Chapter Eighteen #2
The elevator pinged, and I groped around for Roux’s arm.
“Okay, go,” I said. “Lead me to any painting, and I’ll tell you what I hear.” Then he would have to believe me, I figured.
“Any painting?” he asked dubiously, leading me out.
I nodded. “Any painting.”
I couldn’t see his expression, but his long pause gave me a good idea of what that must be. Then he led me forward, keeping me close at his side.
Walking blindfolded through a busy gallery was a strange feeling, but I’d never felt more secure. At least, when it came to moving around safely. I was, however, terrified of failing at the challenge I had assigned myself.
Roux took a few more steps, turned right, and stopped.
“Okay. That one. What do you hear?”
The sounds of the painting came through clear as a bell.
Ha. Easy. “I hear cows. Munching, stomping, mooing. Cows in a field, maybe?”
Roux went totally still, then leaned in. His body heat enveloped me as he checked the blindfold.
“No peeking,” he grunted.
“I’m not. Those are cows, right?”
Without a word, he led me onward, then stopped again.
“Okay, now what do you hear?”
I strained to hear, but there wasn’t much. “Something in the distance…maybe a wagon on a road?”
Roux didn’t say anything, but I could tell I wasn’t far off.
“I hear flies buzzing, like a quiet day in the country…” I went on.
He scoffed. “You’re just guessing. That could be any of the landscapes in this gallery.”
I stomped my foot. “I am not guessing. It’s just a quiet scene. Oh!” I froze as a bell chimed. Bong… Bong… Bong…
“I hear bells. Like the church tower in Auberre at three-quarters of an hour.”
He went silent, and I waited.
“Well?” I finally asked.
“Van Gogh. The church at Auvers,” he murmured.
“See? I can hear paintings. Well, paintings made with skill and passion.” I turned my head, listening, then pointed. “There are two girls talking in a painting over there. And over there…” I cocked my head. “A horse. A kid. Maybe a wagon?”
“Gypsy caravan,” Roux murmured, dumbfounded. “By Van Gogh. And Deux fillettes — Two Little Girls.” He checked my scarf again, then said, “You’ve been here before. That’s how you know.”
“Yes, I have been here before. But no, I didn’t memorize every painting in every room. I probably couldn’t if I tried.”
He led me onward, faster. We passed through one room, then another, where he turned me around three times. Then he took me through another few rooms and repeated the process.
“Okay, now what?” he demanded.
I bit my lip, listening. “Horses, over there.”
Silence, then a begrudging reply. “Degas. Le Défilé.”
“Ah, the racehorses.” I nodded. “No wonder they sound so nervous.” I turned in a different direction, following my ears. “And over there… Water lapping. A lake, or a slow-moving river, maybe?”
Roux’s stunned silence was as good as Yes.
I went on. “A church. Big, heavy bells.” I cocked my head. “Oh. Big Ben?”
“Monet, Houses of Parliament,” he confirmed in a stunned voice.
I turned and pointed again. “Silverware and china, like in a kitchen.”
“Café,” he murmured, clearly impressed.
I could think of two. “The one by Degas or the one by Van Gogh?”
A sharp intake of breath told me he was blown away.
Good, because this was important, dammit.
I continued a few steps, but Roux pulled me to a stop when someone cut in front of us. When they passed, he nudged me onward.
“What about that one?”
I frowned, listening. “I hear rubbing…or scraping… Something heavy being picked up, then put down.” I waited. “Am I right?”
I couldn’t see him nod, but he could well have, judging by the awe in his voice. “Raboteurs de parquet, by Gustave Caillebotte.”
The floor scrapers. I could picture it.
“Believe me now?” I asked rather smugly.
“Yes. I’m impressed.”
Rare praise, indeed. I nearly raised my arms in triumph.
“Bring me to your favorite piece,” I said, flush with success.
He did, but oops. Whatever the painting depicted, it was really, really quiet.
I listened — intently — because this felt especially important.
Then I shook my head. “Crickets. All I hear is crickets. Water lapping in the background…”
Then I slumped. Maybe I wasn’t as good at this as I’d hoped.
Roux gently pulled down my blindfold, murmuring, “Well done.”
I blinked at a blurry nighttime scene with swirls of light. “Oh.”
