‘So the Jaguar was just bound to be here,’ I said to her petulantly. ‘Any other big ideas?’
‘One does leap to mind, yes,’ she said, excitement dancing in her magnified eyes. She pointed to a metal door. ‘I’ll wager that leads to the area between here and the coal room.’
I flapped my arms like a flamingo wishing it could fly. ‘We don’t have time for any more nonsense! And, please, no more risks! We’ve got to get out of here.’
I would swear both the cat and dog nodded.
Calming myself, I pointed toward the door. ‘Besides, whatever’s behind there rates a security pad. Just how do you propose we get past that?’
She confirmed that information with a glance, then asked, ‘Where’s that card I saw you take?’
‘What card?’
‘The one you helped yourself to back at Antiques Fantastique – Colette’s business card, dear.’
I fished it out of a pocket.
Mother took the thing, gave it a glance, walked over to pad by the door, and entered four digits.
The little red light turned green.
‘Apparently mine isn’t the only great mind,’ Mother said, ‘to use a phone number for a security code.’
‘No comment,’ I commented.
As we passed through the metal door, more motion lights were activated, illuminating in an under-lit fashion an elongated room that seemed to stretch on forever – a ‘forever’ that ran the length of the central house linking the two wings.
We froze after taking a single step into the chamber, agape at a gallery that made Colette’s downtown Iowa City establishment seem like the mere facade that it was.
Riches of art were everywhere – on the walls, on pedestals, in glass cases, as if we had entered the tomb of a later-day King Tut Ankh Amun. Besides a similar chill, there was nothing cold about these surroundings, nothing that recalled the concrete walls of the gallery at Antiques Fantastique or, for that matter, the upstairs.
No, here we found a continuation of the mahogany paneling seen in the library, with another brown leather armchair and ottoman in the center of this odd, wonderful, yet somehow creepy space.
‘Are these things all for sale, you think?’ I asked, wondering if this was where Colette kept her most prized inventory, or perhaps brought her wealthiest clients for private showings.
Mother was taking it all in. ‘Possibly, dear. But I don’t believe that’s the primary function. Note the benches.’
She was referring to the rectangular cement blocks placed strategically apart where one could sit and admire the art and artifacts.
‘Then,’ I said, ‘just what is this?’
‘Not merely Colette’s private stock,’ Mother said, ‘rather … her collection.’
As we walked slowly along, gazing at the paintings, I recognized the familiar styles of Van Gogh, Monet, Degas, Cézanne, Matisse, Dalí, and Pollock. Recreations? Forgeries? Surely not originals! Track lighting in the ceiling created a calming ambience with accent lighting giving each seeming masterwork its own special glow.
‘This is a place of reflection,’ Mother said. ‘Of retreat.’
‘These can’t be real,’ I said, shaking my head, which was spinning with impossible, beautiful images.
‘Oh but they can be, dear, and I would venture to say they are.’
I threw a hand toward an apparent Picasso. ‘How in heaven’s name could Colette afford all of this? Who on this planet could afford all of this?’
‘No one,’ Mother admitted. ‘Such works are rarely for sale and, when they are, the auction prices they command are astronomical.’
I turned to her with my arms spread and my hands open. ‘Then what explains it?’
I followed along as Mother strolled; we might have been in a fine museum on a Sunday afternoon, pausing at this painting or that, a Van Gogh flower bed depicted in screaming colors, Degas ballerinas on stage, a blue Matisse nude.
Then she stopped suddenly and her eyes locked with mine.
‘My guess, dear? These are the spoils of many decades of fencing in the art business, going back decades, well before Colette Dumont was born.’ She gestured grandly. ‘If these paintings were to be researched, they would be on Interpol lists of stolen works, or in some cases – perhaps many cases – would expose paintings hanging in some of the most renowned museums as fakes.’
‘Very good, Mrs Borne,’ Colette said, behind us.
