Brush With Death by Hailey Lind

Italian.”
    â€œHol’ on. I thought a margarita wuz a drink,” Evangeline interrupted. “We had a coupla bitchin’ pitchers of margaritas with our fish taco platters at Chevy’s last week.” She and Mary whooped and high-fived. Pete looked impressed.
    â€œThe drink was named after a woman, who was named after a pearl. Or a daisy. Same word in Spanish and Italian. Do you guys want to hear the story or not?”
    â€œYes, please, Annie,” Mary said with a wink.
    â€œYes, please, Annie,” Evangeline echoed with a giggle.
    In the past few months Mary and Evangeline had become fast friends, and in the process regressed a dozen years in maturity.
    â€œOkay, then,” I continued, mollified. “There are other clues supporting the secret marriage theory. For one thing, Raphael signed the painting on the woman’s blue armband, indicating a possible attachment to her. During the romantic age of the late 1800s, the story caught the public imagination. The artist Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres painted five different portraits of Raphael and La Fornarina. The French writer Balzac wrote about the love affair. And Pablo Picasso did a series of erotic drawings of Raphael and his lover caught in flagrante by the pope.”
    â€œImagine being busted by the pope while you’re doing it,” Mary said. “Now, that’s what I call a buzz kill.”
    â€œWhat are the other clues?” Pete asked, intrigued.
    â€œA few years ago art restorers at the Galleria Nazionale discovered myrtle and quince bushes—the traditional symbols of love, fidelity, and fecundity—in the painting’s background, and, most importantly, a small ring on La Fornarina’s left hand. The bushes and the ring had been deliberately painted over, either by Raphael or by one of his students. After Raphael’s death, the woman believed to be La Fornarina entered a convent where she was known as ‘ la vedova Margherita, ’ which means ‘the widow Margherita.’ ”
    â€œThat’s so romantic,” Mary breathed.
    â€œI still don’ geddit,” Evangeline said.
    â€œWhich part?”
    â€œWho painted Da Fornicator ?”
    â€œIt’s not important,” I sighed. I checked my watch, got to my feet, and brushed pizza crumbs from my overalls. “It’s just a pretty story.”
    â€œC’mon, Evangeline,” said Mary. “I’ll explain it to you on the way to Oakland. Did you bring your stuff for the overnight?”
    â€œI really wish you would reconsider, guys,” I said, thinking of last night’s grave robber. True, the ghoul in the green mask had been scared off by a woman who weighed less than the average Great Dane, but what if he returned with reinforcements? “I heard there’s been some trouble at the cemetery recently.”
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ve got my can of mace,” Mary said. “And if we get busted I promise I won’t mention your name.”
    I glared at her. I was jittery about any interaction with the police, and had recently learned that if someone knew a painting was stolen and didn’t alert the authorities, that someone could be prosecuted, in some instances more seriously than the thief. Even worse, there was a statute of limitations on criminal acts, but not on criminal knowledge.
    This was the sort of thing that kept me up nights.
    The happy campers wrapped up the leftover pizza, grabbed Mary’s sleeping bag and tote, and lumbered out of the studio. As I stood in the door watching Evangeline’s leather-clad form bump into the wall twice as she made her way down the hall, I wondered how she and Mary would secure their gear, plus their two ample bodies, on Evangeline’s BMW motorcycle for the trip across the bridge to Oakland. I decided I didn’t really want to know.
    â€œI have always found this Evangeline to be a very handful woman,” Pete