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motorcycle to investigate the worth of the baseball cards,
while Sam and I piled into my truck. We pulled up to the
warehouse near the San Francisco Design Center, snagging
a rare parking space right in front.
Samantha s former assistant Rachel had learned a lot in
her two years at the auction house. She wore her honey-
colored hair in a neat coil at the back of her neck and a fine
gray wool skirt in place of her old jeans. Pulling on a pair of
clean white cotton gloves, she spread a velvet cloth on a
worktable and switched on a gooseneck lamp. She examined
the miniature with a magnifying glass and returned to her
desk to search for comparable sales on the computer.
This is older and higher quality than the others at the
columbarium. Much higher quality.
Is it a Rosalba Carriera?
Could be. Could very well be. Assuming it s genuine
and the provenance can be established, it should fetch a
pretty penny. A pretty penny indeed.
Sam and I shared a smile at Rachel s tendency to say
everything twice.
How much? I asked.
Brace yourselves, she said, looking up at us with a
bright smile. Up to twenty-five thousand dollars.
Chapter 16
What was a masterpiece a hundred years ago is no
longer so today.
Alberto Giacometti (1901 1966),
Swiss painter and sculptor
A faddish canvas might be hidden in a closet be-
hind the galoshes. A sculpture, at best, might be
moved to the garden and used to feed the wildlife.
Georges LeFleur
I remembered when twenty-five thousand dollars seemed like
a fortune. True, it was a lot of money for a tiny piece of painted
ivory, but it hardly seemed sufficient to justify kidnapping
Mary and me and threatening us with bullets and rats. On the
other hand, I had read that the average bank robbery nets only
three thousand dollars, so perhaps it was all relative.
I dropped Sam at her Chinatown apartment, crossed the
bridge into Oakland, and trudged up to my apartment, where
I made a dinner of a pear and gorgonzola cheese. I ate in
bed, wearing the oversized T-shirt that served as my night-
gown, and was falling asleep when Evangeline and Mary
called to report that Collectors Corner had offered nearly
ten thousand dollars for the baseball cards.
240 Hailey Lind
The contents of the metal box now totaled thirty-five
thousand dollars. Had I missed anything else of value? Per-
haps the toy soldiers were worth something to a collector, or
the letters and photos to a museum. It wasn t a bad night s
work, but it wasn t Blackbeard s treasure chest.
The phone rang again and I jumped on it, hoping it was
Grandfather. Instead, it was our old pal Donato Sandino,
checking on my progress or lack of progress, I thought to
myself with La Fornarina. The Italian reminded me of
what was at stake: my grandfather s freedom. I spent an-
other restless night.
The next morning, in deference to a break in the rain and
because I wasn t planning on climbing scaffolding, I dressed
in a flowered skirt, a bright blue tank top, and sandals. I
would be catching up on paperwork and finishing the pirate
drawings at the studio, so I should manage to remain pre-
sentable. I hoped the out-of-character attire would lift my
mood. Cindy s death still bothered me, I wondered about
Donato Sandino s plans for Grandfather, and I worried that
Helena might have rolled up Raphael s masterpiece like a
cheap poster. I could almost hear the centuries-old varnish
crackling.
Since I had a little extra time this morning, I decided to
visit Mrs. Henderson and ask about Helena and about the
legend of treasure in Louis Spencer s crypt. The retirement
community looked and smelled as it had the other day.
When I approached the front desk, the same blue-haired re-
ceptionist was chatting on the phone. She looked up with a
smile, but the smile shook when she recognized me. She
hung up.
Hello, I said. I m here to see Mrs. Henderson.
Oh dear, the woman said. She s gone.
Hairdresser s again?
Oh, goodness, no, she said, avoiding my eyes. She s . . .
BRUSH WITH DEATH 241
What? I urged, starting to worry.
I m so sorry, dear, she . . .
A nurse who had been smoking outside walked up to the
counter. Are you family?
I m her niece, I lied.
She was taken to Summit Medical Center in a diabetic
coma.
A what? She was fine . . .
These things can come on quickly. She came back from
an outing on Sunday
Yes, I know. We went on a picnic.
The woman s lips formed a straight line of disapproval.
You should have watched what she ate. She loves sweets.
She seemed very careful, and when we got back she
checked her blood sugar. The machine said everything was
fine.
You must have read it wrong, said the nurse. I m sorry.
She hustled down the hallway, her ample hips chugging
from one side to another.
There, there, dear, clucked the blue-haired woman.
Nurse Ratchett has a rather blunt way of putting things. She
means well. It wasn t your fault.
An elderly woman with a strawberry-blond rinse accom-
panied by a stooped man with a hearing aid joined us. What
wasn t whose fault?
Mrs. Henderson, the receptionist replied in a loud voice.
Shame, the man croaked. She was so happy about
writing her autobiography, too.
The two women nodded.
Was someone helping her? I asked.
Pardon? The man reached up and fiddled with his hear-
ing aid.
Was someone helping her? the receptionist repeated
loudly.
242 Hailey Lind
Chinese girl. Pretty as a China doll.
She wasn t Chinese, Ned. Not every Asian is Chinese,
for heaven s sakes, said the strawberry blonde with a fond
but exasperated smile.
Korean, then, Ned said.
Did she have an accent? I asked him.
What s that?
An accent, I shouted. Did she have one?
Nope. Mrs. Henderson was as all-American as apple pie.
No, I said loudly, the girl. The Asian girl.
Don t suppose she did, come to think of it.
Could she have been Japanese-American?
A Japanese porcelain doll. I was stationed over there
during Korea, you know.
We know, Ned, we know, the receptionist said, winking
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