The Body in Bodega Bay by Betsy Draine Read Free Book Online

against Goliath. But the great artist made a blunder, claimed Al, because why would David show up on the battlefield without his pants?
    Al liked to shock us with his views on religion. He maintained that theology was a form of literary criticism, since its arguments were chiefly about works of fiction (the Bible, the Koran, and so on). And he was fond of saying that if you picked a group of kids at random hanging around a street corner, any one of them could have designed a kinder universe than the one we’ve got. Yes, Al enjoyed getting a rise out of us.
    I once asked him why he had chosen to specialize in early Christian art, given his irreligious views. Would anyone, he replied, expect him to be an animist if he taught Aboriginal art? Half-seriously, he added that his field was less crowded than some others and so he felt he could make a mark in it. In fact, he was an excellent scholar. “But the real reason, Nora, is that religious art can be just as beautiful as other kinds of art, and beautiful is what art history is about. Everything else is secondary.” I’ve never forgotten that.
    Still, he was an odd member of his field. Usually faculty gravitate toward subjects that are in sync with their beliefs. Most professors of medieval art I’ve known have been believers, while those who teach contemporary art have not. You might ask, what about folks like me, who teach Impressionism? Considering my colleagues, I’d say we’re all over the map. As for myself, I had a traditional Catholic upbringing, but while I still attend the occasional Mass and sometimes even take communion, my views on religion are, well, flexible. Toby, now, is the real skeptic in the family. His parents are mainline Protestants, but he jokingly refers to himself as an “Orthodox Reprobate.”
    Those were some of the stray thoughts running through my mind as Toby and I stood waiting on the porch for the doorbell to be answered. We weren’t kept long. Al hadn’t changed much in the years since I’d been his student. He was short, slim, and still dapper, with a full head of curly hair now gone silver and a trim white beard that reminded me of Civil War portraits. In class, he used to favor sports jackets and bow ties, but today he greeted us wearing khakis and a bulky hand-knit sweater. His wife, Irma, knitted.
    â€œCome in, come in,” he said, beckoning. “I can’t wait to hear more about your missing icon. You’ve got my curiosity up.” He gave me a hug and shook Toby’s hand. “So good to see you both. Make yourselves at home.” He led us into the living room, where a cozy fire crackled in the hearth. Offering us the couch, he pulled up a wooden chair for himself. The room was furnished just as I remembered, with Arts and Crafts–period furniture and oriental carpets, much to Toby’s liking.
    â€œHow are your courses going, Nora, and your work?” We made small talk as we settled in. “Will you take tea?” A tray with a steaming pot was waiting for us on the coffee table.
    â€œYes, that would be lovely.”
    â€œNow, what’s this all about?”
    Toby recounted the events surrounding Charlie’s death and what was known so far about the missing icon, while Al fussed with the tea cups and pouring. “Charlie bought it at auction for only eight hundred dollars,” I added, “but we think it may be more valuable than that.” I pulled the auction catalog out of my bag.
    Al cast a disdainful glance at it. “Never mind the catalog. If it’s Morgan’s, the description won’t be worth a damn. You mentioned photos. May I see them?” He placed his porcelain cup on its saucer.
    Toby took an envelope out of his jacket and pulled out the photos for Al, who spread them out on the coffee table. He set aside the one of the back of the panel and glanced quickly over the others. “The archangel Michael, yes. Commonplace