Assault and Beret

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Do you think they’ll harm him?” I asked. “I mean, if they’ve got the painting, why haven’t they released him?”

  Harrison glanced at me, taking my elbow as he guided me across the street. It was midafternoon now and cars were whizzing past us, honking and screeching their brakes as they raced through the narrow city streets.

  “I didn’t want to say anything,” he said, “but it seems to me that if they are still holding Will, then someone else got the painting first.”

  “You mean Will could be a hostage?”

  Harrison shrugged. “It’s just a theory.”

  I hated to acknowledge it but it sounded like a damn good theory to me.

  “I take it we’re off to Boutique Reyer?” I asked.

  “Exactement,” he said.

  The sexy French accent he used made me shiver but I pretended it was the cold and pulled my coat more tightly about me. The urgency of our situation made me realize that now was not the time to start anything with Harry, which was probably just as well as I really didn’t want to spend my life as the butt of my mother’s jokes. Two more months, two more months until I was free to date. Mon Dieu, I hoped I survived it.

  * * *

  Boutique Reyer was nestled between a boulangerie and a pharmacie in a block of small shops that sat on the edge of a residential neighborhood. I imagined the foot traffic was good for Reyer as so many people in France bought fresh bread daily.

  The smell of warm baked goods wafted out the door as a customer pulled it wide to enter. I almost got sidetracked and followed them inside, but Harrison stayed the course to Reyer’s so I did, too. Darn it.

  The warmth of the small shop was welcome as we stepped inside. I could feel the heat thaw the end of my nose and the lobes of my ears while I took in the shop, trying to get my bearings.

  Harrison took no such time but charged forward toward the counter, looking like he meant business. I followed more slowly as different items caught my attention. The place was full of treasures. You know, Oh, shiny! My head whipped back and forth and up and down as I moved past the displays.

  A vintage wooden rocking horse, a collection of assorted china, glass stemware, old rugs, a row of elaborate birdcages hanging from the ceiling, a music box with a couple twirling, it all made me feel like I had crawled into Mim’s attic to play with her old things.

  It struck me then that I hadn’t gone into the attic in our place on Notting Hill since I’d returned. When we were younger, Viv and I used to go up there to play dress-up with Mim’s old clothes. My favorites were her old Mod dresses from the mid-sixties. She’d even had a pair of white go-go boots that I used to stomp around in. I promised myself upon our return to London, I would go up to the attic and see what was still there.

  “Bon jour, je voudrais parler avec Jacques Reyer, s’il vous plaît,” Harrison said.

  I shook my head in an effort to focus and hurriedly joined him at the counter. A tall, bony man with thin gray hair combed across his pink scalp and an equally thin mustache-and-goatee combo circling his mouth stood there. He looked as if he was assessing Harrison to see how likely he was to make a sale off him.

  “I am Jacques Reyer,” he said in English. His accent was thick, and he gave a slight nod of his head as if to say he was comfortable speaking in English.

  “How do you do? I’m Harrison Wentworth, and this is Scarlett Parker.” He held out his hand and Reyer shook it. He did not shake my hand.

  “How can I help you?” Mr. Reyer asked.

  “We’ve come to ask you about the painting, the Renoir,” Harrison said.

  A look of bitterness pinched Reyer’s face like he’d just bitten into an aspirin without a water chaser.

  “I do not wish to speak of it,” Reyer said. “My shop is closing unless you wish to buy something . . .”

  He could have just told us up front that he would say nothing unless we dropped some cash. Suddenly, I wasn’t feeling too bad for him about losing the Renoir.

  The glass display case in front of us was full of vintage jewelry. A peacock broach was smack dab in the middle, catching my eye with its sparkling green beads. They were the exact same color as Harry’s eyes, and they twinkled at me just like his did when I made him laugh.

  “How much?” I asked.

  Reyer looked down his nose at the piece. “That is a very rare item. One hundred euros.”

