“I’d just hire her back again.” This was an old argument as well.
“You might remind her that I still sign the checks, and that she’s being paid to mind both the house and her own damn business.” Harland glowered. “I’ll not tolerate her snooping about or tattling to my teenage daughter!”
“She’s worried about you.” Margo pulled on the cuff of her jacket, shifted her weight. She wanted to say she was worried, too, but had no vocabulary for it; that kind of sentiment had been extinct in the Manning household for years. “Your doctors said you shouldn’t—”
“I am fully aware of what my useless doctors have said about alcohol, Margo,” Harland growled, his discolored gums hideous in the sideways light. “All the times I’ve been poked and prodded, all the expensive tests they’ve run, all the things they’ve told me to do or don’t do, eat or don’t eat—” He ran out of air, wheezing. When he spoke again, his voice was thinner, but no less heated. “None of it has helped. It hasn’t changed a thing. Teetotaling isn’t going to save me, and it isn’t Irina’s business or anybody else’s how I choose to spend what time I’ve got left.”
“Don’t talk like that.” Margo felt hot, then cold. Harland had been deteriorating for months, this strange, unnamable illness descending like a curtain—symptoms shifting, multiplying, defying every diagnosis—but this was the first time he’d sounded anything but inconvenienced by it; now he sounded almost resigned, and it shook her to the core. “Your body needs to heal,” she stammered, parroting back more of what she’d heard the doctors say, “and alcohol compromises your immune system! You should be resting, so—”
“I cannot rest!” He finally barked, his tone savage, and her jaw snapped shut. “I cannot sleep, Margo, because I am in too much pain, and I cannot abide the slow torture of any more dietary exclusions! First it was alcohol, then meat, then sodium, dairy, sugar—none of it is helping.” He shook his head again, his face an unhealthy purple. “I’m miserable enough. My immune system is already compromised, and whiskey is the only thing left that does what I expect it to. The only thing in my life not hell-bent on disappointing me.”
This last he said with a cutting look at his daughter, and Margo came unmoored. He was lashing out, angry and scared—for the first time in her living memory, her father was scared—but he also meant this. Even as he accepted that his time might finally be running out, he still used some of it to wound her. Stiffly, she turned and left the room without another word, pulling the door shut behind her.
She couldn’t remember when things had gotten so bad between them. Once upon a time, Bring Your Daughter to Work Day had been practically sacred; and Harland had readily indulged her with the very best instructors in skydiving, gymnastics, judo—whatever caught her fancy—carving space in his busy schedule for competitions and ceremonies. While other teenagers in her rarified zip code were signing endorsement deals and recording vanity albums, Margo was pursuing competitive archery, and she was certain her father was proud of her for it.
The problem was that he’d never actually said so. The medals, trophies, and certificates had piled up, and Harland had shrugged them all off with a grunt, the message being that excellence was the bare minimum requirement for a Manning. At some point he stopped noticing the times she clocked doing sprints or laps, stopped noticing the grades she brought home.
But he noticed the first time she got drunk at a party. And he noticed when tabloids started documenting her dating life. She’d never imagined herself becoming that particular cliché—the poor little rich kid acting out for attention—but it had been as easy to slip into as a pair of designer shoes. The first time she and Axel broke into someone’s home, it had been half for the thrill of it, and half a private fuck you to her perfectionist father.
She’d come home, later every night, to a passive-aggressive newsstand arranged on her bed—an assortment of the day’s most unflattering headlines. Margo, waving around a martini glass at a party; Margo, bleary-eyed on the beach at dawn with an older man; Margo, darting into a car to escape a brawl she’d started at a club she should never have been let into in the first place. The gossip columnists even had a nickname for her.
MAD MARGO’S MAIN MAN: MARRIED?!
BOOZY BAD GIRL—IS ‘MAD MARGO’ HEADED FOR REHAB?
SEXTING SCANDAL FOR MAD MARGO: DADDY’S DISAPPOINTED!
