The Mystery of the Deadly Donations
by Ron Katz
“We specialize in cases where age is an edge, Al” said Bernie Silver, “so counterfeit art is not our thing.” He was addressing Al Jordan, the head of investigations at the Alpha Insurance Company. Bernie and his wife, Barb, formerly worked for Jordan at Alpha before they started their own agency, Silver Investigations.
“Well, I didn’t want to use the word ‘old,’” responded Jordan, “but that’s what this case is about, old paintings.”
“’Old’ is also not our thing,” interjected Barb. ‘Buoyant Baby Boomers’ is where we’re at.”
“That’s exactly what I meant to say,” Al improvised. “How about the case of an energetic 75-year-old, who died in the prime of her Baby Boomerdom?”
“Now you’re talking!” exclaimed Barb. “Who is that unfortunate young soul?”
“Florence Cavendish, a wealthy graduate of Stanford, who is leaving what we believed was a valuable Jackson Pollock painting to the university museum.”
“Pollock painted during our lifetimes,” noted Bernie, “so how can you say that’s old? He’s definitely a modern artist.”
“Those giant canvases filled with splatters of paint are about as modern as you can get,” Barb agreed.
“Old or modern,” Al sighed, “those splatters, we thought, were worth millions.”
“Who is ‘we?” inquired Barb.
“It’s a little complicated,” said Al. “The university had the paintings appraised when they were donated, with the proviso that Mrs. Cavendish could keep them during her lifetime.”
“Didn’t you have them independently appraised?” asked Bernie.
“That’s where the complication comes in. The university used as its appraiser the world-famous head of its art history department, Vladimir Osofsky, who also used to work in the appraisal department of the British Museum. Alpha used as its appraiser John Solomon from the Solomon Galleries, not realizing that he had been a student of Osofsky’s.”
“So, you think Solomon deferred too much to Osofsky’s appraisal, which was how much?” inquired Barb.
“$17 million, and Stanford then took out an insurance policy on the paintings with Alpha. After Mrs. Cavendish died in an accident, and after Alpha belatedly learned that Solomon was Osofsky’s former student, we retained a new appraiser, Reginald Thompson-Smith, who is the chairman of the art history department of the University of California at Berkeley. He says the painting is a fake, worth nothing. Basically, this is a comedy of errors that is not in the least funny to Alpha.”
“Let me guess your problem,” said Bernie, “which is not at all comic: Stanford thinks you owe it $17 million.”
“Precisely.” said Al, “Stanford’s position is that it paid premiums for years geared to a $17 million value. The university claims that this situation is no different from a theft of the painting, in which case Alpha would have paid the $17 million to Stanford, as the ultimate owner, with no questions asked. That’s where you come in.”
“I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, Al,” said Bernie, “but tell me again how age gives us an edge in this case?”
“I will,” responded Al, “but first you have to tell me what a record is.”
“Very funny,” Bernie said with a grimace. “We love that Millennial humor, but please just answer my question.”
“Age doesn’t give you an edge here, Bernie,” Al responded, “but we were hoping your lovely wife would go undercover as an elderly potential donor of another seemingly very valuable Jackson Pollock painting to Stanford. That would give us an insight into the legitimacy of the appraisal process.”
“What makes you think I could pull off elderly?” Barb asked querulously.
“A wheelchair, a blanket on your lap, sensible shoes, thick glasses, strategically applied rouge and a white bouffant wig could work wonders, even with your youthful vigor,” replied Al. “We have hired Kelli Saenz, Hollywood makeup artist extraordinaire, to do the job. She could make Britney Spears look elderly.”
“For your information, Al,” rejoined Barb, “our granddaughter thinks Britney Spears is elderly. In any event, I concede I would be somewhat less of an aging challenge than Britney. Getting into the spirit of things, I suppose, if I assume this role, I could even have Snowball on my lap to further distract someone from any lurking vitality of mine that might seep through the disguise.” Snowball was their beloved rescue dog, a small white terrier mix.
“Perfect,” said Al. “Are you on board?”
“I’m not so sure we want this assignment,” responded Bernie. “Investigating Stanford is not a great way to make friends in our hometown of Palo Alto.”
“How about if, on top of your usual rates, I add .3% of what you save Alpha on the $17 million?”
Simultaneously calculating in their heads the possibility of a $51,000 bonus, Barb and Bernie exchanged affirming glances. “.5% and we have a deal,” Bernie said, “If we burn our local bridges, I guess we can always move across the Bay to Berkeley.”
