Chapter 11
Gabrielle rolled over in bed, throwing out a hand to reach for her alarm clock. When it wasn’t there, and she met with another satiny smooth pillow instead of her night table, she remembered. Her eyes flew open. Immediately she was aware of how her body ached and lifted tentative fingers to touch her eye. It was still swollen, but less so.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Malcom was incarcerated and the reign of fear that had followed her since Lyam’s capture, was over. Thanks to Andrew.
The bedroom door silently swung inward and there stood Annette. “You’re awake!” She hurried over next to the bed, looking down at her sister, her eyes once again, filling with tears.
“Hey, I’m safe now,” Gabrielle said softly. “No more crying.” She reached for her sister and Annette came closer to give her a gentle hug. “What time is it? I’m ravenous.”
Hastily Annette wiped the moisture away with her fingers and stepped back to smile tremulously. “I’m sure you are. It’s 3 p.m. and I doubt if you ate anything yesterday. Can I bring you a croissant? Baguette and jam? Some toast?”
Gabrielle reared upright and then fell back, gasping with the pain. “It’s three! But I had an exam this morning!” Her stomach clenched. These exams were the culmination of everything she’d worked toward for the last four years. She couldn’t miss one.
“Gabby…It’s okay,” Annette said soothingly. “I called your school to explain and they understood. It’s been rescheduled.”
“Merci.” She reached a hand toward her sister who grasped it with a loving smile.
“No problem. Now, about that breakfast…”
“First I’d like to have a shower, and then a coffee and toast would be wonderful. But I’ll come to the kitchen.” She sighed, luxuriating in the cozy bed, and wondering if she really wanted to leave it. A sudden thought crossed her mind. “I don’t have anything to wear!”
Annette pointed across the room to a chaise lounge of the same sky blue colour as the bedspread, where a small mound of clothes had been laid out.
“While you slept, I went to the apartment to tidy up a little and bring you a few clothes. Do you need help getting up or bathing?” Annette’s brow furrowed with concern.
Gabrielle relaxed into her pillow. “That’s wonderful, thank you, sweetie. No help is necessary. I’ll be out soon.” Not looking convinced, Annette nonetheless left, closing the door behind her.
For a few minutes, Gabrielle stared up into the gauzy white material of a canopy that was suspended from the ceiling over her head and tucked behind the headboard on either side. The walls were painted a pale, dove-grey and curtains of white with a sprinkle of tiny blue flowers billowed in a spring breeze at two long windows. On either side, ornate, dark-grey frames held the silhouettes of trees and other plants.
A large bureau, painted white with soft grey accented swirls, sat solidly at the far end of the room beneath a beautiful antique mirror. Beside it, was a door that Gabrielle presumed led to the bathroom. A matching armoire elegantly graced the wall opposite the windows and a stack of rectangular wicker trunks were arranged artistically near the chaise.
It was the most beautiful room Gabrielle had ever seen, and admitted to herself, she had seen quite a few gorgeous rooms at the family estate in Provence.
But, enough procrastinating, she must rise.
It took her longer than she thought it would to ease out of the soft bed. She sat on the edge, curling her toes into the soft pile of the cream-coloured carpet and admiring her surroundings once more.
On the night table beside her was a lamp, several books, and two framed pictures. She reached for the closest. It was a black and white wedding picture, aged by the passage of time, but she knew at once it was a photo of Olivier and his bride, Clarisse. They stood facing one another in a garden, holding hands and laughing at something only they two understood. The essence of love fairly jumped from the frame, causing tears to spring into Gabrielle’s eyes. She brushed their happy faces with a finger and set it back down.
The other picture was again of them, but far more recent. It looked to be a re-enactment of the first photo, only the garden behind them was now alive with colour and their faces were older and lined with years. What emanated from the simple photo, however, had not aged or diminished in any way. It was true love. They gazed at one another with such emotion expressed in their faces that Gabrielle felt as though she were peeking into their very private world.
She set the photo down and looked again at the room, knowing it had been theirs and feeling the love of sixty years envelop her. Closing her eyes, she allowed the emotion to wash over and around her. She knew why Andrew couldn’t bring himself to stay in this house. He too could feel the echoes of the past. It was a desecration of sorts to invade this beautiful space.
Yet here she was.
