The Collector

by Anne-Laure Thiblemont

  “Honey!”

  Her mother’s freckled face, framed by brown curls, lit up. She smiled at her and moved closer.

  “Finally! I was afraid you weren’t going to wake up until after I left. I know, I know. I’m sorry, I can’t stay long. You look great, though. They got me all worried. They told me you almost drowned. But I said it had to be a joke. I told them how you swim like a fish. Turns out I was right. It wasn’t that bad. You just swallowed a little water. I had to take a sedative to calm down. You know how I feel about hospitals. But seriously, I’ve got to head back home. I lost my watch.”

  Her hands were flying around like crazed birds.

  “I’ve been without that watch for two days now. It’s ridiculous. I looked everywhere. Giselle says I threw it out the window. But I think she stole it. I—”

  “Okay, Mom, okay!” Marion cried out. Her mother’s incoherent rambling was already wearing her down. “I’m fine. You can leave if you want to.”

  “You know, without my watch I don’t know when to take my pills. They upped me to twenty a day. I have to take them at just the right time, or else it’ll start up again!”

  “I’d lend you one, but I don’t wear a watch.”

  “I know. I looked in your bag. I thought mine might be in there. You could have borrowed it.”

  “But I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  “What if it was in your bag, and that nurse stole it?”

  “What nurse?”

  “The one I saw earlier.”

  “Mom. Go home. I’m sure Giselle has found it by now.”

  Marion couldn’t think of anything else to say to make her leave. She was worried that her mother would have an episode right there in her room. The various drugs the woman took subdued her temper but not her obsessive thoughts. And her moods turned so quickly, it was impossible to predict when another fit of hysteria would occur.

  When her irrational imaginings broke through the logic barrier, she’d sometimes become a soldier ready to save the world from the invisible threat—whatever that was. The hot-water kettle would start revving like an army tank. The bedside lamp would become a bomb. The bread knife would be her machine gun. All she needed was the signal, and she’d be off—a twenty-first century Joan of Arc.

  The door of her room cracked open, and a face peeped through the opening. It was a much welcome face with coarse stubble. The bags under his hazel eyes accentuated a look of fatigue.

  “Is it okay if I join you?”

  “Chris!” Marion sat up and beamed at her friend. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “Your mother called as soon as she found out that you were in the emergency room. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

  Marion looked at her mother. Pretending to ignore Marion, she hastened to put on a pair of gray gloves and picked up her purse.

  “I’m getting you out of here,” Chris said. Marion blinked. His lanky body seemed to be floating. “The doctors say everything’s fine. Low blood sugar. You just got dizzy and passed out.”

  “Dizzy? What are you talking about? They wanted to—”

  Marion stopped short. Her mother had stealthily taken her hand.

  “I’d love to take you home and look after you, but you know I can’t. I just have too much on my mind. Would you call Giselle and make sure she has my watch?”

  “Yes, I promise I’ll call her as soon as I’m back at my apartment.”

  Once she was gone, Marion covered her face with her hand.

  “I couldn’t tell her about Magni.”

  “In her mind, he’s been dead a long time,” Chris said.

  Chris was the only person Marion could count on. He was just as much a loner as she was, and he understood how she valued her privacy, because he valued his. They had met twelve years earlier at the École du Louvre and had become close friends thanks to heated arguments they would have about antiques, the nature of beauty, and people’s fascination with art.

  “Okay, let’s go. Get dressed,” he instructed as he pulled her clothes out of the closet and handed them to her. “I’m taking you out to dinner. How does prime rib sound? It’s all I can think about. I’m starving.”

  Chris helped Marion get up and turned his back while she dressed. She felt weak and empty. Her hands were trembling like leaves in the wind. With her clothes on at last, she sat down on the bed. She was too tired and anxious to face the world.

  “Are you okay, Marion? Should I call the nurse?”

  “I think someone wants me dead.”

  “What?”

  “In the pool. Two guys tried to drown me.”

  Chris flashed a dubious look before sitting down next to her.

  “But the doctors said…”

  “They don’t know what happened. They only know that somebody fished me out of the pool and called the paramedics.”

  “Maybe it was just some kids who were messing around. They were teasing you, and it went too far.”

  “If they were kids, they were well-trained kids. And strong. I’m telling you, these guys planned their attack! They took their time and waited until just the right moment, probably when the lifeguard was taking a break.”

  “If they wanted to eliminate you, they’d have done it.”

  “Something—or someone—stopped them.”

  “And how could they have gotten away?”

  “You don’t believe me!”

  “Of course I do, but maybe you’re exaggerating a bit. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “Maybe they were just trying to scare me.”

  “Why would they want to do that?”

  “Maybe they were warning me to give up my search for the sculptures.”

  “Who’s they? No one’s supposed to know about you. Isn’t that right? The estate attorney promised to keep everything confidential. I haven’t told anyone. Who could possibly want to hurt you? You’re blowing this entirely out of proportion, Marion.”

  “Gaudin knows.”

  As soon as his name left her mouth, her suspicions about the man seemed too obvious to be true.

