Inheritance (70 page)

Paul waved as he drove away, smiling to himself. He will find it, he reflected; he probably can find anything he sets his mind to. He thought about him as he merged with the morning traffic on the freeway. An impressive man. Because beneath the talkativeness and the desperate reaching out for companionship, there had been glimpses of the professional tracker— dogged, shrewd, and implacable—and also a man stuck in retirement who would bring every skill he had to this case, because solving cases was the only way he felt alive.

I wouldn't want him hunting me, Paul thought with another smile. He found himself looking forward to dinner. He wanted to know more about Sam Colby and the whole shadowy business of art theft: who does it and how, where stolen worics end up, how often they're recovered, how often the thieves are caught. . . .

Excitement began to build inside him. A colorful, garrulous old man with a lifelong, fascinating career, the whole worid of art and money and international connections; a con^)licated case of four robberies just unfolding . . .

He had his next film.

Chapter 26

THE pla2:a in front of the Centre Pompidou slopes gently downward, forming a kind of amphitheater in front of the art museum where jugglers, jazz bands, clowns, and street theater groups perform beneath the Parisian sun. Ginny and Laura stopped to watch a group of circus performers in a tumbling act, then strolled over to a fire-eater who had attracted a crowd of children. **In Texas we*d ask him to do it with a branding iron," Ginny murmured as they moved on. **What would you like next? I made reservations for lunch, but we can skip it and do the museum instead. Or something else you haven't seen."

**Is there anything I haven't seen?** Laura asked with a laugh. "We've been on the move ever since we got here."

"And we're leaving tomorrow, so we ought to be moving faster. The more you walk in Paris, the bigger it gets, have you noticed? But we'll come back another time. Now that I've talked you into one vacation, you'll take others: I predict it."

"You're very good to me, Ginny. Have I told you how gratefullam?"

"You have. And here we are at I'Escargot, so I guess we're about to have lunch. Is that all right?"

"Fine. Vm hungry and I need to sit fn' a while."

''That makes two of us."

The restaurant was built in 1832, and Laura tilted back her head to admire the elaborately painted ceUing white Ginny

Judith Michael

chattered in Texas-accented French with the waitress. In one of the huge mirrors spaced about the room she saw Ginny and herself as if they were in a painting: two American women, similarly dressed in beautifully cut wool suits and silk blouses, fine leather walking shoes, and shoulder bags. They looked prosperous, well-groomed, and poised, but what Laura saw most of all was the affection between them. Ginny had given up trying to be motherly, which made them even better friends, and the two of them were close and comfortable together. "-

And I'm very lucky, she thought, as Ginny finished ordering and turned back to her, switching to Texas-accented English. "Now, where were we?"

"I was telling you how grateful I am for all the things you do for me."

"So you were. Well, I'll tell you, I'm grateful, too. I love taking people around Paris because it makes me feel like it's my city, but mosdy I love doing things for you because you're grateful without overdoing it. I've always had more money than I know what to do with, even before I took Wylie to the cleaners—a poor form of revenge for all that humiliation, but we use whatever weapons we have—and I've noticed that when people have a lot of money, other people tend to be ridiculously grateful for simple things. They can't stop saying thank you, or you've made tiieir life worthwhile, or you're the next thing to a saint; and you don't have to be brilliant to figure out that what they really mean is they want more of your money and your attention, and so they're laying it on you to keep giving. It's all bullshit, and I can't abide it. But you're never anything like that; you mean what you say and you don't say it too often. Which is why I'm having a good time. Also, I might add, I'm getting an education. How many times have I come to Paris and checked out hotels, even poking into linen closets? How many times have I cut down my shopping to look at drapery fabrics? Never. And eating three-star dinners and thinking of new menus for back home . . . You haven't stopped woridng all week."

"Yes, I have. This has been fun, not work. The work starts when I get home and try to use everything I've learned."

**Weli, tiien, our last day has to be extra fun. Dinner tonight

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at Ledoyen; it's quite luscious: all velvet and lace and cande-labras, and the food is sublime. Then jazz at New Morning; it's quite the place to be these days. And after lunch, the Pompidou, since we're in the neighborhood. Unless you've had too much art."