We both jumped, then turned. She was a few feet inside the door we’d entered through, accompanied by a small automatic pistol. She looked as lovely and composed as ever, but something about her eyes was … different.
The coldness seemed to dance with flames of fire in the irises.
‘You know, Vivian,’ she said conversationally, moving deeper into her private chamber, but slowly, ‘you didn’t need to go to so much trouble. You could have come in the front door – I mean, I left it unlocked for you, with the security system off. Surely you knew, even with this room tucked away as it is … that I’d have to have state-of-the-art security.’
‘Of course,’ Mother said, glancing about. ‘Just as this room is climate-controlled, with attention to temperature and humidity – the key measures of environmental control.’
Mother was stalling, of course. Her hands were behind her back – and I had to give it to her: she had her cell out! Had she taken it from her pocket back in the library, the moment she realized we might have walked into a trap?
She was saying, ‘I would imagine, Colette, that there are a thousand things you have to keep in mind, maintaining a secret, private collection like this. It must require an incredible attention to detail.’
‘I should have paid better attention to one other detail at least,’ Colette admitted. ‘I expected your visit, I paved the way for it … but I am surprised you found your way into my, well, private little world – I must do something about that code in the future. What kind of fool would use their own phone number for security purposes?’
Mother and I would talk about that later. If there was a later.
‘Oh, and Vivian? If that’s your phone you’re fiddling with behind your back? Don’t bother. These walls are much too thick.’
While the cat had left us and defected to its master, Sushi had positioned herself mid-room between us and Colette, a few feet in from where our captor had entered, the door yawning open behind her onto the Jaguar-less chamber. No stranger to the sight of a gun, the little dog sent her eyes from me to Colette and back again, her ears perked.
Mother said, looking from wall to astonishing wall, ‘You do know that all of this is in danger of coming down around you – nothing is more disruptive to careful planning than an impromptu murder or two. Dear, might I make a suggestion?’
Colette said nothing; her face seemed to be hardening further, if that were possible.
‘You could really use a partner along about now,’ Mother said. Her hands were out from behind her back now, her phone in one hand, casually at her side. ‘Two partners, actually, although my daughter is strictly support staff. With our shop, we could provide a new conduit for you, since – after suspicion inevitably descends upon you, even if you wriggle your way out – your Iowa City gallery will no longer be a viable front.’
A thin smile etched itself on the hard face. ‘No good, Vivian. Nicely performed, if a little desperate … but no.’
Now and then Mother could underplay a scene admirably; this was one of those times.
‘But I’m quite serious, Colette,’ she said. ‘I have the greatest admiration for you, which has only grown with what I’ve learned today. We’re perfectly positioned to help you continue with your business. We’d be the ideal buffer – you’d be strictly a silent partner.’
Colette’s shake of the head was punctuated by a softly musical laugh. ‘Vivian, even if I believed any of this, I’m at a time of my life where, if I can weather this little storm, I can retire and enjoy the spoils of my labors. I won’t be your silen
t partner, I’m afraid. But you and your daughter will be mine.’
The nose of the automatic rose.
Mother asked, ‘How will you explain our … silence?’
‘You’ll be shot as burglars,’ Colette said, as matter-of-fact as if she were explaining the specifics of this chamber’s controlled climate. ‘But, naturally, you’d can’t be found in here.’ She gestured with the weapon toward the open door behind her. ‘Ladies … move.’
We did so.
But I took the lead. As I neared Colette, she moved sideways a bit, for me to go on through that door into the garage. She had the gun angled my way, apparently perceiving me as a greater threat than Mother – probably a mistake. There were two greater threats to her in her private chamber, and the biggest one was a little furry four-legged animal named Sushi.
I gave a sharp whistle, and Sushi darted for Colette, sinking razor-sharp teeth into the soft flesh of an ankle, making the woman howl, the gun suddenly, reflexively lowering. I stepped to one side and the second threat, Mother – with a pitch that could have landed her a spot on any Triple A baseball team – flung that cell phone at Colette and hit her square in the forehead with it, stunning her.
