Whatever the owner of the little dog did when Elle was bent over—buzzed, or used a key or a card—the door was magically open. “Ici?” said the woman, wondering why Elle was standing there.

  “Merci,” said Elle, hurrying in after the woman and her dog. Elle assumed the number 12, Gerard Luc’s apartment, was on the first floor, so she rushed down the corridor as if she knew what she was doing. Fortunately, the woman didn’t follow but went upstairs.

  Finding the correct number, Elle rang the bell, thinking it would be a long shot. After all, he had not answered the earlier buzzer.

  It took one more ring and a knock before the door swung open to reveal an elderly man with swept-back, thinning gray hair and bags under his eyes that were eggplant purple.

  Elle didn’t have to force a smile. She hadn’t walked all this way for nothing.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Luc. I’m Elle Dakin.” She put out a hand. At first, she thought the man might not even shake it. She felt like a salesperson at the door, forcing her way in. He slowly put out his hand. She was surprised at its warmth after his cool demeanor.

  “I have told you people before,” he said. “I will not do interviews. I will not talk to the press.”

  She forced herself to smile. “Oh, no, I am not with the press. “I was a…friend of Jean-Pierre’s, and I wanted to come by, first of all, to tell you how sorry I am about your nephew.”

  “Merci.” His voice was gravelly. His eyes were downcast, and he started to close the door. “Maintenant, excusez-moi, mais—”

  “Wait, you must know what Jean-Pierre told me before he…” She paused for delicacy. “He said that he’d found a missing painting of his grandfather’s.”

  He stood still, staring into her eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Elle Dakin. I work with Diane Roche at the University of Michigan. She’s the foremost expert on your grandfather’s work.” She paused for him to speak. When he didn’t, she went on. “I am her étudiante.”

  “Where is Diane Roche?”

  “Switzerland,” Elle had to admit. “She’s on holiday there. Your nephew called me instead. When he couldn’t get Diane, he asked me to come here to look at a new Marc Luc.”

  Gerard Luc obviously wasn’t going to invite her in. Behind him was an impression of dark red Oriental rugs and heavy, curving furniture. He seemed, like his nephew, to live alone.

  “That is impossible! And why would he ask you to come all this way? There is no new work by my father. There hasn’t been in years. He stopped painting after my mother died.”

  She should have expected this, but his adamant denial still filled her with confusion. Why would Jean-Pierre not have told his uncle about something so momentous?

  “What proof do you have of this”—he waved his hand around—“new painting? Emails, a letter?”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t want anything on email.” Her stomach sank. Jean-Pierre had placed her in a terrible position. Had he done so purposefully?

  “He used email all the time. He sent you nothing?” Gerard Luc scoffed.

  “He mailed me a photo of the painting.” Before Gerard Luc could ask, she said, “But I was pickpocketed almost as soon as I got here—my first metro trip, and it was stolen.” She could feel her face flush. It was still embarrassing that she had been taken advantage of so quickly on her arrival.

  “So you have no proof?” He studied her, but she could barely see into his eyes because of the bags encroaching on them.

  “It was a black-and-white photo.”

  “But the colors were so much of what made my father’s work.”

  “The shapes— I’ve studied them carefully. I was the one who organized and catalogued the sketches for the book that Diane Roche recently published on your father. And someone else knew of the photo. I was attacked with a knife.” Elle swallowed at the memory. “The man—he demanded the photo, but at that point it had already been stolen.”

  Gerard’s voice was heavy with disdain. “It is impossible.”

  “Why would I come here and make this up?”

  He shrugged. “Looking for money, I suppose.”

  Her face burned. “That’s not why I came.”

  “And why did les gendarmes not say anything about this?”

  “Can you tell the police that I want to talk to them? I have information.”

  That didn’t work, either. He seemed to think her some crank, shaking his head and starting to shut the door. “Excusez-moi—”

  She couldn’t think of anything else to say that would make him keep talking to her. She had to let him just close the door and say, “Au revoir.”