“Berkeley is lovely,” bargained Al, “so, let’s make it .4%”
“Give us the beautiful fake Pollock when it’s over, and we have a deal,” offered Barb. “If it was good enough to fool a Stanford professor, we can certainly impress our friends if it hangs in our living room.
“Ok, so long as you don’t try to resell it for $17 million.”
***
Thomas van Nest, the Vice President for Institutional Advancement at Stanford, was just finishing up a phone call as Bernie was ushered into his spacious office, decorated with Persian rugs, a large Tiffany lamp and pastoral oil paintings. Van Nest wore a grey flannel suit, a white button-down shirt and a red Stanford tie. “Yes, her gift matured; please proceed,” he said as he ended the call.
“I’m doing the due diligence on the Florence Cavendish case for Alpha Insurance Company,” Bernie began.
“Ah, yes,” van Nest responded, his face tightening. “I was just talking about her as you entered.”
Bernie looked puzzled, but then brightened: “Oh, that comment about the gift maturing. I am guessing that that’s your way of saying she’s died.”
“Correct,” said van Nest. “We use a lot of euphemisms in our business. For example, I would say that you are here regarding some unpleasantness.”
“And I would say that ‘Institutional Advancement” is another way to say ‘fundraising,’” countered Bernie. “But I think we can both agree that $17 million means $17 million, which is why Alpha has to proceed with caution. So, please don’t take anything I say personally.”
“Well,” said van Nest, “good luck to Alpha if it wants to question Professor Osofsky’s appraisal. He’s the best in the world.”
“I agree that he’s very distinguished,” said Bernie, “but, as you know, the astronomical prices in the art market have made art forgery a growth industry, and the forgers are getting more skillful every day.”
Frowning, van Nest said, “Have at it, Mr. Silver. The person you should be talking to first is Mrs. Cavendish’s planned giving officer, Richard Simpson.”
“Planned giving officer?” queried Bernie.
“Richard will explain it to you. He’s waiting to meet you at the faculty club for lunch,” said van Nest, picking up his phone.
***
The faculty club dining room had a twenty-foot ceiling and an entire wall of glass looking out on the lush campus. Bernie was greeted there by Richard Simpson, a sixty-something who looked somewhat out of place in his bespoke three-piece suit, accented by the apparently standard-issue Stanford tie.
“You look surprised, Mr. Silver,” he said.
“Seeing one person a day wearing a tie in Silicon Valley is surprising,” Bernie responded, “and now you’re the second.”
“Unfortunately, the more formally one dresses in Silicon Valley, the less likely one is to be a billionaire. But it’s not so hard to understand my style of dress, Mr. Silver, when you consider the age of most of our planned giving donors. Most are ladies and gentlemen of the old school.”
“Please call me ‘Bernie.’”
“I’m more comfortable with ‘Mr. Silver,’ if you don’t mind.”
***
While Bernie was learning about planned giving, Barb, accompanied by Snowball, knocked on the door of a large suite at the San Francisco Ritz-Carlton, where Al Jordan had instructed her to go. Answering, an older woman dressed as a housekeeper greeted her with a soft voice: “Hello, Mrs. Silver.”
Not having expected a housekeeper, Barb registered surprise. “Who…who are you?”
“Kelli Saenz,” the housekeeper replied heartily, seeming much younger than her appearance. “I’m at your service for effortless aging, and I wanted you to see just how easy it is.”
“You’ve certainly accomplished that,” said Barb. “You look 60 but Al told me you were 30. Why the housekeeping uniform?”
“Al’s idea is that, if you are a rich, wheelchair-bound matron living in the Ritz-Carlton, you need a housekeeper, and I am the best bet for that because I can also help out if your makeup starts going south.”
“Al certainly thinks of everything,” said Barb. “And you’re living proof that instant aging works, so let’s get started.”
“I can assure you, Barb, that making up someone to age is easier than the reverse. Please head toward the bathroom in the back, which, by the way is slightly larger than the living room in my Hollywood apartment.”
“I hope Snowball can join,” said Barb. “She’s part of my disguise.” Snowball emitted a low growl as they entered what she perceived was Kelli’s territory.
“No worries,” responded Kelli. “I’m a cat person.” Being ignored, Snowball quieted down and resumed happily prancing beside Barb.
***
Bernie and Richard Simpson returned to Simpson’s cramped, unlived-in office after their lunch, which Bernie had tried to enliven by insisting on paying for a bottle of wine. “That wine was good, but it’s made me a little tired,” was his opening gambit as they sat down on opposite sides of a small table.