  “And maybe Duverger, La Medici, and Rambert. I don’t care what the estate attorney said. You know how the art world works. Artworks may get stolen and stay under wraps for years, but secrets are traded out in the open. I’m almost positive they all know I’m Magni’s daughter. They may even have more information than that. Enough to eliminate me from the picture.”

  “Duverger? Rambert? Who are they? Whatever... You’re being paranoid. As big a name as Magni was, the whole world didn’t revolve around him.”

  “Never mind,” Marion muttered. Chris didn’t know all the facts and couldn’t possibly assess the situation.

  An awkward silence settled in the room.

  “Okay, let’s say you’re right,” Chris finally said. “What do we do now?”

  Marion shrugged. She was too overwhelmed to make any decisions. She was having a hard time holding back her tears, but she didn’t want to break down in front of Chris. He would feel awkward about consoling her, especially now that he was married—to a real nut job, in Marion’s opinion. At least his wife wasn’t the jealous type, or she would have lost his friendship long ago.

  “Come on. Let’s get that food,” he insisted. “It’ll take your mind off things.”

  Nope, nothing could take her mind off this, but she wanted company.

  She got up with immense effort just as a nurse entered the room and handed her an envelope.

  “This was left for you at the reception desk.”

  Marion looked at Chris for a second and then anxiously unfolded a piece of paper. On it were three words in flawless, rounded cursive: “Watch your back.”

  5

  Visions of masked snorkelers kept her thrashing in her bed until she realized that trying to sleep was useless.

  She stumbled across her loft studio—in a converted hosiery factory–and ran into a pile of books.

  “Shit.”

  Her bed fac
ed a fireplace with just a mirror on the mantel. Marion looked at her reflection. Her eyes were red from crying. Under them were dark blue circles.

  At the other end of the room were a cream-colored couch, two leather armchairs, a glass coffee table, and a potted palm tree. It was all the furniture she would allow in her home after spending her days surrounded by artwork. The minimalist look complemented the old bricks and industrial metal.

  In the kitchenette, Marion forgot to fill the coffeemaker with water before turning it on.

  “Dammit.”

  Her brain wasn’t engaged. She’d forgo the caffeine. After pouring some tap water in a mug, she flopped into one of the leather chairs.

  Marion was strung out. Chris had stayed too long the previous night. He thought conversation would help her sleep better. So she filled him in on the day’s developments.

  “Chris, I’m scared now,” she had told him. “The pool is my place. That’s where I unwind, my haven. Why’d they have to strike there? Why not outside my office, or even here?”

  “Marion, you’re making too much of this. There’s no ‘they.’ Put it behind you and move on.”

  “Admit it, Chris. My life has gotten a bit complicated since the estate lawyer called. But why? My father wasn’t trying to compensate for his absence. No, he had other things in mind.”

  “Paranoia isn’t going to help.”

  “I can’t believe Magni didn’t know the whereabouts of the sculptures when he wrote his will. Those were the only pieces he ever sold, according to Gaudin. Why didn’t he leave any clues? Maybe it was his eccentric way of testing my determination.”

  At that point, Chris had started looking at his watch.

  “Do you need to get back to your lady love?” Marion asked.

  Chris frowned and looked away. “Don’t change the subject, Marion. Your father didn’t want anything to do with you when you were growing up, so such an elaborate plan focused on you seems a bit of a stretch. Maybe he just didn’t have anyone else to give the collection to. End of story.”

  “Still, he’s six feet under, and he’s calling the shots. I don’t like being steered by a dead man, even if it is my father.”

  “Well, if you want my honest opinion, I think you’re just freaking out because you have to deal with power struggles and people crawling out of the woodwork—Gaudin, Duverger, and God knows who else. You hate confrontation. In fact, you do your best to avoid emotional involvement. Look at the boyfriends you choose so analytically.”

  She had stood up then and starting puttering in the kitchenette, with her back turned to him. He wasn’t entirely wrong. “There are fewer disruptions that way,” she said.

  “Too bad about that last one,” Chris threw in.

  “Peter?”

  “You know he really cared about you.”

  “He was insufferable. Too cloying.”

  “Cloying. That’s what you call it? I call it affection when a guy shows up at his girl’s door to steal her away from her books and take her to a concert, especially when it’s not even the music that he likes. Remember that big house party he threw?”

  “Yeah, he arrived early to pick me up. I hate surprises. And I hate crowds.”

  Marion had no desire to socialize or be seen by others. And now, ironically, she seemed to be the focus of a great deal of attention, and as much as Chris wanted her to put the whole thing out of her mind, she couldn’t.

  ~ ~ ~

  After calling in sick, Marion had gone back to bed. Now, she was up again and drumming the armrest of her chair. Chris had promised to swing by today. She checked the position of the sun in the window and surmised that it was well into the afternoon. Where was he? Just then, she heard banging at the door. Marion got up to answer, and Chris raced in without giving Marion a second look. Still wearing his coat, he threw himself into one of the armchairs.

  “What a day!”