  She turned and walked slowly down the stairs, which squeaked under her feet. A stunning chandelier she hadn’t noticed in her hurry on the way up caught the light coming through the pane of the upper-floor window. Dazed, she didn’t know what to make of what Jean-Pierre’s uncle had told her. Why had Jean-Pierre kept the supposed find a secret from his uncle? Because he was the benefactor and planned to rig events in his own favor?

  Her mind returned again to Francois Faunier’s invitation. She didn’t relish walking in alone again. Ryan had said he was staying at the L’Hôtel du Petit Moulin Paris in Marais. Elle activated her long distance for that day, resigned to having to pay the extra charge if she wanted to find his hotel without getting hopelessly lost. She had never asked a guy for a date before.

  This wasn’t a date! It just made sense to ask him to go with her to Francois Gaillot’s party. Wouldn’t it be good for his business contacts? Win-win for both of them and definitely not a date!

  Chapter Eight

  Portrait of a Couple, Francis Picabia (1942-1943)

  The hotels in the Marais didn’t look the same as the chains that dominated the major U.S. cities—monstrous structures that took up whole blocks with their multitude of rooms. These were narrow buildings with discreet l’hôtel signs.

  When Elle walked into the lobby of L’Hôtel du Petit Moulin Paris, the slight desk clerk with a neatly trimmed beard said, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle, how are you today?” She wondered what it was about her that people started speaking English right away. How did they know she wasn’t French?

  “Bonjour,” she said. “I understand you have a Ryan Rimon staying here. Could I speak to him on the house phone?”

  “Of course, Mademoiselle.” The clerk tapped on a keyboard, then picked up a receiver and handed it to her as he dialed the number.

  The phone rang four times before Ryan picked up. “Hello?” Ryan said, a question in his voice. How often did people call a hotel room anymore?

  “Bonjour,” she said. “It’s Elle. From last night? I’m down in the lobby.” She sensed his surprise even over the telephone line. “I thought I’d stop by,” she said lamely. She had not been able to come up with a better opening line, like she had just happened on his hotel.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Too fluttery to sit, she wandered around the lobby. Outside the window on the uneven sidewalk, an older woman led a reluctant King Charles Spaniel, and a balding father passed by with a boy and girl, both riding clattering scooters.

  She listened for the ding of the elevator, but instead the stairs creaked, and Ryan came, jogging on light steps, down the stairs.

  “Elle.” He smiled broadly. “What a surprise!”

  He seemed glad to see her. She breathed in his scent of shampoo and soap as he approached but tried to sound casual. “You mentioned you were staying here, and I happened to be going by.” That sounded pretty lame, even to her own ears.

  He nodded and gestured to the oversize burgundy chairs that framed the lobby. When she sat, she felt like a child sitting in a fake throne.

  “I just wanted to thank you again for last night,” she said, blushing. Oh, how she wished she didn’t blush whenever she felt embarrassed. It broadcast her anxiety, and she had no hope of coming off as cool and collected.

  “No problem,” he said. “I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time. I’m sorry I couldn’t have gone with you farther. You made it back okay?”

  If anything, Ryan was even better looking in the light that streamed in through the large panes of the hotel than he had been under the streetlamps the night before. His blue eyes were set off by a gray V-neck sweater and a light blue Oxford underneath.

  Come on, do it, she urged herself. She had come here to ask him to the party. She swallowed. This was harder than bringing up her proposal to Diane in the last meeting of the year.

  Instead, he had to pick up the conversational gambit. “What have you been doing today?”

  “Oh, some exploring. I saw Notre Dame.” It was hard not to see the majestic edifice of Notre Dame in the Marais.

  “How’s the dissertation coming?” he asked.

  Probably because she’d been on her own in Paris so far, she found herself desperate for conversation, and she started talking about Marc Luc. Unlike most guys she had talked to on campus, Ryan asked a lot of questions. Elle had been keeping Jean-Pierre’s secret of a supposed new discovery, but why should she now, with his murder and the fact she’d been attacked?