  I felt my eyes bug out of their sockets. At the current exchange rate that was seventy-five British pounds or one hundred and ten smackers American. For paste beads and a metal I was sure was going to give me a rash, I felt like I should just hand him the money as if he held a gun to my head. I started to refuse but Harry stepped in.

  “We’ll take it,” he said. “Now about the painting—”

  “Pay first,” the man said. “Cash.”

  Harrison frowned but reached for his billfold and took out the money. He handed it to the man and the man bagged the bird and handed it to me. Oh, goody, my trip to France was going to be memorialized in a peacock pendant that I was sure we just paid ten times more for than its actual value.

  “The painting belongs to me,” Reyer said. “And I am going to get it back.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “How do you figure?”

  “I am the one who bought it from the bouquiniste,” he said. “All the bookseller cared about were the books. Pah, the librarian had no idea what she had.”

  “And you did?” I asked. “You sold the painting for ten euros to a woman named Colette Deneau, correct?”

  His goatee trembled with outrage. “That is a lie!”

  Harry saw me open my mouth to retort. I don’t lie, mostly, and he stepped on my foot. I glared at him but he gave me a look that said to stop speaking. I sighed but complied.

  “How did it happen that this Colette Deneau managed to purchase the painting from you?” Harry asked.

  “She tricked me, that’s how!” Reyer raised his pointer finger up in the air as he spoke.

  I felt the weight of the peacock pin in my hand and felt his pain, really, I did.

  “How did she trick you?” Harrison asked.

  “She told me she was an art student and that the painting while lovely was clearly a fraud,” he said. His previous sour expression returned to his face. “She pointed out brushstrokes and said the signature was wrong, but it wasn’t. She lied to me and told me the painting was junk. Like a fool, I believed her instead of my own knowledge.”

  “But how did she con you?” I asked. “If you are so knowledgeable, that is?”

  Yes, I was being rude. So what, he was a pompous jackass who had just soaked us for over a hundred bucks.

  “Quite simply,” he said. “I am a Frenchman and she . . .” His voice trailed off and then he whistled and made an hourglass shape with his hands. “I did not stand a chance.”

  I rolled my eyes. Men!

  “Still, the painting belongs to the insurance company,” Harry said. “They paid a claim on its theft over forty years ago.”

  Reyer’s whole head turned an ugly shade of red. “The painting is mine! I will not rest until the courts deem it is so!”

  “But—” Harry began but Reyer cut him off.

  “Out!” he cried. “The two of you out! Before I call the police or toss you out with my own hands.”

  We exchanged a look. Was he serious? Reyer looked to weigh less than I did. Reyer reached for a cell phone resting on the counter between us. So, it was to be the police then.

  “No need to show us the way,” Harry said. Then he grabbed my hand and dragged me out the door.

  We jogged an entire block before slowing to a walk. I was gulping cold air and laughing while my hand was still enfolded in his. When we paused to catch our breath, I made a whistling noise like Reyer and let go of his hand to make an hourglass with my hands.

 
“Really?” I asked. “Did he really do that?”

  Harry busted out a laugh and said, “I think our friend was clearly out of his league.”

  Harry’s cheeks were ruddy from the cold. His green eyes bright in the half light that comes with early evening in winter. His lips were parted and his teeth a slash of white. I had a sudden urge to wrap myself up in his smile like it was a blanket on a cold winter’s day.

  It hit me then that even while running from a crazy Frenchman in the heart of winter in Paris, when I was with Harry, it was fun. Ridiculously fun, in fact. And like a snowball to the temple, it hit me. I was in love with Harrison Wentworth.

  “What?” he asked. “Do I have a bogie hanging out of my nose?”

  He ran his gloved hand under his nose and I blinked.

  “Uh, no,” I said. “Sorry. I just got lost in thought there for a second.”

  “Solving the case of the missing painting or the missing man?” he asked.

