Chapter Eighteen
GENEVIèVE
“Boy, does Anonymous move fast,” Bene observed, watching the live stream on our screen.
The moment bids on the painting closed, two men entered the shop and flashed IDs at Monsieur Robert. He typed into the device to interface with Anonymous, then released the painting into their custody.
“That means we have to move fast.” Roux pointed to Mina and Marius. “You two — follow the painting. Wherever it goes, you go.”
They nodded and hurried outside.
“Henrik, follow Anatole,” Roux barked, and off went the vampire without so much as an eye roll.
Roux turned to Bene next.
“Stand by inside the antique shop to see if anyone asks questions about Anonymous or shows any unusual interest in that transaction.”
“Roger,” Bene affirmed, taking off.
I stared, impressed. Starting any task at the chateau came with a certain amount of foot-dragging and cajoling, or at least a show of resistance. Now, the gang jumped into action like a well-oiled machine.
“What do I do?” I asked.
Roux pointed to the laptop. “Keep your eyes on the auction. I’ll stand at the front window to see if anyone follows the painting. Watch for my signal. We might need to move fast.”
With that, he strode to the front of the café.
I opened my mouth to ask what the signal was, but it was too late.
He peered out the front window, standing at an angle so as not to be seen. We might have been in a Parisian café, but it was easy to picture him peering around the corner of a bombed-out building in a war zone…or stalking prey in a tangled tropical forest.
For the first time, I realized how out of my depth I was.
The live stream showed two men sliding the painting into a crate, then heading for the door.
The painting was the size of a small poster, so one man could carry the crate while the other stood guard.
Bene entered the antique shop as they exited, which left him in the absurd position of holding the door open for them.
Destiny was definitely messing with us.
I gulped, trying to think fast. When it came to following vampires or hacking into computer systems, I was useless. But I could do cunning when I had to, and I knew that painting better than anyone.
An idea jumped into my mind. I grabbed the laptop, shoved it into my backpack, and hurried to exit the café.
“What the—” Roux started.
“Trust me,” I murmured, rushing outside.
Gen! he barked into my mind.
I swear, I will not do anything rash, and I won’t get involved, I told him. I just have to be close enough to listen when they go by.
Listen to what? he demanded.
Whoa. Where are you going? my sister chimed in, alarmed.
She and Marius waited a few doors away, ready to follow the deliverymen when they emerged.
Trust me, was all I had time to say.
Kind of a stretch, since I didn’t trust myself. Still, I was on a roll, and it was too late to quit.
I could sense everyone holding their breath, certain another impulsive decision of mine would ruin everything.
And boy, did that sting.
I hurried onward, determined to prove them all wrong.
I jogged across the street to a shop one door down from Chez Robert. When the two men emerged with the painting, heading toward me, I stopped, pretending to study a vintage map in the shop window.
I closed my eyes, straining to hear past the sound of passing cars and pedestrians. At best, I had a few seconds to listen in as they passed, and I had to make that time count.
And — there! I caught the clack of a croquet mallet and the sound of my mother’s laugh. Faint at first, then louder as the men brushed by behind me.
No, not that way, I heard Mina say from the time capsule of the painting. The sound was muffled by the crate but still clear enough. You have to do the gates in order.
Then, bingo! I caught the young boy asking his mother how much longer “this” would take.
Maman, maman, ca va encore durer longtemps?
This what? I wanted to yell.
The men nearly moved out of range, but I was desperate for more. I drew in my fingers, pulling shadows toward me. My view dimmed — that looking out through the inside of a bottle feeling that came with shadow-weaving — as I followed the men closely, listening in.
The risk paid off, because I heard something I’d missed before. The boy’s mother telling him they were almost done.
On a presque fini, mon chéri.
Almost done with what?
The men continued into broad sunlight, forcing me to hang back and release the shadows that had concealed me. I burned to chase after the painting, but that was for Mina and Marius to do.
Do not mess this up. Do not mess this up, I ordered myself again and again.
So I didn’t follow. I stared at a shop window while my mind spun.
Who was that boy? Who was his mother?
They weren’t guests at that Easter depicted in the painting, I was sure. Their manner of speech was a little dated, and their voices emerged from a greater distance.
Or a different layer of the painting, I realized.
I turned and headed back to the café, where Roux waited, staring.
“What was that about?” he demanded.
I sank into a chair, trying to make sense of what I’d heard.
“You just disappeared. How did you do that?” Roux went on, keeping his voice down.
