Brush With Death by Hailey Lind Page B

girl’s reputation.
    â€œVery funny,” I said, plopping into one of the two cushy red leather chairs my landlord kept for clients and visitors.
    â€œAren’t you working at the columbarium tonight?”
    â€œThe paint needs to dry.” I knew from painful experience that if we jumped the gun the still-volatile underpaint would mingle with the new overglazes to create an all-around muddy disaster. The only remedy would be to start over from scratch.
    â€œMmm.” A man of few words, Frank.
    â€œMay I ask a question?”
    â€œYou just did.”
    â€œYou’re a riot, Frank.”
    My landlord was looking especially handsome tonight. Last fall Frank and I had taken tentative steps towards developing a personal relationship, but just as we were about to head off to have Thanksgiving dinner with my parents, Josh had shown up and Frank had backed off. It was probably just as well, I thought. He was smart and funny, but he was a real straight arrow. Which explained why my mother was planning the wedding and I was doing my level best to ignore those pesky zings . Frank was a security man who hung out with law-and-order types. I was an insecurity woman who ran around with wanted-by-the-FBI types. I feared Frank might have to turn me over to the cops one day, or testify against me in court, and it was difficult to build a relationship when one person was looking for an escape route. Literally.
    Not to mention I already had a boyfriend. Good ol’ Josh.
    Frank grinned.
    Zing.
    â€œFire away,” he said.
    â€œAre you familiar with Raphael’s La Fornarina, which is supposed to be in the Galleria Nazionale at the Barberini Palace . . . ?” I trailed off as Frank sat back in his chair and laced his fingers over his flat stomach in his customary “We Need to Talk” posture. It never ceased to amaze me how his warm brown eyes could turn so cold, so quickly.
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œYou okay, Frank?”
    â€œJim dandy. Continue.”
    â€œYou’re cozy with art security types. I was wondering if you’d heard anything about the Barberini’s La Fornarina. ”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike whether it’s been sold.”
    He shook his head.
    â€œRemoved from the museum for restoration?”
    Another head shake.
    â€œReplaced by a forgery?”
    â€œYou’re the forgery expert, Annie.” Frank’s voice became quiet and measured, a sure sign he was agitated. “I transport fine art, but La Fornarina has never been under my care. Cut to the chase and tell me what you’re fishing for.”
    â€œThere’s a version of the painting in the Chapel of the Chimes Columbarium, and it’s been brought to my attention that—”
    Frank interrupted. “Are you saying you saw a painting you believe to be a genuine Raphael?”
    â€œNot in so many words.”
    â€œWhat did you see?”
    â€œA cheap copy. One of those created by paint jets and a computer, you know the kind.”
    Frank nodded.
    â€œBut it was labeled a copy from the nineteenth century.”
    â€œLet me get this straight,” Frank said, running a large tanned hand over his face. “You saw a computer-generated copy of Raphael’s La Fornarina that was labeled a nineteenth-century copy, and this prompted you to imagine Raphael’s original wasn’t in the Barberini Palace?”
    â€œWhen you phrase it like that it sounds kind of silly.”
    â€œIs there any way to phrase it that doesn’t sound silly?”
    â€œI know it’s a wild idea, Frank, but my gut’s telling me something is wrong. Another scholar swears the one she saw in the columbarium was the original. Maybe it was switched with the computer copy. I know there’s nothing substantial to go on at this point, but I would feel a lot better if I knew the original Raphael was safe. And, um, an original.”
    â€œWho’s this ‘other