Framed For Love

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “Cassi,” he said as she approached and lowered her cheek for him to kiss, “your aura’s still white and shining, I see. Though I can’t say I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

  “I have to agree with you on that. But you look great. Maria’s taking good care of you.”

  “I’m a lucky man.”

  “So where’s your friend?”

  “He’s waiting by that plant.” He pointed to a nice-looking, middle-aged man with thinning hair and a small paunch. Cassi had been expecting a slick character with greased-back hair and dark glasses, but this guy looked more like her next door neighbor. Carl’s hand went to his motorized controls on his wheelchair.

  “Carl?”

  He hesitated. “Yes?”

  “What color is his aura?”

  “Gray, dark gray.” Carl shook his head and sighed. “But to us he’s harmless.”

  Cassi felt nervous as Carl’s contact led them to the parking lot. Inside a big black van, the stranger went to work, taking Cassi’s picture and putting the already-prepared documents together. In twenty minutes he was finished with the passport, including all necessary stamps and approvals. Cassi was now Kendra Lawson.

  “Don’t call attention to yourself,” the man said as he handed it over.

  Cassi nodded, wiping her clammy hands on her borrowed black dress pants as Carl slipped the man an envelope containing his payment. She closed her eyes, wishing she hadn’t seen, wishing that none of this had been necessary.

  The man drove away, and Carl went back with her into the airport. “I think you and Jared need to move away from San Diego. There’s too much excitement for you there. Did you ever think of a small island somewhere? They have some pretty nice ones in Alaska.” His voice was light, and Cassi knew he was trying to keep up her spirits.

  “We’ll find him,” he whispered hoarsely and turned toward the check-in desk.

  She stopped walking and squeezed his thin hand, wondering if she looked as lost as she felt. “Good-bye, Carl.”

  “Nope, not good-bye. I’m going with you.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “Why, because I’m a cripple?”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “I’m going. If you do find a forged painting, you’ll need someone to verify it. And that’s me. It’s too late to change my mind. I checked my equipment in before you arrived.”

  Cassi leaned down and hugged him, no longer feeling alone. “Thanks.”

  “It’s nothing. The last time you and Jared were in trouble, I ran to Mexico and you almost got yourselves killed. This time, I’m going to see you through.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE FLIGHT WAS LONG AND tedious, and Cassi endured most of it by trying to sleep out the terrors of the past few days. She and Carl also talked about what they might be facing, but they came to no new conclusions. Cassi slept the last two hours of the long flight between New York and Paris, and Carl had to shake her gently before the landing.

  She offered to help as Carl began the process of moving himself into his wheelchair, but he politely refused. “I’ve been doing this for twenty-four years,” he said. “Since I was nineteen.”

  Cassi silently watched the transfer, his muscles bulging in thick cords along his lean arms. She had never considered how strong his arms must have become to make up for the loss of his legs.

  After they retrieved Carl’s suitcase, they went through Customs and found Zachary Fields waiting for them. Tall even for an American, he stood a head above most of the people in the airport, his white-blond hair and blue eyes marking him immediately as Brionney’s brother.

  “I like him already,” Carl said. “He’s got a good aura.”

  Cassi waved and Zachary came over, his hand extended. “Hello,” he said with a big smile. “You must be Cassi.” He glanced down at Carl questioningly.

  “This is Carl Boyer, a friend of mine. He’s an expert at determining the authenticity of art.”

  The men shook hands. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Zack Fields, your chauffeur for the day.”

  “It’s good of you to take time off from your work,” Cassi said. “Especially on such short notice.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Zack said. “I sell real estate, and my schedule is adjustable.” He lifted the white accordion file in his hands. “And there is some work I can do anywhere.” He motioned toward the door with his chin. “Well, shall we go?”

  “We shall,” Cassi said with a laugh.

  Zack led them to where he had left his car. “Since I knew you were in a hurry, I already checked with my wife’s parents about the list Brionney gave me. They know two of the people.”

