Reluctant Burglar: A Novel

Home > Other > Reluctant Burglar: A Novel > Page 14
Reluctant Burglar: A Novel Page 14

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson


  “You’ve been such a sourpuss all day. Then Mr. Rottweiler starts snapping in my ear. Time to lighten up.”

  Max canted her head. “I don’t read you today, girl. We’re already in as much trouble as a polecat in a gunnysack. Now you’ve got this half-baked scheme to return one of the paintings. And you seem downright cheerful about the whole thing.”

  Desi looked at the Postimpressionist Vincent Van Gogh that lay in the middle of her bed. The painting was pulled tight over its stretching frame, but missing its outer frame. Presumably this would be found around the forgery that had been left as a replacement at Mr. Gambel’s palatial home. She’d give an arm and a leg to know who was doing the forgeries for this theft outfit. The work must be outstanding to hold up under day-to-day scrutiny for so long.

  She stroked the edge of the Van Gogh. “Dad was going to start returning paintings to draw out the mastermind of the theft ring. I’m just following his plan. It’s a relief to finally take action.”

  She walked over to the mirror and began brushing her hair. “I’ve felt helpless. I hate that. Now, with your help, I can move toward finding my father’s murderer and right a wrong at the same time.”

  Desi turned and pointed her brush at Max. “By the way, my scheme isn’t half-baked. We’ve done this one many times. We’re just going to reverse the results. I’ll leave the client’s house with the forgery and let the real thing stay behind. No one the wiser.”

  Max shook her head. “Let’s hope things turn out that way.”

  “Snap out of it, Mrs. Doom and Gloom. It’s almost showtime with Paul Dujardin.”

  Max heaved a sigh. She got up, nudged Desi over, and started refreshing her makeup. “You’re doing what Dean said not to do, walkin’ straight into the guy’s lair.”

  “It’s not a lair. It’s an estate.”

  “Whoopi-de-do. It’s a lair if you get eaten.”

  Desi took Max’s arm and turned the redhead to face her.

  “All right. Look. What’s Dujardin going to do? Kill me in the library with the candlestick and blame Colonel Mustard? You’ve got my back, girlfriend. And I trust you with it 100 percent. I’ll be wearing a wire, and you can call in the National Guard for all I care if things start to go bad. If I confront him in an environment where he feels the greatest margin of safety—”

  “I know. I know. He might speak freely and that’s worth the risk.” One side of Max’s mouth drifted upward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re more of a rootin’, tootin’ cowgirl than I am.”

  Desi grinned. Cowgirl? No. But a Jacobs, her father’s daughter? You bet! And that beat a cowgirl all hollow.

  Desi braked her rental car to a stop by the call box of the Dujardin estate—home of the famous art critic, his senator son, and family The mansion was located in the prestigious subdivision of Georgetown. Enclosed by a high brick wall, the imposing four-story Federal-style mansion dominated a lush green lawn dotted with shrubbery and flower gardens. Afternoon sunshine glinted off spike-tipped bars guarding the entrance to the driveway.

  This is it, Des.

  A female voice answered her buzz at the gate intercom. Desi inhaled a deep breath. No turning back now. “Desiree Jacobs to see Paul Dujardin.”

  “Is he expecting you?” The electronic transmission gave the question a tinny echo.

  Desi sucked at her tongue, trying to work up a little saliva. “I doubt he’ll turn me away Why don’t you ask him?” Now she was the one who sounded odd, like some gangster with a raspy voice out of a bad B movie.

  “Very well.” The tone dripped disdain.

  Desi waited several minutes; then the iron gates swung soundlessly inward. A well-oiled trap.

  Calm down, girl. This is for Dad.

  She drove up the cobbled drive to the timber-framed double doors. White-flowered viburnum shrubs lined the walk. Their spicy scent enshrouded her as she stepped out of the car. She trod up the steps and raised her hand to knock. The door opened, and a tall, hatchet-faced woman stared down at her. The woman’s uniform proclaimed her a household staff member.

  Desi lowered her arm. “Ms. Jacobs to see Monsieur Dujardin.”