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Four thirty, maybe later…”

  “You took your sweet time,” she replied.

  “I was at work, Marion, and I see that you weren’t.”

  “I had an excuse.”

  “Well, I did not, and I couldn’t get here any earlier. My boss left five messages on my cell last night. He wanted me at the lab at eight o’clock sharp.”

  Chris analyzed and authenticated antiques for a private lab.

  “It’s not your habit to respond to other people’s emergencies, Chris.”

  “Except yours, of course.”

  “You could have called me,” Marion said, wondering whether Chris would get around to asking her how she was doing.

  “I was waiting for confirmation on a few things that may interest you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s about Chartier, the historian—you know, that socialite dandy who’s all over the media.”

  Marion perked up. Laurent Duverger had mentioned Chartier as one of the guests at Magni’s dinner party.

  “When I showed up at the office, who did I find? Didier Combes.”

  “What was our favorite white-collar crimes detective doing there?” Combes headed up the art theft division of the Banditry Repression Brigade.

  “He was looking for information about a pre-Columbian sculpture that belonged to Chartier—a Peruvian warrior.”

  Marion’s heart was racing. Did Chartier have one of her sculptures?

  “We were able to dig up a couple of X-rays taken in our lab, plus an authentication analysis, but it wasn’t very thorough. He wanted anything that we might have: photos, analyses, the certificate, the whole shebang.”

  “And?” she asked, hanging onto his every word.

  “Nothing, unfortunately. We searched through all our archives—they’re a huge mess now that Michel’s gone. You’d think he took off with some of our files.”

  “Michel’s the one you fired?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Why was Combes looking for these documents?”

  “I’m assuming Chartier got robbed. I couldn’t get anything out of the detective. You know Combes isn’t a very talkative one.”

  She certainly did. The first Thursday of every month, she would meet Combes for lunch to go over their casework. He was the only detective she met this way. With the others, she talked on the phone or corresponded via e-mail. But Combes was an old-timer who preferred to deal with people face-to-face. He prided himself on using his street smarts, not modern technology, to solve his cases.

  Marion stared at the floor.

  “Do you think it’s one of yours?” Chris asked.

  “I need to find a woman with child, a jaguar, and a warrior, so maybe. But there are thousands of warrior sculptures. We need a more detailed description.”

  “It’s pretty weird, though. A bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  “The warrior I’m looking for has geometric designs on the right side and emerald inlays. Is there any chance at all that you could find a photo?”

  “A photo…” Chris slapped his forehead. “Jesus Christ. I’m such an idiot. Why didn’t I think of it? You’ve got the pictures of your pieces, don’t you?”

  Marion nodded.

  “Give them to me. I’ll see what I can find tomorrow. It could very well be that we handled the warrior while your father owned it. If that’s the case, we should be able to make a match, based on what we already have and your photos. We’ll get the certificate of authenticity and the name of the most recent owner, and that’ll be it. Who knows, we might be able to find a match for more than one of the sculptures.”

  “But you can’t even find a file for Chartier,” Marion responded listlessly.

  “The problem with Chartier is that the X-rays and the analysis are all that our lab has to work with right now, thanks to Michel and his mismanagement. We have the same system that you guys have at SearchArt. We archive the files based on images and descriptions of the piece. With the pictures you give us, we might have enough. I can run them
through photo recognition.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to try, but there are a lot of labs like yours in France,” Marion responded.

  Chris pulled out his cell phone. “But our lab is the best, isn’t it? Pieces of this caliber would have come to us.”

  “That’s assuming they’ve been analyzed.”

  “It’s worth a shot. Everyone wants certificates of authenticity, with all the counterfeits floating around these days.” Chris looked at his phone. “Oh God, my boss has left a bunch more messages already.” He brought the phone to his ear and whispered as he listened to the recordings. “They want me to come in at eight again tomorrow. The boss sounds furious. I don’t…”

  “That’s exactly what I was afraid of. It must be complete chaos at your lab. Anyway, this is just a wild goose chase arranged by some crazy old man who’s now dead. This is not who I am, Chris. In fact, it’s a perfect example of how art can make you nuts.”

  “Stop that, Marion. Get a grip! This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And you’re about to be showered with millions! Think of it. Millions! Sure, this is a little scary, but don’t the adventure and the money make it worthwhile?”

  “I’ll never be able to find the sculptures.”

  “Have more faith in yourself, Marion. I know you can do it.”

  “Look at me,” she replied, getting closer to him. “What do you see in my eyes?”

  He leaned in, half curious, half amused.

  “Determination…”

  “No, Chris. It’s fear. Fear. And I can’t shake it.”

  6

  Chris left shortly afterward. He said he needed to appease his wife. Rummaging for something to eat, Marion wondered what else was wrong. To this point, Chris’s wife hadn’t minded the time he spent with her.

  Before leaving, Chris had put his finger on her own problem: the millions.

  The market was anticipating just one thing: that Marion would sell. A collection like this came along only once every couple of decades. Manna for the birds of prey. Unfathomable works of art—and lots of them. Astonishing pieces that would be sold and resold for years.