Drowning Pool (Miss Henry Mysteries)

by Melanie Jackson

  “Still coming home tomorrow?” he asked sympathetically.

  “That’s the plan.” If von Hayek didn’t shoot her.

  “We’ll see you then,” he said and hung up.

  Juliet sighed and slipped into her heels. The added height always made her feel more in control but she still hated high heels.

  The gallery where the art was displayed was austere and lit in a rather melodramatic manner that made every piece look terribly important. Even hers. But there was a second room—a ballroom perhaps—that was lavishly decorated with flowers and linens and crystal chandeliers that looked like they could have come from Versailles. And it was possible that they had. A few people had gathered around the buffet after touring the gallery and were chatting in subdued voices.

  Under other circumstances, Juliet might have enjoyed the party. After all, she was Cinderella at the ball, and the top twenty of the Who’s Who of the art world were there and feeling mellow under the influence of excellent wine and harder spirits. But she was a Cinderella without a fairy godmother, and her prince was busy being lionized by the press, and the wicked king had to be dying since he was missing from his own gala. Given the tensions among the houseguests, they would be lucky if the social scaffolding held for one more day.

  There was also a complete lack of dance music that one would expect at a decent ball.

  Juliet, armed with a glass of club soda, found a shadowy place behind a pillar decorated with bougainvillea. The scarlet of her gown blended with the red blooms. From there she watched the pageant and kept an eye on her host. It was unlikely that anything was planned, but if for some reason he did want to sell the roundel to another party this would be a good time to do it.

  Henrik was speaking to Bertram Fröndenberger. The sculptor was in formal dress but his tux wrapped around him like a towel in a sauna and his breast pocket was gaping as if he had stuffed it with a bag of peanuts and not a pocket square.

  Henrik looked only slightly better, being too thin for elegance and wearing a shirt so starched that it was all but immobile. He looked aloof and was not making any particular effort to engage the press or pretend that he was happy to meet them. More than ever, Juliet was sure that the art show had been Klaus von Hayek’s idea.

  Her own attitude was not contributing to the gaiety of the evening, but then it rather felt that she was attending a shotgun wedding. Maybe the others felt that way too. Especially Henrik.

  Juliet doubted that she could ever earn the trust of this man, not even with time and a more natural situation—neither of which she had. It was a pity because she thought that with time and the right persuasion he could be convinced to cross his father. As it was, his cooperation would have to be purchased. He would have no innate desire to surrender something of immense value.

  Fortunately, she thought she now had the right purchase price for the roundel.

  Her eyes flicked over to Raphael. He was talking with Grabiel Coba, an art critic of about fifty years, impeccably manicured and fond of silk suits. He would be handsome except for the full-grown honker that would look good on a camel. It made him appear supercilious because he was always staring down his nose.

  He seemed genuinely enthused to be speaking to Raphael, so she assumed that he had removed the silver spoon that had been in his mouth since birth and was therefore able to speak freely, nose or not. Juliet knew that she should be making an effort to socialize with these most powerful critics, but unless Raphael gave her the high sign, she preferred to stay out of the limelight and keep an eye on their host.

  She was not surprised when Smythe glided up to her.

  “Doing your best to become a wallflower? One might suspect that you were here for some reason other than art,” he said mildly, glancing at Oscar Dandie who was wearing a suit that looked like it had been made from billiard felt. There were few women, let alone men, who would feel comfortable in that shade of green.

  Juliet glanced at him. Unlike his boss, he wore his tux well, having enough muscle in the shoulders to ensure a proper hang. It was so exquisitely tailored that one hardly noticed the gun under his left arm.

  She smoothed a hand down her embroidered sleeve, glad for the warmth of the velvet. She had been chilled since finding the treasure in the lake and knowing what she would have to do.

  “Of course I am here for some reason other than art,” she said, sipping her drink. “But Raphael is busy doing his thing so I must wait patiently.”

  Her heart wasn’t in the byplay though so this didn’t sound playful. Juliet told herself to make an effort.

  “Would you like to meet anyone?” he asked after a moment. “I would be happy to introduce you.”

  “I may tackle Miriam Blau after Guda gets done with her. I figure the contrast can only be in my favor, and once she has taken a chair at my quiet fireside I can seduce her with my personality and more gentle form of art.”

  Smythe smiled. It was a very nice smile, full of amusement and straight teeth. Juliet reminded herself of Shakespeare’s advice that a man could smile and smile and still be a villain.

  “Or maybe there is a scold’s bridle somewhere around the castle? Surely there are one or two lying about with the other instruments of torture.”

  “I am going to miss you, Juliet Henry. But I confess that I will breathe easier when we get you—and everyone else—on that plane headed home. This has been a harrowing week.”

  “And I shall miss you. But I will also be very glad to get on that plane. Frankly, your castle and its inmates give me the creeps. I can’t wait to get home where I feel that I can safely depart for the vale of serenity where the just sleep at night instead of keeping one eye on the door.”

  “But your stay has been a success, would you say?” He still smiled but it was no longer in his eyes. Those were worried. “There has been some interest in your painting. I think there might be an offer forthcoming.”

