by Alice Quinn
“Where in the hell did you come from? Huh?”
He replied in a language I didn’t understand. Lani understood, though. It must have been whatever they speak in the Philippines.
“Please, mouth shut.”
My English isn’t all that hot, as you know, but I knew she was telling me to hush up. I don’t usually take too kindly to people telling me what to do like that. But this time, I decided I’d save my breath, as neither of these two would have understood me if I’d flipped out.
Before I was going to do as I was told, I asked in broken English, “This man you is knowing, Lani?”
She flushed and was just about to respond when our uninvited guest barked in her face. She didn’t say a word. She was bothered by him. Me too.
We just stayed where we were, as still as taxidermy, staring into space. I didn’t know what to do. But even though this wiener was coming across as very aggressive and we were locked in the house with him, he wasn’t armed, so I wasn’t all that unnerved. I’d faced worse opponents than this one. He was no big threat.
I strode confidently toward Gaston’s telephone, fully intent on calling the cops and letting them know that some dangerous man had broken into my home, when I realized how stupid that would be. Firstly, I was being hunted by the police, so I could hardly go knocking at their door, could I? Secondly, I couldn’t say someone had broken into my house, because I was in someone else’s house. And I’d broken in too.
Nothing was going my way here. The man knew he had me. I could see it in his eyes. He had the upper hand. So he started with the barking again. God only knew what he was saying. It must have been along the lines of “Don’t go near the phone,” but I was just guessing. I moved away from Gaston’s desk.
It’s always a good idea to make the person screaming at you think the screaming is having an effect. Especially if it’s having no effect. That way, when you move in for the attack, you stun the shit out of them.
What? Have you never read The Art of War?
So there the three of us stood around like dopes with very little to say to each other. “Very little” meaning “nothing.”
The nightmare then got a teeny bit worse.
The guy removed a pocketknife from his pocket. It was no big deal. More like something you’d use to open envelopes than victims’ stomachs. You couldn’t do much damage with that stupid little thing. You could maybe cut up a banana with it, but probably not an apple. Even though I found his weapon choice absurd, I still didn’t fancy it against my neck. So I tried my damnedest to keep a low profile. This whole scene would soon change once the brothers got back. I was sure they’d teach this wiseass a lesson.
“Down, woman!”
From that I understood he wanted us to sit down. So that’s what I did. I whispered to Lani, “Tell him that Théo and Humbert will be back in five minutes and that an alarm has warned the police that there’s an intruder. Make sure he understands we’ve got no money either.”
She didn’t understand a word I’d said, and I couldn’t say all that in English or whatever she spoke. It was a shame Sabrina wasn’t there.
“Who him?” I added.
This she understood.
“Father. Name Datu,” she replied. She appeared resigned to the upcoming disaster.
How did that work out then? How come her father had shown up? Jesus! It was all we needed! Another family drama in the mix. We were drowning in sagas! Inheritance disputes, family fights, secret children, and now surprise fathers . . . Maybe my father would show up from Canada any second?
Datu studied his daughter intensely. Then he asked her a question.
“Oo,” she replied timidly.
I understood this to mean yes. He screamed another order. She turned to face me. I had a feeling I was about to find out what this guy wanted from me.
“Small figures, pleeeaaase, naked women speaking, please,” said Lani.
I understood not a word. Nada. He took some paper from the desk and drew me a picture. It wasn’t half-bad. Actually, it was hot shit! A load of girls with nothing on. Why was this nutjob asking about naked girls? Did he think this was a brothel? Did he know about my grandmother? He didn’t want me to take my clothes off, did he? Also, I didn’t like the way he was speaking to his daughter one bit.
Of course I knew what he really meant! I’m just kidding with you. He wanted the statuette! The weapon used to kill old Maxy boy. It was currently hidden under my bed . . . on the second floor of the house . . . with a heap of priceless artwork. He wrote the word Claudel by his drawing. “Clowwdayl, clowwdayl . . .”
I figured we were in the presence of the murderer.
I shot Lani a warning look. Then I bitched her out. I knew she couldn’t understand anything, but it made me feel better. She knew she was in for it. She knew what I was getting at, and the reasons for my blowout could hardly have escaped her. She didn’t need to use Google translate to get an idea now, did she?
“Did you tell him I had the nudey girls? Did you know he was the killer? You failed to mention that, didn’t you? If you’d have just fessed up to the police right at the beginning, we wouldn’t have had all this bull! How long have you been communicating with him by phone?”
What bull, though? What could we have avoided? We could have avoided my falling for Théodore and experiencing the gorgeousness of him . . . even though he is a bit weird. We could have avoided the blossoming romance between Humbert and her. We could have avoided Ismène meeting Véro, which, after all, could be a romance too . . . or not. Nothing’s been confirmed. When it came down to it, I suppose there were a lot of good things that had happened on top of the bull. Some fun had been had by just about everyone involved.
But it was the principle of the thing! I was lashing out because we could have known days ago who the murderer was. I was hopping mad! I suppose that I could understand how difficult it would be to hand your own daddy over to the police. But honestly, what did Lani’s father have to do with Max and this whole story? Why us? Why were we the ones being followed by the cops, threatened with the electric chair and all the rest of it?
