BRONZED BETRAYALS

by Ritter Ames

“If the artist only speaks French, one of you will have to come with me,” I warned. “Will Arlo and the artist go for that?”

  “No need to worry,” Nico said.

  “He’ll write the instructions at the bottom of the art he draws for you,” Jack said, grinning.

  Their devilish expressions set off warning bells for me. “Exactly what kind of artist is this?”

  “A caricaturist,” Nico replied. Jack started laughing.

  “Dammit, I already said—” I stopped and stared at the two gleeful males. Time to resign to fate. “Damn.”

  Eighteen

  The street art portrait wasn’t half bad. I had the oversized head, of course, but the artist took pains to give the composition a nice balance. He drew me at a table in a garden behind a mint-colored house, whose corner appeared on the left side of the page. Which I presumed pointed to where I would meet with Arlo. When he finished, he signed his name with a flourish and added an address. I gave him fifty euros—the agreed upon price—and handed the picture to Jack as I walked away. Luckily, Arlo was waiting for us. Whatever way this ended it would at least be soon.

  When the mint green house was in sight, Jack stopped us and said, “Wait here. Let me do a quick recon to see if I spot anything that shouldn’t be there.”

  “Sì,” Nico said. “Arlo told me he has no trouble with English, and Laurel can do the interview herself. You can keep an eye on the perimeter until their meeting is over.”

  “Where will you be?” Jack asked.

  “I’m going to get the car,” Nico said. “If we need to go fast, I don’t want it to be on foot.”

  “Fine, both of you, leave and do your thing,” I said, making a shooing motion toward each of them. I was ready for something good to happen, and I was counting on this being where we’d receive marketable information. My hopes were high.

  Nico disappeared down a side street, and Jack headed toward the house. I stood under a tree with tiny spring buds bursting and waited until I received the high sign from Jack. Then I made my way around the side of the house, looking for a table by a garden. It was exactly like the picture, except that instead of me being at the black wrought iron table, the occupied chair held a wizened little gray-haired elf of a man whittling on a stick.

  “Monsieur Arlo?” I held out a hand.

  He set his knife and stick on the table and rose slowly. “Oui, Mademoiselle Laurel.” He motioned for me to take a seat.

  Nothing was blooming yet, but the green shoots and leaves showed great promise for gorgeous flowers to carpet the garden by April. Letting my gaze sweep the surroundings, I said, “You have a lovely home.”

  “Non, the house is borrowed for this purpose. I let no one know where I live. Life has become très dangereux.”

  “Believe me, I understand. When did you begin worrying about your life?” I asked.

  He twirled the open knife on the tabletop. It was a well-used Swiss Army knife, but from the ease with which he’d whittled the stick, I assumed the blade must be extra sharp. Finally, he said, “About a year ago. But the last six months…Merde!”

  “First, I want to assure you that I’m only here to try to gather information,” I ventured, moving carefully. “We will not be telling authorities anything about this conversation, and we have no desire to see you prosecuted. I simply wanted to meet with you to ask about your work.”

  “I know your reputation. You are spoken of highly in our community, and if I can help…” He waved a hand over the tabletop. “Ask. Please.”

  “We’ve discovered several remarkable pieces of art done in different metals and wondered if they were completed by your hand, or by someone you know. One was a seventh-century broadsword, another was a seventeenth-century silver snuffbox, and the last a bronze bust duplicating a work by Rodin,” I said, then held my breath as I waited for his reply.

  “Did they have a mark?”

  “Yes, on the snuffbox and the bronze bust.” I reached into the Prada and pulled out a card with the drawing of the forger’s mark. “Each carried this symbol on the bottom of the work.”

  He held the card for a moment before dropping it to the tabletop and saying, “Oui, I did two of the items. Not the sword.”

  “Wonderful, thank you.” I slipped the card back into my purse. “Can I ask who hired you to make those copies?” I figured it was best not to use the terms forgery or fake.