“Not me,” said the planned giving officer. “If wine made me tired, I would be out of business, since I meet with at least one of my donors for a fancy meal every day.”
“Sounds like a good way to make a living,” Bernie ventured.
“Probably sounds better than it is, especially considering the cost of living in the Bay Area.” responded Simpson. “Planned giving means that Stanford will get a gift in the future, usually when the donor passes away. It’s important to keep in touch with donors so that they don’t change their minds, but rather add to their gift as they prepare to meet their Maker.”
“I was wondering why your office looked so spare, especially compared to Mr. van Nest’s.”
“Everything of mine is spare compared to van Nest, who mostly stays put in his office, barking out directives. My office is really just a place to hang my hat. I’m expected to be out with donors at least 50% of the time.”
“May I ask whether you have some sort of quota?”
“We would never call it that, but, as with any job, there are expectations.” Getting into the subject, perhaps influenced a bit by the Chardonnay, Simpson added proudly, “I have been the top producer in our department for the past five years.”
Pleased that he seemed to be getting somewhere, Bernie ventured “How about this year?”
“I was running third the entire year, but recently I have moved into second and am gaining,” Simpson observed with some pride.”
“So, ironically, the death of Florence Cavendish was good for you.”
“I would never say that, but it is the nature of this business. Florence and I had become good friends over the years, but she was declining rapidly, even at the relatively young age—for my donors—of 75.”
“How did you find out about her death?” inquired Bernie.
“Oh,” Simpson answered, “I thought van Nest told you that I, unfortunately, was the one who discovered her body. I was picking her up for our monthly luncheon date at the University Club. When there was no answer at the door, I retrieved the key that I knew she kept in a nearby rosebush and discovered her at the foot of the stairs. The poor dear was unresponsive.”
“How terrible,” said Bernie.
“Yes, but that’s not really what you’re here for. This case is about a battle of the titans over the value of the Jackson Pollock painting. And, I have arranged for you to have the rare privilege of meeting Stanford’s titan, Professor Osofsky, so let’s head to his office.
***
As Barb and Kelli headed to the huge bathroom/dressing room, they passed a luminous splatter-painting spotlighted over the mantle. “Is that the fake Pollock I’m giving to Stanford?” asked Barb. “Looks pretty good to me.”
“Yes, apparently Alpha employs only the best art forgers, specialists from China where, unlike here, copying art is considered to be both a respected skill and a great compliment to the original artist.” said Kelli. “I, for one, don’t get it. If a forgery looks just like the original and gives people the same sort of visual pleasure, then who cares if it’s fake?”
“One easy answer is Alpha, which has 17 million reasons to care.”
“Good point, Mrs. Silver. Why don’t you change into this smock and we’ll get started. Fundraiser par excellence Richard Simpson of Stanford is due here in two hours, and Alpha doesn’t want to rent these luxury digs any longer than necessary.
***
“Professor Osofsky,” greeted Simpson, “thank you for taking the time to meet private investigator Bernie Silver, who’s working on the Cavendish matter.”
Osofsky, hunched over a photograph with a magnifying glass, looked up, displeased, at Bernie. “Private eye, you say. We don’t get many of those in our ivory tower, Mr. Silver, but welcome anyway. Please take a seat if you can find one.” He motioned to a chair in front of his desk that, like everything else in the office, was covered with books, photos, posters, and prints. Bernie removed a stack of heavy art books and sat down.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Simpson, as he scurried out the door. “I have an elderly prospect awaiting me at the Ritz-Carlton. I might have another Pollock for you to appraise, Vladimir.”
“You’re probably just saying she’s elderly,” Osofsky shot back, “to throw Silver here off the scent when she dies. Have you noticed, Silver, how 100% of Simpson’s donors die?”
“Even the Mafia doesn’t have a better record than the planned giving department” joked Bernie, trying to match Osofsky’s seeming jocularity, but to no avail.
Shifting gears, Osofsky, a tall, thin man with a coal-black Van Dyke beard and striking shoulder-length hair to match, went back to his magnifying glass and, without looking up at Bernie, said, “I hope this won’t take too long, Mr. Silver. This matter would have been settled long ago if it weren’t for that chemist, Thompson-Smith.”
“Isn’t Professor Thompson-Smith an art history professor like you?” Bernie asked.
