These are all forgeries. This is our guy.
“We’re interested in purchasing some art,” I said. “We have heard amazing things about your work. You’re André Robineau, yes?”
André nodded, still gripping his spoon sword. “Oui.” He pulled the robe tighter around his slender frame, his sunken, beady eyes still showing his fear.
“May we come in?” Rhys asked.
The artist crossed his arms over his narrow chest tightly and nodded quickly. I closed the door behind us. Nobody said anything for a moment.
This weird little man was once Sophie’s lover? I find that hard to believe.
“How did you find my home?” André eventually blurted out.
“A mutual friend gave us the address,” I said. “We hear you are an excellent forger.”
His eyes widened for a moment before feigning confusion. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
I pointed to a painting on the wall. The canvas featured several pears and a few apples, painted in gorgeous bright hues. “Where did you get the Cézanne?”
André glared at me. “It was a gift.”
I pointed to four prints on the kitchen counter. “What about these prints? They are all signed by Toulouse-Lautrec. I bet these are a steal for Montmartre tourists, right?” He’d even put them on aged paper to make them look like they were from the late 1800s.
André shrugged. “I collect art. That is not a crime.”
“Dude,” I said, “the painting on your easel in the corner is obviously a Degas. You have a photo of one of his ballet paintings attached to the easel.” I shook my head at him. “Come on now.”
Rhys smiled wide at me, a sparkle in his eyes. I think he was proud of me in that moment.
“Like my partner here said, we’re not here to hurt you. We’re not police,” I said. “We’re just looking for some information.”
André frowned. “What information?”
“We want to know for whom you recently painted a Picasso,” Rhys said.
The painter thought for a moment and then shrugged. “I’ve never painted a Picasso.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do you really want to play that game with us? Pretty sure the police would love to see this place—”
“No, no!” he yelled. “No police!”
“Then tell us who your client is. We know you painted a Picasso for someone,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the real painting going missing from the gallery recently.” I picked up a nearby newspaper Le Monde was across the top in an old-timey font. “Front page. Right there.”
“It must have been someone else!”
Rhys sighed. “Y’know, it probably was someone else. I mean, that Picasso forgery was really well done. Experts couldn’t even tell the difference.”
André’s eyes narrowed. “Oui, it was trés bon.”
Rhys scanned the paintings all over the room. “I mean, you’re good, but you’re not that good of a forger.” He looked down at me. “Let’s go, this isn’t our guy. This guy’s just an amateur rip-off artist.”
I shrugged. “You’re right. Let’s go—”
“Excusez-moi!” André shouted. “I am the best at what I do. What do you want to know?”
Sometimes this job is just too easy.
To: bettybruce
From: audreyfox
Subject: Re: New assignment
I can only assume you and Rhys have run off together, since he’s not answering my messages either. Both of you are unreliable and ridiculous.
That night Rhys and I did surveillance on Château Delacroix, a big old country house outside of the city. The sun dipped below the horizon, sinking the manor’s cream-colored exterior and high-pitched roof into shadow.
Okay, I’m just going to say it: it was a freaking castle.
“Miss Miranda, I am getting the strangest sense of déjà vu,” Rhys said, tapping away on his smartphone.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“You and me watching a rich person’s mansion at night under the stars,” Rhys said. “This is a pattern for us.”
I smiled, raising my binoculars over my eyes. “If it wasn’t with you, I’d almost say it was romantic.”
He laughed. “You don’t get romanced a lot, do you Molly?”
“No.” I put my shoulders back. “Romance is for the weak.”
Rhys held up his phone screen. “Looks like Château Delacroix is going on the market. There’s an open house tomorrow afternoon. We should check it out. He has it in his schedule, so he may be there.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“Sure, why not? We can look around, see if he collects art. It’d be a good way to see if our friend André is full of shit or not.”
I put my binoculars down. “Is there anything else in his browser history we can use?”
“Let’s see,” he said, flicking his finger to scroll down. “Porn, porn, realtor website, porn, millionaire dating website, auction house website, porn—”
“What was he looking at on the—”
“Porn website?” Rhys interrupted. “Alistair Delacroix loves the redheads—”
“Auction house, idiot.”
Rhys nodded. “Right, of course. Looks like … art. It’s an El Greco.”
“Alright. This is promising,” I said. “He’s into Spanish art.”
“Let’s assume he did hire André to create a forgery of the Picasso, and let’s assume he has the real one. Does he just hold on to it, or does he try to sell it?”
“If he’s selling the Picasso and his house, something must be up with his finances.”
“Good point,” he said. “I’ll do some digging into his bank records tonight.”
“After you do that, we’re going shopping.”
Rhys tucked his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. “What for?”
“If we’re acting like we’re in the market for a French chateau,” I said, “then we’d better look the part.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rhys kept glancing at me as we drove back to Château Delacroix. At one point he almost hit another car.
“Please do be careful,” I said, practicing my Rich Hollywood Type voice.
