The Great Beau

by O'Neil De Noux

  She raises a paw and chitters as Beau pets her head.

  “I know, I’m late.”

  “Arooooowl.”

  He stops in the library to drop off his briefcase, sees it’s 7 p.m. now and heads for the kitchen.

  “Something smells good.”

  Stella follows, chittering again.

  “Scamp’s been bad?”

  “Arowl.”

  Stefi’s on the kitchen floor with a plastic stick with a long string with a fluff ball on the end with feathers and a tiny bell she swishes around with Scamp chasing. Stella beats Beau into the kitchen, sees the fluff ball and races over and swats it.

  “Hey!” goes Stefi and Scamp swats it back.

  Jessie gets up from the kitchen table, leaves her iPad atop and moves to Beau. Like Stefi, she’s in a T-shirt and jeans, both barefoot. Jessie’s long hair is clipped back with barrettes and she’s braless, puts her hands behind Beau’s neck and pulls his face to her for a long, soft French kiss. That gets his heart racing and she pulls away, steps to the sink to wash her hands.

  “You too,” she tells Stefi. “Wash your hands and put the oven on 300.”

  She turns a burner beneath a wide pan of oil. A plate of meat covered in breadcrumbs lies on the counter next to the gas stove. Beau thinks – pork chops but realizes they’re not.

  “Pané veal.” Jessie bumps his hip with hers. “Go wash up and make the salad and you can tell us all about it at supper.”

  Stella and Scamp swat the toy back and forth and Jessie tells her little sister to get a move on.

  “They’re playing together.”

  On his way to the bathroom, Beau calls back, “They’re bound to.”

  THE TWO SIT enthralled with the story, Stefi liking the part about the obsidian knife and the ‘EEEE’ best of all.

  “Aileen and I typed out the warrants for first degree murder for the two, took ‘em to a judge, then went to the jail to re-book our killers. Why I’m late.”

  The lyonnaise potatoes that had been in the oven are spectacular. Jessie got the recipe from Emeril’s cookbook.

  “Well, you got your killers,” Jessie says.

  “I’m not so sure. The DA can fu–, screw up any case.”

  Stefi goes, “You can say ‘fuck’ in front of me.”

  Beau says, “The FBI and Interpol were still arguing when I left. Juanita and Jordan are still working. They took Sam along to the Vault where they’re all still going through the loot. They brought anything that looks valuable from the antique store to the vault.”

  The pané meat is hot, crispy and highly seasoned.

  “How’s Claire holding up?”

  “I think Leopold’s moving in with her.”

  “Seriously?”

  “She’s pretty and rich. Why not?”

  “That’s why Johnny’s here.” Stefi cuts in.

  “I’m not rich.” Jessie squints her left eye at her sister.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” To Beau now. “Remember what I said about a maid?”

  “Yeah.” He thinks so. That was a couple months ago.

  Damn, the lyonnaise potatoes are incredible.

  “Well, I interviewed three candidates and our new maid starts tomorrow morning.”

  Stefi waves at her. “See, you are rich.”

  Beau to Jessie – “How much you need me to chip in?”

  “Nothing. She works for the corporation, Louvier Holdings, LLC. A good deal for her. Most maids in town are independent contractors. She gets good pay and benefits, hospitalization, vacation, sick leave. We make sure her social security’s paid. Make sure her green card doesn’t expire. She’s on the payroll.”

  Stefi’s voice rises. “She’s an immigrant?”

  “We’re all immigrants.”

  Beau slowly raises a hand and Jessie laughs. “Except half of John here.”

  “What’s her name? How old is she?” Stefi asks.

  “Katrina Lopez and she’s 27.”

  “That’s a horrible name, after a hurricane.”

  Beau takes another bite of the meat, chews, adds some potatoes.

  Jessie says, “She’s from El Salvador. She’s Mestizo, part Spanish part Pipil indigenous tribe. Catholic. She’s small, dark with straight black hair and brown eyes, heavyset. She has a 13 year old daughter.”

  “Indigenous? Like a native. Like Johnny.”

  Jessie eats, nods.

  Stefi to Beau – “Did your tribes get along?”

  “Never heard of the Pipil but the Sioux don’t get along with anyone except our cousins the Cheyenne.”

  Stefi bounces in her chair. “Well, she could watch me when y’all go to Paris.”

