Chapter Twenty-Eight
GENEVIèVE
“Geneviève,” Gordon stammered when I appeared at his door with Roux. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“She insisted on coming,” Roux said in reply to Gordon’s dark look.
I was a set designer, not an actress, but I’d picked up enough from years in theaters to muster a convincing smile. “I couldn’t bring myself to let the painting out of my sight.”
I also couldn’t bring myself to part with Roux, but Gordon didn’t need to know that.
If I hadn’t spent the entire trip to Paris steeling myself for this visit, I might have recoiled when Gordon hugged me. But I kept up the act and hugged him back, no matter how my stomach churned.
Grepper hadn’t come out and accused Gordon of playing a role in my father’s death, but he did say Gordon had profited from it. If that was true — a big if — I had to know what that role was.
I took a deep breath, trying to settle my heaving emotions.
“Well, I’m delighted to see you,” Gordon said, releasing me. “And delighted that you were able to recover the painting.”
Roux nodded. “Like I said, sir. An easy in-and-out operation.”
Gordon looked around expectantly, practically rubbing his hands together.
I unslung a storage tube from my shoulders and carefully removed the painting.
“Here it is. Unharmed, thank goodness.” I unrolled it and held it up, peeking over the top edge to watch my godfather’s reaction.
He stared, confused. “Where’s the rest?”
“The rest?” I echoed, innocent as a lamb.
“Yes. The frame.”
“That’s how we found it, sir,” Roux said. “No frame. That is the correct painting, isn’t it?”
The man was a master of the poker face. Normally, so was Gordon, but his cheeks went from pink to red.
I interjected before Gordon exploded. “Of course it’s the right painting. I know my father’s work when I see it.”
Gordon opened and closed his mouth like a fish gulping for water. “But the frame…”
I shrugged cheerfully. “We can replace the frame. But we can’t replace Dad’s painting.”
“Yes, but…” He clenched his fists, then glared at Roux. “Your orders were—”
“Our orders were to retrieve the painting, sir,” Roux interjected.
Electricity filled the air, reflecting Gordon’s ire.
“When I say, get my car, I don’t have to specify four tires and a bumper, do I?” he snarled.
Roux and I had agreed to keep mind-speak to a minimum in case Gordon picked up on it, but I was sure Roux was thinking something along the lines of, I don’t know. I’m not your fucking driver.
He didn’t deign to reply, though.
“What. Happened. To. The. Frame?” Gordon gritted out.
“Like Roux said, this is how we found it,” I said.
Gordon’s eyes bugged out. “We? You were there?” He turned to Roux, thundering, “Did I not make myself clear when I said my goddaughters were not to be part of the operation?”
Roux replied in the same flat tone. “You did, sir. But she insisted.”
I nodded cheerily. “I did.”
“And since we had a comfortable window in which to execute operations, according to the intelligence you supplied…” Roux said.
Comfortable, my ass, I nearly snorted. And as for intelligence, Gordon’s information had been way off. By design, I feared.
The room tingled with magic, and I sensed Gordon reaching into Roux’s mind. Mine, too, but I was ready this time, serving up images of snowy Swiss landscapes and my father’s rolled-up, unframed painting on Grepper’s desk.
Gordon started pacing. Briefly, he came to a halt, opened his mouth — then shut it and went back to pacing.
It would have been comical if the situation weren’t so damn twisted. He couldn’t come out and ask about the Monet because he’d lied about that from the start. He’d lied to Roux, and he’d lied to me.
My gut roiled. Mina had been right about Gordon all along. But his crimes might run even deeper than she suspected, if Grepper were to be believed.
I thought of my father. My mother. All the years they’d missed out on sharing together, and all that he’d missed with Mina and me.
My cheeks colored as I faced Gordon, and I longed to confront him directly. But what would that accomplish when he would vehemently deny any involvement?
No. My best course of action was to learn what I could by operating as deviously as Gordon did.
“I don’t know why, but the painting was removed from the frame when we found it,” I said, ashamed at how easily the lies rolled off my tongue. “Whether Celeste or Grepper did that, we couldn’t tell.”
That was the beauty of the situation. Gordon couldn’t accuse us of hiding the Monet from him, because our story was perfectly plausible.
“If my informants are to be believed, Celeste is dead,” Gordon growled.
I did my best to look shocked.
“Oh my gosh. That’s terrible.” I said, skirting around a more direct, Good riddance. “What happened?”
Gordon looked out the window. “My contact didn’t elaborate. But it seems Celeste chose to associate with the wrong people.”