“That’s what he’d like to think,” said Osofsky, “but long ago he departed from what’s really important in art—its irreducible nature—and went off on a tangent with chemistry. Indeed, that’s exactly what he did with this magnificent Pollock that is causing your company to disavow its obligations.”
“Alpha is not disavowing anything, Professor Osofsky. The problem, as you well know, is that the provenance on Pollocks can be a little dicey.”
At this, Osofsky seemed to perk up. “You got me there, Mr. Silver. I did not expect to be discussing provenance with a private eye, so, at the least, I congratulate you for looking that up before you came here.”
“We call it ‘research’ in my field, Professor. What I found out was that Abstract Expressionists like Pollock in the early 1950’s were poverty-stricken and often sold art out of their studios with little documentation and at laughably low prices, considering where the market has gone. And what I also found out, according to Professor Thompson-Smith’s appraisal report, is that the yellow in Mrs. Cavendish’s Pollock painting was from a paint that didn’t exist until 1970, 14 years after Pollock died. Quite frankly, I find that proof, as you would say, ‘irreducible.’”
Now fully engaged, Osofsky rejoined, “That’s precisely why I say that Thompson-Smith is a chemist, not an art historian. He simply doesn’t have the acuity to understand that Pollock—one of the great geniuses of the 20th century—had more than enough skill, intelligence and material to create a one-off of the yellow paint that wasn’t commercially available until 1970. When you put that together with my unparalleled experience—examining every major Pollock painting with an electron microscope that reveals every stroke and splatter--you begin to understand the ineffability, the impenetrable intuition that paves the secret byway to Pollock’s genius.”
“Thank you for your time, Professor,” Bernie said abruptly, as he rose.
Osofsky, accustomed to fawning graduate students, seemed nonplussed at losing his audience when he was just getting warmed up. “Surely you’d like to learn more about Pollock,” he managed, voice cracking a bit. “I have peered into his soul, whereas Thompson-Smith has only peeked into his paint pot.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Bernie, heading for the door. “I think I’ve failed art history. I’m going to try chemistry next. Less soulful., but more probative.”
“Good luck with that,” rejoined Osofsky. “What Thompson-Smith does not know about Pollock would fill up several libraries, including the Library of Congress.” Bernie, however, was already out the door, shaking his head at the futility of questioning someone who had all the answers.
***
Kelli’s aging tools were quite simple: highlight, shadow, brown eye liner, two small flat brushes and two wide flat brushes.
“That’s all it takes?” asked Barb.
“In ninety minutes, you’ll be twenty years older,” Kelli responded cheerily. “Guaranteed.”
“I can see how you can add wrinkles or, more accurately, emphasize wrinkles that are already there,” said Barb, “but that can’t possibly be enough.”
“Correct,” said Kelli. “People don’t focus on all the signs of aging, but the fact is that, as we age, among other subtle changes, our lips get thinner and our noses get bigger. All of that can be accomplished with light and shadow, and you’ll be unpleasantly surprised when you see how artful shading can scallop your jaw line.”
“Can’t wait,” said Barb. Ninety minutes later, she looked in the mirror, shocked.
“What do you think, Mrs. Silver?” asked Kelli.
“Mrs. Silver is my mother-in-law,” Barb responded, “and somehow someone her age has gotten into that mirror I’m staring at.”
“Great, success!” exclaimed Kelli. “Now let’s get you and Snowball set up in the living room in your wheelchair. Do you have all the details of your new identity memorized?”
“My name is Diana Barron; I’m 87; my late husband, Daniel was in the oil business in the Middle East; I have no children; I come from a wealthy family; I didn’t graduate from college; and my father bought the Pollock in 1953 at Pollock’s studio for $100, with nothing documenting that sale. I am giving this painting to Stanford because I have spent many happy hours at the Stanford Museum.”
“How about your health?”
“Diabetes and three mild strokes.”
“What is your passion?”
“Snowball, my service dog, who accompanies me everywhere.”
“I think you’re ready, and no time to waste. The phone is ringing, and it’s probably Mr. Simpson waiting in the lobby for permission to come up. It’s showtime!”
***
Sitting slackly in her wheelchair with Snowball on her lap, which was covered by an afghan, Barb feebly held out her hand in response to Simpson’s proffered handshake.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” he said.
“I apologize I’m not at my best today,” she responded slowly. “So, no offense, but I hope this meeting will be short.”
“Of course, Mrs. Barron. And who is this little fellow?”
“It’s a she, my service dog, Snowball,” she said. Snowball growled as Simpson attempted to pet her.
“As you see, she does not like strangers.”