  “Great.” Cassi lifted the tapestry case into his trunk. “That means we’ll get a chance to look at their paintings. What luck!”

  “I’m actually surprised they don’t know more of them. Before today I would have sworn they knew everyone of any prominence in Paris.” Zack watched with a furrowed brow as Carl lifted himself into the front seat of the car. “I’m sorry about the squeeze.”

  Carl shrugged. “That’s okay. I’ve been in worse.”

  The motorized wheelchair was too large for the trunk, so Cassi and Zack hefted the weighty machine into the back seat. Cassi sat next to it.

  “Put your belts on,” Zack said. “This is Paris and you’re going to need them.” He manipulated the tight turns in the parking lot before he spoke again. “One of the addresses belongs to an older couple who are on vacation in Switzerland at the moment. However, my mother-in-law contacted them and they gave permission for us to take a look at the painting. Evidently their divorced daughter is staying at the house alone with the live-in help. Someone will be there to let us in if you want to go now. Unless you’re too tired.”

  “Let’s go,” Cassi said. It was near ten-thirty in the morning in France and nine hours earlier in San Diego, but her exhaustion had vanished. She wanted to find out as soon as possible if her suspicions were correct. At least with Carl along, she could be sure of any forgery. For all her experience in the art world, paintings weren’t her forte, and it was quite possible that a good forgery would fool her as easily as the next person—even if she was looking for it. She hoped the paintings were forged because if none of them were, she would be right back where she started.

  Zack glanced at the time on the dashboard. “Good, because I also made an appointment with a Dr. Medard, who was my sister-in-law’s doctor at one time.”

  “Thanks so much.” Cassi had to grab the seat as the car charged around a bend.

  “Sorry about that,” Zack said, shooting a smile at her through the rearview mirror. “Driving in Paris is an art. Even being a passenger takes a lot of getting used to.”

  Cassi checked her safety belt and settled back for the mad dash through Paris. The European design of the streets and buildings was strange yet familiar, since she’d been to Paris four times before. She’d visited twice during the year she studied art in England with Grant Truebekon, one of the world’s foremost authorities on Indian art. The other times had been to bid on art items for Linden’s gallery.

  Linden.

  Cassi forced her mind away from that dangerous vein of thought and stared out the window. But other thoughts, just as painful, lingered in her mind. The wristwatch Jaralyn had insisted she take and that Cassi had set to her home time told her it was one-thirty in the morning in California, seven and a half hours before she and Jared were supposed to have exchanged wedding vows. A sick feeling began in the pit of her stomach.

  “We’re here.” Zack stopped in front of a house encircled by a tall stone and iron fence. It was just one in a row of mansion-like, close-fitting houses that lined both sides of the streets. “I like these house sections of Paris,” Zack told them. “It’s much easier to find a parking place. For all the time I’ve spent here in France, it always amazes me how close everything is here. I mean, you’ve seen where I grew up in Provo. My parents have a big yard.”


  “Some of the people who live in these houses must also have country estates,” Carl said. “Heck, I’m an American, and I have one in Mexico near my wife’s parents.”

  Zack nodded. “You’re right. My in-laws have a really nice cabin in the mountains that’s been in their family for generations. Being there reminds me of home.”

  Once Carl was in his wheelchair, Zack retrieved his equipment case from the trunk. Soon they stood at the gate, where a pair of gargoyles stared down at them expressionlessly from their stone perches. Cassi pushed the black button embedded in the stone on the left side of the wall. Shortly a voice answered them in French—a language Cassi had never been able to understand or speak, despite earnest efforts to learn during her time in England.

  Zack said something, and a buzzing sound released the lock. They walked up the cobbled sidewalk to the door, where an older woman with gray-streaked black hair and brown eyes ushered them inside. Zack and Cassi had to lift Carl’s wheelchair up the two front steps.

