An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide (27 page)

Newman nodded. “That was it. Paulie St. Cyr.”

The burger was pretty good. “If the Cross of Rouen was hidden in the building, someone would have found it by now. I guarantee my contractors would have uncovered it. They've been through the entire structure—and dismantled half of it.”

“I figured that much.” He chuckled. “I'm no fool. I know when to cut my losses.”

“What happened to the sketch of the cross?”

“Wondered if you'd remember to ask about that.” He reached into the pocket of his red Hawaiian shirt and pulled out a folded paper. “This is a copy. Louise kept the original. Look it up in the art books. You'll see it's genuine enough.”

“Thanks.” I took the sheet, unfolded it, and studied it. Jake leaned over to look.

It was a cross fleury, similar to the fleur-de-lis. The arm ends were carved in gem-studded flowers. The top arm passed right through the body of a dove, and the bottom fleur had a deadly-looking point at the top. Even in this rough black-and-white sketch, it was impressive.

I met Jake's gaze. I could see what he was thinking. Plenty of motive for murder right there.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” I asked Newman.

“Nah. If you think of any more questions, I'll be happy to answer them. We could have lunch again.”

We left him enjoying chocolate volcano cake for dessert.

“What do you think?” Jake asked as the valet opened the passenger door to the Honda.

“I think he's telling the truth. I think he was in love with Louise Reynard.”

He glanced at me. “Same here.”

He tipped the valet, took his keys, and slid behind the wheel. He slammed shut the door and said, “So that's it. You found Henry Harrison, and you know what he was searching for.

Satisfied with that?”

I felt a jab of alarm as I looked up from the sketch of the cross. “We don't know who killed Stevens. We don't know what happened to the cross.”

“You don't seriously think we're going to find this Cross of Rouen?”

I didn't, no.

“I don't know. Look how much we've found out already. We're halfway there.”

Jake's head moved in denial. “Here's what I think happened. I think Hale killed Stevens. I think the sister knew that, which is why she didn't marry him. I think Stevens stowed the cross somewhere, maybe a locker in Union Station or someplace like that, and one day it'll turn up, but An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

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we aren't going to find it. And I don't think we're ever going to be able to prove that Hale killed Stevens.”

“If Jinx thought Hale killed Stevens, why did she pay for his medical care and his funeral?”

“Maybe she loved him anyway.”

I couldn't think of a reply to that. At last, I said, “I'm not ready to give up.”

Silence.

Jake said carefully, “I…don't see this going anywhere.”

“Maybe not.” Probably not. I nerved myself for rejection. “Will you give me a little more of your time?”

He expelled a long breath. “It's your dime.”

I'd felt close to him in the restaurant. Physically close, yes, sitting with our thighs and shoulders brushing, but emotionally close too. In tune. Now I couldn't read him. Did he want me to give up? Why? Or was I missing the obvious?

“One more week?” I stared out the window at the valets busily trotting back and forth, shouting friendly insults to each other.

I could feel his gaze. “One more week,” he said brusquely and turned the key.

136

Josh Lanyon

Chapter Fourteen

It looked as though Jay Stevens had not held the attention of the CCHU for long. When I arrived back at the bookstore, the construction crew was at work once again on the other side of the building.

Over the buzz of sanders and the machine-gun rattle of drills, I could hear Natalie and Angus bickering quietly in the back of the store. I took a sec to enjoy the blessed normality.

Lights were mellow, music was playing, customers were grazing peacefully. All was right in my world again.

I settled with my laptop in my office, where I could work and keep an eye on the kids.

I had found a site listing art treasures that had gone missing during World War II, when Natalie tapped on the door frame.

“Come,” I said absently.

“Can we talk?”

“Oh God. Please keep in mind that I'm a sick man.”

She sniffed. “You look pretty healthy these days.”

I felt pretty healthy too. I still got tired faster than I liked. I still found myself needing the occasional nap. My chest still felt like it was liable to separate when I laughed or coughed or sneezed. But overall, I did feel better than I'd felt in a long time. I even felt…younger.

“Is this about Angus?” I did my best to look forbidding.

It didn't appear to work. Natalie wrinkled her nose and said, “He's kind of weird.”

This from the woman who was considering plighting her troth to Warren—
plight
being the operative word.

“I've got two words for you.”

Her chin rose.

“Ms. Pepper.”

“Oh.”

“Do not scare him off, or there will be hell to pay. With interest.”

She made a face and departed.

I turned back to my laptop and the missing treasures of World War II.

There was plenty to read on the topic of Nazi plunder, and it was easy to get distracted by the many, many stories of families—often Jewish, though not solely—that had their art collections confiscated by the Third Reich or had to sell their valuables far below their worth to fund their escapes from arrest and execution. Then there was the systematic despoliation of museums and galleries and churches. The Nazis had stolen everything from the paintings of old An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

137

masters to religious artifacts—and everything in between—and by the end of the war, they had amassed hundreds of thousands of priceless artworks and antiques. Some of those objects had been returned to their rightful owners; shockingly, most of them were still lost or hidden in private collections. Some of them were even in public collections; museums and galleries fighting to hang on to their sometimes-innocent—sometimes not—acquisitions.

The Cross of Rouen was one of many, many such items.

Its provenance was sketchy. According to legend it was the cross Joan of Arc had carried into battle. It seemed unlikely to me that she would have carried anything quite so valuable into battle—especially because there should surely have been an amazing mythology about how this gem-studded gold cross had come into her possession. There was nothing. According to historical accounts, the cross had been taken from her after her capture by the Burgundians, yet it was reputed to have been the cross held up for her to see as she was being burned alive at the stake in Rouen.

