The Body in Bodega Bay (31 page)

“All I want out of this,” said Toby, “is a finder's fee, a modest finder's fee, that's all I want. They can have the icons.” The problem was, “they” was an indefinite pronoun. Toby was talking to a lawyer. I told him not to.

There had been other developments. Rose and Sophie, who had recovered nicely from her attack, did meet, shortly after Sophie got out of the hospital. By counting months on her fingers, Rose deduced that Peter had fallen in love with her after he unwittingly had gotten Sophie pregnant. She was convinced that Peter, had he lived, would have broken off with Sophie, whose only claim on him was guilt, and that in the end he surely would have married
her
. Hence, Rose was disposed to behave magnanimously toward Sophie, extending a victor's olive branch. She went so far as to allow Sophie to believe the contrary scenario—that Peter had met Rose first and that he surely would have left her for the woman who was carrying his child, but for his fatal accident. I'll say this for Peter, he certainly was a charmer. The very thought of him fifty years later could make each woman believe what she wanted to.

It worked out well enough for Sophie. It seems her opinion of the angel Gabriel had lost its luster as a result of Peter's affair with Rose. In any event, she was persuaded to let her icon be cleaned for the exhibition, even if that meant expunging Gabriel forever. Her son had something to do with persuading her. The potential value of the restored Rublev was a factor in his enlistment in that cause. He had come over from London to attend the opening.

Joe the security guard was fired by the marine lab for giving us the go-ahead to dig up their property without first checking with his superiors. We were sorry for his trouble, but he too landed on his feet. He and Tom Keogh were now an item, and he was learning the antiques business.

George Greeley, needless to say, did not get to complete the restoration work. He was in custody and awaiting trial. Al Miller was appalled to learn of George's treachery and fell all over himself apologizing for recommending him. None of it, of course, was Al's fault. I kept having to reassure him of that.

But the most surprising development was the unexpected budding of an autumnal romance between two lonely people of a certain age: Rose Cassini and Andrew Federenco. It's true, they had a lot in common. Rose confided to me that her new beau reminded her of Peter in many ways. Andrew had looked her up, and well, as she said, you never knew. I hadn't yet heard Andrew's take on things, but then, he was communicating with us only through his lawyer.

Dan had closed the file on Charlie's murder, satisfied that Mikovitch had acted alone without an accomplice. At least, no evidence had turned up to suggest otherwise. We accepted that conclusion. And Toby accepted that he'd done what he could for his partner, Charlie, living up to Bogie's example in
The Maltese Falcon
. Today's opening marked the end of our journey of discovery—of crime, of art.

I
had mingled and greeted and paid my respects, and now, since it was growing late, I decided to slip out of the reception to revisit the Rublev gallery one last time. I wanted to stand before the icon by myself, before the museum closed. Food and drink weren't allowed inside the galleries, so I set my empty wine glass down on a nearby table and headed for the stairs.

The Rublev display had a room to itself. At this hour only a handful of visitors lingered. Aside from a few couples and the guards, I had my privacy. In the center of the room, on a pedestal, under glass, on a cushion of black velvet, the celebrated and much litigated triptych stood folded open, lit from above by spotlights. How tiny it seemed compared to the original that Rublev had painted for the Cathedral of the St. Sergey Monastery. That huge version of
The Old Testament Trinity
, now at the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow, was referenced by a life-sized, high-resolution photograph mounted on one wall.

Compared to it, everything in the smaller version seemed compressed. Even so, the lines were just as delicate, the jewel-like colors just as radiant. The noble faces of the miniature angels were as lovely as their larger counterparts, and the subtle interplay of their glances was intact. But inevitably, as Al predicted, the composition had been altered to meet the dictates of a different format. In the larger version, the three feminine angels representing the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit were seated around a communal table and conjoined in an imaginary circle, an arrangement that proclaimed their unity. Here each figure occupied her separate space. Each angel was seated on her own dais; and the little table bearing a chalice appeared only in the central panel. Critics or perhaps theologians could debate the symbolism.

There was another aspect of the triptych that intrigued me. As displayed, the outer wings were tilted forward, leading the eye inward toward the central angel, who symbolized the Son. Was that an accident, or was it possible that Rublev was experimenting with perspective? That would have been a revolutionary development for Russian art. I noticed that the platform on which each angel rested her feet was dramatically foreshortened, compared to the larger version. Also foreshortened was the forward pitch of the table on which the central angel rested her arm. That arm appeared to interrupt the line of the chair she was sitting on, so as to convince the eye that she was in front of it. Giotto had used a similar ploy in posing his
Madonna Enthroned
. Art historians would have a field day.

Beyond the technical advances of the painting, I was moved by the sheer beauty of it. That was the magic of art. Beauty was mysterious, after all. It was worth contemplating, like truth. Maybe Keats had it right and it's as much of truth as we can know.

Standing there quietly, I let my mind wander. I thought of the moment when Al Miller first lifted the film of varnish from that icon at his home to reveal the painting underneath it. Isn't that what mystics tell us about the world, that illusion veils some hidden truth? Through a glass darkly—that's what the Bible says is the best we can do at seeing things as they really are. Yet from Plato on down, philosophers have grappled with whether we see anything at all beyond the tip of our nose. I've wondered about that since I was a child.

