by Shawna Seed
“You seemed pretty excited when you sent that email last night.”
“I know,” Genevieve said. “But then I woke up this morning, and realized how silly I was being.”
“This is really disappointing,” D said. “Because if you’re not going after Julien, neither of us has any prospects. Want to watch TV? It’ll be good practice for when we’re fighting over the remote at the old folks home.”
They spent a couple hours on the phone watching the trashiest reality shows they could find, hooting at the ridiculousness of it all.
Soon it was pushing 11 p.m. in Texas; D had an early morning and needed to get to bed. They’d said their goodbyes and were just about to hang up when D surprised Genevieve.
“Gen, would you ever think about moving back here? I know it’s not as cool as LA,” D said. “But there’s all this arts stuff going on downtown, I mean, that’s what I hear. I only go down there for Mavericks games. But there might be a job for you. It’s just... you moved to California for Pete, and then when that went belly up, you had your job at the museum, and now that’s gone. I just wondered, when you’re done with the thing you’re doing for Julien...”
“Honestly, D, it hadn’t even occurred to me.”
“You could stay with me as long as you wanted,” D said. “I know it’s hotter than hell here, and you hold it against Texas that boys in Wichita Falls wouldn’t ask you out, but...”
“That’s not true!”
“I think it is, actually, you just don’t like to admit it,” D said. “But Gen? There’s nobody here for me to hang out with! All my girlfriends are on their third babies! I end up going out with these girls who are 26! I’m the cow out in the field with the heifers!”
Genevieve laughed. “You’re not a cow, D.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” D said. “Just think about it, OK?”
After she hung up with D, Genevieve decided to email Carol that she’d stop by the museum Monday to wrap up the severance paperwork.
When she signed on, waiting there was a message from the email address TRISTANDIED.
The message consisted of one word:
STOP
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Genevieve thought a long time about how to handle the email.
Alerting Henry Lazare and Julien Brooks would be the logical step, but Genevieve was reluctant. She didn’t think she had the whole picture of what was going on with the Lazare cousins, and until she did, she wanted to hold her cards close. For all she knew, one of them had sent the email, although it had come to her personal address, not the one she’d used to do business with them.
In the end, Genevieve decided to wait and see what happened next.
She spent the next few days cleaning her apartment and looking for job leads to pursue when the Lazare project was done.
Julien called her Sunday evening to discuss another trip to the Getty. She couldn’t think of a way out of it; she’d already agreed. “How about I meet you at your house around 10:30,” she said. “I have a couple errands to run first.”
Genevieve didn’t require a wardrobe consult Monday. She went with black pants topped by a sweater in a shade that hovered somewhere between green and yellow. Hardly anyone but redheads and strawberry blondes could wear the color, which meant that she frequently found it on clearance racks.
She did one last check of her inbox before she left and was relieved to see her mystery correspondent had not weighed in. Carol had, though. She said that things in the museum were “unsettled this morning,” and that she would leave Genevieve’s severance package with the guard at the security desk.
Genevieve pulled up in front of Julien’s house at 10:25. He was sitting on the top step of his porch, drinking coffee and reading the paper.
Her trip to the Hilliard had been quick. The severance package had been waiting as promised, and she had worked through it quickly before handing it over.
The museum was in an uproar, although that wouldn’t have been obvious to anyone who wasn’t familiar with its routines.
She would have asked the guard on the desk what was up, but she didn’t recognize him; he must be new. His name tag said “Darren.” Two temporary guards were hovering near the entrance. The Hilliard occasionally hired temps to work special events, but Genevieve had never seen them there on a regular day. She’d have to ask Thomas what was going on.
Julien signaled to Genevieve that he was taking his coffee inside and pointed toward his car. He intended to drive again, it seemed.
“Good morning,” he called when he came out the side door of the house. “Glad you had an errand this morning. Gave me a chance to drink my coffee on the porch.”
Genevieve had resolved to be professional and not get sucked into small talk, but she wasn’t sure how to do that without being rude. “The yard’s very pretty. It must have been a lot of work,” she said.
“Erica’s project,” Julien said, unlocking the car.
“Did she like to garden, then?” Genevieve asked as she buckled in.
“No,” he said. “She’s a landscape architect.”
That would explain Cohen and Associates. “Very impressive,” Genevieve said.
She meant the yard, but tallying up in her head what she knew about his personal life, it could apply to his relationships, too – a landscape architect and a doctor so far. He apparently liked his women formidable.
“The house was going to be an investment. Fix it up, use the yard as a lab for Erica, so she’d have something to show clients, then flip it,” Julien said. “But I love the house, so I stayed when we split.”
For the rest of the drive, he told her about the renovation, including a hilarious and self-deprecating story about refinishing the floors. Apparently his remodeling expertise was limited to demolition.
The librarian at the Getty's main desk was a 20-something man with horn-rimmed glasses that were either cutting edge or hopelessly outdated. Genevieve couldn’t decide which.
He wasn’t going to let them breeze past as they’d done on the first visit. He insisted on looking over Genevieve’s research credential.