  “The police still haven’t contacted me. They must have thought I was an annoying tourist. I forced my information on the gendarme at the front before he shooed the taxi driver and me away.”

  The elevator dinged, and a family of three generations streamed out. As they went by, Elle could hear them speaking French. This was a hotel where actual French people stayed rather than just American tourists. Ryan must know what he was doing.

  She examined him so closely, she could see his pupils dilate against the light, surrounded by the black tiger stripes radiating out like the view through a kaleidoscope. Ryan was speaking. “This Jean-Pierre said he wanted you to keep it secret. Why?”

  Elle scooted back on the throne-like chair. “I gathered it wasn’t all on the up-and-up. The photo he sent—I got the impression he hadn’t seen the actual painting himself, either.” She took a deep breath, surprised at her own chattiness. She was hardly nervous at all. Or maybe she was talking—or babbling rather—because she was nervous. “I even went to see Jean-Pierre’s uncle today. He didn’t know about the painting, either.”

  “You went and questioned him?” he said.

  She drew back. “I don’t know if I would call it questioning him. I just wanted to know if he’d heard of it, and he hadn’t. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  “And now the picture’s gone?” he said. “You’re sure it was just your regular pickpocket that stole it?”

  “You think it was on purpose?” She moved to the edge of the cushion. “That the picture was the target, not the money?” She thought back. “The woman was working with a group. The police seemed to think it was just another garden-variety scam.”

  Ryan checked his watch, and she took her cue. She better get to what she wanted to ask. She paused, working up her courage. “You know, I was talking to this man last night—an older man,” she felt compelled to say. “Francois Gaillot. Anyway, he emailed this morning and said he was having a party. He invited me to come.” Elle swallowed. So much light flooded in the front window, she found herself squinting, and yet, the sun still had not shone. “I was wondering if you wanted to join me.”

  She looked down, blushing furiously, at the plush material of the chair. He didn’t wear a wedding ring—she had checked again—but he probably had a girlfriend. She steeled herself, in fact, for him to say that.

  All of these thoughts whipped through her head in the fraction of an instant. She needed to downplay the invitation, hedge her bets. “And maybe you could make some connections, too, for your export business. I mean, I’m sure you already know a lot of people, but this way, you’d meet even more.” She was going on too much, she realized.

  He smiled. “Sure, sounds like a great idea.” He was so tall that he could sit back in these seats and still have his long legs hit the floor. “How much does this Francois know of what you’ve told me?”

  Her eyes widened. “Jean-Pierre is gone now. It’s not a secret anymore, and no one seems that interested in it, even the police, to be honest.”

  “What about that guy last night who tried to grab your purse? Did you ever wonder whether that wasn’t random?”

  She glanced at the front desk clerk, suddenly paranoid. But he was too caught up being suave into the phone to pay attention to them on their oversize chairs. “Like the person who killed Jean-Pierre is after me, too?”

  Ryan stared at her for a moment and then dropped his head, shaking it. His hair at the scalp line flopped over in a charming way. He looked back up at her with his gorgeous blue eyes. “Forget I said anything. But maybe you can stay safe until we go to the party tonight. What time?” He looked at his watch again.

  She stood, taking his signal. “Okay, so the party is at seven, in the Seventh Arrondissement.” He looked blank, so she said, “Near the Eiffel Tower. I can forward the invitation to you, if you give me your email.”

  “Sounds good.” As he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, she noticed the muscles in his chest working under the sweater he wore. He handed her a business card. The print was in simple, modern lines: Ryan Rimon, Exporter, accompanied by a number and email address. Nothing else. Minimalism—like the website. “I’ll email you back about where to meet.” His smile seemed distracted.

