The Complete Death Du Jour Mystery Collection

by Hillary Avis

Bethany shot Ryan a look to see if he made the connection, but he was absorbed in examining the painting. She nudged him. “This means Ernesto was telling the truth about Bella selling a painting to pay for her Italian villa. Maybe his story checks out.”

  Phil threw back his head and laughed. “This wouldn’t pay to rent an Italian scooter. It’s fake. I only gave her two-fifty for it.”

  “Thousand?” Bethany’s eyes nearly bulged out of her head.

  Phil laughed again. “Dollars. Two-hundred-and-fifty buckaroos.”

  Ryan squinted at the painting. “I don’t know—this looks genuine to me. That’s definitely Peregrine’s signature. And I don’t think Bernard LaFontaine would give his wife a fake painting. His reputation was built on the quality of his collection. He wouldn’t buy a forgery. Are you sure it’s not just an obscure work?”

  “Nah, it’s definitely fake. It’s a good fake—it almost fooled me, too,” Phil tapped the side of his nose. “Lucky for me, I run a couple of tests before I buy anything, just to protect myself. Check it out.” He flicked off the light switch, throwing the windowless room into pitch darkness. Then he clicked on a glowing blue lamp and held it close to the painting. The ship’s sail glowed brightly under the light, unlike the rest of the painting. “See that? That’s Valoryn brown in that sail. That’s all wrong. It’s unstable. It has bad characteristics—it fades, for one thing. Peregrine never used it. He explicitly avoided it.”

  “But the sail isn’t faded!” Bethany protested.

  “Exactly.” Phil nodded. “If Peregrine painted it, it’d be faded by now.”

  “Maybe it was stored in the dark. In a closet or an attic?” Ryan asked.

  Phil shook his head. “I’m telling you, Jasper James Peregrine avoided that paint like the plague. He wouldn’t let his students use it, either. There were a few years when all he had access to was Valoryn brown, and he literally didn’t paint during that time. You’re a chef, yeah?” he asked Bethany. When she nodded, he said, “It’d be like if you ran out of salt. You’re not going to cook bland, tasteless meals until you can get it again, right? You’re not going to substitute sugar, either. You’re just going to wait for salt.”

  “So there’s no way he painted it,” Bethany murmured, nodding.

  “Is it possible that Bernard didn’t know he had a fake on his hands?” Ryan asked. He shook his head, almost as if he couldn’t believe the story.

  “Doubt it. Lucien Boucher would never let him buy a fake Peregrine. I wish I could afford to have him on staff,” Phil said sourly.

  “Jealous?” Ryan grinned at him.

  Phil tipped his hat back. “You bet I’m jealous! I’d kill to have that kind of expert to acquire paintings for me. I’d send him around the world to ferret out all the unknown works I could get my hands on. Did you know Lucien is responsible for locating at least half of Peregrine’s known works? Not just half of Bernard LaFontaine’s. Half of them in the world. A million people can competently restore paintings, but one in a million has that kind of eye.”

  “You seemed to manage just fine,” Ryan said wryly.

  “Ah yes, but only because I’ve had the privilege of seeing so much of Bernard’s collection. Without that at my fingertips—which no one else in the world has, barring Lucien—I’d be as much of a rube as the next guy.”

  “A rube you are not,” Ryan said, gesturing around at the art in the room. “Show me what you’ve got that isn’t a fake.”

  “Aye aye, captain,” Phil said, touching the brim of his hat. He quickly showed Ryan a set of black and white photographs. “I know, you were thinking paintings, but hear me out. This is a series of diptychs, kind of like the Peregrine companions. The first photos in each pair were taken twenty years ago, when the artist was homeless on the streets of Newbridge. The second set were taken this past summer in the same locations, and they show how the landscape has changed. Sometimes for the better, others for the worse. Check ’em out.”

  “What do you think, Bethany?” Ryan studied her expression as she looked over the work. She took her time, staring at each pair of photographs for a few moments before moving on to the next.

  “They draw me in,” she said finally, feeling bold. “They make me want to know more. And they’re perfect for Halloween—spooky without being macabre.”

  “The chef has an eye,” Phil said, raising his eyebrows.

  Ryan slung an arm around her. “What did I tell you? She’s an artist at heart.”