Most of them were plainly false, others half-true at best, but they were all anyone saw when they looked at her anymore. To some, she was a spoiled brat, the epitome of everything wrong with the indolent rich; and to others, she was an icon, a carefree, trendsetting party girl who had everything but limits. Sometimes it seemed like if there was anyone who didn’t know exactly who Margo Manning was, it was Margo herself.
No new headlines awaited her when she got to her room—just her bed and the harsh, molten light of the morning that poured through her open windows. Utterly drained, Margo crawled between her sheets, put her head beneath her pillow, and for the first time since her parents’ divorce, cried herself to sleep.
8
Just beyond a flimsy security fence, the scrubby hillside plunged dizzyingly into a gorge of sharp rocks and parched foliage, and Margo allowed herself a moment to take in the view. One week after the LAMFA job, the winter sun uncomfortably bright at 8 a.m., she found herself at the top of Griffith Park—in a wig. It wasn’t the platinum one that she wore as Miss Anthropy, but a dun-brown shag, lank and loose so it would hang in her face; in her hand, she clutched a large, white carrier bag.
The three distinctive domes of the observatory loomed ahead of her, the whitewashed spindle of the Astronomers Monument poking at the clear blue sky. The parking lot was almost empty, but a family strolled past on the opposite side of the lawn, and Margo pushed a pair of large sunglasses up her nose and hurried onward.
The walkways overlooking the bluff were deserted, the city spreading out in every direction below, and Margo squinted into the distance out of habit. A cluster of buildings poked up like birthday candles in the center of downtown, and from this angle she could just make out the one that bore the distinctive thunderbolt M of the Manning logo. She took a breath when she reached the observation terrace, where telescopes angled out at the sprawl; a solitary man stood there, waiting, his face a mask of tension.
“Good morning, Monsieur Genet,” Margo murmured as she leaned over the wall a respectful distance away, setting the carrier bag down beside her.
“Were you followed?” The demand, lifted straight out of a cut-rate spy flick, sounded almost charming in his lilting French accent.
“No one followed me; no one noticed me when I arrived,” she assured him. “And if you want to keep it that way, maybe stop staring at me like I’m Godzilla.”
He darted his glance away, wiping his upper lip. “I’m sorry, I … I’m not comfortable with this.” His patrician features were colorless, his crimson necktie dripping from his throat like blood. “Why must this exchange be so public?”
“Would you rather I’d come to your hotel room?” she asked dryly. There wasn’t a valet, bellhop, or desk clerk in the city who wouldn’t get gossip magazine–sized dollar signs in their eyes if “Mad Margo” waltzed in to visit a guest. Wig or no wig, these were people trained to recognize public figures. “Trust me, this is better and safer for both of us. Here, we’re just two tourists seeing the sights.”
“I’m not comfortable with you, if I may be blunt.” He made a dignified show of shooting his cuffs. “This is … a lot of money, and my contact told me the job would be handled by a professional. I was not expecting a, a—”
“A girl?”
“A socialite.” He hissed it like a bad word. “I am aware of your reputation, Mademoiselle. I believe the entire planet may be aware of your reputation. I did not agree to pay three-hundred thousand dollars so some … teenage floozy could play cops-and-robbers!”
Margo allowed him a moment to collect himself before she said, “Pick up the bag.”
> “Excuse me?”
“Pick. Up. The bag.” Her eyes still on the city’s glittering horizon, she nudged the carrier bag a few inches in his direction with her foot.
Warily, Guy Genet did as instructed. Inside he found a heavy, rectangular object, swaddled in pale tissue—and, with trembling fingers, peeled back the layers until he saw what he was holding. Letting out a moan somewhere between relieved and orgasmic, he slumped against the wall. “I cannot … is this real? Is this really it?”
“Courtship of the Shepherd Girl, by François Boucher, circa 1742,” Margo recited helpfully. “You asked, and I delivered.” She peeled off the gloves she’d been wearing, her sweaty hands grateful for the air. “And nobody says ‘floozy’ anymore. You’re in America. We say ‘thot’ now.”
“Forgive me, I…” Genet shook his head and then produced an actual lace-edged handkerchief to swab his face. “I never believed this moment would come. I never thought I would actually hold it in my hands…”
“You’ve been after this thing for a while?”