It was Van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rh?ne, a scene as peaceful as they came. And a fitting choice for a tiger shifter who liked to prowl around in the dark.
“One of my favorites,” he mumbled a little shyly.
I held his hand to my heart and whispered, “I promise not to tell anyone.”
His eyes sparkled like Van Gogh’s stars, and my soul warmed.
Seconds passed, then a minute, and I lost track of where we were and why. We might as well have been on the banks of the Rh?ne with Van Gogh that night more than a century ago.
Then someone bumped my shoulder, and the illusion broke.
Roux glared at the man, then cleared his throat. “Okay, I believe you. You can hear paintings. But how do you know the voices you heard aren’t coming from your father’s painting?”
“No one matching those voices was at that Easter with us. Also, they’re fainter, like they’re coming from deeper down.”
Roux waited, as if I were holding something back, but that was all I had.
“So, what painting?”
I slumped, because that was the million-dollar question.
“I have no idea,” I admitted.
He chewed that over, and I braced myself for a critical comment like, Not very useful magic, is it?
I hung my head. No. It wasn’t.
Instead of pointing out the obvious, Roux wrapped me in a hug, and I just about melted into it.
“Well, it’s a start. Now we know what everyone is after. A painting.”
I could have stayed in his embrace forever, but an ugly thought struck me, and I slowly peeled away.
“So we know what Gordon was hiding — a painting.” I shook my head. “But why? And why would he ask us to go after Dad’s painting without mentioning that important detail?”
Roux gave me a long, hard look.
I winced. “Because he’s as corrupt as Mina says he is?”
Roux nodded slowly, then checked his watch. “We should get going. But not a word of this to him. You understand?”
Feeling sick, I nodded. “I understand.”
Roux motioned toward the exit, and I followed him on leaden feet. The events of the past days suddenly overwhelmed me, and I wished myself back into my old life, designing sets for the Children’s Theater of New England.
But then I remembered the other parts of my old life — the bad relationships, the stupid mistakes — and decided I didn’t want to go back after all.
So what did I want?
A crystal-clear image popped into my mind. I wanted a safe, tranquil, and happy life. I wanted to revive the chateau. And Roux. I wanted Roux.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Was that a hopeless fantasy, or a blueprint for the future?
“Maman, Maman…” a young boy called.
I whipped around, yanking Roux to a stop.
“We really need to get goin—” he started, then trailed off.
I barely heard. I was too busy staring. Not at a boy, because there wasn’t a single child in the gallery, but at a painting. I stepped closer, then closed my eyes.
Maman, Maman…
Oui, mon chéri? his mother replied. Yes, my dear?
I opened my eyes again, stunned.
Roux looked at the painting, then at me, though he didn’t speak, letting me think.
The painting showed a woman and a boy strolling through a field of poppies. They appeared twice, in fact — once in the distance, then closer to the artist’s vantage point, indicating movement over time.
“The voices. They’re exactly the same,” I whispered. “That’s them.”
“Monet. Coquelicots,” Roux whispered without looking at the plaque.
I nodded. “That’s Monet’s first wife, Camille, and his son Jean.”
Roux cocked his head. “But this painting isn’t hidden behind your father’s.”
“Camille and Jean appear in several different paintings,” I pointed out.
The plaque beside the painting listed the name of the piece in French and English — The Poppy Field near Argenteuil — and the year, 1873.
Roux went very still. “Are you saying Gordon is hiding a Monet?”
“I don’t know what to believe. But I know that’s them. That’s the woman and the boy I heard.”
The rest was a riddle, but that part, I was sure of.
Roux studied me a moment longer, then looked at his watch and grimaced. “We can’t keep Gordon waiting any longer.”
A chill went down my spine. Maybe accompanying Roux to Gordon’s wasn’t the best idea. How could I face my godfather without bombarding him with questions?
Then I thought of Claudette — and my father, and his friendship with Gordon. This was a terrifying, tangled web, but I had to unravel it, for their sakes.
Twenty minutes later, Roux and I stood in the elevator to Gordon’s apartment. Just before it pinged for the top floor, Roux squeezed my hand. He didn’t utter a word, but his eyes said, Not a word about the museum or the Monet.
I nodded grimly. For once in my life, I had no problem doing as I was told.