  “Follow me.” The same voice as on the intercom. The woman turned and walked away without a backward look.

  Desi stepped under the rounded fanlight and into an oval foyer. A child’s laugh greeted her, followed by the sprite herself scampering out of a nearby room and up a broad staircase. The housekeeper’s face softened.

  At least she doesn’t look quite so much like Dr. Frankenstein’s assistant. A warm flush spread over Desi’s skin. And thank You, Lord, for reminding me that this is the home of an innocent family, not a den of criminals.

  Desi followed the housekeeper into an octagonal library that smelled of wood polish and old books. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across tall windows. A single lamp glowed in one corner. What had she said about Colonel Mustard and a candlestick …?

  The housekeeper withdrew and closed the door.

  Dujardin rose from a high-backed armchair near the cold fireplace. He came to meet her, leaning on his cane. How has he aged so much in less than a month? The art critic took her hand and bent over it.

  A shiver traveled up Desiree’s arm and she pulled her hand back.

  “Come, make yourself at home.” Dujardin turned toward a sofa and easy chair in the corner near the lamp. “May I offer you some refreshment? A seltzer water or perhaps some tea?”

  “Nothing, thanks.” Desi took a seat on one end of the sofa.

  He lowered himself into the chair. A nonthreatening start. The art critic studied her beneath bushy white brows. Desi smoothed the wrinkles from her pantsuit and laid one arm across the back of the sofa. She waited, head cocked, eyes wide.

  He needs to see me as a lamb, easily led.

  The Frenchman grimaced and lowered his gaze. “I apologize for the terse note, and for the unusual method of delivery, but your every move has been watched by the authorities for quite some time.”

  “Not true anymore. The FBI decided I’m no longer in danger, and they’ve dropped me far down on their suspect list.”

  “Excellent.” A gleam sparked in the old man’s eyes.

  “I’d appreciate an explanation. Just when I thought life might get back to normal, you start some spy novel intrigue. Do you know something about Dad’s murder?”

  Dujardin thumped his cane on the Oriental carpet. “This conversation is not about what I know, but about what you know. The death toll has risen quite high enough.”

  Desi caught her breath. “You do know something. You need to cooperate with the auth—”

  “As you are?” His words ended with a snap of teeth, like a hound reaching the end of its tether.

  She stared at the older man, a chill snaking up her spine.

  He leaned back and expelled a breath through his nose. “Let us not continue to toy with one another. A clever woman like you must have discovered your father’s cache of pictures and his journal. He told me he left clues that only you could decipher. Since you have not turned these items over to the federal agents, I must assume you share my loathing of scandal.”

  So much for this pseudogentleman underestimating the fairer sex. Dujardin was the last person her father visited before his death. Was that fact more significant than she had thought? Her heart rate tripled.

  The Frenchman laid both hands on top of his cane. “Now then, if you wish things to return to normal, you will give me everything Hiram left behind. I will dispose of the items in a manner that will restore both of our lives.”

  “Dispose of masterpieces? You must be joking!”

  Her host tipped back his head and laughed. The sound held no merriment. “You are indeed your father’s daughter. You worry about the fate of color on canvas when your future teeters on a precipice. Save your concern. No harm will come to the pictures—or to you—if you tell me where to collect them.” Dujardin leaned toward her, nostrils flared. “The destruction of
the journal is paramount. When Hiram visited me, I tried to tell him he was making a mistake. He would not listen.”

  The stuffy air gathered around Desiree like thunderheads. Her palms dampened. “Should I be afraid of you, monsieur?”

  The old man’s mouth dropped open. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “You do not understand. How could you? You have no family.” He lifted his cane and pointed to the end table by the sofa.

  She turned her head. A happy healthy group smiled at her from a framed photograph—the senator, his wife, and three children.

  “You see, I have much at stake.”

  Desi’s ears burned. How dare he! “No family, Monsieur Dujardin? Who should I thank for that? I have already lost far more than you and could lose the business my father entrusted to my care.”

