Assault and Beret

by Jenn McKinlay

  The bitterness in her tone was as corrosive as acid, and I noted that Nick was watching her with undisguised horror. I had to keep her attention for a moment longer, so he could get back into character.

  “Ah,” I said. “Have you considered buying it back, maybe talking to someone at O’Toole Insurance about it?”

  She gave me a sour look. “No, I do not love art the way my mother did. I would be most happy to have bare walls.” She then turned toward Nick and her face broke into a charming smile that was so insincere, at least to me, that it made my skin crawl. “So it is wonderful that Nick is here to relieve me of my burden.”

  “Quite right,” Nick said. “Shall we continue our tour?”

  “Absolument,” Marie said. Her voice was husky. “The next stop is my boudoir.”

  As she dragged him from the room, Nick threw me a terrified look over his shoulder. I would have laughed out loud but my phone chimed, alerting me that I had a text back from Harrison.

  The statue is another item that was bequeathed by the Brouillard family to the museum and then went missing. Get out of there. Now.

  I read the text twice before it sank in. Then I dashed after Nick.

  “Mr. Carroll,” I cried. “I am so sorry, but we have an urgent business matter to take care of . . .” I paused. I felt that the lie would only take if I could come up with a solid reason, so I added, “It’s about the beekeeper on the Carroll estate in Kent.”

  Nick and Marie were just up ahead of me in the hallway, and my boots made random taps on the floor when I stepped where the carpet was bare and my heels clacked on the wood floor beneath.

  Marie raised one eyebrow, looking like she didn’t believe me. I guess it takes a liar to know a liar. Nick, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to throw himself in my arms like a toddler needing a hug.

  “The apiarist?” he asked, jumping into my lie with Nick-style gusto, probably fueled by relief. “What sort of trouble is he having?” He leaned toward Marie and said as an aside, “Big money in honey these days.”

  She blinked, and when she looked back at me, I nodded and shrugged.

  “Something about a dead queen,” I said. “He’s requesting a video chat immediately.”

  Nick frowned in concern and then turned and kissed the back of Marie’s hand, the very picture of one aristocrat schmoozing another. She put her hand to her throat and tittered with pleasure. I tried not to roll my eyes.

  “Madame,” I said. “One of the pieces we would be interested in is that statue in the drawing room. Is it an original?”

  Marie stared at me for a moment. A hint of red crept up her neck, but her gaze never wavered. “It is a copy, I’m afraid. My mother bequeathed the original to the museum, but she loved it so much that she had a copy made. She did that with several of her most precious pieces.”

  “Oh, bad luck,” Nick said. “Still, you have a lovely collection. Is it all right if I call upon you again?” He lowered his voice and added, “I feel we have unfinished business.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Marie said. She looked like she wanted to take a bite out of him. Ew!

  She walked us to the door and watched as our driver let us into the car. As soon as the driver closed the door behind us, Nick collapsed against the seat.

  “Serve me between two slices of bread and call me a sandwich,” he said. “That woman was terrifying.”

  “You handled her very well, you manly man, you,” I said.

  Nick tossed his thinning blond hair in a look of male pride. “I’m irresistible, it’s a curse.”

  I laughed and then opened my phone to call Harrison and tell him we were on our way back to the apartment.

  “Good,” he said. He sounded edgy.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. He made a grumbling sound, which didn’t really answer my question so I forged on. “Listen, I asked Marie Brouillard about the statue—”

  “Ginger, what were you thinking?” he interrupted. “If she’s involved with the art theft—”

  “She’s not,” I interrupted. “Believe me, she was more interested in putting the moves on Nick.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oy. I’ll feel better when I have you in sight,” he said. “There’s something very dodgy about the entire situation. The curator at the museum studied the picture you sent of the statue and she is quite sure that it is the original, so why does Marie Brouillard have a statue that she thinks is a copy?”

  “How can the curator be sure?” I asked.