Grabbing the nearest painting from its hook on the wall, I clobbered our staggered hostess with it, the canvas splitting, her head popping out and becoming the face of that blue Matisse nude before the torn canvas made its way down below and around her shoulders, trapping her upper torso within the frame. The impact sat her on the floor, hard, legs akimbo, very undignified for such an outwardly classy lady.
Mother snatched the automatic from the woman’s limp fingers, and said to me, ‘A little rash with that painting, dear. But I’m sure a good restorer can fix it in a jiffy.’
‘Maybe you need a better support staff.’
‘No, I’m quite satisfied with the one I have.’
We smiled at each other.
With the weapon now trained on the groggy Colette, Mother’s question was nonetheless for me. ‘May I, dear?’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Colette Dumont,’ Mother said with a grin that was demented even for her, ‘you’re nicked!’
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
Over his lifetime Frank Lloyd Wright built 270 homes, many coming on the market for sale in recent years. Both Mother and I had always dreamed of living inside one of his fabulous creations, but could never afford to. Last Christmas I did my best and bought her the LEGO kit for Fallingwater House. Guess how I spent Christmas morning? That’s right – building it for her!
TWELVE
Carry On at Your Convenience
Vivian Borne speaking, or I should say writing. I must thank my daughter for passing her mother (moi) the narrative ball, something she rarely does when we have both witnessed the same event. After all, the contracts for these books began with her, and continue to bear only her signature. So much as it does sometimes frustrate me, certain decisions about what goes into these books are hers, as the partner legally responsible for their content.
Her only proviso this time is that I make clear that certain aspects of my account – reporting actions of mine in the aftermath of this affair – were my own alone, undertaken without her knowledge. She asked me, in no uncertain (if rather emotional) terms not to include … well, I’m getting ahead of myself.
The morning after we handed Colette Dumont over to representatives of the Johnson County sheriff’s department, Brandy and I were seated in Chief Tony Cassato’s office, having been summoned there by him.
MI5 Agent Hasty was on speaker phone.
‘Ladies,’ the agent said, in that delightfully crisp British accent of his, ‘although I can hardly condone your methods, I do want to thank you for helping expose, and putting an end to, the so-called American Connection in a notorious stolen art ring we have been after for decades.’
‘Any time,’ I said.
Brandy said nothing. Her demeanor was reminiscent of a schoolgirl summoned to the Principal’s office.
Hasty continued: ‘This criminal enterprise began in Paris with François Dumont, Colette’s father, and has spanned more than five decades.’ The agent paused. ‘MI5 is sincerely grateful to you and your daughter, as are the various museums and private collectors who will at last have their precious art returned.’
When Hasty didn’t continue, I asked, ‘And that’s all we get?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘That’s all? Your sincere thanks? What about a reward? We are talking here about the recovery of millions in stolen goods.’
‘Your “reward,”’ Hasty said, ‘which has been tentatively agreed upon by the various agencies involved – from Interpol to the sheriff’s department in Iowa City – is that you will face no criminal charges for breaking and entering.’
‘There was entering but no breaking,’ I said, and I’m afraid it came out a trifle huffy. ‘And, anyway, Colette left the door open for us. We were expected.’
‘But you entered through a coal shoot, I understand.’
‘More an aperture.’
The next came clipped: ‘Were you expecting perhaps a medal?’
‘Recognition would be nice,’ I admitted. ‘Possibly a People’s Honour, or Royal Victorian Order …’
Tony was shaking his head at me, glaring.
‘… but that, uh, will not be necessary. I will settle for learning why military security got involved in a criminal investigation in the first place. Shouldn’t that have been New Scotland Yard’s province?’
Silence from the speaker phone. Tony wasn’t glaring now – his narrow-eyed expression indicated, if anything, an interest mirroring my own.
Then, from all the way from across the pond, came: ‘Very well, Mrs Borne. I will provide no details, but can give you this basic information – funds from the sale of certain stolen art appear to have been funneled into terrorist activities in the UK.’