“Well, then, let’s get to the purpose of my visit. I understand that you want to give your Pollock—which, by the way, is one of the finest I’ve seen—to Stanford upon your death but that you want to keep it here during your lifetime.”
“Yes, that’s correct. It’s one of the few pleasures I have left in life.”
“Well, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a document to accomplish that for you to sign. You will get an immediate tax deduction for a discounted portion of the value of the painting, which we will have appraised by Stanford’s own Professor Osofsky in the next week.”
“That sounds good,” said Barb. “Please give me a pen. I will sign, and then I hope you will excuse Snowball and me so that we can take our afternoon nap.”
“Perfect,” he said, handing her the document and a pen. “Would it be too much trouble to ask your housekeeper to witness this?”
Barb was relieved to hear that, because, affected by all her makeup, she had begun profusely sweating. She rang a little bell attached to the armrest of her wheelchair.
Kelli appeared. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. While pretending to adjust Barb’s blanket, with her body between Barb and Simpson, she was able to freshen up the disguise a bit.
Simpson began to move things along. “Mrs. Barron was wondering if you could witness her signature.”
“I can do that,” Kelli replied.
“Before she signs,” said Simpson, “may I ask you how she’s doing today?”
Hesitating, Kelli replied, “She is as sharp as I’ve seen her recently.”
“Excellent,” exclaimed Simpson. “If you can sign here, Mrs. Barron, and you can sign here, Kelli, I will be on my way. I hope you will join me for a celebratory lunch next week at the University Club, Mrs. Barron."
“Please check with Kelli. She keeps my calendar.”
“Stanford thanks you, Mrs. Barron,” Simpson said as he got up to leave, “and so do the future generations of museum-goers who will enjoy your wonderful gift. I sincerely hope you are feeling better.”
“Old age is not for sissies,” answered Barb, as Kelli slowly wheeled her out of the room.
***
Simpson promptly got in touch with Kelli for scheduling, and he arranged lunch with Diana Barron at the University Club in San Francisco a week later.
That luncheon date occurred at the same time Bernie was walking into the ultra-modern office of Professor Reginald Thompson-Smith on the campus of the University of California at Berkeley, also known as Cal. Having lived for many years in the town of Cal’s archrival, Stanford, and, therefore, having heard mostly negative things about Cal, Bernie was always pleasantly surprised at how beautiful the Berkeley campus was.
“G’day, mate,” greeted the professor, with a pronounced Australian accent.
“Shall we put a shrimp on the barbie before we start?” asked Bernie.
“’Fraid I can’t do that without imbibing a few stubbies, and I still have a several hours work to do, so let’s talk fake Pollocks.”
“Good on ya’,” Bernie responded, with what he thought was an Australian accent. “Are there many art historians from Australia at U.S. universities?”
“I don’t know of any,” responded Thompson-Smith. “My dad was an artist in Australia, and I have been fascinated with art since I was a child.”
“What brought you here?”
“Australia’s most distinctive art is aboriginal, which has been around over 40,000 years. I thought I’d have a better chance of making my mark if I focused on the more recent distinctive art of another country, and abstract expressionism in the U.S. filled that bill. So, I studied at NYU’s top-ranked art history department, and I spent all my spare time at the New York City museums. Now I get to pursue a career in teaching art history in the eternal sunshine of Berkeley. Not bad for a lower-middle-class bloke from Melbourne.”
“Indeed, you’ve written a leading textbook on the abstract expressionists, a monograph on Chinese copies of abstract expressionist art, and over 100 peer-reviewed articles.”
“I’ve done ok, if you don’t ask Professor Osofsky.”
“Well, actually, I did ask Professor Osofsky, and, as you anticipated, he was quite economical in his praise of you.”
“When you met him, did he peer into your soul?”
“I think he might have tried, but I’m not sure he found much.”
“Well, he’s a sensitive, soulful connoisseur; I don’t begrudge him that. But, when it comes to appraising valuable paintings, one cannot ignore the scientific advances that enable us to uncover what are becoming almost perfect forgeries. Indeed, I have so much respect for Osofsky that I am about to read his new article in the Oxford Art Journal about the very Jackson Pollock painting you’re concerned with. I’m keeping an open mind, and I will give you a call when I’ve finished the article.”
“Thanks, and g’day, mate,” said Bernie, as he headed out the door to pick Barb up after she had finished her lunch with Richard Simpson and had gone through the de-aging process with Kelli.