  “She won’t sleep here. She’ll work 9 to 5, Monday through Friday.”

  Alizée sings and Beau sees it’s Madison and answers.

  “What a cluster fuck. I’ll be at the Marriott. You coming here in the morning?”

  “Too many people. I gotta find out about that place on South Derbigny. How did they rent it?”

  Madison chuckles. “We’d still be at it if Jordan hadn’t started up his soundtrack.”

  STEFI STOPS CHANNEL surfing, says, “Black and white.”

  The movie’s just starting up. Jessie waits for the title, goes, “No. No.”

  “Yes. Black and white movies are better.”

  What the fuck? – Beau thinks.

  Fire Maidens of Outer Space and he realizes it’s the BMD Channel – B Movie Delights. The spaceship in the movie is one of those pointy ships with fins. The astronauts sit at a long counter on desk chairs with wheels, TV monitors in front of them and microphones on little pedestals. They’re headed to the 13th moon of Jupiter.

  “How many moons does Jupiter have?” Beau asks Jessie who turns on her iPad and tells him, after a minute, “Wow. 67 moons.”

  It takes the ship 3 weeks to get to Jupiter.

  “I know that’s not right.” Jessie says. “It takes 9 months to get to Mars.”

  When the astronauts put on their seatbelts in anticipation of landing, Beau almost falls off the couch.

  “What’s so funny?” Stefi asks.

  “The chairs are on wheels.”

  The kicker is when the fire maidens appear, they’re in mini-dresses and someone starts playing Stranger in Paradise and they dance for the astronauts, swaying their hips, wiggling their butts and lifted the back of their skirts.

  “I’ve had it.” Jessie stands, takes Beau’s hand. He doesn’t move.

  “I don’t know. I kinda like it.”

  “The aliens are speaking English.”

  “So did everyone on Star Trek.”

  Stefi adds, “They’re from Atlantis. Weren’t you listening?”

  Jessie pulls his hand again and Beau’s up and they go upstairs.

  Atlantis. Jesus.

  THE FACE IS so close to Beau he would feel Mike’s breath if it isn’t a dream. Mike talks but no words come out and Beau tries to read his old friend’s lips but cannot. It goes on and Mike’s eyes grow larger and red and fill with tears and he keeps talking and Beau wants to know what he’s saying, needs to know and struggles to know. Only nothing. No sound.

  Mike backs away slowly, still mouthing words, tears rolling down his face. Beau can see nothing but the face withdrawing into blackness, growing smaller and smaller until it is a pin prick and Beau wakes.

  “You OK, Babe?” Jessie has her back to him, reaches over to touch his side.

  Through gritted teeth, Beau manages a, “Yeah.”

  He wants to pat her back but his arms won’t move. He’s on his back, stiff as a plank of wood. He tries to get up but can’t move and he thinks maybe it’s time to see a doctor. No. No fuckin’ doctor. The ceiling fans swishes above and he waits. If he can’t get up when Jessie does, then maybe a doctor.

  Slowly. Ever so slowly his legs go slack and he moves his feet, then his legs and eventually his muscles relax, even his arms and his fists unclench. Beau sits up, legs draped over the s
ide of the bed. Scamp sits up on the end of the bed watching him.

  “Meowww.”

  He reaches to pet the little guy and sharp pain shoots through his muscles. His entire body aches as if he’s run a marathon, uphill, against a strong wind. His hand shakes as he pets Scamp. He manages to get up and move slowly to the bathroom. Stella almost trips him, gliding between his legs, rubbing herself against his calves.

  A long cool shower helps but he aches all the way back to bed.

  At least he doesn’t dream again.

  THE ORLEANS PARISH Conveyance Office opens at 8 a.m. and Beau’s there. A young lady who looks a lot like Halley Berry helps him and he leaves with the name and address of the owner of the shotgun house on Milan Street.

  He’ll need Jessie’s help now, so he gets to her office just as she’s walking in, watches her cross the long lobby, her high heels clicking on the shiny, hardwood floor of the old building that should be a bank museum if it wasn’t headquarters of Louvier Holdings, LLC. Her dark green skirt suit is fitted and short but not extra short today.

  She smiles as she steps up and touches her lips to his.

  “What’s up, Babe?”

