Assault and Beret Read online

  Their Metro seemed a little more complicated, with two different train systems, than the Underground, but I was certain it was because I wasn’t used to it. Viv and I were staying in 15ème, or the fifteenth arrondissement, called Parc des Expositions. The city of Paris is made up of twenty such arrondissements, like districts or neighborhoods, which were numbered and spiraled out from the center, with the Louvre and the Palais Royale being in the first, the very center of the city.

  Suzette had graciously pointed me in the direction of the station that I needed to get from the fifteenth to the first. I was confident that I could figure it out even if it meant I went the wrong way once or twice and had to double back. This was the beauty of not having a schedule. I had all the time in the world to find my way, and I was sure that I would enjoy every bit of it, and if I had to pop in at a local patisserie to get warm, so be it.

  I tightened my scarf and hurried toward Dupleix, the aboveground station for the 6 line. Judging by Suzette’s directions, this was the shortest way from our place on the Left Bank over to the Right Bank, where I’d pick up the 1 line that would take me to my destination. I could switch trains one more time and make the trip shorter, but I loved riding the elevated 6 line, especially when we crossed over the Seine River and got a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower. It made my heart lift in my chest every time.

  After careful consideration, I had decided the best way to hunt down William Graham was to go to the source, the big baddy, the Louvre. Surely the largest museum in the city if not the world had to have some connection to a company that specialized in insuring art.

  Yes, that is about all Viv knew about William Graham’s business, that he had been an art major with delusions of being an artist, but when he got to Paris, he’d ended up insuring great works of art instead of painting them. Life is a journey, I suppose.

  The train wasn’t overly crowded and the trip was short. I did go the wrong way twice, but that was mostly because the Charles de Gaulle–Étoile Station was massive with both Metro and RER trains coming and going, and I think I was hungry. A person can’t be responsible for bad decisions when they are hungry. I believe this all the way down to my squishy, hungry middle. Plus, I have a horrible sense of direction.

  It was midday by the time I got to the Palais Royale Metro stop near the Louvre, and even though last night’s snow had melted and it was the middle of January and cold outside, there were still plenty of tourists. It didn’t appear that Mona Lisa and I would be spending any quality alone time together but I had expected as much.

  Unlike the National Gallery in London, which is free, the Louvre costs nine and a half euros. I figured it was worth it to go into what is arguably the greatest museum in the world and, yeah, to find a clue as to Viv’s husband’s whereabouts. I had bought an advance ticket, to avoid the line at the pyramid, which was another wonderful thing about the Louvre. It has multiple entrances, so it is possible to avoid long lines if you plan accordingly.

  The entrance to the Musée du Louvre was a real jaw dropper. I went in the Passage Richelieu from Rue de Rivoli and peeked into the huge courtyard in which sat the famous glass pyramid. It was huge and beckoned visitors forth as if it had a magnetic pull.

  Honestly, I don’t see how a person could just walk by and not investigate. Being the curious sort, I walked right up to the water feature surrounding it and studied the structure under the gray midday light.

  Diamond panes of glass made up the pyramid, and as I watched, a bride and groom climbed up onto the cement edge of the pool and posed for a photographer who stood below them. The pyramid loomed behind them, and even though the bride was shivering, I could tell the pictures were going to be amazing. It was the Louvre; how could they not be?

  A bitter wind blew through the courtyard, encouraging me to get moving. I wasn’t sure where the curators’ offices were, but I knew that’s who I wanted to speak with, at least to start.

  I turned back into the Passage Richelieu and entered the museum. The Richelieu entrance is one of the best-kept secrets for hacking the lines at the Louvre. You’re welcome.

  The time on my phone told me it was early. On Monday, the museum didn’t close until six in the evening, giving me several hours. Wandering the galleries and looking at the art was too good of an opportunity to pass up since I didn’t know when I’d get back here again.

  I wasn’t much of an artist but that didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate it. Mim had taken Viv and me to Paris several times when we were young, and she had shared her love of still-life paintings with us. I knew that seeking out our favorite piece, an eighteenth-century piece called Still Life with Figs by Melendez, would bring her close to me. Without hesitation, I headed in that direction.

  It had been several years since Mim had passed, and I still missed her like crazy. I missed the way she always smelled faintly of lily of the valley, and how I could tell her anything and she always took my side, even when I was wrong. I missed the way her bright blue eyes, the color and shape of which both Viv and I had inherited, sparkled when she was getting up to mischief, and I missed the way her hugs could make everything better.

  Decision made, I set off to see the Spanish paintings in Room 30. I glanced at the other pieces on the walls on my way, appreciating them but not lingering. Tourists still wearing their coats and the headsets the museum provided for their own walking tour clustered around certain pieces and then moved on. I navigated my way around them until I reached the area I wanted.

  When I arrived, I discovered the room was cordoned off and several museum workers were rearranging the pieces of art. I tried to swallow my disappointment. Of all the sections of the museum, why did it have to be this one that was getting made over?