  “A subtle marking on the base, not something that would have been replicated by someone making a copy,” he said.

  “If Marie has the original, then . . .” My voice trailed off and Nick studied me with his eyebrows raised.

  “Then it’s safe to assume that someone is running a fraud,” Harrison said. “Possibly Marie or someone associated with the Brouillards.”

  “You mean you think that Estelle Brouillard bequeathed items to museums but then her family stole them back?” I asked.

  “Quite possibly,” he said. “And if Will got wind of it . . .”

  “She may have killed him or had him killed to keep the secret,” I said.

  “Marie Brouillard, a murderess?” Nick asked. His normal pink complexion went white and waxy.

  “We’re going to need proof,” I said.

  “We’ll get it,” Harry said. “Just get home. I have a deep-seated need to hug you.”

  I heard Andre make retching noises in the background and I laughed. “One bear hug coming up.”

  “Harrison gets a bear hug?” Nick asked, outraged. “I’m the one who put my life on the line, posing as a straight man. Why does he get a hug?”

  “Oh, poor Nick,” I said. I tucked my phone back into my purse and wrapped my arms about him and gave him a crusher hug. He put his head on my shoulder and sighed.

  “Better?” I asked.

  “A little,” he said.

  “Did the scary old lady frighten you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “But even worse, that house gave me the collywobbles. Did you see what a mess it was? Servants’ day off, my arse.”

  When we arrived back at the apartment building, it was midafternoon. Andre had insisted on stopping at a patisserie on their way back from the museum, and he and Harrison had brought all the fixings for a sweet tea.

  Suzette let Nick and Andre use her kitchen to make tea. Although it was a clear day outside, the sun could not heat the chill temperature of the air, and since the Brouillard house had been chilly, I felt it all the way into my bones.

  Not being much good in the kitchen, I stayed in the drawing room by the fire, looking at the pictures I had managed to take while in the Brouillard estate. I was pretty impressed with myself as I had snapped more than I thought. I figured we could send them to the curator at the museum that Harry had spoken with and see if she knew if any others had been donated and then gone missing.

  It was here that Harrison found me when he returned from his room. He had gone up to change out of the stuffy suit he’d been wearing and was now looking quite dishy, as Viv would say, in a pair of well-worn jeans and a thick wool sweater in a deep shade of forest green.

  “Ginger,” he said. He came straight toward me with purpose in his every step. He didn’t stop but scooped me up and into his arms and held me tight.

  I wrapped my arms about his shoulders and hugged him in return, mostly so that I could absorb his warmth. And boy howdy, did I. All of a sudden, I wasn’t just warm, I was overheating.

  If this were a romance novel, this would be the moment when he kissed me and begged me to go out with him, my ban on dating be damned. But he didn’t. Harrison was above all else a good guy and he wouldn’t have me renege on my promise to myself because he supported me in all that I did. Damn it.
/>   Instead, we stood in front of the fire with our arms around each other. Neither of us spoke, not wanting to break the spell of being fireside in Paris with the person of our heart. Okay, so that was why I wasn’t saying anything. I could only hope that Harry felt the same. Frankly, if he didn’t, I didn’t want to know.

  “All right, you two, chaperones are in the room, break it up,” Andre said as he entered the room bearing a heavily loaded tray with Nick right behind him carrying a fully loaded tray of his own. Suzette followed, carrying a stack of plates, and closed the door behind her.

  It was with great reluctance that I let go of Harry. I examined the tea tray the boys brought in. Well, I supposed if I had to console myself with a morsel or two from the patisserie, so be it. I picked a chou à la crème, puff pastry with cream, because if that can’t fix what ails you, nothing can.

  Harry poured me a cup of tea and I sat down and nibbled on my cream puff. I let Nick do the talking and he told them all about Marie Brouillard and the estate that was falling down. In turn, Andre caught us up to speed on what the curator at the Musée de l’Or had to say. It appeared that several of the items that Estelle Brouillard had bequeathed to the museum had recently reappeared on the black market after the insurance company had paid out to the museum.

