He’d lied. Without regret. Because if that nude canvas turned out to be what he suspected it might be…
Gabriel double-checked the address on his phone as he made his way up the steady incline of the street. He’d always liked the energy of the ninth arrondissement with its array of bustling commercial and multinational businesses, all arranged in ordered beauty down the wide, grand boulevards. The legacy of Baron Haussmann’s nineteenth-century redevelopment work had turned the dark, cluttered labyrinth of old Paris into a community of splendour and light that was evident everywhere, its crown jewel the soaring Opéra Garnier that Gabriel had visited more than once. The building Ms. Leclaire lived in was also one of Haussmann’s designs, a beautiful, Lutetian limestone structure, its creamy three-story façade adorned with uniform windows and perfectly aligned balconies.
Gabriel shifted the bag slung over his shoulder as he entered the building and headed up the stairs, a familiar anticipation winding through him. Much of his job could be tedious, careful work, but moments like these made him feel a little like Indiana Jones hunting down the next great buried treasure.
He reached the landing and raised his hand to lift the brass knocker on Ms. Leclaire’s apartment door but the sound of a door opening behind him, accompanied by a brief cacophony of high-pitched barking, made him turn. An elderly woman wearing an alarming shade of lipstick and dressed in a floral outfit that would not have been out of place a half century earlier was standing on the other side of the landing. One hand grasped the head of a cane and the other a small, struggling dog.
“What do you want?” she demanded in French.
Gabriel blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I can’t get a moment’s peace.” She narrowed her eyes, the heavy liner making them look like angry black slashes. “What business do you have here?”
“None of yours,” he replied pleasantly.
The dog growled and resumed its frantic barking. Gabriel winced.
“I suppose you’re here to see the girl.” The woman had to raise her voice over the barking.
“Yes, he is.” A new voice cut through the din from behind Gabriel. He turned to find a woman in a bright red sundress, long chestnut hair scraped back into a careless ponytail, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“Ms. Leclaire?” he blurted. Somehow, in their brief correspondence, he’d had a vision fixed in his mind of a dutiful, dour matron looking after estate business.
“Guilty,” she replied. “I’m Aurelia. But everyone calls me Lia. You must be Mr. Seymour.”
“Yes. But Gabriel, please.” He realized he was staring and averted his gaze, proper manners reasserting themselves. He held out a hand. “A pleasure.”
Lia shook it, her hand firm and warm in his. He released it with a peculiar sense of reluctance.
“And this is Madame Hoffmann. My neighbour.”
Gabriel inclined his head. “Also a pleasure,” he managed.
The old woman rapped her cane on the floor. “I know your type,” she snapped. She eyed his shaggy hair and the ink on his arms. “And you’re not wanted here. This is a building for upstanding citizens. Not a hovel for degenerate artists and drug addicts.”
“That’s quite a…leap,” Gabriel remarked, not sure if he was amused or irritated by the woman’s hostility.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Lia murmured beside him in English. “If a winged monkey appears, I suggest you run.”
“You think we can outrun a winged monkey?” he whispered back.
“I only have to outrun you.”
Gabriel laughed, and the sound sent the writhing dog into a renewed frenzy.
“Please come in,” Lia repeated loudly, switching back to French and stepping aside to usher Gabriel in.
He wasted no time ducking through the doorway into her apartment. The dog snarled and snapped behind him.
Lia sighed. “Have a good afternoon, Madame—”
“I can have you evicted, don’t think I can’t.” Lia’s neighbour wasn’t done yet. “I know people—”
“Good afternoon, Madame Hoffmann,” Lia said again, and then simply closed the door after them.
“She’s charming,” Gabriel commented. He could still hear muffled barking on the other side of the door.
“I’m quite sure she’s harmless. Lonely, maybe. My grandmère used to say, ‘Only beware the man who does not talk and the dog that does not bark.’” She slipped by him, a light scent of jasmine following in her wake.
“I haven’t heard that one before.” He glanced around at the small foyer with wainscoted walls.
“An American proverb, as it turns out.”
“Your grandmother was an American?”
“No.” Lia frowned briefly but did not elaborate. Then her expression cleared. “I appreciate you coming so quickly. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”
“Not at all.” Gabriel set down his bag. “I was intrigued.” Just not by what she thought.
“The painting is here.” She bent to retrieve the little landscape that had been propped up against the wall near the door. Of the bold, nude canvas there was no sign.
Lia handed it to him. “Do you recognize it?”
Gabriel examined the painting. It looked even more desperate to please up close than it had in the photo, but the subject matter was easily identifiable. William Seymour was signed with a flourish in the bottom right-hand corner. “This is a painting of Millbrook Hall, a property my family has owned for generations. That is my grandfather’s signature. He painted dozens and dozens of landscapes featuring Millbrook.”
“He was an artist?”
“He was a wealthy landowner with a lot of free time on his hands who loved art,” he allowed. “He always dreamed of exhibiting his work.”
“And did he?”
“Only in the manor dining room, despite his wife’s vehement objections.” He glanced up with a wry smile. “Or so the story goes.”
Lia smiled back.
Gabriel turned the painting over. Nothing was written on the back that would give any indication as to how it had ended up here.
Lia seemed to read his mind. “It belonged to my grandmother. I still have no idea how she got it.”
“Huh.” Gabriel righted the painting.
“And you’re sure the name Estelle means nothing to you? Estelle Allard?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I called my father before I left, and he hadn’t heard the name either. He’s going to ask my grandfather at his first opportunity.”
“He’s still alive? The William who painted this?”
“Yes. And ninety-eight years might have taken their toll physically, but they have done nothing to dull his mind. Perhaps he will have an answer.” He looked up at her. “I assume Estelle Allard was your grandmother?”
“Yes. She was the same age when she passed away. Ninety-eight.”
“Were you close with her?”
Lia exhaled and played with a small oval pendant that hung at her throat. The three tiny red stones set into the enameled surface glittered as she twisted it. “I thought so. I mean, as close as one could get to a woman who wasn’t much of a people person…” She trailed off, suddenly looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I thought I knew her. But now, it seems I didn’t know her at all.”