  “The painting is in the library,” the woman said, as Zack translated. She led them down the hall that was much narrower than Cassi had anticipated. Her experienced eyes singled out a few antiques and art treasures.

  Zack continued translating as the woman spoke: “Madame Bouchette isn’t here, but she asked me to let you in. Please take your time with the painting, and let me know if you would like some refreshments.”

  Ignoring the woman, Carl went immediately to the painting, his forehead wrinkling in concentration. “An Emile Nolde.” He guided his chair to another angle and stared again. “Ahhh.” Then he pushed the chair forward and squinted. “Hmm.”

  Cassi studied the painting from the same angles. It was a large interior scene with human figures. The heads were mask like, the color violent and raw. She thought the German painter, a master of expressionism, must have wanted to shock his viewers. He had succeeded well. To her eye, the painting seemed completely authentic.

  “Well?” she asked Carl.

  He glanced at Zack. “Could you open up the blinds? And do you think they’d mind if we lower the painting onto the sofa there? It’s a little high for me.”

  Zack went to ask the woman, who gave permission. Cassi helped lower the painting carefully, and she and Zack held onto it as Carl studied it further with a jeweler’s loop. Next he wheeled around to the back and carefully examined the frame and backing. “Hmm,” he said again. Looking unsatisfied, he took out the portable equipment from his bag. He first used a microscope to study minute parts of the painting. Then, using different scopes, he made a simple ultraviolet and infrared analysis. As always, Cassi was fascinated.

  “You know, Emile Nolde was thought to be a degenerate by the Nazis,” Carl said. “They forbid him to paint, so he started doing watercolors and hiding them in the floorboards of his home.”

  “I remember reading that when I was in school.” Cassi hadn’t been sure—and still wasn’t—that she liked Nolde’s style. But he certainly held her attention.

  “It’s a very fine painting,” Carl said. “You two can put it back now. And afterward, Zack, would you mind asking that kind lady to get me a drink of water? I’m feeling a little parched.”

  “Sure.” He helped Cassi return the painting to its rightful spot and left the room.

  “Well?” Cassi asked.

  “As I said, it’s a very fine piece. I’m familiar enough with Nolde’s style to know that this could definitely be his work. The equipment I have here doesn’t seem to find anything that would contradict that belief. However, there does seem to be a little less contortion in the brushwork of this painting than is typical of Nolde’s style. But I could be completely wrong. The only real way to tell for sure would be to get it into a lab and study it further with chemical analysis—which we don’t have the time or permission to do. If it’s a forgery, it’s a darn good one.”

  Cassi sighed. “Maybe it isn’t forged. Maybe the two American addresses are simply the people who owned it before instead of the owners of forged copies.”

  “It could be. The only way to tell would be to go there.” Carl laughed gruffly. “It might have been less expensive.”

  “Yes, but the trail in America is cold. On the papers it says more objects are being delivered today. That might mean that whoever is directing it all could be here now.” Cassi felt that person was Laranda, but she didn’t want to remind Carl of the woman’s involvement. Carl was protective enough of her as it was.

  Carl nodded. “Okay, let’s go with Zack to the next place. We’ll see what that painting is like and if it holds up to scrutiny, then maybe we’ll know we’re painting on the wrong canvas.”

  Zack returned to the room with a tall glass of water. Carl downed the water in a few gulps and handed back the glass. “Please convey my thanks.”

  A short time later, they were outside the iron gates with the gargoyles staring vacantly down at them. Zack took out his keys to open the car door, but it was already unlocked. “I’m sure I locked this,” he said.

  Cassi shot a worried glance at Carl.

  Zack opened the door. “Hey, my file is missing! The one I was working on at the airport. It was right here on the dash.”

  “Let’s check the trunk,” Carl said.

