt freer, even playful. In fact, I felt more relaxed than I'd been since the day Charlie's body was found. Though Toby's better than I am at the impression game, I decided to give it a shot. I rolled my eyes, patted my hair, and stuck out my hip in a saucy Mae West flounce. “Why don't you come up and see me some time?” I purred.

That perked Toby up. He rallied and returned my invitation in his best W. C. Fields drawl. “I shall be there in a trice, my little pigeon. My little chickadee.”

I laughed and started down the hall. He followed.

“What's that?” Toby asked a few minutes later as we settled under the covers.

“Oh, that. It's a crystal Angie gave me. You point it at your head at night. It's supposed to heighten your spiritual sensitivity.”

“Is that so?” said Toby. “And what happens if you point it at—”

He never finished the sentence because I bashed him with a pillow.

M
ARCH IN MADISON
can still be the middle of winter. That was clear from the airplane window: carpets of snow and two frozen lakes framing the isthmus with its gleaming Capitol. But the sky was the bright blue of summer at the sea.

Deceptive. I almost fainted from cold as I waited outside the terminal for my taxi. California-style layers were definitely not adequate for Wisconsin-style cold. But I kept up good spirits, excited to be bringing the icon for expert analysis. It didn't take me long to get the precious cargo to the Campus Inn. My appointment with George Greeley was set for the next morning at his home on the east side of town. That gave me an afternoon and evening for myself. Resisting the temptation to spend the afternoon in my toasty room, I gently placed the briefcase in the closet and proceeded on foot to the university art museum, the Chazen.

The plowed streets and the Library Mall, piled with snow, were thick with students marching swiftly by. The scene reminded me of Berkeley, in spite of the weather. There the kids would be in cut-offs and flip-flops; here they were muffled under hoods and parkas, long scarves trailing behind them. Still, the two schools were about the same size. By contrast, Sonoma College, where I teach, is small and quiet. I wondered briefly what my career would have been like if I'd landed a job at a big university like this one. A higher salary? A lighter teaching load, with more time for research? Perhaps. But I like teaching small classes where I can get to know my students, and I like the feeling of community that comes along with a small campus. Besides, Toby hates winter. “It's all right for the Eskimos,” he says, “but then, they don't mind eating blubber, either.” Nothing could induce him to leave California, and I guess by now I feel the same way.

A museum like the Chazen would be a nice teaching aid, though. It's surprisingly complete for a campus collection. Two linked modern buildings house a sampling of sculptures, paintings, and prints from the ancient Greeks to the present. I played my usual game of “What would you take home?” and couldn't decide between two paintings in my own field. The first was a glowing moonlight coastal scene by the Norwegian artist Johan Christian Dahl. The other was a sweet little landscape by a minor American painter named Henry Pember Smith, whose work has always appealed to me. It would be great to walk students over here fresh from class to stand in front of delightful works like these.

A special exhibition of Russian icons was, however, my destination. The university owns a small collection, and it isn't often on view. In a space for temporary exhibitions off the main gallery, I found twenty or so icons in typical shapes and subjects, but almost all painted in the nineteenth century to mimic an earlier style. Several older examples were impressive, but more than a few, at least to me, lacked life. Then I came upon a bright little triptych picturing various scenes from the life of a lesser-known saint, and it had the charm of a naïve painting. It was beautiful in its own way but nothing rivaling the delicacy of Rublev's work. According to Al Miller, a great icon radiates spiritual energy. And you don't get that just by layering on the gold paint. I left the room eager to know whether underneath our Michael icon was a work of uncommon power.

A visit to the museum shop was a must, even though closing time was approaching. In a whirlwind, I picked up my swag: earrings for Angie with Frida Kahlo's self-portrait on them, a reproduction of a Roman glass necklace for our mom's upcoming birthday, and for my desk a miniature Russian icon triptych, just over an inch tall. Something faux but appealing for each of the Barnes women. The security guard showed me out into the crystal cold.

With ice crackling underfoot, I joined the parade of students heading out to the bars of State Street. If I had forgotten that it was St. Patrick's Day, the signs advertising green beer and St. Paddy's specials would have set me straight. The cold hustled me into the first appealing restaurant, the Brat House. There I enacted every Wisconsin culinary cliché, devouring a German-style bratwurst slathered in mustard and sauerkraut and washing it down with a locally brewed pilsner. I sampled, but could not finish, the block of caraway-muenster cheese that arrived as an accompaniment to the brat. In Wisconsin, you eat hearty.

By the time I left the Brat House, it was almost dark and the restaurant had become a packed bar scene. I decided to go back to the hotel and check on the booty in Al's briefcase. Though the hotel was only a few minutes' walk away, I found myself anxious by the time I got to the room. I wanted to make sure that the briefcase was still locked and that it contained our icon. All was as it should be.

A phone call to Toby calmed my nerves. He had just reached home after a long day at the shop. I described my visit to the Chazen, and he told me about his day. “No customers. Just as well. I had an idea this morning. Since Charlie hid the icon in one of his pieces of furniture, my guess is that he hid the storyboards as well. I think they're still in the shop. So I spent the afternoon knocking for hollow spots in his other pieces and looking at the backs of things and underneath, all over. Nothing so far, but I'll keep at it. I've got a feeling they must be here. Speaking of which, Tom Keogh called again. He's awfully eager to get his hands on Charlie's stuff. I told him I was thinking about it just to put him off a bit longer while I keep searching.”