“A decade, at least. We have petitioned the government, sued in court, appealed to international bodies … to no avail.” He gave her a look brimming with self-importance. “I am the thirteenth Duke of La Valette.”
Margo knew this detail—the job had been arranged by an intermediary, the client’s name withheld until after the painting had been acquired, but she’d had time to research Guy Genet since then. She didn’t particularly like everything she’d learned, and felt no obligation to pet his ego. “I thought France didn’t have dukes anymore.”
Genet sniffed disdainfully. “France may have turned her back on la noblesse, but we have not forgotten our legacy. In 1738, my ancestor Jean Armand de La Valette—the third duke—took for his bride the young Élisabeth de Lévis, a notoriously beautiful young woman.” He caressed the carrier bag in a way that was decidedly creepy. “Even the great François Boucher was charmed by her. She was the model for the shepherdess in this painting—and it is entirely evident from her diary entries that Boucher intended her to have the canvas as a wedding present when it was completed.”
“I’m guessing the French government has a quibble?”
The color returned to Genet’s face. “They say there is no proof that Boucher ever followed through, no proof that the duchess ever had the work in her possession, no proof that the girl in the painting even is Élisabeth de Lévis!” His tone curdled with disgust. “The diary entries are detailed and clear, and yet the government has the temerity to suggest that they are a fantasy, or—even more insultingly—forged!”
“Bummer,” Margo offered. She was aware from her research that Genet had refused to submit the diary for formal analysis, but she didn’t know if that’s because it was forged, or if the man had clung to this dream too long to risk a definitive, bad ending.
“But it is in La Valette hands again; this time for good.” Reverentially, he reached back into the bag and teased the wrapping open so he could take another look.
“All’s well that ends well,” she said, but a frown was spreading across the man’s face.
“The backing is torn.” His expression was neutral, but something in his tone made Margo’s spine prickle.
“There was a tracking device planted in the frame. It had to be removed, or your shepherdess wouldn’t have made it six blocks from the museum.”
He was elbow-deep in the bag now. “There seems to be some splintering to the wood, as well.”
“The tracker was glued down. It had to be pried out on the fly.” It had been quick and brutal work, Axel and Leif forcing the cylinders out with their pocketknives.
“The terms I stated for the deal were perfectly plain. I said no damage must come to the Shepherd Girl or the deal was forfeit.” He sounded very pleased with himself.
“The painting is in pristine condition,” Margo enunciated, her face hot, “and the splintering is minimal. There’s no structural damage to the frame, and you won’t even be able to see it when it’s on the wall!”
“Nevertheless, there is damage—a violation of our arrangement.” He glanced at his ostentatiously expensive watch. “I have an appointment and don’t wish to draw this out, so I’m willing to be magnanimous. I’ll pay you … let’s say a hundred thousand? And we can put this matter to rest.”
“You’ll pay three hundred like we agreed.” Margo struggled to keep her voice down. “Or ‘this matter’ will get ugly.”
“Oh?” Genet sneered. “And what do you propose to do? The painting is in my hands now, so as for leverage, we are at something of an impasse. You cannot expose me without exposing yourself. I’m afraid you’re not in any position to make demands.”
Margo was silent for a moment, breathing slowly so she wouldn’t jump the guy and kick him clear down the hillside into Griffith Park. “So the painting is only worth a hundred thousand to you now. Okay.” She ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek. “How about your marriage? What’s the price on that?”
“Excuse me?” His eyebrows went up.
“I’m assuming Madame Genet doesn’t know about Éloïse Lombard, the sixteen-year-old student at the Lycée Molière that you’ve been exchanging naughty emails with for the past three months?” Margo pulled out her phone and made a show of scrolling through her image gallery, drawing up a choice screenshot. “My French is rudimentary, but did you really compare her butt to a bowl of ice cream? I mean, points for creativity, but—”
“How did you—” he cut himself off with a strangled gulp, his face turning red; then, he spluttered implausibly, “I have no idea what sort of vulgar trick you’re playing, but I have done no such thing!”
