Portrait of a Girl

by Luanna Stewart

“Yes. Jeffers vowed to never return when he left. He was ashamed of his ancestors.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “My family knew him for many years, from my school days even. I became his lover only seven years ago.”

  Heather trudged along, hoping there was a bit of heat in the old house. Her toes were officially numb, and the jacket she’d borrowed from Emile lacked insulation. “How old is your little boy?”

  “Alain just turned six.” She smiled. “He is such a good boy, and so smart. He does very well in his little school.”

  So, Magritte shacked up with the guy and almost instantly got knocked up. And then got kicked out. That’s the risk one took, she supposed, if one dealt with master criminals. Still, it was inhumane to separate mother and child. Even if the mother was a knife-wielding lunatic.

  “When did you leave him?”

  Magritte averted her face. “Last year, when he threatened to kill my son if I did not go.”

  Heather gulped. Things like this only happened in books. Books she found too disturbing to read. Which is where they should stay. Certainly not in her boring little life.

  A wisp of smoke drifted from the chimney, and Heather looked forward to the heat it promised. “Do you have a plan?”

  They paused at the spot where a door would have hung at the front of the house. Magritte peered into the dim interior and huffed in disgust. “Animals have been living here. I cannot believe the old fool would bring my precious child to this place. Bah, it stinks.”

  “So, about that plan?”

  Magritte turned to her, her eyes glittering. “I have no plan, other than doing whatever it takes to get my little boy out of his clutches.” She strode through the gap and disappeared in the gloom.

  “If you hadn’t thrown the phone out of the car—” We could call for help, she finished silently.

  She stared into the house, then looked back the way they’d come.

  Now was the time to escape.

  She turned to slip away, but a strong hand grabbed her arm. “You come with me.” Magritte raised the knife, its razor-sharp edge glittering in the weakening light. They stepped over trash and through the doorway of a once-elegant room with floor-to-ceiling windows leading to a stone patio. Warmth from the fire blazing on the hearth reached her, and she sighed.

  It was almost a cozy tableau. A man and small child sitting at a table topped with a chess game in progress, lit by a few flickering candles. Magritte went straight to the little boy sitting across from Jeffers, putting an arm around his narrow shoulders.

  Tension radiated from the two adults, and the look of confusion on the face of the child almost broke Heather’s heart.

  “Say good-bye to your papa, mon fils.” Magritte smoothed the boy’s hair.

  “Good-bye, Papa.” He slipped from his chair and gave his father a kiss on the cheek.

  Jeffers wrapped his arm around the boy and pulled him close. “Do not think you have won so easily, you foolish woman.”

  Magritte stepped closer, the knife clenched in her fist, her face tight with anger.

  Heather needed to do something to prevent the coming battle. One in which the little boy could get hurt. She scanned the room, looking for a handy fireplace poker. But there was just piles of dead leaves and an old mattress that was clearly a home for rodents.

  “You have ruined enough lives, Marcel. Do not add that of your son to the list.” Magritte grasped his arm and tried to pull it away from the boy.

  Alain struggled to free himself, clearly frightened by the hatred on his father’s face. “Papa, non—”

  Heather rushed forward and added her strength to the other woman’s, and Alain slipped free, tears running down his cheeks.

  Magritte scooped him up and left through the long windows leading to the overgrown terrace, breaking into a run. Not looking back.

  Leaving Heather alone with Jeffers. She stared aghast at the old man. How could someone treat his own son like nothing more than an object to be fought over?

  She should go, try to get help. Find someone with a phone and end this madness.

  Jeffers poured more wine into his half-filled glass and took a drink. A very long drink.

  Mm, the wine looked good. She’d grab the bottle on her way out of the room.

  “So we meet again, Mlle. James. I was sure you were returned to America by now.”

  “It didn’t work out that way, no thanks to you.”