“So,” he said, with a self-important squaring of his shoulders as he handed back her card, “you’re with the Hilliard.”
Genevieve froze. “Yes, well,” she began.
“Yeah,” Julien said, taking her arm, “and we’re way behind schedule. You should have seen the 405 today! What a mess!”
The librarian gave Genevieve a long look but didn’t say anything more.
Once they had moved out of sight of the desk, Julien released her arm and smiled. “Always act like you know what you’re doing.”
Genevieve was glad to be in the library, which saved her from having to make conversation with Julien. He seemed the same as ever – relaxed, cheerful. If he was messing with her head, he really was very good at it.
It took them less than two hours to finish the material available on the shelves, hitting nothing but dead ends.
“I’ll have to fill out requests for the rest,” Genevieve said, closing the last journal. “Why don’t I drop those off and we can grab lunch while they get things out of storage?”
They ate on the patio again. It was warm in the sun, and Genevieve pushed up the sleeves on her sweater. She tasted her salad, added pepper, tasted again and added salt. Julien was nearly done with his sandwich.
“Take your time,” he said. “Don’t hurry just because I inhaled my lunch. I run in the morning, so I’m usually starving by noon.”
“I run too – but just to get out the door on time.”
Julien laughed. “I do five or so easy miles. Keeps me in shape. I like to eat.”
Genevieve’s phone rang, and she scrambled to fish it out of her bag and check the display. It was Thomas.
Julien gave her one of those “go ahead, take it” gestures, so Genevieve hit the answer button.
“Are you ready for the scouting report on Julien a.k.a. Jay Brooks?”
; His voice was a little loud. Genevieve, worried that Julien might have heard Thomas, walked away from the table.
“This isn’t a great time,” she hissed. She peered over her shoulder. Julien was engrossed in the screen of his own phone.
“Not a great time for me, either,” Thomas said.
Suddenly he was drowned out by the ear-splitting wail of a siren, and Genevieve held the phone away from her ear.
“What was that?” she asked when the sound subsided.
Julien looked up at her. She moved a few feet farther down the patio.
“I’m outside,” Thomas said. “A fire truck just went by. That’s one of the things I need to talk to you about.”
“Is something on fire?”
“No, why I’m outside.” Thomas seemed impatient, and Thomas almost never was impatient with her.
“You’re kind of all over the place here.”
She could hear him take a deep breath and let it out. “It’s been an upsetting day. Sorry. You’re so paranoid about anyone at the museum knowing whom you’re working for, I thought I’d better not make this call from my desk.”
“I don’t really think it’s fair to say I’m paranoid,” Genevieve said.
Julien’s head snapped up.
“OK, whatever,” Thomas said. “Here’s the scouting report. My friend says Jay Brooks is an excellent graphic designer, very easygoing and fun to work with but also a pro, will deliver what you need on time.”
“That’s great,” Genevieve said, “but it’s not really what...”
“I know,” Thomas said. “I had to figure out how to get what you wanted, so I said that the person looking for the recommendation might have to divulge sensitive business information. My guy said: ‘If I had to put my life savings in a paper bag and hand it to someone to hold for a weekend, I would give it to Jay, and when I came back, I wouldn’t even count it.’ ”
“Oh,” Genevieve said. In a way, she’d been hoping his friend would say Julien Brooks was as trustworthy as a rattlesnake. That would have made things a lot simpler.
“He hasn’t seen him lately, but they used to go to some of the same parties. Did you know he used to be married? My guy didn’t like the wife at all,” Thomas said.
“Yeah, I knew that. Thanks for checking, Thomas,” Genevieve said. “You said it’s a bad day, and Carol told me it was an unsettling morning. What’s going on?”
“Philip and I heard this morning that we got turned down for the mortgage.”
“What happened? I thought you said at lunch it was all but approved.”
“It was,” Thomas said. “Then our guy called and suddenly there’s a red flag on my file, and even he doesn’t seem to understand what’s happened. I have outstanding credit.”
“I’m sure you do,” Genevieve said. “It will all get straightened out. Probably just some glitch.”
“That’s not all. Bill, one of the guards, collapsed last night and is in the hospital.”
“Oh no! I know Bill,” Genevieve said. “He was always really nice. What happened?”
“One of the other guards found him back by the admin area. They think he had a stroke and hit his head.”
Genevieve glanced up. Julien was pointedly checking his watch. “That’s awful. I hope he’ll be OK. Thanks for doing that thing for me. I have to go now, Thomas. Don’t worry about the house. I’m sure everything will all work out.”
“What was that all about?” Julien asked when she returned.
“A friend having a bad day.” She reached for her water glass, and Julien’s eyes followed her arm. He frowned. She looked down.
A thumbprint-shaped bruise was visible on the top of her arm. She tugged her sleeve down.
“Why don’t you finish your lunch and we’ll get back to work?” Julien said.
Genevieve picked halfheartedly at her grilled chicken salad. The lettuce was wilted, and she wasn’t really hungry anyway. She folded her napkin neatly next to her plate. “I’m done.”