  “The house my killers were using on Milan Street is owned by the Whitney Bank. I need to know how the fools were able to rent it.”

  Twenty minutes later, they kiss again and he leaves with his information, calls Juanita on her cell.

  “You’re not gonna believe this.”

  “You’re not missing the meeting I hope.”

  “No. On my way. I’m talking Milan Street. Whitney Bank took it in one of those reverse mortgage things. It’s up on the market. Someone took the For Sale sign down and I’m sure ole Fritz just went in through the back door.”

  THOMAS JAMES MADISON, in a silver suit with a bluish-purple tie, stands at the head of the long table and raises a hand to get everyone to sit. There are eleven other people in the huge conference room of Silvers Vault Complex, including Claire D’Loup and her new lawyer Stan Smith from the law firm of Plum, Smith, Leopold & Loeb. Stan’s one of her bodyguards since he is also part of the Mystery, Inc. Detective Agency crew. Next to Stan sits Emilie Deslonde, Executive Director of Silvers, and the Interpols, Chief Analyst Luc Brissot and Analyst Brigitte Leneuville. Across the table sits FBI SA William Grantling and the two Smithsonian art experts, Dr. Eric Fukoda and Dr. Jean Becker. Hillel Jordan is next with Juanita Cruz and Beau sitting at the end of the table, facing Madison who begins –

  “To start. Miss D’Loup, your NOPD friends over there have arrested the two people who murdered your grandfather. We won’t go into details at the moment. That sour look on SA Grantling’s face indicates the frustration of the FBI to get the prisoners into their custody. The two are being held without bail at Orleans Parish Prison.”

  Beau knows it’s only a matter of time before the feds get them. Since both lawyered up, he can’t get any more information from them.

  Madison sits, opens the portfolio before him.

  “Before we go over the art, I have something else for Miss D’Loup. Heinrich Schliemann and his wife Sofia Engastromenos, the woman in the photograph, had a daughter, Andromache, and son Agamemnon Schliemann. Their line died out with the deaths of their children who had no children. However, Heinrich was married before to Ekaterina Lyschin. They had a son, Sergey Schliemann and two daughters Natalya and Nadezhda. The divorce was bitter and Sergey renounced his father and took his mother’s last name.”

  Madison looks up from the notes, catches Claire’s eyes.

  “Natalya and Nadezhda died old maids. Sergey had a son Joseph whose daughter was Natalia Lyschin who married your great-grandfather Erich Wolfschlucht whom you know changed his name to D’Loup upon his arrival in America. Since your parents are dead and now, as well as your grandfather, you are the last of the bloodline of Heinrich Schliemann.”

  Dr. Eric Fukoda gasps and Dr. Jean Becker lets out a little squeak.

  “Which means, Miss D’Loup, whatever was found in your grandfather’s attic is yours not only by inheritance but by bloodline.” A slight smile on his face now.

  Beau’s been watching this woman for weeks now and each revelation – from the Remingtons and the Claudel to the Renoir to the Titian – each illumination caused her eyes to glaze, but not today. She has the look of a falcon when she turns to Beau. She touches Stan’s arm.

  Tall, blond Stan, this square-jawed former NOPD officer who worked his way through Loyola Law School, turns his blue eyes to Madison.

  “As Miss D’Loup’s attorney, I want to make it clear she claims everything inherited from her grandfather. You may examine the art and jewelry and she desires most of it hung in museums, she retains ownership.”

  Stan looks at the Interpols now. “Of course this claim does not include any art looted by the fuckin’ Nazis. We’re certain you can return it to their proper owners. But any other claim by any other entity, including museums, as to the ownership of any of the other art and jewels will be vigorously fought in court.”

  Back to Madison now, Stan adds, “We’d like a copy of that lineage information.”

  Fukoda and Becker go next, getting to the big item first.

  “We obviously cannot carbon date gold,” Becker begins, “so we cannot age the gold of headpiece and necklace. The cut of the emerald and rubies on the ring is consistent with jewel work from the 10th through 15th Century BC.”

  Fukoda explains, “Cuts made by jewelers practicing around the Aegean Sea.”

  Becker says, “The Trojan War is dated by Eratosthenes as 1184 b.c. Herodotus dates it at 1250 b.c. and Duris of Samos, 1334 b.c.”

  The tag team continues, one after the other.

  “The gold is of a far higher purity than gold in modern jewelry.”