  “I understand.” The Frenchman nodded. “I have been insensitive because of my own concerns. Forgive me. Let us make arrangements, then, to help each other keep what matters most to us.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve miscalculated. What matters most to me, and what mattered most to my father, has nothing to do with paintings, or a business, or even our own lives.”

  “Ah, you speak of the faith Hiram clung to. It did not save him in the end.”

  “You’re mistaken about that, as well. And such faith believes in powerful intangibles like justice and truth. Matters that evidently mean little to you.” Heart pounding, Desi stood and stared down at the man Hiram Jacobs had considered a friend. “Did you kill my father?”

  Her host struggled to his feet and matched her glare. “I did not.”

  “But you know who did.”

  His gaze fell away, and he frowned at the empty fireplace. “I cannot help you there.”

  “And I cannot help you. Our talk is finished until you have a better answer for me.” Desiree walked toward the library door. Don’t run. Walk.

  “You are making a foolish mistake.”

  Desi’s hand closed around the doorknob. Eyes forward. Don’t let him see your fear. She opened the door and let out a squeak—the only sound that got past her closed throat. A man towered over her. The man who passed the note at the zoo? Was he also a murderer for hire? Somewhere in the library, a clock ticked away what might be the last seconds of her life.

  “Let her pass, Jenson.” The Frenchman sounded every year his age.

  The man stepped aside, and Desi forced her knees to unlock and her feet to move.

  Dujardin’s voice followed her into the hallway. “Think over our conversation, dear Desiree. You know where to find me when good sense prevails.”

  Desi fled the house. Her hands shook as she headed out of the driveway. “God … God … God!” His name was the only prayer she could manage. Í might have stood eye-to-eye with Daddy’s killer.

  Was this Jenson capable of cold-blooded murder? Dujardin could have ordered the hit on her father. He had as much motive for murder as any unseen boss of a theft ring. And why couldn’t the art critic be that boss and not the victim of circumstance he pretended to be?

  Desi drove around the corner onto the next block. She spotted the rented van where Max waited with her listening equipment.

  Oh, no!

  A police car sat beside the van, lighted bubbles wheeling. Desiree paced the hotel room.

  When they concocted their game plan, she never should have agreed to cruise on by and let Max handle it if the authorities showed up: What had she been thinking?

  The lock clicked on the door, and it swung open.

  “Max!” She wrapped her friend in a bear hug. “I have never been so happy to see anyone in my whole life. The police didn’t detain you?”

  “Naw. The officer succumbed to my Texas charm.” Max laughed. “I explained that I was with a security company and named off several clients. I even handed him my cell phone and invited him to call some of them. I was outta there five minutes after I saw your car go by.”

  Desi planted her hands on her hips. “Five minutes! What took you so long to get back here? Didn’t you know I’d be worrying my head off?”

  “Aw, girlfriend, I’m sorry.” Max’s smile disappeared. “I should’ve called, but I guess I didn’t think about it or how much time was passin’. Too busy gettin’ back on the right road after I missed my turn.” She shook her head. “Whew-ee! DC’s a bear to navigate.”

  “Still … oh, never mind.” All was well. What was she fussing about? Desi sighed and flopped backward onto her bed. “I feel like a limp noodle.”

  “Well, Miss Noodle, I’m starved. Want to order room service? Then you can give me your impressions about your afternoon adventure. Mine turned out to be pretty tame.”

  Desi sat up. “Deal.”

  Max went down the hall to get bottled waters from the vending machine. Desi phoned in the orders. When Max returned, she handed Desi a bottle, then sat by the table, one leg curled under her.

  Desi hung up the phone and leaned back. “Dujardin makes a Vegas cardsharp look like the soul of honor. He’s desperate and he’s dangerous. Dad so trusted this man. His good friend. Hah! He should have had a clue when Dujardin put him up to that first theft all those years ago.”

  “I hate to point this out, hon—” Max frowned—“but your father was as much a part of that deal as Dujardin.”

  Desi lowered her head. “I know. I know. I’m still struggling to understand that side of Dad. But he didn’t know the Lord then.” She took a sip of water. “So did you get a good recording of our conversation? That’s what counts right now.”

