“The point is to keep them from jacking up the price,” Mary Ann said.
“I don’t care about the price.”
“Then you’re a moron.”
Flonta didn’t like being insulted, but who does? I give him props, though, for staying on point.
“Something else.” He leveled his cane at me and smiled some more. “I’m supposed to trust McKenzie? What’s stopping him from using our money to buy the paintings and keeping them for himself? Or worse—giving them to That Wykoff Woman?”
“Do you have an answer for that, McKenzie?” Mary Ann asked.
“Nope.”
For some reason, my reply made Mary Ann smile.
“I appreciate, Bruce, that the less trustworthy you are, the more difficult it is for you to trust someone else,” she said. “As for me, I have complete faith in McKenzie and half the money will be mine, so…”
“You can trust him all you wish,” Flonta said. “I don’t need him and I don’t need you. I can get into the auction on my own and buy what I want.”
“You’re both fools.” Louise rose from her chair. “Nothing will come of this. Those are not my paintings; I know they’re not.”
“Now, dear,” Mary Ann said. “Just a moment ago you argued that they were yours.”
“I’m going back to Grand Marais.”
The Wykoff woman began her journey immediately, grabbing her bag and heading for the door. Mitchell rushed to open it for her.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Fools,” Louise said as she stepped across the threshold.
Flonta said, “I have no reason to remain here, either.” He packed up his entourage and walked out. Jennica was the last to leave and threw us a mild wave.
“Remember what I told you,” Mary Ann said.
“I will. Thank you.”
Like Louise, Jennica also ignored Mitchell as she stepped through the doorway.
“What did you tell her?” I asked.
“Just a little advice from one pretty girl to another.” Mary Ann grabbed a paper napkin from beneath the bar and wrote a number on it. She passed it to me like she was making an offer on my condominium. “McKenzie, this is as high as I will go. If you can get one of the paintings for this amount, good. If you can get all three, better. When will you leave for Quebec City?”
“The auction is scheduled for Wednesday evening. I’ll leave Tuesday morning, give myself a little leeway in case there’s a problem with the weather or the airline.”
“That’ll allow me tomorrow to make sure my financial people set up an account that you’ll be able to access from your smartphone. It will allow you to make an electronic transfer of funds as per instructions if the auction goes our way. You were invited through this El Cid character. Do you think Flonta will be allowed in?”
“He probably has better contacts than I do, so yeah.”
“I’d hate for him to get Randolph’s paintings, but I’m not willing to play stupid to keep him from doing it. You stick to my number. Not a penny more.”
“Yes, M. A.”
“Just so you know, if we do retrieve my husband’s paintings, I intend to sell two of the three. Remember what I told Louise—that’s why Randolph painted them in the first place, to sell. The third painting, the one Louise wants so desperately for herself, that’s the one I’ll donate to the City of Lakes, make Perrin Stewart happy. Understand, though, I’m only doing it because Louise informed you of what the paintings contained so that we’ll know what we’re buying. Or not buying. Does this meet with your approval?”
“Yes, M. A.”
“Are you sure? You were pretty insistent before that the Wykoff woman share in all of this.”
“The situation has changed, hasn’t it? The money changed it.”
“It always does. McKenzie, please—make sure that they’re Randolph’s paintings before you bid. All right?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Poor Louise, hoarding those three Scenes from an Inland Sea all these years and then losing them … She really did love my husband, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“So did I—the sonuvabitch.”
* * *
There were no direct flights from the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport to Quebec City. Instead, I was forced to leave the condo at four A.M.—Nina insisted on driving me—in order to arrive at the airport with enough time to pass through the security checkpoint and grab a Starbucks before jumping on an Air Canada jet that flew me to Toronto. Once there, I went through customs again and waited a couple of hours in a hard plastic seat before being loaded into a much smaller turboprop—a plane in which I had no confidence—that landed in Quebec City at 2:30 P.M. eastern time. It took nearly another hour before a taxi driver named Serge dropped me at the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac. The pleasant young man who checked me in said, “Enjoy your stay,” and handed me a cream-colored envelope. I accepted the envelope, slipped it into my pocket, and said, “I’m sure I will.” Ten minutes later I collapsed on the double bed in my room. I gave it a few beats before I checked my watch: 4:00 P.M. eastern time. I had been on the move for eleven hours.
I took me a few more beats before I opened the envelope. It contained a standard sheet of white typing paper that had been folded twice. A handwritten message read, You will be contacted.
When? Where? By whom? my inner voice wanted to know.
I crumpled up the note and continued to lay on the bed, my legs dangling over the edge, knowing if I didn’t get up soon I would fall asleep, which, I told myself, wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.
Finally, I pushed myself upright and unpacked. It didn’t take long. My carry-on contained one change of clothes, my shaving kit, and a charcoal gray suit that I had purchased from King Brothers Clothiers in Minneapolis because apparently Canada had a strict dress code when it came to acquiring stolen property.
Who knew?
A few minutes later I was strolling up Rue Saint Louis toward a restaurant that I was familiar with.