  “Me? I’ve not seen you for many days.” He took another long drink. He seemed very pale. His cancer must be progressing fast. Try as she might, she couldn’t summon any sympathy.

  “Not you personally. Your associates have been kidnapping me and trying to get rid of me ever since you escaped from the police.”

  “For that I apologize. They should mind their own business.”

  “No honor among thieves, is that it?” Now her mouth watered thinking about a nice drink of that deep red wine. Even the daily table wine in this country was delicious. Her throat was so dry, one little sip would be fabulous.

  “No matter. It is too late now.” Jeffers sighed. “Your father has won.”

  “My father is dead.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid he left me with no choice.”

  “What are you talking about?” She took a step closer, afraid to hear his answer. Now she really did need a drink. She picked up the bottle and turned away, looking for another glass. Or a mug. Hell, she’d drink straight from the bottle at this point.

  The bottle was knocked from her hand. It fell to the tile floor and exploded into a mess of glass and wine.

  “What the heck did you do that for?” She wanted to cry at the loss. Maybe there was another bottle hidden in the house.

  “Trust me, mademoiselle. You would not have enjoyed that particular vintage.” He wiped the sweat from his face.

  “What do you mean?” The germ of a suspicion formed in her mind.

  “It is well we have a few moments alone. I doubt the authorities have not figured out where I am, and will be here very soon.”

  She certainly hoped the authorities were on their way. The house gave her the creeps, as did the man. She slid onto the chair vacated by the little boy. “Do you have something to tell me?”

  He grimaced and pressed his hand into his stomach. “Oui, I wish to make my confession. Perhaps the very act will grant me some absolution.”

  Her mouth went dry and there was a buzzing in her ears. This would be a crappy time to faint. “Tell me,” she croaked.

  “I paid a visit to your father shortly before his untimely death. I thought to meet as compatriots, brothers-in-arms, as you say. He did not welcome me. Even when I produced a bottle of the finest vintage and invited him to share it with me.”

  She sat on the edge of the seat, wanting to leave, needing to stay, hoping desperately that he would change the direction of his story.

  A shiver traveled through his body. He drained his glass and placed it on the table with a smile. “There, that is done.” He met her gaze. “Of course I insisted that he sample the bottle. He conceded. We talked of many things that evening. He refused to discuss you, and now I understand why. You had no knowledge of his life, and he wished it to remain that way.”

  A spasm of pain contorted his face.

  “You monster. You poisoned my father.” She stood, trembling. The image of her hands wrapped around the bastard’s throat gave her a thrill.

  “Alas, I admit to taking the woman’s way. I dislike the sight of blood. The few times I’ve had to spill it, I’ve been filled with revulsion. Poison is so much cleaner.” He reached into the pocket of his wool coat and brought out a gun.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Heather swallowed the giggle rising from her throat.

  Holy crap on a stick.

  Obviously, this was not going well. This could be the worst day of her life. Heck, it could be the last day of her life. She sure as hell didn’t want to die in a tumbledown, deserted
house.

  She darted a glance at the window. Too far to jump. And besides, she doubted she could outrun a bullet.

  From outside came the sound of something scraping against the house. Was there someone out there? Was Magritte coming back? No, if the woman had half a clue, she was well on her way out of the area.

  Jeffers placed his gun on the table and pushed it toward Heather. “You may have this, if it’ll make you feel safer. Rest assured I am no longer a threat to you.”

  He seemed to be shrinking, melting into his chair, like a balloon with a slow leak.

  “What have you done?” She hugged herself in an attempt to stop the shaking. The fire had dwindled to glowing coals and gave off little heat. A cold wind blew through the gaping doorway at her back. Even so, she took a step away from the fireplace and the old man. It wasn’t the cold making her bones rattle.

  Jeffers coughed, every breath seeming to take enormous effort. Another shiver traveled through his body.

  “I have saved the country of France the expense of a trial and the cost of housing me in a prison infirmary. There are many who would have enjoyed seeing me behind bars, but they are to be denied.”