  I turned to go and noticed that an official-looking person, a woman in a pencil skirt with her hair in a sleek updo, was directing the workers. She had to be a curator overseeing the process. I moved closer. Maybe she could help me in my search for William Graham.

  “Well, all right, Mim,” I whispered. If it hadn’t been for Mim sharing her love of still-life works with me, I never would have come here first. I waited for the smell of lily of the valley to tickle my nose.

  There was nothing but the cold astringent museum smell assaulting my nostrils. I tried not to feel disappointed. I know it sounds crazy but both Viv and I have had moments where we were quite certain that the essence of Mim was still with us and we were sure we could smell her lily of the valley perfume when it happened. Mental, I know.

  I approached the stanchion rope, trying to see past it to the room beyond. Maybe I’d get a glimpse of the painting or the woman’s attention; either one was good.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am, this section is closed,” a security officer said. He was in uniform and his English was impeccable. I wondered how many different languages he spoke and wondered why he assumed English was my native tongue. I mean, he was right, but still. I shook my head. I didn’t want to stray off my mission.

  “Is that woman the curator of this collection?” I asked.

  “Ms. Harvey?” he asked. “No, she’s the assistant to Dr. Pilson. He’s over there.”

  He pointed out an austere-looking gentleman leaning against the wall behind me. He held one arm across his middle with his elbow resting on his fist while he stroked his gray beard with his other hand. He had pointy features and big, thick, round glasses. He reminded me a bit of an owl.

  “Thanks,” I said to the guard. “I’ll ask him.”

  I crossed the hallway and held my hand out. “Dr. Pilson? Hi, I’m Scarlett Parker.”

  He blinked behind the glasses. He didn’t take my hand, leaving me to awkwardly put my hand on my hip as if I’d meant to do that all along.

  “I was wondering if I might ask you some questions.”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, go away.” His accent was thick and b
rusque. I couldn’t place it, but his meaning was more than clear. He blinked at me and repeated, “Go away.”

  Now I’d met my share of rudesby folks in my day, but this guy was rocketing to the top of my list of people I wanted to slap, really hard.

  “I—” I began but he interrupted.

  “What do you not understand about the word ‘no’?” he shouted. Spittle flew out of his mouth as he threw up his hands in complete disgust.

  Everyone in the hallway and the room beyond came to a complete standstill. All the better to witness my utter humiliation, I suppose.

  “I understand,” I snapped. “I was about to apologize for interrupting you, you big butthead.”

  His beard quivered as his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He was clenching his hands into fists, and for a second, I really thought he was going to strike me.

  “Dr. Pilson, I’ll take care of this.” A woman’s voice brought his attention from me as he glanced over my shoulder at the speaker and nodded.

  I turned to find the woman with the updo, Ms. Harvey, standing behind us. I could tell from her voice that she was an American. I know it sounds lousy, but this made me feel better, as if being an American, she might be more on my side than her boss’s. Dumb, I know.

  “Make her go,” Dr. Pilson ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  He strode past us into the roped-off area without a backward glance. It took everything I had not to kick him in the patoot as he went.

  “Follow me,” the woman said. She looked as pinched up as Dr. Pilson, and I wondered if I was about to get tossed out a back door into the cold. I’ve been kicked out of a few places in my time, my ex’s anniversary party being one, but being chucked from a museum was a whole new low. Awesome.

  Ms. Harvey led the way down a corridor marked Employes Seulement. My French wasn’t great but even I knew this meant Staff Only. Despite the narrow skirt, Ms. Harvey had a long-legged gait that I had to admire. I imagined she was used to all eyes being on her, and she didn’t hurry her steps, allowing everyone to look their fill.

  She had a grace and style that was enviable, like most of the Parisians I’d seen, very poised and self-assured. Since she was an American, I wondered how long she had been in Paris and how long it had taken her to acquire that trait. Maybe the French taught lessons in school on how to enter a room. Lord knew, I could have used those as a kid.

  Ms. Harvey unlocked an old wooden door and pushed it open. She gestured for me to go first and I stepped inside. It was a tiny, cluttered office not much bigger than a closet, and I had to turn sideways so that she could maneuver around me to get to her desk.

  She gestured for me to take the lone hard wooden chair shoved up against the wall while she sat at her desk. There was a narrow window behind her that let in just enough wintery gray light that she didn’t have to put on her desk lamp. Stacks of folders and papers filled all of the available desk space, much like the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that surrounded the room were crammed tight, looking like they wanted to belch to relieve the pressure.

  “I’m sorry about Dr. Pilson,” she said. Her voice was low and deep and matched her wide-set eyes, pointy chin, and jutting cheekbones perfectly. Honestly, if there was an ugly person in Paris, I had yet to meet them. “He can be very . . .”

  “Cranky?” I supplied.

  She smiled. Then she looked down at her desk and I saw her shoulders shake. She was laughing.

  “You called him a butthead,” she said. When she glanced up, tears of mirth were coursing down her cheeks. “My goodness, that was fabulous.”

  “I take it he’s your boss,” I said.

  “One of them,” she said. “I’m an assistant to several of the curators, who despite their idiosyncrasies, are the world’s most knowledgeable people in their specific fields.”