  He responded by shrugging.

  “Are you saying you cannot tell me, or that you won’t?” I reined in my impatience at his response. As much as I would have liked to remind him that he was the one who demanded to talk to me when Nico contacted him, I knew it was crucial I curbed my sarcastic tongue.

  He shrugged again and picked up his tools and resumed whittling.

  “Did you make several copies of the pieces? Or only one of each?”

  “Only one,” he replied, scowling. His gaze remained on the knife as it easily sliced the stick. “I only make one copy, always. No matter how a man pushes me for more.”

  Deep breath, Beacham, time for another approach, I thought. I asked, “Do you mark all of your work with those marks, or just the two pieces?”

  “I do whatever the client wants.” He waved the knife in the air. “This one wanted the marks added. I added the marks. Simple. But I will no longer work for that client.”

  His jaw tightened, and I realized I’d probably gained all I could from Arlo on this subject. At least for now. Time to switch topics and maybe back into this later from a different direction.

  “Nico said you wanted to talk to me about Melanie Weems’s murder,” I prompted.

  “She wanted you killed,” he said, punching the table with his stick as he spoke. “She came to Paris, looking for an assassin.”

  “To kill me?” Sure, we never got along. But, an assassination? Kind of drastic. “I knew she hated me, but I never imagined her hatred ran so deeply.”

  “She was not doing it for herself,” the elf explained, shaking his silver head. “She came looking for another person. Someone who could not do the hiring.”

  “Was it someone she was involved with?” I asked. “A man with money?”

  “Oui.”

  “Was the man someone you’d ever worked for?”

  He shrugged a third time. Damn. There had to be a better way to do this. I reviewed my mental list of questions.

  “What kind of things are you doing to help keep yourself safe? Maybe I can do something similar.”

  He smiled then, and I congratulated myself for making inroads. Dropping the stick, he touched under his eye with his forefinger. “You must watch. Watch everyone. Watch everything. When something isn’t as expected, leave quickly. And this…” He closed the knife blade and handed the weapon to me, closing my fingers around the handle. “Keep a knife you can always hide in your hand. Or a gun. Something small. Never be without means to fight an enemy.”

  I opened and closed the blade, thinking about how easily the knife held its position as I asked, “Do you have any idea who killed Melanie Weems?”

  “Someone protecting y—”

  A shot rang out and Arlo made a strangled noise. His head hit the tabletop with a thud.

  “Get down!” Jack yelled, running toward us.

  I started to reach for Arlo, to try to help him in some way, though I knew he was already gone. A head wound like that was always fatal. Instead, Jack grabbed my hand and pulled me to a sidewall built up with stones to hold an elevated garden plot. He pushed me down, then crouched beside me, a gun in his hand.

  “Where did you get the gun?” How did he do that?

  “Nico gave it to me last night in the car.”

  I heard sirens in the distance, grateful someone had called the police. Nico pulled up on the street in the Peugeot and waved us to come and get inside.

  Jack and I hu
rried to the car, running a zigzag pattern to shelter behind trees and shrubs. Nico pushed open the passenger door as we neared, and Jack shoved me inside. He handed Nico the gun and said, “Get her someplace safe. I’ll stay and talk to the police.”

  “Jack, you need this for protection. The shooter may still be out there,” Nico said.

  “You and Laurel need protection. I got this. Now, get out of here and meet me back at the hotel.” Then he ran back toward Arlo.

  “No, we can’t—” I argued and started to climb from the car.

  “Yes, we can,” Nico pulled me back and accelerated, my door swinging shut with the velocity. “Buckle up.”

  When I grabbed the seatbelt, I realized I still had Arlo’s knife in my hand.

  It was over three hours before Jack showed up again at the hotel. I’d given up on waiting in the room and haunted the lobby for at least half that time. He looked absolutely done in when he pushed through the revolving door.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go get you a drink in the bar.”