***
Barb was pretending to doze at her lunch with Simpson at the University Club in San Francisco. Far from minding, Simpson was catching up on his emails. After he signed the bill, he ventured, “Would you like to take a bit of air, Mrs. Barron?”
Barb acted startled, and then she assented in a slurred voice.
As they crested one of San Francisco’s many hills, Simpson stopped pushing the wheelchair. “You know, Mrs. Barron, we got some bad news yesterday.”
Not hearing any response, he continued, “Professor Osofsky’s appraisal is that your Pollock is a fake.”
Barb nodded in a way that was difficult to interpret.
Simpson continued his monologue, moving the wheelchair back and forth on the crest of the hill. “You know, you could still give a gift of $20 million in cash--what we had hoped the painting was worth--and we would pay generous interest to you on that cash for your lifetime.”
Still no real response; more and faster wheelchair movement. “I actually have drafted up some new paperwork for that, which I was hoping you could sign now. That would achieve your philanthropic goals,” he said, thinking to himself that this gift would make him the top performer in the planned giving department. Barb turned in her wheelchair with an alarmed look, as she slowly extended her hand for the document.
***
Bernie was crossing the Bay Bridge from Berkeley to San Francisco when his cellphone rang. Listening on the car speaker system, he heard the now familiar ‘G’day, mate.’”
“My learned Australian friend, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“I just finished Osofsky’s article, Bernie, and I thought I should get back to you asap with what I’ve learned: Osofsky was right about the authenticity of the Pollock.”
“So, you were wrong.”
“No, we were both right. From a close inspection of the pictures in his article that I just read, it’s clear that he and I were looking at different, though very similar, paintings. Someone pulled a switcheroo.”
“And I think I know who,” said Bernie, pushing hard on the accelerator. “I’ll call you later. I have to see a man about a painting.”
He immediately called Barb and got voicemail. Panicking, he called Kelli Saenz. “Where’s Barb?” he demanded, when Kelli answered.
“Somewhere between the Ritz and the University Club, I would guess,” said Kelli.
Bernie made his way through traffic to the top of California Street. He didn’t see Barb, but he did see Simpson, holding a handkerchief over his bloody nose, and shaking his leg violently to try to escape Snowball, whose teeth had a firm grip on his expensive pants.
***
“Usually you save Alpha money,” said Al Jordan to Barb and Bernie when they visited him for a debriefing, “but this time we’re going to have to pay Stanford the entire $17 million.”
“How’s that?” asked Bernie.
“Well, we brought in your friend, Joe Kelly of the SFPD, as soon as you informed us of the, as Thompson-Smith put it, ‘switcheroo.’ Joe found traces of paint in the trunk of Simpson’s car that matched both the original Pollock and the fake, so he had obviously been carrying around the fake to switch it with Mrs. Cavendish’s original when he had a chance, which occurred after her fatal fall. Then he carried the original away and apparently sold it to a Russian oligarch, who reputedly has contacts with Russian organized crime. Unless you’re willing to continue your investigation in Moscow or St. Petersburg, I’m afraid you won’t be getting your bonus.”
“Organized crime? Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be risking any more violence for a while,” commented Barb as she held up her plaster-casted right hand.
“I hope that that injury is not as bad as it looks,” sympathized Al.
“You should see the other guy,” she said. “Simpson. I felt pretty helpless in that wheelchair as he was intimidating me by moving it back and forth at the top of a busy street with 500 feet of steep pavement below. Even an able-bodied person would have a problem stopping a runaway wheelchair in that situation, so I blew my cover, stood up and turned around. Seeing Diana Barron instantaneously acting 20 years younger shocked him, which gave me all the opening I needed to land a haymaker.”
“Don’t forget Snowbie’s heroics,” interjected Bernie.
“Bless her heart,” continued Barb. “When I got up suddenly, the poor little pup rolled about ten feet down the California Street sidewalk. Then she heard Simpson cursing and saw that I was threatened, so, of course, she protected me the best she knew how, by fastening her teeth into Simpson’s leg. Then, after watching my cellphone slide down the hill, I ran into the lobby of a building nearby to call the police. By the time I got back, Bernie was helping Snowbie to subdue Simpson.”
“That wasn’t too difficult after you and Snowball had softened him up,” said Bernie. “Apparently planned giving officers are not trained in the martial arts.”
“No worries,” Al observed ruefully. “Stanford now has an additional $17 million to provide that training. And Simpson will probably learn some self-defense in the pokey.”
***
Copyright 2021, Ron Katz
