He followed her, dropping onto a matching settee and spreading his arms across the delicate back. “I thought we could just wait on that haircut for a while.”
“I don’t want to be a prisoner in this room,” she said. “If it’s important that I look different, then I’ll do what needs to be done.”
He nodded, but she could tell he was placating her. Or stalling. “Let me talk to Lisette first. Once I get another read on the location, we’ll finalize our plan of attack.”
“Oh, I’m sure we will.”
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I know how you feel about being imprisoned, Rapunzel, but if there’s a way I can find those vases and get them out of here without any risk to you, that’s my first choice.”
“I’m not interested in taking unnecessary risks, Luc. I just want to get this guy. Not just the vases; I want the bastard who killed Albert.”
He blew out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair, tousling it. “I just can’t figure out the connection, Janine. Benazir was in jail until six weeks ago.”
“Albert was killed three weeks ago.” Was it only three weeks? The words made the loss suddenly as fresh as it was the morning one of her grad students tracked her down with the news. “Until now, there was no reason for anyone not to think it was suicide.”
“Did he own the gun he shot himself with?”
“He didn’t own a gun. But in L.A., they’re as easy to get as Valium.”
“Then who might have killed him? Did he have enemies in the art world? Someone who might want to sway the world’s opinion of the authenticity of the Plums?”
“There were detractors, of course. But I don’t think anyone would murder for the sake of art history.” She toyed with the robe ties, and then she remembered the closed vent in the wine cellar. “At least, I didn’t think so.”
Luc walked to the dining area and opened a compact refrigerator built into the wet bar. “Want some?” he asked, holding up a bottle of Evian water, the familiar label face out.
She smiled and nodded. “When in Rome.”
He gave her one and returned to the settee, dwarfing it again as he stretched his long legs in front of him. He took a long, thirsty drink from the bottle.
His muscles flexed. His eyes closed.
Her whole body tightened up. Again. She cinched her robe tighter and tucked her feet under her, forcing herself to look at the view outside.
“Tell me everything you can about Albert,” he said, setting his half empty bottle on the table between them.
“That could take a while. He was a very colorful man, and I’ve known him for a long, long time.”
He rolled the bottle’s white cap through the fingers of one hand, as smooth as a magician. “Longer than Sam?”
Why would he mention Sam? “Yes, much longer than Sam.”
“And what did Albert think of him?”
“He tried his best to like Sam, but they never really clicked.” She paused and looked sharply at him. “Sam didn’t kill Albert, Luc.”
“You sure?”
“Antigun, antideath penalty, antiwar, antiviolence, pacifist Sam? He thought Albert was a repressed oddball who took too much of my time and wore horrendous clothes, but he certainly didn’t kill him. If Albert was murdered, I suggest we figure out who killed your friend. The events are too similar for my liking.”
Luc held the bottle cap between his thumb and index finger, flipped it, and it appeared in the other hand. A regular David Copperfield. “Repressed? How so?”
“Lots of people thought Albert was locked firmly in the closet—old enough to be thoroughly ashamed of it, and young enough to still be tortured by it. He had grown children from a long-ended marriage, and I…I don’t know.” Janine dropped her head back and closed her eyes. “I hate this subject. I loved him, whatever he was.”
“What did you love about him?”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. In all the years they were together, Sam had never asked that.
“Well, he was brilliant and endearing and just plain fun to be with,” she began. “I loved how he made me feel about myself.”
He leaned forward. “And how was that?”
“Albert thought I was smart, and not just standard-issue bright. When it came to porcelain and Sèvres, he thought I was a damn genius.” She tunneled the sides of her hair and locked her hands on top of her head, liking the way the lake air cooled her neck. “How I looked, what I wore, what my parents were or were not, where I came from, what kind of car I drove, how I fit into the Hollywood scene—none of those things mattered to Albert.”
“But they mattered to Sam.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “They matter to everyone in L.A., Luc. It’s Plasticville, USA. But Albert and I—and a couple of our star grad students—we had such fun not caring about all that. Just loving dead artists and legendary mistresses.” She grinned and let her hair tumble back. “Maybe we were all nuts.” She took a drink of water. “What else do you want to know?”
“How to tell the real Plums from the fake.”
She gave her head a slow, negative shake. “That takes years. Forget it.”
He twirled the bottle cap on his thumb like a spinning top, watching it. “What do you mean ‘who your parents were or were not’?”
How much information did this inquisitive Frenchman need? “Oh, that was just an expression,” she said dismissively.
“But you used it,” he noted. “You said ‘who my parents were.’ Who are they? Or is it were?”
He wasn’t going to let it go. “They’re both alive. My parents are…” What the hell; did it really matter in this day and age? “My parents never married.” She looked at him squarely, defying him to be shocked or disappointed or whatever people were when they found out you are illegitimate. Stupid word.
“My mother was an ‘artist.’ ” She held her fingers out and put imaginary quotes around the title her mother loved so much. “Actually, she was the last of that great generation of West Coast hippies, a holdout for free love until I was born in 1970. I suppose I have my father to thank that I’m not named Zephyr or Harmony.”
