“They won’t, I promise you,” Nigel said. “She’ll be happy if the old bastard dies. So calm yourself.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Raleigh said.
“You’ll see me later,” Nigel said. “Nothing has changed.”
When Raleigh finished the call, his bowels began rumbling again and he ran to the bathroom.
An hour later, after more dithering, Raleigh called Tuscany and got Leona’s voice mail. He said, “Mrs. Brueger, it’s Raleigh Dibble. Please call me as soon as you get this message.”
At 12:30 P.M., thirty minutes before Nigel Wickland was due to arrive at the Brueger house, Raleigh was stunned to hear a vehicle in the driveway. He ran to the main door, opened it, and saw the gardener’s truck parked on the faux-cobblestone driveway. The electric gate was wide open as was always the case when the crew was there tending to all greenery on the outside as well as the inside of the garden walls.
Raleigh ran out and said to the first worker he saw, “What’re you doing here today?”
The Mexican shrugged and said, “No Eeng-lish.”
In utter frustration, Raleigh dashed around the property, looking for the boss, a burro of a man named Angel.
When he found him he said, “Angel, what’re you doing here today?”
“Mee-sus say to come today to reseed all the grass,” the gardener said. He took a pocket calendar from his back pocket and showed Raleigh that the date had been circled.
“Oh, shit!” Raleigh said. “Can’t you do it some other day?”
The gardener looked at his crew of five men, who were already pruning and trimming as well as scalping the lawn, and he said, “No, sir. Sorry. Thees ees the day I can be here.”
Raleigh said, “Okay, please try to hurry.”
He went out to the street, looking at his watch. He didn’t see the van from Wickland Gallery yet, so he hurried back to the house, picked up his cell phone, and dialed Nigel’s cell number.
He got voice mail and felt like throwing the goddamn phone through the window. He ran back out to the street and trotted fifty yards down the winding road until he had to stop to catch his breath. He was standing there panting when he saw the cargo van make the turn in the road and climb the street toward him.
Raleigh stepped into the middle of the road and waved his arms. The van came to a sudden stop and Nigel Wickland said, “What the hell are you doing?”
“The gardeners are here!” Raleigh said. “There’re Mexicans all over the place. I couldn’t stop them.”
“You said the gardeners came on another day. Not today,” Nigel said.
“I know, but this is something special that Mrs. Brueger set up. She didn’t tell me about it. It’s not my fault.”
“Not his fault,” Nigel said, looking away.
Raleigh said, “First Mr. Brueger has a stroke, and now this. Maybe fate’s trying to tell us something.”
“Don’t you lose your nerve!” Nigel said. “I’ve planned this and spent a lot of money, and worked on this without proper sleep or rest. I’ve got two perfect pictures in this van that are identical to the originals. And we’re going through with it, Raleigh.”
“With the gardeners here?”
“How long will they be here?”
“I don’t know. Usually only a few hours, but this is a special job.”
“Shit!” Nigel said. “Did you phone Leona about her brother-in-law’s stroke?”
“Yes, but I only got her voice mail. I left a message for her to call me.”
“Christ!” Nigel said. “Call me the minute you find out when the gardeners are leaving.”
“I will,” Raleigh said. “If you’ll turn on your cell phone.”
Nigel reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone, looked at it, and said, “Right.”
Then he pulled into a neighbor’s driveway, turned around, and drove back down toward the flatland.
Raleigh was surprised at how much satisfaction he’d gotten in demonstrating to Nigel Wickland that his cell had been turned off and he wasn’t so fucking perfect. He hurried back to the house, but the way the lawns were being scalped, it didn’t look like this would be a quick job. When he got inside the house, he checked the answering machine. He distinctly remembered giving Leona Brueger his cell number as well. He wondered if she’d lost it. He turned on the TV just for the noise it made.
That lovely day in early autumn was the longest day in the life of Raleigh Dibble. Leona Brueger never called. At 4:50 P.M., the gardeners finished their work and Raleigh notified Nigel Wickland that they were gone. Then he went into the bathroom and threw up.
Nigel Wickland rang the gate bell at 5:30 P.M., and Raleigh buzzed him into the Brueger compound. Raleigh walked outside and watched Nigel turn his cargo van all the way around and park it facing the gate.
When Nigel got out of the van, Raleigh said to him, “What’s the three-sixty for? A quick getaway?”
Nigel ignored that and said, “Help me with the material.”
He was wearing white coveralls with “Wickland Gallery” embroidered over a breast pocket. He opened the side door and put his ring of keys on the van roof temporarily, in order to free up both hands. He picked up his toolbox and handed it to Raleigh. Then he removed the two photographs on poster board, each individually wrapped in a furniture mover’s blanket. He leaned them carefully against the garage door and went back to the van for a floodlight and a light stand.
“What’s that for?” Raleigh asked.
“I want good lighting in that dark corridor when I do the switch,” Niegel said. Then he handed the floodlight and light stand to Raleigh and said, “Take all of this inside. I’ll carry the pictures.”
While Raleigh was walking into the house, Nigel closed the door of the van and picked up the photo reproductions.
After they carried everything across the Mexican-tile floor in the foyer, Nigel rested the blanket-covered pictures against a wall and said, “I could use a cold drink. Get me a Perrier, will you?”
With an edge to his voice, Raleigh said, “You’ll settle for another brand if I can’t find Perrier, won’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” Nigel said with a dismissive toss of his head. “Any mineral water will do.”
“Does it have to be carbonated?”
“For heaven’s sake, Raleigh, no! It need not be carbonated.”
Raleigh left Nigel to his work and walked into the butler’s pantry, muttering. He scooped a few little cubes from the ice maker into a tumbler and filled it with water from the faucet.
When he came back, Nigel was adjusting the floodlight, and he took the glass, drank half of it, and said, “Thanks. I was thirsty.”
Raleigh said, “That’s Vichy Catalan mineral water. I hope it’s okay.”
“Yes, perfect,” Nigel said. “Put these on.” He removed a pair of latex gloves from the back pocket of his coveralls and gave them to Raleigh. Pulling a second pair onto his own graceful hands, he said, “Now, carefully remove a blanket from one of my pictures and spread the blanket on the tile floor. Be very careful in handling them.”
Raleigh obeyed while Nigel got the floodlight shining down onto the mover’s blanket that Raleigh had spread. Then Nigel carefully removed The Woman by the Water from its place on the wall and, carrying the painting to the blanket, placed it facedown.
“Bring me my toolbox,” he said to Raleigh.
Raleigh did as he was told and was putting the toolbox on the floor next to Nigel just as the house phone rang.
“Is that the gate?” Nigel asked.
“No, the gate has a special ring,” Raleigh said, and he ran to the kitchen to answer it.
When he picked it up, he heard the grating voice of Rudy Ressler, who said, “Raleigh? This is Mr. Ressler. We got back last night from a couple of days in Rome and were so tired we crashed. I just got up to go to the bathroom and noticed your voice mail. What’s up?”
Raleigh said, “Mr. Ressler, I’m sorry to say that Mr. Brueger has had a minor stroke. At least I think it’s minor. He’s in Cedars-Sinai. I wanted Mrs. Brueger to know right away.”