“I just can’t believe that’s the look you went with. We’re trying to fit in, not stand out.” He quickly checked his hair in the side mirror. “Besides, I feel under-dressed.”
“I told you to pick out a new ’do at the wig store.” I reapplied my lipstick in the mirror and puckered my lips slightly.
Rhys laughed loudly, zipping along the highway. “You are loving this, aren’t you?”
“What?” I said, batting my fake eyelashes at him. “A girl can’t feel pretty from time to time?”
He smiled. “The voice could use some work. You sound like an actress from the fifties.”
I leaned closer to him, looking up at him through my eyelashes. “Are you saying I sound like—” I softened my voice, making it extra breathy “—Marilyn Monroe?”
“You’re ridiculous, woman.” He shook his head. “It’s really too bad Marilyn never got a chance to play Poison Ivy.”
He was referring to my wig—orangey red hair that fell over my shoulders in big, luxurious curls, my platinum blond pixie cut tucked neatly underneath—and red lipstick. My makeup was damn near flawless, my feet ached from wearing fancy heels and my boobs were taped in place so to keep them up and inside a daring cleavage-heavy jumpsuit. My chest was pushed up so far, I could rest my chin in my cleavage.
According to the girl at the super fancy clothing store in Paris, jumpsuits with slits down to the midriff are super trendy right now. I know, right? Surprised me too.
Before we got in the car, Rhys just looked at my boobs and let out an exasperated sigh.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
“Eyes up here,” I said, directing his gaze up to my face with my finger. “This is not for you.”
“You’re dressed like that for Alistair D
elacroix? What, do you have a crush on him?”
“He likes redheads, he’s single and he’s looking to date. If he happens to be there today, I might be able to squeeze some information out of him.” I shrugged and got into the car.
Rhys took a seat behind the wheel and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’re looking to squeeze something—”
“Don’t be gross,” I snapped.
I couldn’t help but feel a little flattered that Rhys was acting like a jealous baby. But why should he be jealous? We were on an assignment. I was just playing a part to hopefully get some information.
And I thought dressing up like Amy Adams in American Hustle would be useful.
And Rhys had a girlfriend. So there was that.
We pulled up in front of the chateau, parking our car in between a Jaguar and Rolls-Royce. People in the market for a French chateau don’t mess around when it comes to their vehicles.
Rhys pocketed the car keys. “And who are we supposed to be again?”
I checked the mirror one last time. “I’m Ella Page, the daughter of a Hollywood producer, and you’re my gay bestie.”
“Why do I have to be gay? Why can’t I be your straight bestie?”
“Because I don’t want him to feel threatened by your presence.”
“Wow,” Rhys said. “You’re gonna look like such a fool when he doesn’t pay attention to you.”
“You underestimate me, sir.”
We followed another couple through the front doors of the chateau. The interior was very … castle-like. Huge, antique gilded mirrors hung on the walls on both sides of the entrance. I gazed up at the ceiling and admired the beautiful painted murals featuring fluffy clouds and cherubs. My heels clicked against the marble floors.
This manor has been in his family for several generations. If he is selling this place, his financial situation must be in really rough shape. Or he’s just bored of it and wanting to buy something bigger.
The inner rooms were the same classic French baroque style. We entered a grand ballroom with a checkerboard floor and deep red walls.
I leaned closer to Rhys. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
Faded rectangle and square patches appeared on all four walls around us.
He’s selling it all off. He must be.
At that moment, a gorgeous man in his mid-thirties came into the room. His perfect, thick, golden curls bounced as he walked. His flawless high-end suit was tailored for him and no one else. His effortless smile was wide across his face, causing dimples to appear on his cheeks.
“That’s Delacroix,” Rhys whispered.
Oh. I was expecting someone … less attractive. Shit.
He greeted the other couple, thanked them for coming and made his way over to us.
“Hi, I’m Al.” He shook Rhys’s hand before lifting my hand to his lips and laying a kiss on it. “Welcome to Château Delacroix.”
I focused on my character, forcing myself not to blush, burst into a giggle fit or faint.
“I’m Ella,” I said, softening my voice again and nodding to my partner. “This is John.”
“I expected a Frenchman,” Rhys said, slipping into a perfect rich Brit accent. “Are you a Londoner?”
“I am. Born and raised,” Delacroix said. “My father was French, I lived with my mother in England.”
“So, why are you selling this place?” Rhys smiled confidently. “Surely you’d want to keep the estate in the family.”
Wow, Rhys. Subtle.
Delacroix didn’t seem to notice his candor. “I spend most of my time in hotels in Paris. I thought I’d let someone else enjoy it.” He moved his gaze over to me. His eyes were almost turquoise. “Are you in the market for an overpriced, out-of-date, hard-to-maintain French estate?”
I laughed. “Who isn’t?”
“Ah, an American!” He raised an eyebrow at Rhys. “Are you two married?”
“No, no,” I said with a laugh. “He’s super gay.”