He laughed, his eyes dancing in the reflection of the sun on Lake Geneva. He had no earthly idea how gorgeous he was.
“My dad came in and out of our lives. Not in a bad way, just in a…California way. But over time he became part of the establishment, got a law degree and married a set designer—a woman about five years older than I am. He’s all legit now.”
Why did she use that stupid word?
“Are you close to him?”
She fiddled with the Evian label. “Close is a relative term in L.A. I think I’m a reminder of his halcyon days. He does occasionally trot me out to cocktail parties at his Malibu Canyon house, but he’s got little kids and a different life.” She shrugged. “It’s a nice life. I’m happy for him.”
She shifted uncomfortably. She was the daughter of a couple of unmarried hippies, her best friend a sixty-four-year-old closet gay. Nothing like the sophisticated, chic Parisian women he was used to. And certainly not the worldly, intellectual art expert she’d wanted to project when she stepped off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Not that she cared what he thought of her.
“None of this is getting us any answers about our departed friends or the Plums.” She stood and started across the salon to the bedroom. “Since I don’t have scissors, I can’t do anything more drastic than get dressed. But please get in touch with Lisette.”
“I’ll do what needs to be done.”
At the echo of her own earlier promise she glanced over her shoulder and saw that secret, unreadable expression that made her weak. “I’m sure you will. You appear to be a solid citizen with a decent sense of responsibility.”
He flipped the cap in the air, appeared to catch it, and then held open two empty hands. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”
Luc called Lisette on the hotel ph
one, certain that Tristan didn’t have a read on the vases yet. If he was smart enough to put a tap on the Soisson’s phone, then he would be smart enough to show up here and get the Plums. Luc was still a few days ahead of Tristan.
Lisette answered on the first ring, the flat tone still evident in her pained voice.
“Can you check the computer for me?” he asked, without identifying himself.
She said nothing for a moment.
“Liz? Are you there?”
“Oh, Luc, oui. Pardon.” She almost sounded relieved. He hated putting her in the middle of all this. When it was over, he would spend some time at the château, helping her get things in—
He caught himself. When it was over, if all went well, he’d be living in the United States as a different person. He hoped.
“I have it for you now,” she said. She read the coordinates to him, and he compared them to the layout of the resort he had in front of him.
“Are you certain, Lisette?” Something had changed radically in the last twelve hours.
“Absolument, Luc.”
The Plums had moved. He instructed her to go to another set of coordinates. She read them while he toyed with the pencil and studied the page.
The forgeries had moved, as well.
“Merci, Lisette. That’s all I need.” He put the pencil down and leaned back. “How are you doing?”
She let out a long, sad breath. “Ça va, Luc.”
He wanted to ask her so many questions. About people Bérnard had talked to, any strange calls or visitors. But he could hear the break in her voice. An interrogation would do her in.
When this was over he’d get the answers for her, regardless of where he lived or who he was. And if he didn’t get them, Tristan would. Tristan was a bulldog when faced with an unsolved mystery. And if they could pin a murder on Benazir and get him into a real prison, Tristan would be unstoppable.
When he hung up with Lisette, he recalculated the information and compared it to the resort map again.
Janine came into the dining room, wearing black pants and a sleeveless white top. Her cheeks were flushed with color, and she’d definitely put on some makeup. For him?
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Eventually.” She looked at the papers on the dining table. “What did you find out?”
He pulled out the chair next to him for her. “Something odd. Look.” He slid the resort layout toward her and pointed to a location in a separate building. “They are there.”
She leaned closer to the map, then looked up, surprised. “The casino?”
“It looks that way. I’m going down to check it out. There’s probably a private room or suite adjacent to the casino, but I can’t tell until I get there.”
She flattened her palms on the table to push herself up. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.” He put a hand on her arm.
“What if you come face-to-face with those vases? I can tell you instantly whether they are real or not.” She started toward the bedroom. “I’ll get my hat.”
Yes, he’d need her if he came face-to-face with the vases. But what if he came face-to-face with Karim Benazir?
With the hat, he could slip her in and out without too much notice. If Benazir was watching and waiting for him, he’d be looking for a man alone. Not a couple on their honeymoon.
She came back a minute later, the cap pulled low, all hair hidden. “These were in my spa, too.” She slid on a pair of pink sunglasses. “How do I look, Dave?”
He folded the map, put it in his back pocket, and dropped his arm around her. “Pretty as a picture, Kate.”
Chapter
Eighteen
S omething didn’t fit. Tristan made his way through the maze of closed doors in the Versailles business offices, knocking and inquiring in halting French about the American curator. No one had seen or heard from her since Saturday night. Henri Duvoisier suggested that the curator, who in his opinion was strictly a last-minute stand-in for the great Albert Farrow, must have fled at the first sign of adversity on the job.
But the bright-eyed Ph.D. didn’t strike Tristan as a quitter. He knocked on the security director’s office door before entering.
“Bonjour, madame.”