"No. It all sounds wonderful."

Ginny nodded with satisfaction. "I do appreciate traveling with someone who approves of my plans. It gets so difficult when one has to make endless compromises."

Laura laughed and did not say diat the next time she came to Paris she would have her own schedule. This week was Ginny's, and it had been like an enormous platter of hors d'oeuvres, giving her a taste of everything in that glorious city that she would want to savor on her own terms, in her own time. Paris seemed very special to her, it had its jumbled neighborhoods, like any other city, its jarring architecture, its slums and litter and graffiti, but, unlike many other cities, there was a sense of design: streets planned for the vistas they provided, neighborhoods and vast structures like the Place des Vosges built with an eye to harmony and scale, open space designed with gardens, not just urban greenery. And since Laura spent so much time trying to keep her emotions in check and her life in order, she felt at home in Paris after only a week; she knew she would come back, most likely alone. She had discovered, in traveling for her hotels, that she didn't mind being alone on a trip. Often she missed having someone to nudge and say, "Oh, look, look how beautiful that is," but the rest of the time she was satisfied to be on her own, learning about the world on her own terms.

But this trip to Paris was Ginny's, and after lunch she let her lead her through the vastness of the Pompidou, at some displays elbow to elbow with people, but even more crowded wi^ its own collections. "It's a tossed salad of a museum," Ginny pronounced. "I love it 'cause it's as chaotic as the world out there. Paintings and sculptures and television and films and radio all mixed into one— *'

"Laura!" a familiar baritone boomed. "Goddam if it isn't my sweetheart in the middle of Paris!" Dozens of people turned to look as Britt Farley swept Laura into an embrace and then put out an arm to include Ginny. "Two lovely ladies in

Judith Michael

Par-ee! What are you doing here? Small world, right? Hey, this is the damnedest piece of luck, you're just in time! Would you believe it, there's a film contest downstairs—documentaries— Cinema du Riel,*' he brought out in mangled French. "It's a big deal here, and we've won first place! How about that! Well, truth to tell, Paul won; I haven't even seen it yet, but what the hell, I'll love it, ri^t, since it won? You will, too; you're just in time; they're showing it this afternoon. Isn't that the damnedest piece of luck? You can si^ with me and hold my hand if I'm nervous. Come on, you wouldn't say no, would you?'*

"I can't say anything," Laura laughed, pulling out of his clutching arms. Paul is here. He must be; it's his film. Of course he's here. "I don't think so, Britt . . ."

She hadn't let herself think about Paul for more than fleeting moments since that evening in the ballroom. Now, as Farley asked her again, she was torn. / can't see him; it would be crazy; what good would it do?

"Ginny has other plans," she said. "I'm sorry, but we really can t.

"A'course you can! It's only an hour—one little hour out of your vacation—Ginny, tell her you'll come."

"It's up to Laura," Ginny said.

"Shit, Laura, how many times am I gonna have a movie about me? This is it, and I want you to sit with me. Come on."

He was holding her hand, and Laura let him pull her toward him. I could just stay long enough to see the film, she told herself. It would be interesting to see what kind of work he's doing.

Watching her face, Ginny made the decision. Laura had told her about Paul, not a great deal, but enough to give Ginny clues to what she was feeling now. Scared to go, Ginny thought, and dying to go. "Well, why not?" she said briskly. "As long as we're out of here by six; we do have plans for dinner."

"No, no, you'll eat with us. I'll take care of it. Come on, come on. Goddam, if this isn't the damnedest luck . . ."

Us. Paul and . . . who else?

"Coked to his cowlick," Ginny was murmuring as they followed Britt to a doorway that led to the exterior escalators,

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enclosed in glass tubes that allowed a panoramic view of the Marais. "But he seems more or less under control." She glanced at Laura. "How about you? We won't stay if you'd rather not."

/ want to stay. I want to go. Damn it, it's such a big world; I go for years without seeing people I've known in the past; why can't Paul and I just disappear from each other's lives?

Paul and I. Her heart sank at the sweetness of the phrase.

One more time won't matter.