The man with the funky glasses was now handling special requests – just Genevieve’s luck.
He pushed a stack of journals and books she’d asked for across the desk. “What are you looking for, if you don’t mind my asking? Your requests seem really broad.” He studied Genevieve from behind his glasses. “If you could be more specific, I could point you in the right direction. We’re here to be resources.”
Something about him put Genevieve off. “I’m deliberately casting a wide net,” she said.
“What’s wrong now?” Julien asked when she got back to their table.
“That librarian with the glasses is asking a lot of questions,” she whispered.
Julien pointedly scanned the room. “I’m guessing he doesn’t get to talk to many attractive women. You’re probably the highlight of his week.”
Genevieve responded by burying her head in a journal. She would not be drawn into flirting with Julien Brooks.
The librarian with the glasses was still there when Genevieve went back for the rest of her requests. He sat with his back to her, phone to his ear. He looked over his shoulder, whispered something and promptly hung up.
Shuffling the papers on his desk, he peered up at her through those strange glasses. Definitely nerdy, not fashion-forward, Genevieve concluded.
“So, is there a particular French romantic painter you’re interested in,” he looked down at her request forms, then back up at her, “Ms. Genevieve McKenna?”
Genevieve noticed a film of sweat on his upper lip. What was up with this guy?
She tried for her best noncommittal smile. “Like I said, I’m casting a wide net.”
He nodded nervously and headed back toward the storage area.
To her relief, a different librarian delivered the material she’d requested.
By the time she and Julien had finished the stack of journals pulled from the special collections, Genevieve had come up with a couple footnotes worth further investigation but hadn’t had any “aha!” moments.
“Did you find anything useful?” Julien asked as they pulled out of the parking lot.
“A couple footnotes I can follow up on, but nothing significant,” Genevieve said. “Right now, we’ve got the fact that the drawing bears his signature and is dated 1840, and the fact that the Hilliard lists it as an acquisition from a private collection in 1979. In between is a big blank.”
He gave her a hard look over his sunglasses. “And it was hanging in my family’s apartment in Paris in 1939.”
“Unfortunately, that’s second-hand information, no help from a provenance standpoint,” Genevieve said. “I can start from the beginning and work forward – Lazare drew the study and try to figure out who had it next. I can start at the end and work backward – the Hilliard has it and try to figure out who gave it to them. I can even start in the middle and work in either direction. But right now I only know the beginning and the end for sure.”
“Henry’s going to want to know your plan,” Julien said. “I can tell you right now that ‘following up on footnotes’ is not a winning answer.”
“I know,” Genevieve said, trying hard to keep her temper under control. “But he needs to understand that these cases take time. I’ll put together an email with some...”
“Henry hates email.”
“Fine. I’ll call him in the morning and we can hash out...”
“Henry’s not really a guy you call to hash things out with.”
Genevieve grabbed the door handle as Julien executed a tricky lane change. “Great. How do you suggest I handle this?”
He downshifted as traffic slowed, then again as it ground to a halt. “Might as well hash out the options with me while we sit here.”
Genevieve ran through some ideas in her head, discarding a few, turning others over to see whether she could spot the flaws.
“Genevieve?”
“I’m thinking. Here’s an idea. You swear an affidavit relating your mother’s story and go to the Hilliard. T
hey could ask what the donor – if he’s still alive – has on the provenance, which would give us a place to start.”
Traffic still wasn’t moving. Julien twisted in his seat to look at her. “Didn’t you just tell me my mother’s word was basically worthless?”
His words stung. In her effort to be cool and professional, had she been that harsh?
“I certainly didn’t mean to say your mother’s word was worthless. From a provenance standpoint, it’s not sufficient, that’s all.”
“So why would the Hilliard act on it?”
“It would be the right thing to do,” Genevieve said.
“This boss you couldn’t stand, he would do the right thing when we had no proof?”
“I found him intimidating,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean he’s not an honorable person. You shouldn’t let me prejudice you.”
“He said your work wasn’t important,” Julien said. “That makes him a jerk in my book. So where does that leave us?”
“We could look for your family’s wills,” Genevieve said.
“Is that something you do online? Henry’s ex who did all the genealogy told me a lot of records have been digitized,” Julien said.
“For wills, I think we have to hire someone in France,” Genevieve said. “The system is pretty complicated. I need to do more homework on that.”
“Here’s what we’ll do, then,” Julien said. “I’m going to call Henry,” here he held up a hand to forestall Genevieve’s protest. “You want to let me deal with him. I’ll tell him your research has yielded some things for follow up and that you’re putting together the documentation for the next step, which is researching the family wills in France. See how much better that sounds?”
He was right, Genevieve had to admit. It did sound better.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Genevieve’s phone rang at 7 the next morning, setting her heart pounding.
Early morning calls always did that to her. Her father was in good health as far as she knew and had seemed fine when she saw him at Christmas, but he was over 60 now, and she worried.