  A bribe from von Hayek? That seemed more likely than that a millionaire had taken a sudden fancy to her grim canvas.

  “It isn’t a success yet, but I expect it shall be. I can be very persuasive when need be and the night is young.” Juliet was willing to fence with Smythe. It passed the time until she could get Henrik alone. “By the way, I have a complaint.”

  “Too much pesto in the hors d’oeuvres?” He had backed away from the question.

  “No music. Even a quartet playing funeral dirges would liven things up.”

  “I’ll make note of that for next time.”

  “Will there be a next time?” she asked.

  “Probably not. Klaus von Hayek is dying and parties aren’t Henrik’s thing.”

  “I figured. He wouldn’t miss the party otherwise.”

  “You met him?” This was asked in the form of a question but she knew that he already had the answer.

  “Yes, we met.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “I think that it is high time he shuffle off his mortal coil,” she said frankly. “But I also felt pity when he thought that I was Rosa. That was unexpected.”

  “Why do you think he should die?” he asked and Juliet turned to stare at him with brows raised in gentle surprise. “Ah, so you know the family history. I thought you did.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are wondering now if the acorn has fallen near the oak.”

  “Yes, that too. One can’t help but wonder what has grown out of the family midden of violence and secrets and greed. And where the tentacles have spread. Not that it really matters. Not in a personal way. My job actually gets easier if Henrik is at least a little like his father.”

  “You mean that he appreciates art?”

  “Of course, only not too much,” she said, finishing her club soda. “Ah, Miriam is free. I must make an effort to impress or Raphael will scold.”

  “Raphael James scolds?”

  “With exquisite politeness—but yes.”

  Juliet gave Smythe a last smile and then drifted toward
the art critic who was looking slightly bruised from her encounter with Guda. Prolonged exposure to the artist’s combative conversation could cause neurological damage.

  “Hello,” Juliet said gently. “You look like you could use a drink. And maybe something to eat. And two aspirin.”

  Miriam blinked behind her tortoiseshell glasses. The pale green eyes were surprised but appeared prepared to be friendly once she had taken Juliet’s measure.

  “Hello. You’re Juliet Henry?” Juliet nodded. Miriam exhaled audibly and then smiled. “I think you’re right. Food and drink are in order. Especially drink. And then maybe aspirin. We had a lot of turbulence on the way in and I don’t think my kidneys and liver have settled back in yet.”

  “Right this way. There is some nice wine and some really good Scotch as a consolation prize for the weather.”

  “It will have to be really good,” she muttered. “Sorry, I think that I am jet-lagged or something.”

  “I know the feeling. I’ve been stuck with her for days. I have taken to sketching lizards in the garden just to get some peace and quiet,” Juliet said sympathetically as they moved toward the bar and one of the waitstaff who was carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

  Smythe was also hovering nearby.

  “Try the roasted peppers,” Juliet recommended. “They are fabulous. Just avoid anything with the ground-up green stuff on it. I have it on good authority that the cook has used too much pesto.”

  Smythe sent her a wry smile and moved away.

  Chapter 15

  The evening dragged on and Juliet limped through it with a smile and endless club sodas. At last everyone seemed ready to turn in, and she was able to finally seek out von Hayek and request a moment of his time.

  He did not seem surprised at the appeal, but then his face never showed much in the way of emotion. She suspected though that Smythe had put him on his guard and maybe warned him that a bribe wouldn’t put her off. Whether to facilitate her interview or sabotage it, she couldn’t say. Smythe remained a great unknown.

  As a rule, the NSA did not encourage improvisation in those they employed. But operatives had to be able to adapt to changing situations out in the field where circumstances were fluid rather than fixed. She didn’t think that Merton would complain about her taking the initiative in this case. Probably he had expected her to do this all along.

  In any event, she didn’t care about Merton in that moment. The chance to see the roundel that shouldn’t exist was her payment for this job.

  They were back in the small office near Klaus von Hayek’s room, in their chosen seats. Juliet had stepped into his chosen lair, pushing through his confusion, suspicion, and perhaps even annoyance at being kept from his bed. Juliet wasn’t unaware of his feelings but decided it would be best to pretend things were normal. Perhaps if she set the right tone he would follow suit and they could avoid all kinds of unpleasantness.

  “You enjoyed the party?” he asked, opting to begin politely. He gestured to a chair. It was heavily carved and not comfortable.

  “As much as you did, I expect.” He smiled without his eyes. “It’s late and I am sure you must be tired, so I will get to the point.”

  “That would be appreciated.”

  “Let me begin by telling you two things. First of all, I don’t believe that the sins of the father should be visited upon the children. Everyone should get to make their own mistakes and go to hell their own way.” She let that sink in. “Secondly—and you can trust me on this because I know it from experience—the NSA is like a malarial infection. You don’t want to be troubled by them for the rest of your life, and you will be if you don’t get rid of your hot potato.”

  “The NSA?” He sounded dubious but not puzzled by her words. “But why….”