  There was a knock on the drawing room door, and Suzette rose to answer it. I took a sip of my tea and then looked at Harrison. The coincidence was too much to ignore.

  “Do you think it’s a scam then?” I asked. “I mean, it must be, right?”

  He shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “If it is an insurance scam, then that means that Will probably caught wind of it, and Marie Brouillard had him kidnapped to keep him from interfering. If she’s that ruthless, she may even have had him killed.”

  A strangled cry sounded, and I glanced at the door to see Viv standing there, with her hand at her throat, looking horror-struck.

  Chapter 23

  “Oh, Viv, I’m sorry,” I cried. This was the second time I’d blasted her with bad news when she walked into the room. When would I learn to think before I spoke? “That was thoughtless of me to say; it was mere speculation, just hypothetical, not fact. Pastry?”

  I held up my plate, hoping she would join me in the restorative powers of a tarte or a bright-colored macaron, but she shook her head, waving me off.

  “You think Will is dead? Why?” she cried.

  Andre and Nick stood and began fussing over her like mother hens, taking her coat and handing her a cup of tea. Once she was settled, they resumed their seats as well.

  We took turns telling her everything. When she looked like she might cry, Suzette put a comforting arm around her and Viv leaned into her. Although she was closer to our age than our mothers’, there was something about Suzette that was very motherly. It was one of the many things about her that I liked.

  The buzzer from the street sounded and Suzette rose to go answer the door.

  “I’d best go with you,” Harrison said. “For safety’s sake.”

  He put down his tea and followed her from the room. I wondered if this was how cautious we would need to be until we discovered what had happened to Will.

  “It’s going to be all right, Viv,” I said. I moved and took the spot beside her on the couch. “We’re figuring some things out, but we will find Will, I promise.”

  I felt as if I’d made this promise several times already and I wondered if Viv was losing her faith in me and the rest of us.

  “Is this what you lot consider hard work?”

  I glanced up at the door and in strode Alistair Turner. He looked as dashing as ever with his dark chin-length curls, arching eyebrows, square jaw and sharp-edged cheekbones.

  “Alistair, mate, what are you doing here?” Nick asked.

  Both he and Andre rose to shake hands and slap our friend on the back. I gave him a quick hug and Viv gave him a tiny wave and a flash of a smile. Judging by the way he stared at her, as if the wind had been knocked out of him, the wave was more than enough.

  “Alistair, you didn’t have to come all this way,” Viv said.

  “Oh, but I did.” He turned toward Harrison and Suzette as they entered the room behind him. “I have news.”

  “Good, I hope,” Harrison said. “We could use some.”

  “The woman you had me track down, Colette Deneau, I found a warrant for her arrest in Belgium for fraud, and get this, her real name is Colette Brouillard Deneau.”

  Harry and I exchanged matching looks of shock. I sat down hard on the sofa. The rest of the group followed suit, with Suzette dashing off to make more tea.

  “Do you know what this means?” I asked.

  “No, remind me who Colette is again?” Nick asked.

  “She’s the woman who bought the painting from Jacques Reyer and brought it to O’Toole’s to have it appraised,” Harrison said.

  “But she’s a Brouillard,” Andre said. “Which could be coincidence—”

  “It’s not,” Alistair said.

  “Which means she’s related to Marie Brouillard, I’m guessing her daughter or maybe a niece, judging by the difference in their ages,” I said. “So this is just one huge scam that they are running.”

  “How do you figure?” Viv asked.

  I put my pastry down, that alone tells you how stressed I was, and began to pace around the room as I worked out the details in my theory.

  “Emile St. James is hot to own that painting,” I said. “He can’t be the only one. Given the condition of the Brouillard estate, they are on the verge of losing everything.”

  “They are,” Harrison said. “I ran their financials, and it looks like the estate will be declared bankrupt in a matter of weeks.”