I swallowed hard. Claudette had chosen to associate with the wrong people too. Had my father also made that mistake in his friendship with Gordon?
We all fell silent, lost in our own thoughts.
“Tell me again,” Gordon demanded moments later. “This was exactly how you found it?”
I nodded quickly. “Rolled up, like this.”
“No frame?”
“No frame,” Roux echoed in his usual, flat tone. Boy, did that come in handy for lying.
I made a mental note, then erased it. I’d already shaved enough around the edges of my morals. I couldn’t afford to trim any more.
I tilted my head, imitating the old, gullible me. “I didn’t realize you were so interested in the frame. Was there something important about it?”
“Yes! I mean, no.” His eyes darkened, and he glared at Roux.
I touched Gordon’s arm, keeping his focus on me. Safer for everyone that way.
“Gordon,” I said as gently as I could. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
My heart hammered, because this was it. His last chance to convince me he was the good-hearted man I’d always taken him for.
Silence stretched…and stretched, like a balloon filled past its limits. A vein in his forehead pulsed, and beads of sweat glistened on his brow.
“Of course not,” he said gruffly.
Boom! The imaginary balloon burst, taking my loyalty to Gordon with it.
“It’s just…” He cast around for a moment before going on. “I suppose I grew fond of it as it was. It looks somehow…different this way.”
Wow. A blatant lie. To my face.
If it weren’t for Roux signaling for me to remain cool, I would have lost it.
“Well, we have the painting, and that’s what counts,” I forced myself to say.
Gordon’s expression told me how off the mark I was. Then he turned to Roux.
“What else do you have to report? No sign of Grepper on the way in or out? No sign of Alexandre Ernaux’s men?”
Roux’s gaze was perfectly level. “Nothing, sir.”
Gordon still didn’t look satisfied, but he never would be, short of Roux pulling that Monet out of one of his cargo pockets and saying, Oh yes. I almost forgot about this priceless artwork you never mentioned.
“Still, I think it would have been better to work through the authorities,” I said.
“And risk your father’s painting?” Gordon shot back. “It could have been destroyed by the time the authorities took action.”
“Well, I’m sure Dad would agree it’s not worth me — or you — gaining a criminal record for breaking and entering, or worse.”
Much, much worse, in your case, I almost added.
Roux held up his oversized, multifunctional wristwatch. “We need to get going if we’re to catch the train we booked for the trip back.”
Good old Roux — always pulling me back from the brink.
I checked the antique clock on the mantelpiece and wondered if that had been stolen too. Then I rammed a steel rod down my backbone and faced Gordon.
“He’s right,” I murmured. “We really ought to go. Unless you have any more questions?”
Gordon’s eyes bored into mine, and for the first time, I saw suspicion there.
Well, that beat seeing me as gullible, I decided.
The tap on my skull grew unbearable as he tried to spy on my thoughts. Then he frowned and looked away again.
“No. That will be all,” he grumbled, then threw in a belated “Thank you” to keep from sounding too harsh.
So, maybe he really loved me.
Maybe that could be useful also flitted through my mind. Another concerning sign of how devious I was becoming.
I headed for the door before Gordon corrupted me any further.
But a calendar on a side table caught my eye — one of those small, triangular ones that stood on its own.
We had one at the chateau too, but ours was a freebie from the nearest car shop that featured grainy photos of local scenery.
Gordon’s came from a bank, judging by the fancy styling and discreet sponsorship label, and it featured famous artworks.
It was open to November, and the picture showed Monet’s Meules — Haystacks.
Opportunity wasn’t knocking — it was banging on the door to my mind. So, I grabbed it. Literally, by picking up the calendar and studying the image.
“Monet,” I mused. “So beautiful.”
Gordon shrugged. “Yes, but popularity has made some of his pieces almost ordinary.”
“You’re right. It is nice to come across lesser-known pieces,” I said.
Roux shot me the same look he’d used when I’d charged up the stairs at Grepper’s. Yes, I was treading on thin ice. But I had to know, for my father’s sake.
“Mom said Dad was trying to track down a couple of lost paintings when he died,” I went on.
My mother had said no such thing, but that was a safe enough thing to say since my father had always been working on one such project or another.
“One was a Monet, I think,” I continued. “Did he ever tell you about it?”
Gordon’s gaze went out the windows, but he didn’t focus on the view of the canal below or Montmartre in the distance.
“I remember your father gathering information about a missing Monet, but not the timing,” he finally said.
The tic by his eye said otherwise.
It took everything I had not to shake him, because along with the lie, I sensed profound sorrow. Why? What did Gordon know that I didn’t?