  “Both,” I said. I forced a lightness into my voice that I did not feel. “You know what an overachiever I am.”

  “That I do,” he said. He casually draped an arm over my shoulders and said, “I don’t think Reyer knows anything. Let’s go back to the school and collect Viv. I don’t want her out and about on her own.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  His arm brought warmth and security and my insides heated up to boiling at having him so close. There was nothing I wanted more in the world than to turn toward him and kiss him. I could hear my mother saying I told you so in my head in a maddening singsong voice that was designed specifically to torture me.

  No, I could not give in. Two more months, whether I was in love with him or not. I was. But that made it even worse, because knowing how I felt made the stakes even higher. I desperately did not want to get hurt again. Darn it!

  “We’d better hurry if we want to catch her,” I said.

  I eased out from under his arm, trying to look casual about it. If he noticed, it didn’t show. I picked up our pace to a half jog and he fell in beside me as if matching his longer gait to my lesser one was as natural as breathing.

  Oh, Harry, why now? Why did I have to have the “I’m in love with you” epiphany now, in Paris, when I couldn’t do anything about it? This was so unfair.

  As we hustled by a patisserie, I promised myself several disgustingly delicious, flaky, puffy, gooey desserts as a reward. Later.

  * * *

  We took Viv to dinner at a local brasserie near our apartment. She insisted she wasn’t hungry but Harrison was not to be deterred. Since brasserie also means brewery, he ordered beer for all three of us as well as a charcuterie board.

  When the food arrived, I found I was starving. The large wedges of homemade toast rubbed with olive oil and minced garlic were the perfect accompaniment to the charcuterie board, which was literally a huge cutting board, loaded with a selection of cured meats, such as salami, prosciutto, pâté, bacon, duck sausages and some sort of fruit-based chutney that was a nice respite from all of the salty meat.

  I loaded my plate and nibbled while Harrison caught Viv up on our interview with Reyer. She had begun the evening looking unhappy. She didn’t eat but downed one pint of dark ale and asked for another. Harry shot me a worried look but I shrugged. Having never been married and had my estranged husband abducted, I wasn’t really in a position to judge her current behavior.

  Besides, I was still reeling from my own epiphany, but instead of anesthetizing my shock with beer, I was going with meat. Bacon really can cure whatever ails you, I was pretty sure.

  “Excuse me, Mademoiselle.” Our waiter appeared beside our table. He was addressing Vivian and both Harry and I watched as he handed her a note. “A gentleman asked me to deliver this to you.”

  “Thank you,” Viv said. As soon as he walked away, she hissed, “Maybe it’s from Will.”

  Harry looked grim and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was, that it was most likely from whoever took Will. I swallowed my bite of bacon and it went down hard, scraping my throat as it dragged a knot of dread down with it.

  “It’s from that man, Emile St. James,” Viv said. Her voice and her hands were shaking but I couldn’t tell if it was fear or anger making them do so. When she glanced up, her blue eyes were fierce. Okay, it was anger. “He wants to talk. We are to meet at a cemetery at ten o’clock.”

  She leapt to her feet, almost knocking her chair to the ground. Harry caught it before it clattered. When he righted it, he took Viv’s arm, holding her in place.

  “Wait, you have plenty of time,” he said. “May I see the note before you take off?”

  She thrust it at him and then turned and pulled on her coat. It was clear that she was planning to rush out and go meet St. James. I glanced at the charcuterie and sighed. So much bacon, so little time.

  “You’re not going alone,” I said.

  “The note was to me,” Viv argued. “What if he has Will and he will only talk to me?”

  “We’ll deal with that when we face him,” Harrison said. He waved to our waiter, who came over. “We need to leave. Can you box this for us?”

  The waiter nodded, even more vigorously when Harry handed him what looked to be a substantial tip. I knew the French considered doggy bags an affront to dining etiquette, but given that their government was trying to combat the country’s immense food wastage by mandating that take-away boxes be provided upon request, I wondered if they were rethinking their feelings on the matter. Our waiter arrived back in minutes, so clearly he had no issue with it.