When I was little, we lived in a big house, and there was a long corridor to walk down at night to get to the bathroom. All I had to show my way was the feeble glow of a tiny nightlight. Halfway to the bathroom was a scary closet that I wasn't supposed to disturb. Who knows what, I worried, was hiding behind that door? I'd tiptoe down the corridor, sneak past the door, use the bathroom, and run back to my bed as fast as I could. Then I'd pull the covers over my head and listen.

I'm still listening.

Sometimes I think the universe is like that closet of secrets. Every once in a while, a great prophet, or saint, or artist, or scientist comes along and pries open the door just a crack to let in a sliver of light. But the hallway is dim, the light is weak, and the closet is deep.

“There you are,” said Toby, coming up behind me with Angie in tow. “We've been looking for you. The reception's over. Time to go.”

“I'm ready,” I replied.

They paused for one last look at the triptych. In silence, we gazed at it for another minute. Then Angie said, “Those are the most beautiful little angels I've ever seen. And you discovered them. Just think, if it hadn't been for everything that's happened, the world would never know they existed. Do you think it was all part of God's plan?”

“Including Charlie's murder? I doubt that very much,” Toby scoffed. “Life isn't planned. It just happens.”

“Is that so? What do you think, Nora?” Angie appealed to me for support.

I inhaled a long breath and let it out slowly.

Angie said, “Well?”

I smiled at her. “Nobody knows, sweetie.” I reached for Toby's hand. He was rolling his eyes. “I mean, really. Who does?”

A
ndrei Rublev is an important figure in Russian art, but the triptych on which our plot depends is fictitious, as are the characters and events in this novel. However, even a work of fiction depends on facts, and we are grateful to the generous people who provided us with information and assistance.

We want to thank Barry Bauman, art conservator, for patiently answering e-mail queries regarding icon conservation and restoration, even taking time out from his vacation to do so. James Jackson of Jackson's International Auctions in Cedar Falls, Iowa, was generous in sharing with us some of his vast knowledge on the subject of Russian icons and their history in the United States. We are grateful to Susie Silverek, formerly of the Sonoma County District Attorney's office, who informed us about jurisdiction and procedures for criminal investigations in the county and particularly in Bodega Bay. Jonathan Davis, of the Links at Bodega Harbour, was kind enough to answer questions about that marvelous golf course. Many thanks to Caitlin Woodbury for enjoyable conversations that yielded facts and color regarding life in Sonoma County. Thanks, too, to Barbara Flaherty, whose salon, The Premiere of Windsor, Wisconsin, is the model for Angie's hair emporium in Gloucester, Massachusetts.

Our research took us to several local libraries. David Dodd, Reference Librarian at the Sonoma County Library, Santa Rosa, helped us find back issues of the
San Francisco Chronicle
using the library's files on microfilm. Katherine J. Rinehart, Library Associate, History and Genealogy Library of Sonoma County, Santa Rosa, assisted us with locating information on Rose Gaffney, the “Hole in the Head” protests at Bodega Bay, and the filming of
The Birds
in Bodega Bay. Thanks to guide Lisa Gurian for her informative tour of Fort Ross and to the staff at the Fort Ross library.

We also relied on a number of books and articles for information. An invaluable source was
Searching for Icons in Russia
by Vladimir Soloukhin, translated by P. S. Falla (New York: Harvill Press, 1971), which served as our model for describing the process of removing darkened drying oil from the surface of old icons. On the subject of Russian icons, we also consulted, among other works: John Stuart,
Ikons
(London: Faber, 1975); Kate Cook, trans.,
A History of Icon Paintings: Sources, Traditions, Present Day
(Moscow: Grand Holding, 2005); Robert C. Williams,
Russian Art and American Money, 1900–1940
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1980); Susan Wiley Hardwick,
Russian Refuge: Religion, Migration, and Settlement on the Northwestern Pacific Rim
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993).

We learned about the practice of angel reading through the works of Doreen Virtue, notably
The Angel Therapy Handbook
(Carlsbad, Calif.: Hay House, 2011). Thanks to Zebunissa Collier, an angel reader and speech language pathologist in Petaluma, California, for pointing us in her direction. Much gratitude also to Zebbie's sister Rebecca Printen, yoga instructor extraordinaire, for introducing us to Zebbie. We also consulted David Albert Jones's
Angels: A History
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2010).

Readers who found the cosmological table talk in
chapter 6
of interest might want to try Jim Holt's
Why Does the World Exist?
(New York: Norton, Liveright, 2012) for a deeper treatment of the subject.

On Hitchcock and Bodega Bay, we thank Michael Draine, who sent us Kyle B. Counts's “The Making of Alfred Hitchcock's
The Birds
,”
Cinefantastique
10 (Fall 1980): 14–35, which proved very useful. We also benefited from “
The Birds
by Hitchcock,”
Sonoma Coast Guide
, no. 25 (April 2005), a special issue devoted to the film; and Jeff Kraft and Aaron Leventhal's
Footsteps in the Fog: Alfred Hitchcock's San Francisco
(Santa Monica, Calif.: Santa Monica Press, 2002).

We should add that any misstatements or errors of fact in this novel are inadvertent and solely our responsibility, not that of our sources or informants.

We are grateful to Jerry Peterson, for his advice on how to improve the manuscript, and to our editor, Raphael Kadushin, for his steadfast support. Finally, heartfelt thanks to friends and family for encouraging us and for sharing our pleasure in the adventures of Toby and Nora.