“Really?” Margo scrolled through a few more screenshots. “Because there are some pictures in here, too, my friend, and they don’t leave much to the imagination.” Helpfully, she showed him one. “You might want to have un docteur take a look at this mole on your thigh, Guy. It looks a little iffy.”
Genet’s face went from red to purple to white again, and his grip trembled around the handles of the carrier bag. “You little bitch,” he whispered. “How could you possibly…”
“If there’s one thing teenagers know how to do, it’s homework,” she answered coldly. “And you might want to make your password harder to guess than ‘LaValette.’”
Genet’s tone was angered and unsteady. “So this is, what? Blackmail? Extortion?”
“I prefer to think of it as business insurance.” Margo closed the photo gallery. “You can call it whatever the fuck you want, so long as you pay me what we agreed.”
Muttering a string of remarks in French that Margo doubted were quite as flattering as what he’d said to Éloïse Lombard, Genet produced his phone and, with shaking fingers, made a call. At last, he faced her again, his lips white as bone. “It is done.”
Margo waited until she received a notification that three-hundred-thousand US dollars had indeed been transferred to her offshore banking account, then gave the man a tight nod. “I’d say it was a pleasure doing business with you,” she stated, tucking the cell back into her pocket, “but you’re an asshole.”
“My wife … she won’t find out about those messages?”
“Not from me.” Margo headed for the stairs up to the walkway skirting the observatory, Guy Genet staring after her, his jaw trembling with fury. Over her shoulder, she remarked, “Enjoy your painting.”
* * *
On the north side of Griffith Park, craggy hillsides and fragrant pines spilled into the San Fernando Valley—an asphalt jungle of wide boulevards, midcentury architecture, and ugly temperatures. Shortly after leaving Genet to stew in his own au jus, Margo found herself walking down Victory Boulevard in the heart of Van Nuys, the satchel once again dragging at her shoulders.
She stopped at a tiny storefront business sandwiched between a donation center and a run-down nail salon, peeling letters above the door spelling out BRIGHT EYES TRAVEL. A bell jingled as she pushed her way insid
e, the air smelling of smoke and burned coffee, faded travel posters covering the walls. There were a few plastic chairs against the wall, a dead plant hanging from the ceiling, and a girl with stringy hair behind the counter.
Thumbing through a magazine, not bothering to look up, the girl announced, “Computers are down.”
“I was told my itinerary was already printed out,” Margo returned.
At that, the girl’s eyes snapped up from the magazine. Leaning forward to press a button on the underside of the counter, she said, “Go on back.”
An electronic buzz sounded as the door to the rear office unlocked; beyond it, Margo encountered a second door, where she had to wave to a camera and wait for yet another buzz. When it came, she stepped through and into a crowded and dimly lit storeroom with concrete floors and exposed bulbs, the walls hidden behind shelves that sagged with an astonishing collection of stolen goods.
Near the back of the room, behind a broad desk that looked like it had been used as a scratching post by a mountain lion, sat a rangy man in a wide-brimmed homburg. Burn scars shaped one side of his face, the skin shiny and textured, and the tough tissue resisted his grin when Margo walked through the door. “Well, well. Look who’s here.”
“Good morning, Vojak,” she said, resting the heavy satchel on the floor.
“It’s funny, I was just talking about you.”
“Let me guess.” Margo brightened. “Another satisfied customer?”
Vojak tipped his head to the side. “According to Monsieur Genet, you have quite the way with words.”
“He tried to pull shit, and I was nice enough to explain why that wasn’t such a good idea,” she replied serenely. “I did him a favor, really.”
“Yeah, he sure sounded grateful on the phone.” Vojak leaned back, another smile tugging up one side of his mouth. “I think he expected me to include his comments in your performance review.”
“Well, damn. There goes my promotion.” Margo perched on the edge of the desk. “He paid up, though, and unless he has more long-dead ancestors immortalized on canvas somewhere, I wasn’t counting on repeat business.” Respectfully, she added, “Thanks for hooking me up with the job, even if that Guy guy was a prick. I transferred your cut into your preferred account already.”
Death Prefers Blondes Page 7