  The redhead laid a CD case on the table. “Clear as a bell and twice as incriminating. You confessed to nothing. Dujardin is in trouble up to his aristocratic neck. Someone like Tony could take this and get a warrant to turn the man’s life inside out.”

  “We need to give the recording to him.”

  “Yep.”

  A knock sounded at the door. “Room service.”

  Max jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

  Desi heard the door open. The smell of turkey melt sandwiches invaded the room, and her stomach rolled, but not with hunger. Would food ever appeal to her again?

  Max returned with a laden tray and a pale face.

  “What is it?” Desi took the tray and set it down on the table.

  “There’s a man spyin’ on us from the next corridor. He peeked around the corner when I signed the room service bill. And that’s not all. I’ve seen him before. After you drove by me and the police officer this afternoon, this guy cruised past in a little gold economy job. He had to slow down to get by my van and the police car. I got a real good look at him.”

  “Is he tall and husky with blond hair?”

  “Nope. About medium height and ash gray hair. He’s a senior citizen, for Pete’s sake. What do you make of that?”

  “You are one observant lady, Max.” Desi leaped up and paced a familiar route through the room.

  “Thanks. I trained with the best.”

  “My father?”

  “You and him both.”

  Desi stopped and leveled a steady gaze at her friend. “That was a nice thing to say. Thank you. I’ve always wanted to measure up to my father. Never thought I could. But maybe … no, never mind.” She shook her head.

  Did she even want to be compared to her father anymore? Was that healthy? The thoughts whispered through her mind, but Desi thrust the questions away.

  Max looked at the plates on the table. “You gonna eat this sandwich, or can I have it?”

  Desi laughed. “Let’s eat while I figure out a trap for our shadow man. I think we need to ask him who he’s working for.”

  Desiree drove the car out of the hotel parking garage. She turned in the direction of a local mall. Within a block, she spotted the gold compact model behind her. The rental van, Max at the wheel, was nowhere in sight. Excellent! No need to crowd their quarry.

  She turned into the mall lot and slipped into a parking space facing out into the drive lane. Her tail did the same one row back
and a few cars down. Desi sat and people-watched. Lots of coming and going. Plenty of witnesses to deter a violent reaction from the unknown factor in the little car.

  A brown van entered the lot and cruised between Desi and her watcher. When the van stopped smack-dab in front of the gold compact, Desi peeled out of her parking place and circled into the lane behind the car.

  The small car started to back out, but Desi braked to a halt behind him. The compact squealed to a stop.

  Gotcha!

  Desi leaped out of her car and dashed for the passenger side of the little car. She whipped open the door and slid into the seat. Her feet plunged into a sea of empty fast-food containers. The interior smelled of stale coffee and old French fries. “Hello, there. Please leave your hands where I can see them.”

  The man’s fists wrapped around the steering wheel. He stared at her like a startled owl.

  Oh, man, the guy must think I have a gun. Maybe that’s for the best when I have no idea what he might be carrying.

  A tap on the driver’s side window brought the man’s head around. Max looked in on them, smile wide as Texas. She waggled her fingers. The guy closed his eyes and let out a long groan.

  “Chat time,” Desi said. “Who are you, and why are you following me? Better yet, who hired you?”

  “It’s not what … I mean, I’m not … Hey, get out of there!”

  Desi ignored him and continued digging through the glove compartment. She found his name on an insurance card. No clues there. But …

  “Bingo!” Desi waved an envelope at Max.

  The man grabbed for it, and Desi let him have his property. He scowled and clutched the envelope. The return address made the contents a statement from a retirement fund. A government retirement fund.

  She studied him. “Ex-federal agent, I’m guessing.”

  He returned a stony stare.

  Desi tapped her fingers on the dashboard. “The million-dollar question is are you dirty, or did Tony lie to me about withdrawing the surveillance?”

  “Dirty?” The man snorted. “I’m not the one that’s dirty, lady. Your stupid stunt just proved it.”

 

‹ Prev