  “More like Ancient Egyptian gold.”

  Fukoda adds the kicker, “Which means this was not made for Schliemann by any jeweler in the 19th Century.”

  Becker adds, “a.d.”

  Juanita smiles at that.

  “Nine experts, including us, are confident the painting believed to be by Pierre-August Renoir is genuine.”

  “The same experts, including us, are confident you have a genuine Titian on your hands.”

  “But more expert opinions are needed to convince the world.”

  “So far, there are no doubters among the experts.”

  “The Titian will create a worldwide sensation.”

  “The Helen of Troy jewelry will be an international phenomenon.”

  Stan raises a hand. “Can’t we keep this quiet. At least for a while.”

  Fukoda says, “No. The discoveries are too important. At any moment one of the experts or one of the scientists dating the canvases will leak the information. You need to think how you will present this to the public.”

  Claire cuts in. “Let the information out. Starting with the Nazi loot so they know we are genuine in our concern for art.” She looks at Stan. “We’ll need a press release emphasizing none of my inheritance, from the Remingtons to the Helen of Troy treasure is for sale or auction.”

  Stan leans over to whisper in Claire’s ear.

  Beau raises a hand, announces, “We have to put this information out immediately. Fritz and Edna weren’t working alone. Unless we tell the world the Helen of Troy treasure has been discovered, someone else will come for it and Claire remains in danger.”

  Stan nods, “Yeah. You’re right.”

  Claire looks at Fukoda and Becker. “I would like the Helen treasure and the Titian put on display at the Smithsonian. The Renoir and Remingtons will be displayed at the New Orleans Museum of Art. Claudel goes home with me.”

  Madison waits a moment before adding the FBI has eviscerated Albert D’Loup’s house and found no further treasures. They did find a hand-written journal bound in leather with the dates 1720-1820 written on the first page.

  “It was also behind an attic wall, it’s in code but not a code recognized by our experts or the CIA’s expert
s. The only words we understand are in plain French at the end, “Au revoir à temps.”

  Brigitte says, “Goodbye in time.”

  “There’s a signature. Janvier Rabiem. We’ve sent copies to your office,” he nods to Brissot, “As for the name Janvier Rabiem. There was a rifleman named Janvier Rabiem on the muster list of the New Orleans Volunteer Riflemen who fought at the Battle of New Orleans, January 8, 1815. The same name is connected to a series of murders in New Orleans in 1900. Our researchers are working to discover the connection.”

  Madison to Fukoda – “We’d like you guys to date the manuscript. Paper. Ink.”

  Stan raises a hand. “It belongs to my client.”

  “We know.”

  “So long as you remember.”

  FOR THE SECOND meeting, the civilians are asked to leave and Miss Nosy Emilie Deslonde has to take her gold lame jumpsuit out of her conference room. Claire steps out with the experts but Stan remains, telling Madison he has a state police commission.

  “So I’m still a cop.”

  He and Jordan wear black suits and red ties and Jordan takes out the ear bud from his left ear now. Soundtrack.

  The Interpols start up.

  Luc Brissot starts fist. “Fritz Erik Reinach, alias Fritz Reinhold, alias Alois Gruber, alias –” Brissot looks up from his notes. “He has a dozen alias. His real name is Roris Izevsk and he was born in Vyborg, which is north of St. Petersburg. Russia. Not Florida.” The old man winks at Juanita. “He was raised in Geneva where his mother was a diplomat. He has arrests in Germany, Italy and Switzerland for theft, strong-arm robbery, armed robbery and manslaughter. He killed a policeman in Bern and was sentenced to 20 years, served 10.” He turns to Beau. “He’s suspected of being an assassin, a killer-for-hire.”

  Beau goes, “Fuck. I shoulda really peed on him.”

  He looks at a confused Madison and asks, “He’s not on a no-fly list or no-let-into-the-USA-list?”

  “Izevsk is. Not Fritz Reinach. Until now.”

  Brigitte says, “Swiss authorities are investigating how he obtained a legitimate passport in Zurich.”

  Brissot say, “Edna Greta Schwandorf, Countess Isenburg, Her family have been patrons of the Pergamon Museum in Berlin since the 1930s. The Jewels of Helen were housed there until 1945 when the Red Army took them to the Pushkin Museum in Moscow.”