  The trunk was still locked, and to Cassi’s relief her tapestry case with the manila envelope inside was safe. She removed it and slipped it under her arm. It was a little uncomfortable, but Jarelyn’s wool jacket hid it completely. On second thought, she also removed Quentin’s phone card and her brother’s credit cards from the case and stuffed them into the manila envelope as well. The French francs she had purchased in New York went into the pocket of Jarelyn’s jacket. Now even if her case was stolen, she would lose nothing of real value.

  “Everything’s there?” Zack asked, coming from inside the car where he had been searching again for his folder.

  “Yes.”

  “Must have thought they found what they wanted,” Carl mumbled. Louder, he added, “Will you be able to replace your file?”

  “With a bit of work. It just seems an odd thing for someone to take.”

  Cassi wished she could explain, but she didn’t want to involve Zack more than necessary.

  “Well, let’s get going,” Zack said. “It’s a longer drive to the next place.”

  A few minutes later, Cassi noticed the gray car, though it stayed far enough behind to allow one or two cars between them. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have noticed the car at all, but it seemed remarkable that it should remain at a constant distance from them under such crowded traffic conditions. She watched a moment more before announcing, “We’ve got a tail.”

  Zack started slightly. “Someone’s following us?”

  “Yes. I’m sure of it.”

  Frowning, Zack took a swift turn and then another. Now they were headed back in the direction they had come from. “Are they still with us?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Cassi said.

  “Hmm.” Zack peered ahead while Cassi checked out the gray car from the corner of her eye. “There’s what I need,” Zack said suddenly.

  Cassi looked ahead and saw a huge round-about with a large statue planted in the middle. Cars merged into the traffic encircling the statue and then veered off into one of the five adjoining streets. No traffic lights were needed. It was an interesting system, but Cassi herself had always had trouble getting back out once she’d merged into the rush of circling cars. She had always tried to avoid such crowed intersections when driving in Europe.

  Zack apparently did not share her phobia. He plunged into the wave of cars with an ease born of long practice. Further and further he pushed, into the inner circle. The gray car followed. Zack glanced in the rearview mirror once or twice, but most of his attention seemed to be on the traffic in front and to the sides of the car.

  Without warning, Zack darted between two cars, heading for the outer edges of the circling cars. There was a loud honking behind them, coming from annoyed drivers, but
he managed to free the car from the circle and dart into one of the intersecting streets. Cassi saw the gray car trying to follow, but it was unable to break from the flow of cars in time and missed the turn-off. She knew the car would have to circle again to get into the proper position, and by that time Zack’s car would be out of sight.

  “Yes!” Zack thumped the steering wheel with the flat of his palm. “I haven’t had so much fun since my brother-in-law and I faced two mad dogs with a bottle of cayenne pepper. Whew! Those were the days.” His face grew serious. “It wouldn’t have worked if they were from around here. They must have followed you from America.”

  “They couldn’t have,” Cassi said, thinking of the false passport. They had been too careful to be followed, hadn’t they?

  Zack slowed the car and stopped on a side street. “Look, isn’t it about time you told me what’s going on here? I’ve played along so far, but this looks serious. Brionney let a few things slip to my wife when she first called, but when I called her back the story had changed. No danger, no missing man, nothing. I don’t buy that. What’s the scoop?”

  “We just need to check out these art pieces,” Cassi said half-heartedly.

  “Right, on such short notice. Then there’s your limp, and now someone’s trying to follow us. Those things don’t add up to a casual visit.”

  Cassi glanced at Carl. He shrugged, leaving the decision up to her. “All right,” she began. “There is something going on, but the sooner you’re out of it, the better. We appreciate your help, we really do, but it’s very dangerous.” Cassi paused and swallowed hard. “My fiancé is missing, and I’m trying to find where he is, or at least why he’s gone.”

  “And these paintings have something to do with it?” Zack asked.

  “Yes. But please just leave it at that. I would hate myself if anything happened to you or to your wife because of my problems. Let’s go see this last painting, and then we’ll decide what to do next.”