Quebec City just might be the most beautiful city in North America, especially that part known as Vieux Quebec—Old Quebec. At least that’s the conclusion Nina Truhler and I came to when we vacationed there a couple of years ago. It consisted mostly of old stone buildings and cobblestone streets dating back four centuries that had been erected behind nearly three miles of stone fortifications, making it the only walled city north of Mexico. The walls were started by the French in the seventeenth century to protect them from the British and completed by the British after they conquered Quebec in 1759 to protect them from the Americans.
Aux Anciens Canadiens was built in 1675. I entered the restaurant and moved directly to the hostess station.
“Bonsoir,” I said. “Puis-je avoir une table pour un?”
“Yes, sir,” the hostess said as she grabbed a menu. “Table for one. Right this way.”
Which was another thing—despite the English victory during the Seven Years War—the Québécois hung on to their French heritage like it was a flashlight in a dark room. Seventy-seven percent of Quebec’s population were native Francophones and ninety-five percent spoke French as their first or second language. Outside the walls you needed to know French to be understood and the Quebec City citizens were as particular about it as they were in Paris. Vieux Quebec was bilingual, however, mostly to accommodate tourists from the United States and the rest of Canada.
Unfortunately, my French sucks. I’d say, Excusez-moi, and immediately the natives would switch to English. It’s like they couldn’t bear to hear their language mangled. Nina, on the other hand, spoke French like the French. She’d say something simple like Bonjour and the Québécois would start chatting with her like she was a long-lost cousin from Nova Scotia.
I wished she were with me while I ate a spectacular pea soup followed by pork tenderloin and bread pudding with maple sauce, and not just because of her language skills. Vieux Quebec is for couples. Every
corner, stairwell, doorway, and alley hid some strange, unique, and wondrous feature or attraction and to not have someone to share those discoveries with made me feel lonely.
After leaving Aux Anciens Canadiens, I wandered over to Rue Sainte-Ursule because that’s the street that contained the bed-and-breakfast where Nina and I stayed during our visit. It was 120 years old—the bed-and-breakfast; I had no idea how old the street was—with a balcony where we sat drinking wine and enjoying the sights.
That’s when I realized I was being followed. A man. Thirty years old. Five ten, 185 pounds, sandy hair beneath a dark gray ball cap with a silver fleur-de-lis on the front. I surfed through a half-dozen theories to explain why he was there and settled on the one I felt most comfortable with—the auction hosts wanted to make sure I was in Canada to commit a crime and not to solve a crime.
I led my tail down the avenue to Rue Saint-Jean, a tourist street if there ever was one. Among its many bars, restaurants, and shops was a joint called Murphy’s Irish Pub where I found a table, ordered a Jameson on the rocks, and listened to a kid playing guitar from a small stage. Instead of Irish folk music, though, he played mostly poor covers of American pop songs, the amplification so loud that often the notes sounded distorted. I gave it the one drink before scattering a couple of Canadian bills on top of the table and moving on.
It’s always a good idea to carry cash so you can duck out of a joint in a hurry without someone chasing you down the street. My tail hadn’t been as well prepared and was forced to make a quiet scene as he signaled for a waiter to take his credit card. If I hadn’t made him before, I sure would have then. Still, I didn’t want to do anything that would make him suspicious, like lose him in a crowd, so I took my own sweet time wandering down the avenue, pausing to listen to a street performer who had set up between Café La Maison Smith and a McDonald’s.
Once the tail caught up, I let him follow me along Côte de la Fabrique to Rue des Jardins and from there along a pedestrian crossway to a park called Place d’Armes. There was another street musician performing in front of an eatery called Restaurant 1640. He was very good, playing the accordion and singing in French a lot of songs that I knew only in English like “Autumn Leaves,” “The House of the Rising Sun,” and “Beyond the Sea.” I found a bench in the park that I shared with a couple from New York and listened. The couple didn’t seem to care about the music and I was glad when they finally moved on.
After about an hour, I decided to give my tail a break. I went to the musician and dropped a Canadian twenty in his accordion case, received a head nod in recognition, and wandered over to the Terrasse Dufferin. The terrace was built a century and a half ago and provided a spectacular view of the Saint Lawrence River and that part of Vieux Quebec called Lower Town because it lay between the river and the high bluff where Upper Town was located. There were plenty of tourists leaning on the iron railing. A couple from Alberta asked me to take their photograph and I agreed while my tail kept his distance.
I treated myself to an ice cream served by a vendor who sold his wares from a pushcart. I didn’t know if it was the cone or the setting sun, but the temperature seemed to drop from the mid-sixties to the forties just like that, a tad chilly for my sports jacket and jeans. That’s when I decided to call it a night and crossed the terrace in the direction of the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac.
It’s supposed to be the most photographed hotel in the world and if you ever saw it, especially at night, you’d understand why. It completely dominated the Quebec City skyline, a true-life castle with a stunning tower inspired by the architectural styles of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Fun fact—it was designed by an American architect named Bruce Price. I just thought you ought to know.