  His voice faded, and his head dropped forward.

  Oh my God, he’s dead.

  Her heart thumped; chills consumed her body. She’d never seen someone die.

  She took a step toward him.

  “Stop, Heather.”

  Tony strode through the French doors, moved to the table, and picked up the gun, expelling the clip.

  “Tony, I think he’s—” Fear and relief battled within her. Fear of death, and relief that the monster had been slain, though by his own hand.

  He placed two fingers on Jeffers neck. “Still ticking.” He met her gaze. “You okay?”

  She shook her head and stared at her father’s killer. “He confessed.” He’d killed her father, poisoned, in cold blood.

  What kind of person would do that? He’d killed Maxim, too. Who knew how many people Jeffers had disposed of over the years?

  Tony loosened the old man’s collar and pushed his head back to rest on the chair. “I heard.”

  “He murdered my father, with poisoned wine. He took my dad away from me.”

  Tony stood looking down at the dying man. A noise like blowing through a straw into a glass of milk came from Jeffers, his whole body working to draw a breath. “I’d call for an ambulance, but it would be a waste of time.” He checked again for a pulse. “He doesn’t have long.”

  She dived toward the chair, grabbed Jeffers by the collar, and shook him. “Why? You bastard! Why did you kill my father?” Tears filled her eyes, making it difficult to see. Jeffers met her gaze one more time and his mouth moved.

  Tony’s hands clasped her shoulders. “Heather, let go. There’s nothing—”

  “Hush, he’s talking.” She shrugged free of Tony’s grasp and put her ear closer to the dying man’s lips. “Tell me.”

  His mutterings were unintelligible, like he was talking with a mouth full of food. “For—for—” He struggled to form the words. In a rush of breath, he said, “Forgive me, my dear.”

  She watched her fists pounding on the chest of the dead man like they belonged to someone else. His stare contained no life. And still her hands hit him, again and again.

  Tony pulled her away, enveloping her in a hug from behind.

  She struggled, needing to hit, scream, run. Anything to rid herself of the empty spot in her heart.

  Tony turned her in his arms, gripping her like a straitjacket. She had no hope against his strength. Drained of energy, she slumped, and would have collapsed to the floor if he hadn’t been holding her.

  She cried and cried. And when she thought she’d finished, she cried some more. Would this empty feeling ever go away?

  His arms became a protective cocoon. She rested her cheek against his solid chest, relishing the feeling of safety, if only for a moment. He stroked her back and murmured calming words.

  Heather tried to stop sobbing, but then another memory of her father would hit and the floodgates would reopen. Like the Saturday lunches, just her and her dad, followed by a stroll through a park in the town or city where they were currently living. And later, when she was in college, he’d make sure her holidays were spent somewhere interesting, like Switzerland or Bermuda. And he always treated her like a princess, giving her the best of everything.

  Tony’s shirt under her cheek was soaked, and she was sure snot ran from her nose. But she didn’t care. It felt so damn good to be comforted. It felt so damn good to be allowed to cry.

  With her face buried in his jacket, she could hear other people arrive. They spoke in rapid French, and her only hints to the topic of conversation were repeated words, like Jeffers, James, and mort.

  Death.

  Tony’s heat and smell surrounded her like a protective bubble. She knew he spoke to the other people; she could feel the vibration in his chest under her cheek. But she didn’t hear the words. It was enough simply to be held.

  He guided her away from the table.

  She raised her head, needing to see what was going on. A photographer took many, many pictures. A man in a white jumpsuit swept up the broken wine bottle. Tony handed over Jeffers’s gun. An ambulance arrived to take away the body. Jeffers was laid out on a stretcher and covered from head to toe with a navy-blue blanket.

  Once the body was wheeled out, she pulled away from Tony. He had work to do, and she needed to breathe air free of the smell of death. Finding an old tissue in her pocket, she did her best to dry her face and blow her nose.