  “So, they need money and fast,” I said. “The curator said that several of the pieces that I sent you pictures of had been stolen from the museum over the years, which means the whole thing is just a way to make money for the Brouillards.”

  “How?” Nick asked. He looked baffled.

  “They must donate the art to a museum, get a tax write-off, then steal the art back. We’ll have to ask Colette how they manage that trick. Then they likely plant the painting or what have you somewhere, say a bouquiniste or boutique, and buy it back for nothing, making its origin unknown. Then they can sell it on the black market to people like Emile St. James, in a payout Will told us could be well into six or possibly seven figures.”

  “It didn’t exactly work out that way this time, did it?” Andre asked.

  “No,” I said. “I’m thinking the trouble with the Renoir was that Jacques Reyer bought it from the bouquiniste first, forcing Colette to buy it from him, which a buyer might have found suspicious. Likely she had to bring it to O’Toole to reassure whoever was looking to buy it that it was authentic and didn’t realize that O’Toole had already paid out a policy on that very painting years ago.”

  Harrison nodded. “Sounds plausible so far.”

  “When Reyer found out the real value of the piece, he wouldn’t let it go and went to the media to plead his case for the painting to be returned to him. That brought so much attention to the piece that Will’s company came forward and claimed it, leaving Colette and Marie without the painting, probably getting them in hot water with Emile. Will must have figured out the scam and Colette and Marie hired some thugs to take him away and steal back the painting.”

  They were all silent, staring at me as if I was mental.

  “What?” I asked. “I think I’m on to something here.”

  Harry nodded. “I agree. The problem is we have to prove it, all of it, to Inspecteur Lavigne before he’ll take us seriously.”

  “I think I can help with that,” Alistair said. “I can pose as an art buyer, looking for the Renoir.”

  “I thought that was my role,” Nick said.

  “N
o, your part was to get us into the house,” I said. “The way Marie latched on to you, I think you’d be wise to give that one a wide berth.”

  “Latched on to you, did she?” Andre asked his partner.

  Nick shrugged. “Even criminals have taste.”

  “Clearly,” Andre said. He gave his partner an affectionate smile.

  “Alistair, you don’t have to do this,” Viv said.

  She sounded timid, so unlike my Viv that we all turned to look at her. Her cheeks were flushed with color, and she was looking at the top of the table, instead of making eye contact with anyone.

  “No, I don’t,” he agreed. She glanced up at him in surprise and he met her gaze and held it. “But I want to. I want to help you.”

  “I’m married,” she said. “That hasn’t changed.”

  “I know,” he said. His voice was quiet and soft like he was trying to coax a kitten out of a tree.

  It was painful to watch them, and I glanced away, noticing that the others did, too. Well, except for Nick. He was watching with rapt attention like it was a cliff-hanger season ender on Downton Abbey. I gave him a quick kick to the ankle.

  “Ouch! Oy, Scarlett, that hurt,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. Then I gave him my intense stare so he’d know why I had tapped him, yes, it was just a tap, with my boot.

  Suzette came back into the room with more tea and we all turned our attention to her. Alistair wasn’t finished with Viv, however.

  “Listen, Viv, I know you’re spoken for,” he said. “But I also know that I’ve never felt for anyone the way I feel about you, so I will help you now, and when we get your husband back, if you choose him instead of me, that’s all right, because all I truly want is to see you smile again.”

  Silent tears coursed down Viv’s cheeks, and Suzette put the teapot down and put her hand over her heart.

  “Comme c’est romantique,” she said.

  I only got the last word, but I totally agreed.

  I glanced over at Nick and Andre. Andre looked watery; Nick had given up and had tears coursing down his cheeks. I glanced at Harry and saw him watching me, probably looking to see how I reacted. I gave him a wobbly smile and he nodded. We both liked Alistair very much, but Viv had to follow her heart and I knew we both supported her in that.