Shadow-weaving. I was amazed that it had actually worked, but my thoughts were elsewhere.
Whatever is hidden in the painting has to be worth a fortune, Marius had said.
Money had been one of our guesses, and documents had been another. But neither explained the voices of the boy and his mother.
I ran a finger along the café table, recalling the unusual thickness of the frame.
Gordon is a crook and a liar, and he’s used you, Roux had once said.
I stared into the distance, moving the puzzle pieces this way and that.
Then it hit me, and I stared at Roux.
“There’s a painting behind the painting.”
He stared. “There’s what?”
“There’s a painting behind my father’s painting. That’s why the frame is so thick. That’s what everyone is after — the hidden painting,” I said.
He considered. “Makes sense. But what?”
“Something with a mother and a little boy.”
He stared at me. “Did you see it?”
I shook my head.
“Then how do you know?”
* * *
Trust me didn’t work that time, so I did my best to explain. Roux listened, intently at first, then skeptically.
“You can hear paintings?”
He didn’t believe me. Hell, I might not have believed me. It sounded that loopy.
But my family had its own unique take on loopy. As in magic.
“Yes, I can,” I insisted. “It’s the one small kind of magic I can actually perform.”
He crooked an eyebrow. “You can do two kinds of magic, and neither is small — especially melting into the shadows like that.”
“Tigers melt into shadows,” I countered.
“Using our stripes, not magic.”
“Don’t change the subject,” I chided, trying to do exactly that.
“Fine. Let’s focus on what you heard.” His voice grew softer. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Geneviève. I just don’t understand.”
God, I loved it when he used my full name. But it sure made focusing difficult.
I glanced at the café walls for something to demonstrate with, but the artworks were all cheap reprints of Gauguin’s masterpieces, making them soulless and quiet. But seeing the Tahitian beauties Gauguin had painted for his iconic Arearea did give me an idea.
I checked my watch. Seven p.m. A Thursday. I took out my phone.
“What are you doing?” Roux asked.
“Checking the opening hours of the Musée d’Orsay.”
He frowned. “They’re open late on Thursdays.”
A quick search confirmed the museum would be open until nine forty-five.
“Boy, you really do know the place,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “There’s a discount if you come after six, and it’s less crowded.”
A man after my own heart.
“How is any of that relevant to this?” he asked.
I thought it over, then answered indirectly. “What will you do when we’re done here?”
He sighed. “I have to report to Gordon. Personally.”
I bit my lip, not daring to ask. But I had to — for my father’s sake, and for Claudette’s.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I said.
No, Roux’s expression said outright.
I went ahead anyway.
“I’ll go with you to report to Gordon. He’ll probably be a little more bearable if I’m there.”
Roux snorted. “A little? A lot.” Then he frowned. “What’s the other part of the deal?”
“We make a quick stop on the way.”
He looked lost. “At the Musée d’Orsay?”
I nodded.
He shook his head. “Hardly the time for a detour.”
“It’s relevant. I promise.”
He didn’t look so sure, and frankly, neither was I, but I kept my game face on.
Ten minutes later, we were riding the Métro’s number eleven line. I closed my eyes.
Roux nudged me. “Everything okay?”
I swallowed hard and weighed up whether to answer with the truth or a lie.
The truth, of course. Roux never shied away from it. Why should I?
“Just pretending for a little while.”
“Pretending what?”
“That this is a hot date and not an investigation.”
His eyes lit up. “Hot date, huh?”
I blushed. “Considering last night… Yes.”
He grinned, then shook his head. “I guarantee you, I would do better than discount night at the museum for a hot date.”
I smiled back. “You mean, all day at the museum? No discount?”
He wound his fingers through mine. “I’ll keep my plans secret for now.”
My heart skipped a beat. Did that mean he might make good on this fantasy someday?
I put my hand over his. “Watch out. I might just hold you to that.”
He slid an arm over my shoulders, then closed his eyes. His turn to pretend?
I kept my mouth shut and my hand over his.
All too soon, we were in the Musée d’Orsay and back to reality.
Roux checked his watch. “Okay, what now?”
I pulled my scarf from my bag and led him to the elevator to the top level.
“My favorite floor, too,” he said as we rode up. “But—”
I shushed him and tied the scarf over my eyes. “This isn’t about what’s here. It’s about what I heard in my father’s painting — and in the painting hidden behind it.”
A good thing we had the elevator to ourselves. I must have sounded insane.