  “So, there’s some ego,” I said. “Being the best of the best and all.”

  “A lot with some and a touch with others, and with a few rare treasures, none at all,” she agreed. “But I am guessing you are not here to discuss the manners of the curators.”

  “Correct,” I said. “I am actually looking for some information about insuring artwork.”

  “And you came here?”

  “It seemed like a good starting place.” I shrugged.

  “I suppose that depends upon what you need, um, I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

  “Scarlett. Scarlett Parker, from London,” I said.

  She gave me a look as if to say, You don’t sound like a Londoner.

  “From London most recently,” I clarified. “I grew up mostly in the States.”

  She nodded as if this made sense. “I’m Michelle Harvey, from Boston originally, but I’ve been here about ten years now.”

  “I love Boston. My parents live in Briar Creek, Connecticut,” I said. “Truly, we’re practically neighbors.”

  We smiled at each other. See? It is a bond being a foreigner in a foreign land.

  “What can I do for you, Scarlett?”

  “I’m looking for a man,” I said.

  Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose just enough to let me know that my statement had been unexpected.

  “And by that, I mean a man who works in the art world as an insurance agent of sorts,” I said. “Given that the Louvre is the center of the art world in Paris, I thought you might have heard of him.”

  “Perhaps, what is his name?”

  “William Graham,” I said.

  Michelle’s expression didn’t change but a stillness came over her that I found interesting.

  “May I ask why?” she asked.

  Now here was a conundrum I hadn’t really thought through. I didn’t want to say because he was married to my cousin Viv since I had no idea how he was living his life here in Paris. What if he had a girlfriend or two? It could be disastrous.

  “My cousin, Vivian Tremont, is a milliner in London,” I said. I paused to see if there was a flicker of recognition for Viv’s name. She was quite the sensation in the UK, after all. There wasn’t. Damn Americans, why didn’t they pick up the hat thing? “We own a shop together called Mim’s Whims in Notting Hill.”

  She glanced at me curiously as if this was a strange amount of backstory to be offering. I agreed, but since I was stalling to make my tale seem more plausible, I didn’t have much choice.

  “Viv has been approached by a museum to create hats for a history of fashion installation,” I said. Sometimes even I am stunned at my ability to lie when required. “The value of the collection will be irreplaceable to us and I was told that this Mr. Graham would be able to help us insure the hats.”

  Michelle considered me for a moment. “I’m not sure Mr. Graham is the exact man you need, but an underwriter in the company he works for, O’Toole Insurance, should be able to help you.”

  She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. When she found the name she sought, she turned the display screen so I could see it. There was the name “O’Toole Insurance” and the address. I was so happy I could have burst into song, but singing isn’t really my gift so I decided to spare us both and just snapped a picture of the information with my own phone.

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “You’ve been a huge help.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Good luck with your installation. Let me know when it goes up. I’d love to see it. Although I don’t wear them, I’ve always had a fascination for hats.”

  “I will,” I said. She walked me back to the main hallway and pointed me in the direction of the exit. It had been quite the stroke of luck to run into her, almost too lucky, and I paused to see if I smelled any lily of the valley. I didn’t and I felt woefully disappointed. It was ridiculous, I knew that, but grief makes a person hope for all sorts of crazy things.

  I thought about spending
the rest of the day at the Louvre, but I really couldn’t afford the time. We only had one week to locate William Graham and get him to agree to an annulment. If everything went as easily as it should, I figured I could come back to the museum before we left for London.

  Part of me did not want to go back out into the cold. I didn’t like the way it made my hair crackle with static and my nose run. It had been in the high thirties and low forties—that would be three to five degrees for the Celsius folks—since we had arrived. I knew that January was the coldest and wettest month in France, but just because I was mentally prepared did not mean my toes were. I hugged my wool coat closer and tightened my scarf. This was misery.

  As I slogged out of the courtyard of the museum, I tried to imagine what the Louvre was like when it was the royal palace. What would it be like to live in such a vast space? I couldn’t even wrap my head around it. The chill in my bones took hold, and I sped up my pace, hoping to warm up with the exercise.

  To think that a year ago, I had been managing the crown jewel in the exclusive Santiago hotel and resort chain in Tampa, Florida. My days were all miniskirts and sandals with pretty blouses and sunhats. I’d had a huge staff to manage and I did it very well. My boss, also my boyfriend, yes, I know that was my first bad choice, assured me that he saw great things in my future.

  Of course, I never should have gotten involved with Carlos Santiago. Of Cuban descent, he was handsome, suave, charming, debonair, all of that, and my stupid twenty-five-year-old heart hadn’t stood a chance. When he hired me, he was just separating from his wife, or so he said.

  You know that joke? The old “that’s what she said” plopped onto anything with a bit of sexual innuendo, yeah, it’s hilarious. But in my experience the female equivalent would be, “or so he said.” I don’t think one thing that came out of Carlos Santiago’s mouth had ever been the truth, not that he was separated, not that he was getting a divorce, and most definitely not that he loved me.