Simone de Vries jerked her head up and slid off a pair of reading glasses. “Monsieur Stewart,” she said without smiling. “Have you any information on the Sèvres vases?”
“No.” He glanced at the leather guest chairs, waiting for an invitation. It wasn’t forthcoming. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
She gave a brisk nod, and as he sat, she slid the papers on her desk into a neat pile, covering the one she’d been holding. “I hope you are working with the DST,” she said in excellent English. “They are very good at closing in on major losses such as the one we have experienced.”
As opposed to the hapless FBI. Save me from American haters. “Absolutely,” he assured her. “We’re working side by side.”
“And Monsieur Tremont?” she asked, the whisper of a smile lifting her thin lips. “Is he working on this as well?”
Either she knew he was gone or he’d left his usual mark on the poor woman. No matter their age, nationality, or taste, women fell for that guy. It’d been that way since freaking eighth grade. Tristan simply nodded. “Yes, he is. I am—”
“And where is our curator?”
Who was interrogating whom, here? “Actually, I was hoping to speak with her as well. We’ve talked to almost everyone else involved with the event. Are you expecting her this morning?”
She arched an eyebrow. “I do not monitor her schedule, monsieur. I have not seen her since the gala. Perhaps she has scampered away.”
What about Janine Coulter made these people think she’d be scared into leaving? As he understood it, she was the one who’d flown to France after the original curator died, and lobbied for the job. But maybe she had bolted. Maybe the ransacked hotel room and the stolen Plums had spooked her. He’d have Paul check all the flights over the weekend.
“How close are you to finding the vases?” Simone asked, an anxious edge to her voice. “They will disappear if too much time passes.”
“We’re aware of that, ma’am. Everything possible is being done to find the thieves and save the Plums.”
She leaned back and crossed her arms. “The loss of the Sèvres vases, as we prefer to call them, would be a major setback to the art world, monsieur. And a terrible embarrassment for Versailles.”
“Of course.” That’s what she was worried about: her reputation, not the vases. He’d get nothing from this uptight turf protector. “I’d like to stop in Janine Coulter’s office, but it’s locked. Do you have a key?”
“Oui.” She pressed the intercom on her phone, but no one responded. “My assistant will have the key, monsieur. Une momente, s’il vous plait, while I check.”
When she left the office, Tristan slid the papers over to see what she’d hidden. A letter. He leaned forward to read it. Jeez. French was one thing, upside down French was another.
He managed to read two words. Ma démission.
Her resignation? Was the crusty security director planning to scamper away? If his memory served him right, Madame de Vries had only been on the job a few months. At the sound of her clicking high heels, he hid the paper and leaned back in his chair.
“Voici,” she said, dropping a key in his hand.
He thanked her and headed for the last door in the hallway. The Versailles’ staff certainly hadn’t offered their guest any great luxuries; the room was tiny, almost airless once he closed the door behind him. The desk was bare except for a closed laptop computer. Would she leave town without her laptop?
He opened the desk drawer and found pencils and paper, a silver hair clasp, and a folded newspaper clipping. Opening it, he read the headline of the obituary. “Celebrated Department Head Commits Suicide.” He glanced at the top corner. The UCLA Daily Bruin.
Scanning the page, he sto
pped at the second paragraph. Dr. Farrow’s remains were found in the Stone Canyon Reservoir, a few miles north of campus near Bellagio Road. He had apparently shot himself in the head.
He could practically hear the puzzle piece snap into place. He picked up the laptop and the article, then checked his watch.
He could be back at the little farmhouse in Burgundy by late afternoon.
But first, he had one more stop to make. Versailles hadn’t reopened for tours yet, and he didn’t expect anyone to be in the palace chapel at this time of day.
In his opinion, Janine Coulter was officially missing. Was anything else?
Every nuance of Luc’s Frenchness disappeared when they stepped out the door of the suite. He said “Hi” to another couple in the elevator, and Janine bit her lip to keep from reacting to the foreign sound of it.
He was just an American guy, draping a possessive arm around her shoulder as they crossed the pristine grounds, making small talk about the lake, the view, the spa.
“So, what’s your gambling pleasure?” he asked, as they strolled under an enormous neon archway that welcomed guests to the Casino Royal. “Craps, blackjack, roulette, slots?”
She looked up as he held the door for her. “We’re playing?”
He leaned so close that his cheek bumped the brim of her hat and his silky baritone tickled her ear. “Until we find what we’re looking for.”
She slid her sunglasses off as they stepped into the darkened lobby, greeted by a cacophony of ear-piercing bells, clanging tokens, and the steady click-click-click of the roulette wheel.
Like any other casino, a visible blue gray haze of smoke filtered through the air, wafting on the sickening sweet smell of liquor. The obligatory odors of gambling. But that’s where the similarities to Vegas and Reno ended.
“Pretty snazzy place,” she commented, noting the soft-colored lighting that cast red and gold shadows over wide open areas between gaming tables.
She saw Luc surreptitiously scope the room, and her stomach tightened. They were really doing this. Working undercover, looking for the Plums.
French Twist Page 16