  “Brilliant. I’m feeling a bit knackered.”

  As he drank a scotch, he gave me the CliffsNotes version of what happened after we drove away. Then he immediately wanted a detailed account of what Arlo told me.

  “First tell me about the shooter. Was Arlo the target, or was it another close call for me?”

  “I’m thinking Arlo since there weren’t any follow-up shots,” Jack said. “The Sûreté seem to agree with that theory too. Arlo was known for being a forger, and the police are chalking this up to jealousy, turf wars, dangerous occupation, you name it.”

  “I almost told him that he didn’t have to worry anymore because the person who caused all the forgers to be killed off was dead,” I said. “Boy, was I wrong.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Tell me precisely what Arlo told you in the garden and we’ll try to determine whether there’s a new trail to pursue.”

  Since I’d already covered this with Nico, I breezed through my delivery, hit all the fine points and gave the conclusions I’d drawn. He remained quiet throughout, finished his scotch and ordered another.

  “You’d better eat a sandwich before drinking much more.”

  “Too true. We never had lunch.”

  The second scotch arrived first, but he was smart enough to wait for the food.

  “So now what’s the plan?” I asked.

  A rough London-accented voice, one that hinted at years of cigarettes and liquor, called out my name. “Laurel Beacham, is that you?”

  Clive, roadie extraordinaire for the heavy metal band Whyte Noyse, lumbered in toting an oversized carryon. Jack and I had each shared planes with the band during different legs of our investigative journeys, and Nico was an even more frequent traveler due to his connection with the band’s lovely publicist, Patricia.

  “Hey, Clive, good to see you.” I stood and hugged him. “Are you checking in?”

  “Nah, I’m leaving. Like I told Nico yesterday, I have to get back to the tour.”

  “You talked to Nico? I wish he’d told us you were around.”

  “Ran into him at the airport. Told him where I was staying, and he said he’d have to try out the place. Looks like he got you in here too, right?”

  “We arrived last night.” I turned to point at Jack.

  As Jack stood and held out a hand, Clive did a double take. “You get beat up again, mate?”

  “No, it’s just been one of those weeks.”

  Clive turned back to me and grinned. “Yeah, I saw Laurel had her turn in the spotlight. Bit of a surprise that was. Never expected it of you.”

  I covered my face with my hands. “Don’t remind me. I’m trying to hide while I’m here. I kept getting recognized in London.”

  “Now you know how the band feels,” he said, chuckling. “Though their exploit videos were never put to any music other than the songs they played.”

  “You saw that one too, huh?”

  “Kind of hard to miss it.” He slapped me on the back. “Don’t worry. Fame is fleeting.”

  “I can only hope,” I said, then asked, “What are you doing in Paris?”

  “The guys needed me to take care of some paperwork for the European end of the tour. I’ve been with them longer than any of their managers, so I get courier duty to iron out details they feel requires close attention and confirmed receipts.”

  “The U.S. tour is going well?”

  “Brilliantly. I’m heading back to New York tonight or I’d see if you wanted to go to dinner.”

  I shrugged. “We were supposed to be in New York today too, but the trip got scrapped.”

  “Well, hey, ride back with me. I have the whole plane to myself.” He waved a hand toward the elevators. “Go on up and pack to check out. I’ll wait for you.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said, smiling for the first time since he returned.

  However, I threw a wet blanket on his happiness. “Call and see if you can catch the detective first, check if he’ll be available tomorrow. No point in us going otherwise.”

  Nodding, he pulled out his phone and connected right away with the retired detective, Douglas Harmon. “Okay, thank you. We’ll meet up with you tomorrow morning in Scarsdale by ten,” Jack said, wrapping up the conversation.

  He ended the call and pocketed the phone. “Perfect timing. He’s between test dates and looks forward to meeting us.” Then grabbing my hand, he said, “Come on, Laurel. Let’s go pack.”