So much for the history of the cross. That there had been a Cross of Rouen was inarguable.

There were several photos—all black-and-white, unfortunately—of the thing in its original place of pride in Rouen Cathedral. The cathedral had been bombed twice during World War II, though it was sometime during the Nazi occupation of Rouen that the cross disappeared.

Tap, tap
on the door frame.

“Yo?”

Angus sidled in, looking downcast.

I knew that look of old. “How are you settling in?” I made myself inquire.

“She doesn't like me.”

“She'll get over it.”

He looked more downcast than ever.

“Don't take it personally. She's having boyfriend problems.”

Angus brightened.

He departed, and I got back to researching the Cross of Rouen.

Generally I liked research, but I was finding it hard to concentrate—and not only because I was being interrupted every twenty minutes.

I didn't understand Jake's reluctance to continue with the case. Was he regretting his promise not to leave town? Was he worrying about what would happen if he didn't grab the job in Vermont while it was available? He wasn't alone in that. I too was worried that I might cost him this job—and for no good reason.

Was
there a good-enough reason to prevent his making a new and successful start somewhere else?

I swore under my breath and reached for the phone. Jake didn't pick up his cell. I tried the house.

“Hello?” a woman's voice answered.

Heart thumping, I replaced the phone.

So…Kate was still at the house. That was the most logical explanation. And there were plenty of logical reasons for her to be at Jake's house—not least of which was that it was technically her house too.

138

Josh Lanyon

Face it. The problem was not Kate or the fact that Kate was at the house. The problem was my own instant and panicked reaction to hearing her voice.

The problem, as illustrated by my reaction, was that I still didn't trust Jake. My instinctive response was…not healthy or productive. And how the hell was there any chance for us if I couldn't trust him?

No, this wasn't about Jake. Or at least it wasn't
just
about Jake. Part of the problem—

maybe most of the problem, by now—was me. My inability to accept the fact that, yeah, I might get hurt again. Might get my heart ripped out and fed to me for lunch.

These days I was on a vegetarian diet.

* * * * *

In the evening Lauren and I went to the house in Porter Ranch to swim, and when I got home, I fixed supper for Angus and myself and then spent the hours before bed researching Guilliam Truffaut.

There was a wealth of information on him. He'd been born in Paris and had worked with moderate success as an artist before the war. When the Germans occupied Paris, Truffaut had joined the French Resistance and fought with great cunning and courage to free his country from Nazi tyranny. According to several articles, he had been betrayed twice, was captured, and tortured, both times escaping through his own resourcefulness and ingenuity. After the war he had immigrated to the States, where he had married a wealthy Angeleno socialite and opened a successful art gallery. He became a well-known figure in Southern California art circles and society. He had one child, a daughter by the name of Evelyn.

That was the official bio. It made for impressive reading, I had to admit. In the sixties, near the end of his life, he'd authorized a biography called
Le Coeur du Courage.

Truffaut had capitalized shamelessly on his war-hero status, but why not, if it were true?

That was the question. If it
were
true, what had he been doing with the Cross of Rouen in his possession?

And if it weren't true, it was one hell of a story for Jay Stevens to make up. In fact, I couldn't believe Stevens would or could make up such a tale. It was too fantastic too—by all accounts—outside the realm of everything Stevens knew. Every lie rested on some building block—no matter how thin—of recognizable truth.

Besides, why should Stevens lie? What would be the incentive for such a lie? He'd come by the cross somehow. He didn't pretend that it was honestly. So why lie about where he'd stolen it?

Shocking though it might be to those who had known Truffaut as successful businessman, loving family man, patron of the arts, and former war hero…it looked to me like Stevens's story was true.

And if it were true, it was one hell of an incentive for murder.

I drank a glass of pineapple-orange juice and considered the possibilities while Tomkins practiced his typing skills on my laptop.

“Hey, go find another mouse to play with.” I lifted him off the sofa and put him on the floor. He
meowed
at me. I
meowed
back and started Googling Evelyn Truffaut.

She wasn't hard to find.

An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

139

It turned out that Evelyn was the child of a second marriage. The first Mrs. Truffaut had died in a car accident in 1960. Truffaut had remarried that year, and little Evelyn had come along eight months later. Supposedly, she was a premature baby, but Jake wasn't the only cynic in the secret clubhouse. Evelyn had been seven when her famous papa had gone to meet his maker—

and his former pals in the Resistance.

Truffaut's gallery had closed after his death. Evelyn had opened her own gallery and boutique—Truffauts and Trifles—in Beverly Hills.

It was by appointment only.

Luckily I knew someone with both the commanding presence and the impeccable credentials to get me past the strictest security.

I picked up the phone, dialed the number I knew by heart. A woman answered.

“Lauren,” I said, “can I speak to my mother?”

* * * * *

It was a jolt to realize I'd totally forgotten that I'd agreed to see Mel on Saturday. It had so completely slipped my mind that I didn't remember until he showed up at the bookstore to pick me up for a day of swimming and sunning at the Porter Ranch house.

I was listening to Ella Fitzgerald and finishing the last pages of
A Deed of Dreadful Note
when Natalie knocked on the door.

“It's open.”

She stepped inside. “Do you have a date?”

“A date? No.” As I tried to decipher her expression, realization hit me. “Shit. Is today Saturday? Is Mel downstairs?”

She nodded.

I swore again and put the laptop aside.

“Do you want me to tell him you're not feeling well?”

“What? No, of course not.” I considered it hopefully for a second and then said more firmly, “Of course not. Send him up.”

She vanished, and a few minutes later Mel was inside the apartment we used to share and checking things out with the keen interest of someone visiting a museum.

“Holy moly. Does this place bring back the memories.”