Brush With Death by Hailey Lind

combed forward across his broad forehead in a style originated by Julius Caesar and revived by George Clooney. Thick-rimmed, retro-style glasses perched on a large nose that presided over a wide mouth. Manny wasn’t fat, just extralarge, as if his parents had ordered him from the Super-Sized Infants menu. “Looks like you’re making excellent progress.”
    â€œWe are. We reattached the canvases to the walls last week,” I said. “Now it’s time for the fun part—painting and gilding.”
    â€œThat’s super. I can’t wait to see how everything turns out.”
    â€œYou and me both. Listen, I wanted to pick your brain about something. Join me for lunch on the hill?”
    He glanced at a grease-stained brown paper bag sitting atop a utilitarian metal bookshelf. “Let me see . . . lunch alfresco with a lovely, talented artist? Does this mean I have to split the bologna-on-rye that I fixed this morning with my own two hands?”
    â€œI’ll trade you half a bologna-on-rye for some samosas from the farmers’ market,” I offered. “I’ll even spring for a soda to wash ’em down.”
    â€œBest offer I’ve had all week,” Manny said as he pulled on a light blue windbreaker.
    I retrieved my shoulder bag from my truck, bought Manny a can of orange soda from the vending machine in the employee lunch room, and found him waiting for me at the cemetery gates. Making up for yesterday’s rain, today was sunny and mild, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue. We chatted about the plans for Manny’s upcoming wedding as we climbed the winding road, passing the memorial to Civil War veterans, with its stack of real cannonballs that the National Park Service replenished whenever vandals made off with a few. A large tan Buick crept past us, the faces of its elderly occupants marked by age and loss. Two men in dark blue jumpsuits operated a machine that dug a grave for an interment. The muted roar of lawn mowers and whine of weed whackers revealed the presence of the fleet of gardeners at work in the distance.
    At last we arrived, slightly winded, at the Locklear Family Memorial, which had been built on a scale commonly reserved for public monuments. In addition to the twenty-foot-tall central cylinder bearing the bas-relief likenesses of assorted Locklear kin—a homely bunch, judging by their squinty eyes and drooping jowls—the memorial boasted a circular stone bench that was a favorite graveyard haunt for locals in the know. It was Manny’s favorite lunch spot.
    From our hillside perch we enjoyed a crystal clear view of downtown Oakland and, across the bay, San Francisco’s distinctive skyline marked by the pyramidal Transamerica Building. My gaze drifted down the hill to the bobbing helium balloons that indicated Louis Spencer’s crypt below us. I still hadn’t heard from Cindy Tanaka. Probably just busy at school, I told myself. I wondered what the police had learned about the grave robbery, and decided to inquire at the cemetery office after lunch.
    I handed Manny his soda, poured myself a cup of Peet’s coffee from the thermos, and set out the samosas, peach chutney, and hot lime pickle. One of the best things about working nights and sleeping late was having lunch for breakfast. I wasn’t a scrambled-eggs-and-pancakes kind of gal.
    â€œI wanted to ask you about some of the art at the columbarium,” I began, breaking open a crusty samosa, a savory Indian pastry stuffed with potatoes, vegetables, and spices.
    â€œMiss Ivy said you were asking around,” Manny mumbled through a mouthful of bologna sandwich, which he had insisted on finishing before partaking of the samosas. “I’m a numbers cruncher, remember? I’m not so good with history. You know who you should talk to? Old Mrs. Henderson. She was secretary to the director for fifty-one years, been here longer than Cogswell.”
    â€œNo