I wandered toward it. The tail was leaning against a light post and trying hard not to make eye contact. I gave him a head nod as I passed because it was Canada after all and people there are almost as nice as they are in Minnesota.
“Bonne nuit, monsieur McKenzie,” he said.
I laughed not from humor but embarrassment. See, up until that moment, I thought I was being so very, very clever.
* * *
Early Wednesday morning there was a tap on my door. Before I reached it, though, someone had shoved a small cream-colored envelope beneath it. I took a quick look through the spy hole and saw no one. I didn’t bother to open the door, but instead opened the envelope, unfolded another sheet of white paper, and read what had been written there:
PLACE DUFFERIN. TEN A.M.
* * *
Place Dufferin was one of four restaurants located within the hotel, not counting the Starbucks just off the lobby, and my first thought when I walked inside—I should have worn my good suit. It was all marble and wood and leather chairs and featured food stations where pastry, fruit, cheese, cereal, juice, and hot items were displayed as if they were works of fine art; look but don’t touch. I was sure you could get a nice Picasso for what Place Dufferin asked for its breakfast buffet. Suddenly, the Starbucks didn’t seem so gauche.
It was open for breakfast until ten thirty and was nearly empty when I arrived, so it was easy to find a table near the window. I ordered coffee and a croissant—I was never much of a breakfast person—and distracted myself with the splendid view of the Terrasse Dufferin while I waited.
Twenty-two minutes later, a man appeared at the table.
“Mr. McKenzie?” he said.
I made a production out of looking at my watch.
“Really?” I said. “It took you this long to search my room?”
“We like to be thorough. May I?”
I gestured at the chair across from me. He sat, folding his hands on the table in front of him.
“McKenzie,” he said. “Would that be an Irish name?”
“Scottish.”
“There’s a pity.”
“Depends on your point of view.”
“I’m O’Rourke.”
“Do you have a first name?”
“We will not know each other well enough to bother with that. Shall I tell you how this is going to transpire?”
“I wish you would.”
“At exactly eight o’clock tonight, a windowless van will arrive in the courtyard in front of the hotel’s entrance…”
“Windowless?”
“You and several other guests will enter the van after first depositing your cell phones into a Faraday bag. You will, of course, also be scanned by a radio frequency detector for GPS tracking devices and other transmitters. Afterward, you and our other guests will be conducted to a secure location where you will be met by still more bidders. I believe there will be two dozen all told. The auction will commence at approximately nine P.M. We will bid in US dollars, not Canadian. Payment will be demanded via electronic means immediately after the bidding is concluded. I hope that is understood.”
“I’ll need my smartphone.”
“It will be returned to you for that purpose.”
“Will I be allowed to examine the merchandise before the auction?”
“It will be displayed for all to scrutinize at least fifteen minutes prior to bidding.”
“If you could tell me the exact dimensions of the paintings right now, it might save us both some trouble.”
“Do you know the exact dimensions of the paintings?”
“Yes.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know this?” he asked.
“I have a relationship with the prior owner.”
O’Rourke leaned back in his chair.
“What exactly are your intentions, Mr. McKenzie?” he asked. “If you’re seeking redress…”
“I am not. As much as it pains them to do so, the parties I represent are willing to buy back what was stolen from them.”
“You must understand; I am acting merely as an intermediary in this matter.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to divulge the name of the party you represent
.”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. I ask again, Mr. O’Rourke, do you know the exact dimensions of the paintings?”
“I have not yet seen them myself. They are en route.”
“Tell me, how much would your business suffer if it were revealed that you arranged the sale of forgeries to your clients?”
“You ask that as if it has never happened before. We make it clear to all of our clients that we are able to authenticate the work we auction only to a point. Beyond that, there is a phrase that is used in both of our countries, caveat emptor.”
“Let the buyer beware.”
“If you believe the McInnis paintings to be forgeries, don’t bid on them.”
“Fair enough.”
“On the other hand, I’m sure you will appreciate, Mr. McKenzie—we will not countenance a scene.”
“You will not get one from me, one way or the other.”
“I will hold you to that. Oh, and at the risk of seeming rude”—O’Rourke gestured at my clothing—“our guests are required to dress in formal business attire.”
“Of course. We are, after all, engaging in a white-collar crime.”
I couldn’t tell if O’Rourke thought that was funny or not. He stood and offered his hand. I stood and shook it.
“Bonne chance ce soir,” he said.
“Je vous remercie.”
“You understand, of course, that you will remain under surveillance until the auction.”
“Inform your associate that I intend to wander around Lower Town, today—Place Royale, the Église Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, Madame Gigi’s to get some macarons. I might even stop in at L’Oncle Antoine for French onion soup and that café they make with bourbon and sugar.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Also tell him that he shouldn’t be embarrassed that I made him yesterday.”
“We would have been disappointed if you hadn’t, Mr. McKenzie. We take comfort in dealing with professionals, you see. It has always been amateurs who have caused us the most concern.”
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