  Bethany grinned up at him, a little giddy.

  “What do you say, Phil? Will you loan these to me?”

  “Depends.” Phil smoothed his mustache and winked. “Will you sell them for me?”

  “Depends,” Ryan said. “Will you bring them over and install them in the museum before Saturday evening?”

  Phil snorted. “Impossible.”

  Ryan’s face fell and Bethany’s heart leaped into her throat.

  Phil smirked at their expressions. “Impossible for mere mortals, anyway. But you’re no mere mortal, you’re a Lazam! For you, anything is possible.”

  Oh, the irony of special treatment for a family name that you might lose as a result. Bethany grabbed Ryan’s hand and squeezed sympathetically.

  “Wonderful. I owe you one.” Ryan chuckled, shaking his head.

  Phil nodded. “I’m counting on it.”

  As they turned to leave the back room, the seascape painting caught Bethany’s eye once again. “Just curious—why’d you buy the painting from Bella if you knew it was fake?”

  “It’s a pretty picture,” Phil said. “No reason it shouldn’t hang on a wall somewhere. Plus, it keeps some other dealer from making a bad purchase.”

  “You’re a real philanthropist.” Ryan’s voice was teasing as he put out his hand to shake Phil’s again.

  “One more thing,” Bethany blurted out. “Why couldn’t Jasper James Peregrine get salt? I mean, when he couldn’t get the paint he wanted—why not?”

  “The Egyptian-Ottoman war in the early nineteenth century made it difficult to get certain items from that region, including the pigment he preferred.” Phil smiled stiffly, as if Bethany couldn’t possibly be interested in the art history and had only asked to be polite.

  “Did you say ‘Egyptian’?” She gave him a startled glance. Ryan’s ears had perked up at the word, too, and he leaned forward to hear Phil’s answer.

  Phil nodded. “That’s right. The pigment he preferred was from Egypt. Actually, you’ll never guess what it was made from...”

  Ryan and Bethany shared a knowing look.

  “Mummies?” Bethany asked eagerly.

  Phil looked pleased at her enthusiasm. “Yes, exactly! Peregrine used mummy brown in all his work, both as a pigment and as a glaze. How did you know?”

  With a jolt, Bethany remembered that Bernard’s mummy was still a secret. No one can know.

  “Lucky guess.” Bethany’s voice sounded hollow to her own ears.

  “Lucien may have mentioned it to us,” Ryan added. “He showed us the Peregrines he’s been restoring.”

  Yeah, restoring with part of a dead guy, hence my precocious knowledge of nineteeth-century paint pigments.

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing those myself,” Phil said, chuckling. “No black light necessary.”

  “You can see them on Saturday—you’re invited to the party, too!” Ryan said, clapping him on the back. “Get your costume ready! I bet you can sell a lot of art in that room.”

  “Now that’s an invitation I can’t refuse,” Phil said. “You better believe I’ll be there.”

  Bethany and Ryan dashed through the chilly downpour to the car. Inside, Bethany checked her phone again.

  Still nothing from Milo. But he didn’t owe her anything. They weren’t married or anything—they were barely dating!

  She snuck a peek at Ryan as he checked his mirrors and pulled out into the street, headed toward the train station. He had to be the one who wrote the poem. If Milo felt that strongly a
bout her, he would have at least texted her back. Even if his phone was dead, he knew enough people close to her that he could have gotten in touch. He could have called Charley, couldn’t he? Or Kimmy...or even Ryan!

  “It’s weird that Bernard gave Bella a forged painting, right?” Ryan asked suddenly, his eyes on the road. “If he knew it was fake, then why give it to her at all?”

  “One last message? A fake painting for a fake wife?”

  “Maybe. It’s a little mean-spirited, though.” Ryan frowned.

  “Well, the alternative is that maybe he didn’t know it was fake. Maybe it was a real gift.”

  “I don’t think Bernard would have collected a fake. Lucien would have spotted it immediately. I think it’s more likely that Bernard knew and passed it off to Bella as a joke.” Ryan shook his head.

  “What a terrible joke. I guess it worked, though, because it meant that Bella wasn’t able to afford that villa she wanted. Bernard set her up so she wouldn’t be able to get around the provisions of the will. She had nothing of value!”