Rising, she shuffled to the pile of clothes and selected a favorite old track suit from the pile. It was a faded red that had seen better days, but it was comfortable and warm, the perfect thing to wear while recuperating. She sorted through several more items until she found lacy wisps of underwear and some socks before she slowly carried everything into the bathroom.
It too, was large and opulent. The soft grey walls had been painted throughout and light flooded the room from a wide window that overlooked the backyard. She stepped toward it to admire the washstand that had been refinished in shades of pale blues and grey surrounding a bouquet of pink roses. A washbowl with an antique-looking faucet with matching knobs graced the top and Gabrielle leaned over them, pulling back matching curtains to peer outside.
Just as she guessed, it was the same garden as in the pictures with the exact configuration of trees and flowerbeds, but overgrown. She sighed and moved to a modern shower installed in the corner opposite a white, old-fashioned, claw foot bathtub. Turning on the water, she looked for a towel and found a stack of them on a tall shelf by the door.
She stepped into the hot spray, gasping as it hit her wounds, but lifted her face to the water, feeling it strip away the grime inflicted on her by that terrible man and his fists.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed and feeling more like herself, she made her way to the kitchen. She would need Annette’s help to re-bandage the abrasions, but that could wait. The aroma of brewing coffee and toasted bread drew her like a magnet.
Annette and Andrew both sat at one end of a long table, waiting for her. The kitchen was long, white, modern, and scrupulously clean. As she entered they both jumped to their feet and hurried toward her.
“It’s okay,” she laughed, waving them away. “I don’t need help. I’m feeling much improved.” She sank into a chair and reached for the cup Annette slid toward her. She looked at Andrew, who had dark circles under his bright blue eyes.
“Cornflower blue,” she said absently, then giggled when both her companions looked up as though she’d lost her mind.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Andrew asked, reaching out a hand to take hers. He frowned, appearing concerned, and she hastened to assure them both.
“Yes—yes, I’m good. It’s just…cornflower blue is the accent colour of the bedroom you put me in and it’s the same colour as your eyes.”
He laughed self-consciously. “Same as Mom and Uncle Olivier, I believe. At least that’s what I remember of him.”
“That would be why your aunt had the room painted that colour,” she announced, as though solving a great mystery. Reaching for a plate and the toast, she grabbed a knife and began slathering butter and jam across several slices at once.
“I am ‘appy to see this ordeal ‘as not affected your appetite,” Annette said. “Can I ask questions now?” She looked inquiringly at them. “We don’t have a lot of time, because Andrew says Detective Chevalier will be arriving at 4 pm. He needs to speak with you as soon as possible.”
“Bien s?r.” Gabrielle cut a triangle of toast and stuffed it into her mouth, rolling her eyes at how good it tasted. She had expected immediate questions. The whole story would have to be told several times she was sure.
Between bites and sips of coffee, she relayed the awful events of the previous day. Annette and Andrew were horrified all over again, but she felt quite detached from it now. It was as though someone else had lived through that terror.
“I would like to know what all of this ‘as to do with Lyam?” Annette added to the tail end of the story. “And why would ‘e ‘ave a valuable painting secreted in your apartment?” She sat back and crossed her arms.
Gabrielle pushed the plate away and dabbed at her mouth with a paper napkin. Lifting her cup, she glanced inside and then turned it upside-down to show it was empty. “S”il te pla?t?” she asked her sister.
As Annette bustled a few steps away to boil the kettle and rinse out the coffee press, Gabrielle began.
“Lyam and I met at a gallery opening, last May. It featured contemporary art as well as a few exhibition pieces by well-known artists of the early 1900s. Lyam told me ‘e owned an antique shop and was a tour guide who specialized in taking people through art galleries that displayed great works of art. After the show, ‘e asked me to dinner, and we found we ‘ad much in common. At least, I thought we did at the time.” She stared into space, recalling that fateful evening. “But Lyam was a narcissist of the worst sort. Self-absorbed and never interested in me as a person, only in what I could provide for ‘im—an ‘ideout and an alibi.”
“Over the next two months we grew close, at least, that is what I ‘ad thought.” She fussed with crumbs on the table, keeping her eyes fixed in one place as she told the story she’d been so reluctant to tell before. “But I started to notice ‘is strange idiosyncrasies. He was seldom available in the evening and gave vague reasons for where ‘e was going. ‘Out with friends,’ was all I was told. Yet I did not ever meet one of these people, nor did I ever ‘ear a name. Not even of a family member. In retrospect, I realize ‘e did not want me to know anything about ‘im that could be traced…” She sighed heavily and continued.