"It's fine," she said to Ginny as they came to the bottom of the escalator. "It should be interesting."

"Interesting," Ginny repeated. "What a word." They reached the entrance to the auditorium, and Britt grandly led them past the guard and down the aisle to the seats reserved for his party. "Paul!" he boomed past the row of people sitting there. "Look who I found! How about this for fantastic?"

Paul stood, his eyes meeting Laura's in surprise. But then, reflexively, he looked down to the woman beside him, and Laura followed his look. She was blond and lovely, with a slightly petulant sophistication and perfect skin: a woman Laura had seen dozens of times on magazine covers and in stories on haute couture. Emily. Staring at Laura in puzzlement, wondering who it was who'd gotten Britt so excited.

Beside Emily were Tom and Barbara Janssen and then Leni, looking at her with astonishment.

Behind Laura, the aisle was filled with people finding their seats. There was no place to run. She wasn't even sure she wanted to. She shivered at the challenge. She wasn't the same person; she was their equal now. If they didn't want her, let them say so.

But Leni was perfect. "Laura, my dear, how delightftil. I almost wouldn't have known you; you're so very lovely. Please sit down; we can have a chat before the film begins."

Britt had put up his hand, ready to make introductions; now, as Thomas and Barbara also greeted Laura, he looked conftised. "You already know each other. Goddam, small world. Ginny, do you know everybody?" Without waiting, he introduced them. "Now if you'll excuse me," he said. "I have a httle friend waiting for me outside. Be right back."

He strode up the aisle, parting the crowds as if they were

Judith Michael

the Red Sea. Paul leaned forward. **Laura, Fm glad Britt found you. Are you on vacation? Fm glad you're here." He cleared his throat, wondering why he was acting like an adolescent.

Congratulations on your film/* Laura said, her eyes meeting his. "Britt told me about the award."

**Thank you." He paused briefly. "Fd like you to meet my wife. Emily Janssen, Laura Fairchild."

"How do you do," Emily murmurecf; a small frown was between her eyes.

"Fm pleased to meet you," Laura said and reached forward, holding out her hand.

Emily, eyebrows raised, stood up, awkwardly reaching across Leni and Thomas and Barbara, and the two women shook hands.

"Fve admired you for years," Laura said. "You have wonderful style."

Emily smiled. She didn't understand how everyone seemed to know Laura, or what her sudden appearance meant to them, but she recognized genuine praise when she heard it, and that was always enough for Emily. "So very kind . . ." she said and sat down again, and after a moment Paul sat beside her, separated from Laura by all the others. Thomas and Barbara Janssen leaned forward and greeted Laura. "You're looking marvelous," Thomas said. "Marvelous," Barbara echoed.

*Thank you," Laura said gravely, and then there was a silence and Thomas and Barbara sat back in their seats, concentrating on reading the festival program.

Leni and Laura looked at each other. "You're the one who has style, my dear," Leni said quietly. When Laura did not respond, she said, "How long has it been?"

"Seven years," Laura replied evenly. "Or six, since we did see each other at the trial."

Leni gazed at her. She looked older, certainly older than her twenty-eight years. She was the same age as Allison, but her face had more experience in it, more pain, more control. But who would have guessed she would turn out to be so stuiming, with such poise, wearing a suit whose designer Leni recognized and wearing it as it was meant to be worn, with a straight back and a proud head? "You've done well," she said

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quietly. "We hear about you, of course, quite frequently. I do congratulate you on your hotels."

"Thank you." Laura turned to look straight ahead, at the large screen on the stage. Nothing had changed: she still loved Leni, still wanted her to love her, still wanted to be like hen cool, serene, unmaiked by passions or even passing fancies. Why can't I just think of these people as part of my past?

*Tell me about the hotels," Leni said. "It does seem strange that they're yours, though I want you to know Vm glad they are. That was a terrible time we went through, my dear, and none of us acted well, especially those of us who were silent. It always amazes me how easily we forget that being silent is as much an action as doing something. I've wanted to apologize to you and tell you that perhaps we were too hasty in judging you ..." She made a small gesture with her slender, manicured hand. *This is hardly the time or the place, but—^**