“Well, er, I’m-I’m a regular amount of gay,” Rhys stammered. “I’m not like, a gay superhero or anything. Just normal gay. Normal level of gay. I’m not like, extra gay.”
I squeezed his hand tightly. “He’s the gay bestie every girl dreams of having.”
I felt bad even saying that. I detest women who treat their gay friends as pets or accessories. It’s repulsive.
“Good, then,” Alistair said. “Shall I take you on a tour of the place?” He offered me his arm.
“Sure,” I said, taking his arm and looking back at Rhys. “You should go have a look at the gardens.” I tried to give him a look without Alistair seeing.
He nodded to me. He would check the place out while I distracted our friend Al.
“Well, you know how I love gardens. You know, in a gay way.”
Alistair whisked me off to the next room, a long corridor of mirrors with, again, empty spaces where art had once been.
“Your friend is a bit strange, isn’t he?” he said. “Seemed a little annoyed that you would leave him by himself.”
“He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.” I gestured to the empty areas on the walls and used the sweetest voice I could muster. “You look like you’re missing some things, Mr. Delacroix.”
“My father was an art collector. They’re in storage while I sell the place. My father’s ghost would haunt me forever if I sold his collection.” He moved his face closer to mine so he was practically whispering in my ear. “Please. Call me Alistair.”
In storage my ass.
Rhys had been able to get into Delacroix’s bank records that morning. He’d had a lot of money transfers coming to him in the past couple of months, many of which were in the six-digit range. These transfers were coming from all over Europe and a few from other continents. Only one major money transfer had gone out recently, and Rhys traced that to André’s bank account. So far, that weirdo’s story was holding up.
As we walked from room to room, Delacroix rambled and name-dropped like only the born-rich can.
“I’ve had quite a few people interested in this place.” He led me to a tall window between blue velvet curtains so we could admire the view of the back garden. “Just the other day, Kanye and Kim came by. They couldn’t believe I was selling this place.”
“And did Kanye and Kim put in an offer?” I tried to sound playful and not as sarcastic as I wanted to be.
Delacroix winked. “I’d best not say.”
As we stood by the window, he brushed his palm against my bare upper arm. One of his blond curls fell down over his eye as the left corner of his mouth curled into a smile.
“Ella, has anyone ever told you how absolutely stunning you are?”
Wow, sir, you don’t waste any time, do you?
I smiled shyly, leaning closer to him just slightly. “Occasionally. But it means more when said by … certain people.”
I’ve never been good at flirting, but apparently Ella, my alter ego, is.
“How long are you in France?”
“Not sure yet. I guess it depends what comes up.” I touched the front of his jacket with the tip of my finger and maintained direct eye contact, batting my lashes subtly.
Trivia question: how many cliché little flirting tricks can one woman pick up from romantic comedies in twenty-some years? Answer: all of them.
“There’s a charity dinner this weekend in Paris. It’s to raise money for local arts … something or other. There’ll be other English-speaking people there, thank god. I want you,” he paused strategically, grinning, “to come with me.”
“You want me to be your date?” My eyebrows went up.
“I know we just met and, I swear, I’m not usually this forward. There is just something about you that I find entrancing.”
It’s the boobs and the red hair. This isn’t rocket science.
“That sounds nice.”
Oh good. Now you’re dating this guy? Have you lost your mind?
He wrote down the details o
f where and when the dinner was happening on a piece of paper, and I tucked it into my clutch.
A couple at the other end of the room, obviously not buyers, took a selfie. Delacroix sighed loudly.
“I’ve got to go. I’ve been chasing lurkers all morning.” He hollered to the couple. “Oi! No pictures, please!”
As he stormed down the hall to reprimand the naughty selfie-takers, I made my quick exit to the car. I texted Rhys, and he joined me a few minutes later.
Rhys, dripping with sweat, laid his face against the air conditioning vents. He closed his eyes and let out a loud, dramatic sigh.
“Are you warm?”
Rhys opened one eye to look at me. “A bit, yeah! I found the master bedroom and an office. I had to hide in a stuffy closet for fifteen minutes, waiting for the realtor to leave.”
I slumped down in my seat, scratching at the edge of my itchy red wig. “That sounds fun.”
“Hiding in a closet sounds fun?”
“No, I mean looking for goodies and clues and whatnot. I thought being a decoy would be fun, but I just feel gross.”
“Well, you certainly don’t look gross,” he said, starting the car. “Why do you feel gross?”
“Delacroix was hitting on me pretty aggressively. And then he asked me to this charity dinner thing on Saturday—”
“Really? Do we have clothes for that? Shit, Molly, we’re spending all our income from this job on posh clothes.”
“He didn’t actually mention … you.” I winced.
Rhys glanced at me as he turned onto the highway back to Paris. “What? Of course I’m coming with you. You need backup.”
I shrugged. “I’m going to get the information I need out of Delacroix, see who he associates with at this dinner thing, maybe poke around his hotel room—”
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