“In an age of cell phones and instant access to the internet, ‘e chose to use an old style of flip phone. Archaic for a thirty-year-old man,” she mused, understanding it now. “I was not allowed to touch ‘is phone. The only time I did was when it slipped between the cushions of my sofa…Lyam, ‘e was furious, warning me to never touch it again no matter what ‘appened.” Annette reappeared with the coffee and Gabrielle took a sip before continuing with her tale. Andrew sat in stony silence, hands folded across his stomach, long, jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him as he contemplated the floor.
“He ‘ad plenty of money. Always cash. We would go to some extravagant restaurants and attended many fabulous shows. But only on certain nights. Other nights I was told not to contact ‘im for any reason. ‘E would get very stressed while talking to me about it. Consequently, I left it alone. I was so busy with my own studies, you see, I accepted it. Ugh…I was such a fool.” She shook her head angrily.
Looking back on it all now, she did feel like a fool for being duped by the man. If only she had recognized the signs and not been so wrapped up in her education or overwhelmed by his expensive, carefree lifestyle.
“Anyway, one night Lyam appeared at my door and fell asleep on my sofa after telling me ‘e felt ill and couldn’t return to ‘is own place. But where ‘ad ‘e been all evening I wondered? ‘E ‘ad arrived around midnight with a duffle bag that made a strange clattering sound when ‘e set it on top of my book bag. It was odd.”
Annette rose and took the seat beside her sister, lightly rubbing her back in a supportive gesture. Gabrielle took a deep breath and forged on.
“I ‘ad been studying when ‘e arrived and wasn’t about to stop. ‘Owever, I needed a book from my bag. Since ‘e was dead to the world, I lifted ‘is bag to get to mine.” She plucked at lint on the leg of her pants, feeling as agitated as she had then. “It was unzipped, and a strange, golden statue fell out. The tiny image of a cat, similar to one I ‘ad read about in the campus newspaper the day before. It ‘ad been on loan to the Louvre along with several other priceless artifacts which were part of an exhibit of Egyptian antiquities. But it ‘ad been stolen.” She stood and began to pace back and forth across the kitchen, knowing her audience was as shocked as she had been.
“I was scared. I looked further into the bag and discovered a golden mask wrapped in cloth along with a note listing future dates and other museums. I pushed them back into his bag and went to my computer. What I found sent chills down my spine. There ‘ad been six major thefts in the city over the last few months. Paintings, statues, carvings…” she flung an encompassing arm wide. “I found the same article I ‘ad read, and others, some with pictures of the artifacts that ‘ad been taken. Two of them were exactly the images of what I ‘ad just uncovered in my apartment.”
“Mon Dieu!” Annette had come straight up off her chair and Andrew hit his fist into his other hand.
“He was making you an accessory to his crimes just by being there,” he said. She nodded.
“Reading the article further, I noticed that the nights they ‘ad been stolen corresponded exactly with nights I remembered Lyam ‘ad been unavailable, busy, or out with his supposed friends…the nights I was not to call or text. The police were baffled. The lead detective, Commissaire Chevalier, felt two to three people were responsible for all six robberies and that the artifacts were being sold on the black market, moved at night by individual members of this gang. And suddenly, I realized the leader of the gang was sleeping on my canapé.”
She flopped back in her chair and ran trembling hands through her damp hair, re-living the revelations of that time and the frantic thoughts that had accompanied them.
“What did you do?” Annette breathed.
“I took my phone, crept onto my balcony, and called the police.” She shrugged and raised her hands helplessly. “I told them what was ‘appening. Then I waited for them to arrive.” She took a gulp of her coffee and willed herself to relax. After all, it was in the past and the gang was caught.
“Chevalier spoke to me after it was all over. They ‘ad Lyam and all the proof they needed to convict ‘im. Unfortunately, ‘is accomplice was not found. I ‘elped Chevalier all I could, but I did not know that at some point Lyam must have ‘idden a painting in my apartment.” She stared sightlessly into her empty coffee cup before setting it down with a thump. “And that’s where Malcom comes in.”
