Brush With Death by Hailey Lind Page A

murmured. His soft brown eyes were shining and there was a goofy half smile on his face.
    Well, well, I thought. “I think you mean ‘handsome,’ Pete. But you’re right about one thing. Evangeline is quite a handful.”

Chapter 5
    The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery.
    â€”Francis Bacon (1909-1992), British painter
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The job of the art forger is to render the mystery impenetrable. Especially to Interpol.
    â€”Georges LeFleur
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At the end of my first year in business I had been shocked to discover that the IRS expected me to pay hefty self-employment taxes even though True/Faux Studios had lost money. As my unsympathetic tax accountant commented: “You gotta pay your taxes. Business is ninety percent paperwork whether you’re selling art, paper clips, or pigs’ snouts.”
    Kind of took the glamour out of the old day job.
    Then again, being self-employed allowed me to deduct the cost of art supplies as a business expense, which was a boon for an artaholic like me. More than once I had assuaged my woes with a ream of expensive Belgian linen canvas or a pot of powdered pigment. And though I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing fur, I was known to salivate over brushes of sable and rabbit hair.
    I spent the next few hours blasting partway through the mountain of paperwork that is the reality of running a business: keeping the books and paying estimated quarterly taxes to the IRS and the State Board of Equalization; filling out reams of forms for Mary’s biweekly check; making sure my insurance policies and business licenses and resale numbers were current; updating inventory and supplies so we didn’t run out of boiled linseed oil in the middle of faux-finishing a ballroom; developing a Web site for increasingly computer-dependent designers and the public; and every now and then taking clients to task for “failing to fulfill their contractual obligations”—i.e., not paying me.
    Given my family history one might think I would know that a love of art did not always accompany a sterling character, but I still took it as a personal insult when clients— usually the wealthiest ones—tried to stiff me.
    My cell phone rang and I leapt on it, hoping for Cindy or Michael. It was Josh. I gave him the rundown on Aaron Garner’s renovation, and he made me laugh as he described the moneyed inhabitants of Aspen. We lingered for a while on the phone. Josh was sweet and steady, and I pondered why I doubted my relationship with one of the few men I knew who had no unclear, possibly nefarious motives in wanting to be with me.
    After hanging up, I spent a few minutes tidying up the studio, gathered my things, switched off the lights, and headed downstairs. Maybe tonight I’d catch up on my sleep deficit. Great. Thirty-two years old, single, and I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home and an early bedtime.
    Maybe I should get a cat.
    As I descended I noticed the lights blazing in the office of DeBenton Secure Transport. Peeking in the window, I saw Frank DeBenton sitting behind a massive desk, his neatly combed head bent low over paperwork, and felt a perverse satisfaction that my landlord worked even longer hours than I.
    I opened the office door and poked my head in. “Heya, Frank.”
    His dark eyes swept over me, and I felt the little zing I had been getting lately around Frank. He sat back in his chair and gave me a slow smile.
    Double zing.
    Dammit!
    â€œWe’ve missed you around here, Annie,” Frank said in his deep, deliberate voice. “The alarm hasn’t tripped once since you began working in the East Bay. And hardly anyone uses the fire escape anymore.”
    Last fall I had gotten a reputation for setting off the building’s shrill alarm, even though I had done it only once. Come to think of it, I had only used the fire escape once, too.
    But as my mother used to tell me, once was enough to ruin a