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I m afraid I don t, he said. I have a meeting. Boring fi-
nancial matters. Speaking of which, how goes the assess-
ment of our miniatures collection?
So far it s not too encouraging, but I m still working on
it, I hedged. My friend Samantha s former assistant,
Rachel, worked in appraisals at Mayfield s Auction House,
and I d shown her the miniatures collection last week. Ac-
cording to Rachel, the collection was historically interesting
but not very valuable, in part because of the portraits
diminutive size and primitive style but mostly because in art,
as in so much of life, market value was relative to desire.
There just wasn t a demand for miniatures these days.
These appealing likenesses in little some by artists
whom I recognized, such as John Singleton Copley and
Charles Wilson Peale had been popular in the mid-
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Before the invention of
photography by Louis Daguerre, a former painter, miniature
portraits were the cheapest and easiest way to capture a
BRUSH WITH DEATH 39
loved one s image. The tradition had been brought to the
American colonies from England and Italy, where Rosalba
Carriera had pioneered the technique of crosshatching or
stippling watercolors or gouache on ivory, rather than on
less durable vellum. At that time, miniature painting was one
of the few arenas in which women artists competed success-
fully with men.
Just a few inches tall, the ovals were small enough to slip
in a pocket, and were sometimes set into lockets to be kept
near the wearer s heart, or framed in cases of fine leather,
worked gold, or etched silver. Locks of the subject s hair,
braided or arranged in a plaid pattern, were often fixed be-
neath a thin layer of glass on the back of the portrait. To me
the most intriguing aspect of the miniatures was their per-
sonal significance. The portraits were treasured remem-
brances of cherished husbands gone off to war, perhaps
never to return; of dewy brides destined to die young in
childbirth; of beloved children who fell victim to any of a
thousand terrors, including what we today airily dismiss as
childhood diseases ; of revered mothers and fathers in
short, they were reminders of loved ones whose visages
would otherwise live on only in the fading memories of
those who survived, or glimpsed in the faces of their descen-
dants.
Rachel had estimated the columbarium s collection
would sell for perhaps five hundred to a few thousand dol-
lars apiece. Not exactly the windfall the columbarium
needed to pay for its long-overdue earthquake retrofit.
One other possibility, Rachel suggested, was that full-
sized early American portraits often showed women wearing
a miniature. If we could match the columbarium s minia-
tures with such paintings their value would skyrocket. To de-
termine this would require extensive research, and Rachel
would do only so much without being paid. I wasn t much
40 Hailey Lind
good at research. Or computers. Not to mention I had a mil-
lion other things on my To Do list.
But something about Chapel of the Chimes tugged at my
heart. It was unique, a testament to turn-of-the-century Oak-
land s wealth and ambition to be taken seriously as a cultural
center. Architect Julia Morgan s mosaic-encrusted Gothic
design was stunning, and even the newer section, whose
crisp lines and soaring heights harkened more to Frank
Lloyd Wright, was soothing and reflective. As final resting
places went, the columbarium was a gem.
Well, keep me posted, Cogswell continued. A spark lit
up his blue eyes. Or perhaps I might drop by later. Are you
and Mary painting tonight?
It might be more convenient if I swing by your office to-
morrow morning, I replied. Mary would not be able to con-
ceal her impatience with the columbarium s smitten
director, and I feared the diffident Roy would be slow to re-
cover from her sharp tongue.
Roy nodded and shuffled into a small conference room,
where I glimpsed the columbarium s accountant, Manny
Ramirez, chatting with two gray-suited men.
I ll be surprised if we re open past June, a dour woman
announced in clipped tones as she stared at me over the rims
of her rhinestone reading glasses. Roy Cogswell s intimidat-
ing administrative assistant, known to all and sundry as
Miss Ivy, liked nothing better than to ambush anyone fool-
ish enough to pause on their way past the redwood counter
and subject them to lengthy doomsday monologues. The
employees referred to this as Miss Ivy s office arrest. I
used to think it was funny.
Mmm, I responded, trying not to encourage her.
Building s falling down about our heads as it is, she
continued, smoothing her leopard-print miniskirt over her
thin thighs. Miss Ivy was fifteen years my senior, worked in
BRUSH WITH DEATH 41
a mortuary, and never cracked a smile, but she dressed like
a Las Vegas hooker on her day off. It was disconcerting, to
say the least. I m sure you ve seen the state of the glass
ceiling tiles. Been that way since the eighty-nine earth-
quake. Can t afford to fix em. Mark my words, it s only a
matter of time until they close this place down. If you could
see what I ve seen
Is the situation really that dire? I interrupted. I would
think there s no shortage of demand.
Oh, sure, people die every day, she said, as if announc-
ing late-breaking news. But what with those so-called en-
vironmentalists kicking up a fuss about the smoke from the
crematorium, and advocating those green burials that don t
even use caskets, no better than the heathen Hottentots, well,
I ask you, how are we supposed to turn a profit? Now, it
seems to me
Miss Ivy, do you know anything about the columbar-
ium s artwork?
Do I look like a tour guide?
No, but I thought you might
I ll tell you one thing, the management would do well to
focus less on aesthetics and more on the day-to-day opera-
tions of
Such a shame. Such a shame, I babbled, backing out the
door. I think I m coming down with something. Must be
that plague that s going around. Gotta go!
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