  Harrison paid the bill and I took the leftovers. We exited the restaurant behind Viv, who walked with a decided swagger, looking like she was gearing up for a fight. Either it was the beer or the anger or both, making her ready to rumble. Oh, boy.

  Chapter 17

  We stopped by our apartment first. Suzette was in the front parlor with some of the other tenants, so we waved on our way up to our apartment but didn’t linger for an after-dinner drink.

  Harrison instructed us to dress warmly while he figured out the best way to get to the cemetery to meet St. James. Viv and I both dressed casually in jeans and thick wool sweaters and sturdy walking boots as opposed to the fashionable ones we’d been traipsing around in.

  By the time we joined Harry, he had changed as well. He was in jeans and a thick sweater. He had a slouchy hat on his head and a scarf around his neck. He looked adorable. My insides melted a little and I quickly glanced away. It would not do for him to see how I felt about him. I was barely comfortable with it myself, never mind letting him get a glimpse of it.

  A terrified part of me wondered what was going to happen in two months when we did start dating. What if I was in love with him, but he really just liked me a lot? What if he never fell as hard as I had apparently fallen? It could be a disaster. My heart could get squashed. Suddenly, I felt like all of that bacon was going to make a return appearance.

  “All right, Ginger?” he asked. He frowned at me as he studied my face. “You look a bit peaky.”

  And there it was, his cute British way of speaking that always took me out at the knees. I was doomed! Doomed, I tell ya!

  “She’s fine, let’s go,” Viv snapped.

  Well, if that wasn’t a splash of cold water, I don’t know what was.

  “I might not be fine,” I protested. “That bacon could have been tainted.”

  “Well, then perhaps you shouldn’t have eaten four pounds of it,” she said.

  “Ah!” I gasped.

  Abruptly, Viv looked stricken and she cried, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m just . . . oh, God, I’m a bloody mess!”

  I opened my arms and she stepped into them for a big, bracing, cousinly hug. I glanced over her shoulder at Harry and he gave me a warm smile. Yeah, I couldn’t blame Viv for being short with me. If someone abducted Harry, I would
punch through bricks to find him if need be.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “We’ll find him. We will.”

  Viv nodded and sniffed and then led the way out the door.

  Harry pulled me back when I went to follow her. His gaze met mine and his eyes were warm as he said, “You really are one of the nicest people I’ve ever known.”

  He kissed my forehead in a gesture that was very sweet but a little too sibling-like for my taste at the moment. Still, its impact rocked my foundation so I wisely said nothing but just nodded and followed Viv out the door, wondering how I was going to survive the next two months without tackling Harry to the ground and having my way with him.

  * * *

  “Why a graveyard?” Viv asked as we walked from the Metro stop to the designated meeting place, which was the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery, known for the graves of Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, and Maria Callas, among others. “I mean, how are we going to find him amidst all these graves? Oh, no, you don’t think he’s killed Will already, do you?”

  “No,” Harrison said. “The graveyard closed hours ago; most of them do at six o’clock. I think this is just a scare tactic to give you a fright.”

  “It’s working,” I said.

  The street was deserted, making the creep factor high. Tall trees loomed over the sidewalk that ran along the perimeter of the graveyard nestled in the twentieth arrondissement. Shadows shifted under the streetlights, and I knew if anyone so much as brushed by me unexpectedly, I was going to do a screaming jump scare that might just raise some of the dead.

  “I imagine we will find him parked at the entrance,” Harrison said.

  He gestured up ahead, and sure enough, a sleek black car sat in front of the large stone walls that were cordoned off by small stone barricades with chains roped in between them. I wondered who they were trying to keep out or if they were trying to keep someone in.

  “Why, that miserable son of a bitch,” Viv snarled.