  “They don’t care about the Donatello roundel,” she said bluntly. “Art treasures mean nothing to them. They don’t care about the theft or any of the whys and wherefores around it. This isn’t about assessing blame or punishing wrong-doing. They only want this piece back because they need a favor from someone and this is the price of the favor.”

  His lack of reaction to her mention of the roundel told her that he had already had suspicions, perhaps even knowledge that she was searching for it.

  “It seems a steep asking price.” He spoke absently. “For something so valuable.”

  “No, it’s not,” Juliet said deliberately and calmly. “It’s preventative medicine. And, again, believe me when I say that any noose compared to the NSA’s ongoing attention is preferable. And I, at least, am willing to throw something in to sweeten the pot if you choose to cooperate about the roundel’s return. But it is a limited-time offer since I leave tomorrow, so I will need an answer.”

  Henrik sat back in his chair. She had the feeling that this was the first time, in spite of warnings, he had really seen her as anything other than Raphael’s chatty mistress.

  “It all sounds….”

  “Fantastic? Yes, it does. But if they want this thing badly enough—and they must want it badly to have to come to me since we are not on great terms—then they will get it. And the next visitation won’t be as pleasant as mine. Who knows, maybe they will abandon subtlety and go for the swat team.”

  “In a foreign country? Surely not.”

  “Who says the team won’t be Mexican?” She stared at his unreadable face, willing him to believe her. “They already know every detail about this place and they will have their justifications ready.”

  That was probably a lie but Juliet made it stick, because if they didn’t know yet they would as soon as she debriefed.

  “Think about it. How else did they know to send me here? They already have people on the inside. And don’t ask me who because rule one is not exposing ourselves while undercover—not even to other agents. But it will be someone you don’t suspect—a maid, a guard, your pilot. Maybe all of the above. Hell, half the press that was here tonight may be working for them now. People get very excited when there is flag waving and speeches about patriotism are pouring into their ears.”

  He had flinched slightly at these words, so Juliet decided to drive the matter home.

  “And, at the risk of being callous, your father will never know it’s gone. Take the limited-time offer. Buy your freedom while you still can. You’ll be able to afford it if you act now.”

  The silence that followed was the longest of Juliet’s life. There was plenty of time to wonder if she had blown it by being too blunt. To wonder if he would flee. To wonder if he would kill her—and Raphael—then try to bluff it out when there were inquiries. If he reached for a weapon she would have to hurt him.

  Maybe kill him.

  Probably kill him.

  Juliet watched his hands and monitored his breathing, waiting for the sudden deep breath he would take before reaching for a gun or knife.

  “You sound very sincere,” he said at last.

  “You cannot imagine. I would give everything I own to have them out of my life.”

  “And just what is this compensation you mentioned?”

  “How would you feel about a cache of Aztecan statuary? In gold. Including one carving of the local version of Smoking Mirror.”

  He inhaled and his pupils expanded enough for her to see it even in the dim light.

  “I would feel very interested indeed. I have been looking for the treasure for … oh, a very long time.”

  So he was the digger.

  She wondered again if, when Klaus was dead, Henrik would move further south—or west—somewhere more remote where he could enjoy his inheritance with less supervision from criminals and governments alike, and perhaps even reduce his payroll by a dozen guards and footmen.

  “Good. I just have one condition for this exchange. If you need help fetching the roundel you get it from someone other than Calderon. Maybe call in Smythe. I think he is more of an ask questions first and then shoot kind of man.” He had a few extra brain cells than Mr. Nasty and would at least t
hink before acting against her and her old employer, whoever else he might be working for.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I have it here.”

  He rolled his chair back and reached under the desk. Juliet tightened her muscles, prepared to react if he brought up a weapon, but all that von Hayek had in his hands when he straightened was a small metal briefcase.

  He set the case on the desk, opened it carefully, and then spun it around so she could see the roundel nestled in the padding. He turned on the desk light and the bouncing rays made the roundel gleam.

  “May I?” Juliet said, doing her best to examine the roundel but also keep an eye on von Hayek. This was not a good moment to lose focus, but it was also a moment that would probably never come again.

  “Please. Such things are meant to be admired.” He offered her a pair of white cotton gloves and she slid them on carefully before reaching for the roundel.

  After that, in spite of her intentions, she lost track of von Hayek until he asked, “Ready to steal it and run off to Brazil?”

  She needed the nudge back to reality, however much she resented it.

  “Yes.” Juliet returned the roundel to its case, hoping she didn’t look as reluctant as she felt. She wasn’t an expert, but it looked genuine to her. Real enough to fool most people, probably including the last owner, should it actually be a fake. She was glad that her hands weren’t shaking as she closed the case. The piece had affected her in a way that was surprising even though she had expected to see precisely what she was seeing. It wasn’t every day that one got to touch a unicorn, and she hoped with all her heart that whoever it was going to would appreciate it for what it was and not just as some investment.

  It was also apparent that von Hayek was completely unmoved by Donatello’s masterpiece. Whatever his father’s passion for the Renaissance sculptures, he hadn’t inherited it.

  “Not to hurry you at such a moment,” Henrik said with a glance at the clock. “But it is getting on toward morning. I don’t suppose you would care to tell me where the treasure is?”