  Gah, my red nose and bloodshot eyeballs must be so attractive.

  “I’m going outside.” Her throat felt raw from all the crying.

  He nodded. “I’ll check on you in a few minutes.” He turned toward the other officers. She watched as he was instantly immersed in his job.

  Where did Tony the man end, and Tony the agent begin? Maybe there was no separation. Just like Nicholas had said, whatever it took to get the job done.

  She strolled out through the open window, across the cracked terrace, and sat on the low wall. Strong floodlights inside the house illuminated the yard. At one time this had been a pretty spot. She could picture the garden on a summer day, water bubbling in the fountain, colorful birds singing in the trees.

  Now the garden was dead. Dead and forgotten.

  Would Jeffers be forgotten too? Who would mourn his passing? His little boy would miss him, surely. But would Magritte help keep alive the memory of his father?

  Pfft. Not bloody likely.

  As much as she hated the man, it seemed a shame he would disappear from his son’s heart. She knew too well what it was like to have a parent shrouded in mystery. Even worse was the pain when the mystery was uncovered.

  The wind had died down, and the winter night didn’t seem so cold. Her muscles unclenched one by one. A feeling of peace replaced the sorrow. At last, she knew the whole story.

  All her worst fears about her father had been proven true. He’d been a thief, and a successful one. He’d lived a life of lies and secrets and violence. And he’d been murdered by his former partner in crime.

  She had no more secrets to keep. The one person who mattered knew all the sordid details. Knew she’d been raised by a criminal. Of course he’d known most of it all along; that’s why he’d rented her house. That’s why they’d gotten to know each other. That’s why they’d slept together.

  Shaking her head to clear the self-pitying thoughts, she wondered what she should do now.

  She thought about returning to her father’s house. The house that had been purchased using stolen loot.

  Dang, would she have to give the house back?

  Taking a deep breath, she let out a long sigh. No sense agonizing over what could have been. She needed to get home and rescue Samson from forced intimacy with Delilah. He had better not have punished her for leaving him alone by peeing on a bed or a rug. Like he’d done
last time.

  She couldn’t wait to get back to work at the bakery. She needed a good dose of normalcy. Plus, if she were about to be homeless, she’d better get started earning rent money. And what better way to do it than by doing what she loved, surrounded by the smells of sugar, yeast, and vanilla.

  Being here in the land of croissants and profiteroles had given her all sorts of delicious ideas, and she was anxious to talk to her boss about adding to their menu.

  A breeze stirred the leafless shrubs along the wall. She shivered and hugged her jacket closer. In the distance, the sound of someone chopping firewood filled the air with the promise of a cozy fire.

  …

  Tony stood in the doorway and watched Heather. She sat on the wall, looking lost in thought. Or just lost. He approached slowly, giving her time to school her features or wipe her eyes. She must be torn up inside, and probably had more questions than he had answers.

  He settled next to her, his head still filled with the facts of the case and the scene he’d witnessed in the old house. Jeffers took the coward’s way out, damn him. He ground his teeth, angry at the man for making Heather witness his suicide.

  What had Jeffers said at the end that had driven Heather into a rage? He wasn’t sure if he should ask. Maybe later, once the dust settled.

  Yes, he was a coward, too. He didn’t think he could stand any more of her tears. His heart still ached after that last batch.

  “I guess you won’t get to clear this case now. All the players are dead.” She tucked her hands into her pockets and hunched her shoulders.

  He thought of suggesting they go back inside, but quashed that idea. She wouldn’t want to go in that house ever again.

  “We found enough incriminating evidence at the château to wrap up most of the open burglary cases. With more digging, I’m sure the local police will find all the answers.”

  She turned toward him. “I wonder whatever happened to that Fragonard picture he’d been so set on getting.”

  “The one he’d sold to Laroux. Perhaps that’s the one mystery we’ll never solve.” Tony put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She remained stiff and averted her face.