  Of course, he wasn’t interested in her. She tried to sound as businesslike as possible and plastered a bright smile on her face. “See you then. Au revoir.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Treachery of Images, Rene Magritte (1929)

  Le Magasin Sennelier, family owned since 1867, was the only choice for supplies, Gregory insisted. The Surrealist artists themselves bought the Sennelier brand, seeking the quality of their pigment and the right hue and tone of color. That color was not replicated today, except here, and the store still sold paper without the optical brighteners that became standard in the 1960s. Without them, a copy would not pass the first test of the early 1940s when Marc Luc produced his work.

  Ryan hated to leave Elle so quickly. He’d kept reminding himself the night before as he walked her home he wasn’t on a date. He was on a mission to find a stolen painting. He had to use all available means at his disposal.

  Then, she had appeared at his hotel to thank him for the night before. That must have taken some doing. He knew how shy she was, which, for some reason, added to her appeal. That adorable flush in her cheeks, highlighting the green in her eyes. She had no idea how pretty she was.

  He frowned. That made her vulnerable alone in Paris. She had already been attacked and pickpocketed. Now she was tromping around the city by herself.

  Of course, he didn’t have the right to tell her to stay in her apartment until they met up again.

  Determined not to let Elle distract him, he turned his attention to the narrow aisles of the store. Shelving on each side could be pulled out to reveal particular tubes of color, and higher up, the shelves arrayed ink jars, not only of navy and black, but all variations of color.

  He didn’t know whether it was an expense account with the U.S. federal government or of putting his talents to work again, but Gregory was in excellent spirits as they browsed the shelves. Ryan quickly became overwhelmed by the number of choices, but Gregory paused for several minutes over even slight variations of yellow.

  Finally, Ryan, jamming his fists into the pockets of his jacket in a vain attempt to hold onto his patience, urged Gregory along.

  Instead of galvanizing him, Gregory dug in his heels and looked at him sidelong. “Guess who called?”

  “A buyer?” If so, things were happening faster than Ryan could have hoped.

  “Babette Alain.” Gregory’s lips pursed in a smile. “She’s never phoned before. We’re just casual acquaintances—I come to some of the openings.” Gregory’s eyes crinkled at the corner. “She asked about you. Wanted to know your status.”

  Ryan stiffened. Status, as in law enforcement status? “You can’t tell her about this.” He gestured to the art store.

  Gregory rolled his eyes. “Obviously. Babette wants you to come to Francois Gaillot’s party. You should go, if you want to get information. His father was a collector back in the time you’re interested in. Francois knows a lot of people.”

  Ryan’s heart sank. He had just accepted Elle’s invitation.

  “She’s beautiful, as well, man. Why do you look so glum?”

  “If you remember, this is work for me.”

  “So I’ll give you her number then?”

  Ryan gave a brisk nod. He didn’t have a choice. Getting close to Babette was his best in to the crowd. Checking his phone, he found he had not received an email from Elle yet. He would have to break his date with her.

  Date? It wasn’t a date in the first place. She had made that clear, claimed she had only asked him so he could make business contacts. Maybe he could just say he’d meet her there.

  Recognizing this would not be an in-and-out job, and an argument with Gregory might be remembered in an interview with a shopkeeper if an attempted forgery later came to light, Ryan decided to wait outside.

  From there, he ambled down a winding street to a café on the corner. He sat under a frayed awning under a heat lamp. At the table next to him, a couple stared into each other’s eyes while smoking.

  Ryan could handle ordering cappuccino—that word seemed to be the same here. It arrived in a thimble-sized cup, which he sipped as he reported to Kevin on email. Ryan told him about the PhD art history student who had come to meet Jean-Pierre Luc, and her advisor, an expert in the Surrealist period.

  Ryan went to the University of Michigan Art History Department website and found Diane Roche’s profile. A haughty-looking woman stared back at him, and the brief blurb accompanying the photo mentioned her specialty, Yves Tanguy, and the recent publication of the book on the sketches of Marc Luc.

 

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