  Ryan glanced at her. “She did, though. She had the watch.”

  “Right, but it isn’t worth enough to live on for a year. Although”—Bethany paused, her heartrate quickening—“Bella had to come back for the watch just to get to Europe, didn’t she? She couldn’t even afford the plane ticket once she missed her flight to Spain.”

  “Maybe she changed her plans and decided to go to the convent after all, once the painting was off the table.”

  Blood rushed in Bethany’s ears. “And when she asked for the watch back from Ernesto...”

  “He killed her,” Ryan finished, his face grave. “We may have made a huge mistake letting him go. Can you let Charley know? I’m going straight to the estate after I drop you at the café.”

  Bethany nodded and quickly texted Charley:

  BE CAREFUL.

  Charley didn’t reply immediately, and Bethany clutched the phone to her chest. “I hope we’re not too late.”

  Ryan pulled over in front of the train station and Bethany jumped out. She leaned back into the car to say goodbye. “Hey, you be careful, too. I can’t live without you, you know.” She smiled awkwardly, hoping he’d catch the reference to the poem he’d left for her to find.

  Ryan nodded, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual.”

  Chapter 20

  IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE fact that Ryan was heading into the potentially murderous clutches of Ernesto Bautista, Bethany would have felt like she was living in a dream. But when she pushed through the front door of the Railway Café, her soaring mood came crashing down. Kimmy was in tears behind the register.

  “I can’t help you, sir!” she sobbed in front of a dismayed elderly customer. Bethany rushed to her side, looping an apron around her neck and tying it behind her back as she went.

  “What’s going on?” she asked worriedly.

  The customer gestured vaguely at Kimmy. “I just asked for an éclair...”

  “And we’re out!” Kimmy said. “I can’t produce them like magic, you know? I’m not a choux wizard!”

  Bethany couldn’t help smiling. “Aw, honey. Take a break.” She shooed Kimmy to a table and smiled apologetically at the customer. “She’s getting married next week. Can I get you something else? Maybe a chocolate croissant?”

  “Sure,” the man chuckled. “I remember those days. Sweet times—even if it doesn’t seem like it now.” Bethany rang him up, and on his way out, he patted Kimmy on the shoulder. “Chin up, young lady. Your young man is lucky to have you, and you’ll have a wonderful life together.”

  Kimmy lifted her head. “I’m marrying a woman, actually, but thanks.”

  “Oh, well,” the man said. “You’re both lucky, then. Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

  He shuffled out of the store, nibbling on his croissant, and Kimmy watched him go with a pained look on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Bethany wiped her hands on a towel and sat down at Kimmy’s table. She leaned forward so she could see Kimmy’s face a little better. “I’m sorry I left all this to you.”

  Kimmy shook her head. “It’s fine. You’re getting so many of the wedding errands done. That guy was right—I shouldn’t sweat the small stuff.”

  Bethany winced. “About that small stuff. I was supposed to meet up with Milo to plan the bachelorette night, but—”

  “But what?! Is there a problem?” Kimmy’s eyes went wide.

  Oops. Now is not the time to tell her that Milo is MIA.

  “No problem. He just had to reschedule.”

  “Oh god! Ohhh no!” Kimmy’s lower lip quivered as though she might burst into tears again. “In two days, we’re all going to get on the party bus and then what? Drive around in circles?”

  Bethany rushed to reassure her. “No no! Don’t worry. First off, Ryan came up with a fantastic alternative to the pub crawl.”

  Kimmy groaned. “Not a stripper. Please don’t say a stripper.”

  “No!” Bethany laughed. “His family’s fancy Halloween party is on Saturday, and we’re all invited. We’ll wear fun costumes, drink free champagne, and have a blast.”

  Kimmy looked up at her. “So it’s all planned? We can cross it off the list?”

  “Yup.” Bethany nodded, but to her surprise, Kimmy still looked miserable. “What now?”

  “Charley’s extra wedding guests! How are we going to fit them in?” Kimmy scrubbed at her tear-stained cheeks with a napkin.

  Bethany reached across the table and put a hand on Kimmy’s arm. “Taken care of. I figured it out last night. Everybody fits.”