He said something. He said “Clowwdayl” again. Claudel. Claudel. OK, I get it. You don’t need to draw another picture.
Lani looked me in the eye.
“No. No, Lani, it’s out of the question. If I give you the naked broads, it means we’ll have nothing left to prove our innocence.”
“No murder. Not! Not!” cried Lani.
“Just think for two seconds, will you? If he’s not the killer, why does he want the Claudel?”
My question was probably too simplistic. There were tons of reasons someone might want to take a murder weapon, weren’t there? Of course, you might want to have it disappear if you were the one who’d used it to kill someone, but you might also want it gone to confuse the real killer, prove your child’s innocence, have the cops track a false lead to buy yourself some time, or . . . or maybe it was worth something, and he just wanted to sell it and then get the crap out of here.
The two of them discussed something for a while, and it didn’t seem like they were in agreement. We were at a dead end. I thought that the best possible way out of this would be to stay polite. I picked out a bottle from the cabinet and showed it to Lani’s father.
“Would you like something to drink?”
My offer seemed to cool him off some. He lowered his arms and sat at the table. He accepted a glass of white. Then a second. Then a third.
I think he was starting to get a bit tipsy when the two brothers came back. They knocked on the door a few times. They couldn’t get in. This sent Datu into a meltdown! He jumped up and started running in circles around the living room. Lani tried to speak to him. This calmed him down a little, and he gave me the key.
I went to open up for the Pinson boys and they came in. Théodore had the grumps. He clearly hadn’t enjoyed having to wait in the cold. Humbert scanned the room. He spotted our new guest. He looked like he was simply tak
ing it all in stride. He strolled over to Lani, clasped her in his arms, and asked if everything was all right.
“No, not really,” I said. “Maybe you can figure out what’s going on here. This man, Datu, is Lani’s daddy.”
Humbert started to freak out. He straightened his hair, trying to quickly smarten his act to impress his sweetheart’s old man.
“She’s been calling him for two days, and she’s been doing it in secret. It turns out that the reason he’s here is to pick up the statuette that was used to kill your father.”
“What statuette?” asked Humbert. “What’s all this about a statuette?”
That’s when I noticed that Datu was staring at Théo, who had become enraged. It was the worst mood I’d seen him in yet. Datu suddenly threw himself at Théo’s throat, gripping his pocketknife. Théodore managed to dodge him at the final second, and Datu fell flat on his ass. He cut his finger on his way down. Blood was spurting out like a scene out of True Blood. He sat on the floor and stared at the open wound.
I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a roll of paper towels. I knew it would help stop the flow and prevent him from making an even bigger mess.
“Now you’ve really done it,” I said. “I’m sick of this. I’m tired of all the secrets, the lies, the half-truths. Everyone needs to put their goddamn cards on the table. Otherwise, we’ll never get out of this nightmare.”
They all gawked at me, and I pointed at the chairs around the table. I can be very bossy when I need to be. To my surprise, they all did as they were told and sat down.
“Lani, do you want to start?” I asked. “We need to be as clear as possible, alrighty?”
Lani cuddled up to Humbert and started to talk. He translated exactly what she said into French. But I knew it all already. She’d found the old boy’s body in his office and the statuette next to him. The statuette was covered in blood.
“The statuette is actually called a Claudel. It was sculpted by Camille Claudel.” This was Théodore’s input, but nobody had asked him for it. Who cared what it was called? It added nothing to the investigation.
Datu gave the impression that he was agreeing with everything his daughter was saying, nodding the whole time. Lani may seem like a simple, straightforward type of girl, but she’s certainly nobody’s fool, that one. She knew all about prints and DNA and also how important the four nudey girlies would be to the case. She’d dusted it enough times and thought her prints might be on it. So she took the statuette, wrapped it up in a special microfiber cloth, and dumped it in the pantry. That’s where I’d found it.
She quieted down for a few minutes, trying to calm herself, then continued. And this was the good bit, the part she’d been hiding from us.
Her father had been with her for some time. He’d come to Gaston’s place that day to tackle Théodore. He was in a major dispute with him. Théo had had him copying the paintings—and hadn’t paid him for months.
Everyone turned to Théo. He lowered his gaze, shifted his body to face the door, and blubbered, “What? No . . . what? What did she just say? I don’t know anything about this.”
My brain was racing. I couldn’t keep up with my own thoughts. It couldn’t have been Théodore who killed Max, could it? Could it really? What he’d done to me the night before in the basement didn’t play well in his favor. I knew the truth. I knew he’d had copies of the paintings made.
The only difference now was that I knew who’d made the copies. That’s all. So it wasn’t really breaking news here. Not as juicy as I thought it would be. The fact that he had turned toward the door maybe gave him away. He appeared shifty. Did this mean he’d stolen his dad’s paintings as well as committed the murder? Could be.