  I called back to Clive, “He has a sandwich order coming. Ask them to wrap it to go.”

  “Great. What about this scotch?”

  “Are you driving?”

  “No. Got a limo.”

  “Then drink up. Free booze.”

  He lifted the glass. “Cheers.”

  When we got to the room, Jack finally slowed down enough to catch on that I wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of spontaneously going to New York. I made an effort, but Jack finished packing long before me and got a little ticked when I dissuaded him from helping. That’s when he realized my slowness was procrastination. My arguments were just another form of the same.

  “Besides, you need to let Nico and Cassie know where we’re going. This trans-Atlantic trip wasn’t on anyone’s agenda.” I was carefully setting a sweater into the carryon. He pulled the bag from the bed and made me sit there instead.

  “Tell me, how much of not wanting to go to New York is avoiding the risk of dredging up old memories, and how much is just avoiding Max?”

  Wow! He really was perceptive. Or I was more transparent than I’d thought. “Honestly? Probably sixty-forty avoiding Max. No, seventy-thirty. I know it sounds ungrateful of me, but I feel so much more under Max’s thumb than I ever felt when I was just troubleshooting art recovery. Being in the same time zone with him makes it all worse because he thinks I should sit and stay whenever he gives a command. And now I have to cyber-meet with him regularly on budgets and projected expenses and all the other administrative stuff I’ve never had to do before. So, I’m kind of Max-ed out on my best days.”

  He sat beside me and took my hand, rubbing my fingers when he said, “Part of the problem might be that you still have to expend tremendous energies on art recovery. You and the foundation must face facts—you might be stretched too thin. You have a good team to rely on with Cassie and Nico, but you’re still in the trenches every minute. Having to stop and take a conference call would be justifiably irritating. You can only palm so many off on Cassie, and she’s expanding her role every day besides. Taking extra calls may soon be too much for her as well.”

  “You’re right, I know, but Max will never understand that dilemma. Part of the reason, of course, is I can’t tell him everything we do because of the risk of information falling into the wrong hands. If I felt like Max could be counted on to keep a lid on intel, I could sp
eak more freely and not shoulder everything so much of the time. But he gets excited and has to tell what he knows when trying to impress people. We’ve already had problems on this front with the little he’s learned, or when people in our investigation run into him. I can’t risk it.”

  “I get it, I do. I also remember a discussion we had in the Peter Paul Reubens Room at the National Gallery a few days after your promotion. You had reservations then, and they don’t seem to be lessening.”

  “I was afraid of being hobbled by the new job, I remember. While I’ve forced my way through some restrictions, others remain, and I can’t see how to avoid them.”

  “Like being tied to the U.K. and the European continent.”

  “I miss being able to travel the whole world for art.”

  Jack shrugged. “You can still travel anywhere you like. You just have more status and recovery latitude in Europe.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I laughed, but my tone was sad. “When have I traveled anywhere since we’ve met that wasn’t foundation related, or to give me a modicum of safety from threats resulting from my work?”

  “Touché.”

  I gathered steam and my hands started moving with my words. “Even this discussion we’re having right now stems from the fact I can’t even buy my own trip to New York and try to set aside the ghosts of my own mother’s death without Max adamantly decreeing I come into headquarters for a command performance. Despite the fact anything I do for him in person while being physically in the New York office is equally deliverable via phone or internet. It’s the way he has his thumb pressing more solidly against the top of my head that makes me fight against the New York trip.”

  Jack shook his head. “I’ve heard you go after him. You have no trouble standing up to Max. Why don’t you just lay it on the line?”

  “Probably because he might see that kind of response as the final straw and fire me. Yes, fear is a real thing in this case. Remember, the board put me in this higher position, not Max. He doesn’t know what I know, and he has no idea what you, and I, and Nico and Cassie have been working on. Which brings us back to that same Catch-22 because I can’t trust him enough to tell him.”