“Malcom?” said Annette.
“The man from yesterday who barged into my ‘ome,” she said shortly.
In the silence that followed, Andrew spoke. “Does the name, Chagall, mean anything to you?” Andrew looked at each woman in turn.
“Bien s?r!” Annette cried, jumping to her feet. “Pourquoi?”
“She means to say, of course, why?” Gabrielle translated, feeling tired again. Going through the whole story had taxed her limited energy.
“Because, only the frame was damaged in the scuffle between me and your kidnapper. When your investigator friend looked at this painting you’re talking about, the artist’s name on the bottom was Chagall. I’d never heard of him, so I didn’t think much of it. But you,” he motioned toward Annette, “would probably know a lot more.”
“I do,” she answered, enunciating carefully. “Marc Chagall was a French-Russian artist who painted surrealist images before they were made popular by others. But that is not all ‘e did. This man was involved in theatre and costume design, mastered the difficult art of stained glass, and learned lithography. At least one of ‘is paintings sold for more than $28 million dollars US.”
“Well,” said Andrew dryly, “that would explain why Malcom was so desperate to get his hands on it. It doesn’t explain what the heck lithography is, but…” he said quickly, holding up a preventative hand as Annette opened her mouth to explain, “that’s a story that can be told another time.”
“I would like one more thing to be explained,” said Annette with a little sniff toward Andrew for halting the discourse on her favourite subject. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” She stared at her sister. “Why go through all of that alone and not talk to your family?”
Gabrielle rubbed her forehead. Her headache was returning. “You’re right. I should ‘ave talked to you. I didn’t, because I knew the people Lyam was involved with were dangerous. And when I found they wanted something they thought I ‘ad, I didn’t want to endanger any of you. I thought I could deal with it alone.” She lifted her shoulders in the classic shrug she was known for. “You showed up at my door despite my best efforts.”
“But…” interjected Annette, waving a hand at the man sitting next to her, “so did Superman and it’s thanks to him that you’re sitting here with us now.”
Gabrielle didn’t need her sister’s reminder to know exactly how much she owed to her friend, the cowboy from Canada. She reached for his hand and squeezed it tight. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” she said, recalling a few of the things he’d told her last night. She could have sworn he’d promised to keep her from harm for the rest of his life. No. That couldn’t be right. Her brain was muddled and her hearing questionable. Many words had been spoken last night and most of them were terrible.
“I’m the one who’s grateful,” he said. “I’d still be riding the Paris Métro if not for you.” He squeezed Gabrielle’s hand back and then let go. “Which reminds me, I’d better get back to work. I have a grand opening in a week and the work won’t complete itself. You get some rest now. Okay?”
“Per’aps I could help y—” Andrew stood and placed a finger on Gabrielle’s lips, preventing another word.
“No. And, no books either. Besides, Annette has offered to help me today.”
“I did,” her sister agreed with a grin. “Give me a few moments to clean up the kitchen and I will be down.”
Andrew strode to the archway and looked back with a wave. “Commissaire Chevalier will be here any minute. I’ll send him up when he arrives. If you need me you know where to look.” Then, winking at Gabrielle, he left.
Annette followed him and poked her head back around the corner after making sure he’d left. “I have something to tell you, now that he’s gone,” she said with an air of mystery that Gabrielle found amusing. “I think we should keep it a secret and surprise him.” She paused a moment for the full effect of her words to sink in.
“I checked Le Parisien digital newspaper this morning and there is an ‘uge story on how Andrew Filmore, of Caviste de Tremblay, took down one of the most wanted criminals in Paris! Can you believe it?” her lowered voice rose in intensity until she was nearly shrieking. “It’s all about the art thieves and how one of them eluded the police for months until a cowboy from Canada lassoed him on the street, averted a kidnapping, and recovered a stolen painting by the renowned artist, Marc Chagall.”
Gabrielle’s mouth hung open. Reporters must have interviewed the people that were on the street last night. And they remembered Andrew from what she’d said.
“There are eyewitness accounts and even one grainy-looking picture that someone must have taken under a streetlight where Andrew’s talking with the police. Do you see what this means?” Annette was almost jumping up and down by this point. “The whole city will know about Andrew’s wine shop! And about how he’s a hero, saving you and a piece of priceless French art! This is the best advertising anyone ever had!”