Chapter 39
I BET MARIE ANTOINETTE had the same problem when she lived in Versailles: too many rooms, too much furniture, too many doors leading to other doors, and too many staircases. Versailles has sixty-seven—a fun factoid to share at your next cocktail party. The Velasquez house has only three. But still.
Armed with our trusty diaper bag, Lily and I go through the back entrance into the mudroom that leads to the kitchen. Like a salmon swimming upstream, I wend my way past several waiters heading out, all holding trays of lamb lollies—tiny lamb chops on toothpicks—with mint dipping sauce.
Getting from the kitchen to the dining room is a no-brainer—one leads directly into the other.
But after that, I’m lost. I wander through several hallways, a living room, a bigger living room, a paneled library, and some other rooms after that.
Every room is filled with Louis XIV somethings or Louis XV something elses.
Gold-encrusted mirrors, chandeliers, carpets, credenzas, mahogany sideboards.
It’s the kind of furniture you see in auction catalogs and wonder, Who lives like that?
Full disclosure: No, Lily didn’t need changing.
It was just an excuse for me to go inside and snoop around.
But now that I’m here, what exactly have I discovered?
That the Velasquez family is wealthy? I knew that.
That they’re wealthier than the Harrisons?
I knew that too. That Paulo has anything other than a social relationship with Ben?
Hard to say. I have yet to see a single secret handshake.
This is nuts. I’ve been here for almost two weeks now, and all I’ve been able to share with Metcalf are Ben’s various cell phone numbers and car registrations, a description of someone who may or may not be named Carlos, some insights into Ben’s character and his relationships with some questionable people (courtesy of his ex-wife, Sherry), and several computer files and documents that revealed nothing.
I’m no closer to getting at the truth than I was on day one.
Yes, there’s a lot of artwork here in the Velasquez house, but most of the paintings look like Old Masters. I thought Ben specialized in New Masters, up-and-comers. Are any of these from Ben’s gallery? If so, were they paid for with dirty money? Or laundered money? And how would I be able to tell?
So far, Metcalf hasn’t suggested I’m wasting the FBI’s time and money. But I’m sure he’s thinking it. I’m ready to throw in the towel, or the diaper, or whatever would be symbolic of my useless time here.
But then, a miracle.
As Lily and I go back through the kitchen, I see two party guests standing there chatting. Totally demoralized, I don’t even bother to listen. Then something catches my attention.
WOMAN 1: Will I see you at the Harrison Gallery party?
WOMAN 2: Wouldn’t miss it!
WOMAN 1: Who’s the artist this time?
WOMAN 2: I hear it’s someone from Slovenia. Or was it Slovakia? God knows how Ben finds them.
WOMAN 2: Remember that last one? With the purple hair?
WOMAN 1: Of course! You know, we wound up buying one of his watercolors.
WOMAN 2: Really? Which one?
WOMAN 1: The sardine can next to the plaid crucifix.
WOMAN 1: I remember that one! So interesting.
WOMAN 2: Yes! And the can is the exact color of my couch.
So—a new exhibition. A new artist. Most important, a party at the gallery to introduce the artist to the art-buying world. Somehow, some way, I’ve got to finagle an invitation.
I walk back outside feeling better, more hopeful. Maybe I’m not such a loser after all.
Until I hear a familiar voice cry: “Elinor Gilbert! What on earth are you doing here?”