I had to go back to the beginning. I didn’t want him to be guilty. If he was a deranged psycho killer, it would have consequences for me. I’d already had one crazy, murderous lover. These things shouldn’t have to happen to a girl twice in a lifetime. When it does happen, you have to seriously question said girl’s choices in life. Could it be she had mental issues of her own? I didn’t want to be known for falling in love with men who wound up using and abusing me. I wanted one of the good ones.
I refused to play the role of the victim. I wasn’t a sad sack and never would be. I gave Théo a stern glare.
“What do you have to say, Théo? You’re aware you had forgeries made—you haven’t forgotten, have you?”
He gawked at me. “Yes, of course! Yes! I admit it! I had some forgeries painted!”
“What?” cried Humbert. “You? You don’t know the first thing about the fine-art markets! You weren’t even around when father had the paintings forged!”
“I’m not talking about back then. That was fifteen years ago, Humbert. I’m talking about the last two years.”
“How did you find this artist?” he asked.
“It wasn’t difficult in the slightest. Father kept records of everything. I found the names and addresses of all the illegal painters working in Father’s warehouse in London. They were all hiding out in Peckham.”
“You really found all that? Did you go to Peckham?”
“Yes, I went there. But the only one I managed to get my hands on was Datu here. He was still living in the warehouse. The others had all gone back to the Philippines. Datu was the only one who was easy to find. I realized that his daughter was a maid at Father’s house. All illegal, of course. It was I who planned for Datu to come to France to Lani’s apartment. In fact, when I went to London, I escorted Datu back. He went to live with his daughter and some friends, and I gave him a canvas to copy from time to time. I fixed up a workshop in Father’s basement, and Datu worked out of there.
“But why get involved with forgeries? It’s such a risk! You must be a lunatic, Théodore! You’re aware of that though, aren’t you? You know you’re being crazy!”
“Oh! There’s no need to be so condescending. I found out that Father had a son hidden in Switzerland. I told you! When I found out that he would inherit everything, I made the first move. That’s all. I decided to take all the original paintings and leave him with the fakes. I knew a long time before this latest will was brought into the equation. I planned to copy every last painting in that room. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to complete the job before he died.”
72
Humbert stared at his brother as if he were seeing him for the first time.
“But why? You earn a fortune!”
“That’s what everyone believes, Humbert! The truth is I’m broke! I lost everything in the crash. In several crashes. It seems I’m rather attracted to bad bets. Nobody trusts me in my job these days. I’m not the only one who screwed up. At least I managed to avoid a prison sentence.”
“So where do you get all your money from?”
“I speak at conferences. I travel all over the world and explain to people how to become millionaires. It’s my bread-and-butter money.”
“I think it’s a little more than that. I think you’re buying a little more than bread and butter,” Humbert said.
“Think what you like, Humbert. Maybe I give the impression of being loaded, but I can assure you it’s not the case. I wasn’t able to sell any of the paintings while Father was alive. You know how small the art world is. If I were loaded, I’d have paid my artist, wouldn’t I? It’s insane to hold money back from someone, especially under these circumstances! To not pay a guy who’s doing forgeries for you? It’s suicide! How easy do you think it is for someone like me to be blackmailed? And that’s exactly what’s happened. Datu has been after me in a major way. He’s an illegal immigrant in France. No papers. The visitor’s visa I got for him ran out a while back. And because of me, he has no money either. He’d had enough, so he came after me.”
Perplexed, Lani turned to face Humbert, who translated everything. Cries of despair poured from Lani and her father. They were outraged! Lani explained that her father was not a blackmailer—he was just a sensitive artist who wanted what he was owed. He
’d come to take the paintings back, it was as simple as that. The plan was that he’d keep them until Théodore paid up. Lani said they should never have trusted him and they wouldn’t work for him again.
“Alrighty!” I said. “I’d like to understand one or two things. There are a couple of weird coincidences here. Don’t you think it’s strange that Max’s maid is the daughter of the guy forging art for him?”
Datu started to explain his side of the story. When he spoke, his voice was pained and indignant, his words rushed.
That morning, he was with Lani when she went to work. He went into the office and noticed two things. One, Max Pinson was there and caught Datu red-handed taking paintings. And two, most of the paintings on the wall were his own, and he wanted them back. He went with his reflexes. Max was threatening him, so survival mode kicked in. He picked up the statuette from the desk and threw it across the room, straight at the old guy’s dome. Datu didn’t hang around to see if Max was seriously injured or not. Then, knowing he couldn’t take all the paintings, he quickly grabbed a little one that he could slip into his suitcase, so he could renegotiate his terms with his boss (i.e., get him to cough up some dough). Then he made a run for it, not realizing Max got up again.
“Are you serious? So he was the one who stashed the painting in my trailer?” I asked Humbert, who was helping to translate again.
More explanations followed. No, it wasn’t him. Immediately after taking the painting, his daughter walked into the room. She screamed in protest and, seeing the tragic scene around her, put the painting back up on the wall. She then picked up the rudey-nudey girls, threw her father out onto the street, and hunted for somewhere to hide the statuette.
The pantry.
Then she escaped to the basement, and once down there, she didn’t dare come back up again.
Even though this version of events sounded ridiculous in every way, it seemed that Datu was satisfied with it. I wasn’t so sure.