‘I suspected as much,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me how Humphrey Westcott’s murder factored in? He seems an unlikely figure to be connected to terrorism.’
‘As far as we know, at this juncture, Mrs Borne, he was not. He appears to have been a cog in the ring who got too greedy.’
If they had allowed Brandy and me to stay in the UK, we could have cleared that up, too.
Speaking of Brandy, she came out of her shell long enough to pose a question: ‘Agent Hasty, was Colette Dumont aware of these terrorist activities?’
‘We can’t be sure at this stage.’
‘What is your guess? Your educated guess?’
‘Mrs Borne, it’s of our opinion the Dumont woman was not cognizant of the terrorism aspect … which is also the opinion of our sister organization, as well.’
Some sister! MI6, known in some quarters as The Circus.
Hasty said, ‘I believe this concludes the conversation on our end. And … Vivian, Brandy … should you ever return to London, please let me know so I can make arrangements …’
Theater tickets, perhaps? A complimentary meal at the fabled Rules? Or – dare I dream it – a tour of the MI5 facility!
‘… to put every law enforcement department at our disposal on high alert.’
Brandy smiled, but I didn’t think his remark at all funny.
‘Also, ladies,’ Hasty said, and something friendly and – dare I say? – appreciative came into his voice, ‘consider yourselves as having an open invitation to return, all expenses paid. We’ve made arrangements with the Savoy, and it’s within our budget to provide transportation with British Airways as well.’
I sat up. ‘First Class?’
‘… First Class. Is that acceptable, madam?’
‘Tickety boo!’ I said.
The connection ended.
Brandy said, smiling, ‘I can’t believe you got First Class tickets out of him.’
‘We’ve recovered millions for the poor sods, dear. At least we can get a little leg room out of it.’
The chief had yet to berate us
for our latest sleuthing endeavors; but, for the nonce at least, he seemed to be setting that aside.
Instead he said, ‘You may be interested to know that I had a chance to interview Angela James.’
Brandy sat forward, no longer in Principal’s office mode. ‘I’m not sure I completely understand Angela’s role in all of this.’
I asked the chief, ‘Is she being cooperative?’
He nodded. ‘I’d say she sees the advantage of possibly lowering her sentence.’
Confused (poor dear), Brandy asked, ‘Sentence for what?’
Tony’s eyebrows rose, just a little. ‘Accessory to murder after the fact. She was aware her husband killed Ruth Hassler.’
‘Oh,’ Brandy said.
‘And she also knew of Skylar’s involvement in Colette’s business of procuring stolen works of art and high-ticket collectibles – including rare books.’
‘Is that where the Orient Express comes into it?’
I let Brandy ask that – I felt I already knew, but we could (as we say in the trade) get the straight skinny from the horse’s mouth (excuse the mixed metaphor), as she was the filly to best do it.
Tony paused, then spilled: ‘After Ruth Hassler refused to sell the Christie book to her, Colette brought Skylar into the ring by enlisting his help in stealing it.’ A shrug. ‘According to Angela, the Hassler woman was supposed to be asleep, but surprised him at the top of the stairs, and he impulsively pushed her down.’
I asked, ‘Was Tiffany James involved in any of this?’
After all, something had to have been weighing heavily on her mind.
‘Yes,’ Tony said. ‘She provided Skylar with a key to her mother’s house. That would make her guilty of felony murder – a death caused during the commission of a felony.’
Brandy said, ‘What was her husband Jared’s role in all this?’
‘Nothing criminal,’ Tony said. ‘He was in a way a victim, in the sense that his wife was having an affair with Michael Hughes, and planned to dump her husband for the older man. Apparently, Jared wasn’t aware of the money Tiffany siphoned off from her inheritance, which she socked away in that money market account with her lover’s name on it.’ Tony huffed a humorless laugh. ‘Jared was like everybody else in this thing, in a way – all of them were in over their heads.’
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