  “And the food? All those people need to eat!” Kimmy gripped the balled-up napkin so hard, Bethany thought it might turn into a diamond.

  “I told you, I’m gonna make soup. How about that lentil soup!” Viv piped up from behind the counter. “Bethany taught me the recipe on Monday.”

  “Lentils?” Kimmy wrinkled her nose.

  Viv nodded. “I know my family’s gonna love it,” she said. “It’s kinda like beans and rice, you know? You can’t have a meal at our house without beans and rice.”

  “Think about it—it’s perfect! We can do sort of a French twist on the recipe, and it’ll represent both you and Charley.”

  Kimmy shook her head. “I’m just worried it’s too homestyle. The rest of the catering menu is more elegant.”

  Kimmy was right. Lentil soup was a rustic dish. But what better soup to serve at an autumn celebration than something warm, spicy, and comforting?

  “I think the rest of the menu will elevate the soup. Less expensive ingredients always seem fancy when they’re presented with the fancy stuff. I mean, blinis are just wee pancakes, right? It’s the caviar that makes them fancy. When they’re caviar-adjacent, nobody is like, ‘Hey, this is just Bisquick.’ And even if they do say that, they’re the jerk. Pancakes are delicious.”

  Kimmy grinned, nodding. “You’re right. Small stuff. I’m not going to sweat it. I know you’ll make something that tastes good.”

  Bethany patted Kimmy’s hand and stood up. “Leave it to us. We’ll come up with a great recipe. All you need to worry about is what costume you’re going to wear to the masquerade ball on Saturday. Or maybe we should all wear matching costumes, just for fun.”

  “Something sexy!” Viv said, leaning over Kimmy’s shoulder and grinning. “I don’t want to dress up like a hot dog or whatever.”

  “A sexy hot dog.” Bethany waggled her eyebrows at Viv.

  Viv cracked up and threw her towel at Bethany. “Ewww!”

  “Seeing Viv in a hot dog costume—now that is something to look forward to,” Kimmy said, giggling. “Actually, what I’m looking forward to most about Saturday is finally seeing the wedding venue! I hope it lives up to the picture I have in my head.”

  Bethany smiled across the table at her. “You are going to love it.”

  Especially once those windows are clean. Well, I guess I kn
ow what I’m doing tomorrow after work. I’ll be washing a thousand windows. In the dark. At a spooky old estate. Where a murderer might still be on the loose.

  But maybe Milo would help out—he owed her one after standing her up today. While Kimmy and Viv joked about wearing sexy burger costumes instead of sexy hotdog costumes, Bethany pulled out her phone and texted Milo again:

  Where are you?

  Chapter 21

  Friday

  FRIDAY MORNING AND early afternoon flew by in a rush of ginger scones, cream of mushroom soup, and goat cheese and turkey sandwiches. Bethany was counting out the till when Milo’s guilty face appeared in the window and motioned her outside. She nodded to him and finished her task as quickly as she could.

  “I’ll just be a minute!” she said to Kimmy, who was distracted by the batch of sourdough that was in the mixer. Bethany rinsed her hands and ducked outside, drying her hands on her apron as she went.

  Milo stuffed his hands in his pockets when he saw her, his expression sheepish. He kicked at something imaginary on the sidewalk. “Sorry about yesterday.”

  “You should be!” She put her hands on her hips and tried her best not to scold him. “I was really worried. Why didn’t you call or text or something?”

  He let out his breath in a rush. “I was busy. I went to New Haven to find a DJ for the reception, and then something came up and I couldn’t get back in time.”

  That doesn’t explain why you didn’t call, though. Bethany pursed her lips.

  Milo held out his hands pleadingly. “I’m sorry—what can I do to make it up to you?”

  “You can’t.” She crossed her arms.

  “Come on...let me take you out. We can go audition some bars for the pub crawl right now!”

  “Too late—I already planned the bachelorette party. We’re all going to the masquerade ball at the new art museum instead. In costume. We’re going as mermaids,” she added. “We decided last night. Hope that’s OK with you.”

  He laughed. “Mermaids, huh? I’ll see what I can come up with that doesn’t involve a clam bra.”

  She grinned and dropped her arms. “I don’t know—a clam bra might be your punishment for standing me up and letting me worry about you for twenty-four hours!”