by Ritter Ames
He shuddered. "Thanks, but no thanks." He looked around. "The room's empty." He stared at the wall of windows. "I've never seen anything like that."
I hadn't noticed before, but from this angle the mountain was strategically and tastefully lighted, emphasizing its geographical features in a way that made the entire structure its own natural art. No light pollution here, but I must have been lit up like a Christmas ornament hanging out there. Thank goodness I hadn't known it at the time.
"The art of the mountain. The art of the building. Nature's own beauty," Jack said softly. "If I'm not mistaken the outside construction is mostly basalt, which is not typically used in building because it's porous. But it is beautiful."
"And the interior decorations of the house, the unnatural part so to speak, is gaudy and overdone, representing man's avarice and envy. Is that where this heading?"
"It would seem so."
"Like one big joke . . . which is something I was thinking earlier," I mused.
"Time to check out the roof, Laurel."
"You're not the boss of me."
"Not yet, but I'm working on it."
We passed through the double French doors and were promptly fired upon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I grabbed Jack, and we both ran around the corner of the lounge to gain cover.
"Do you have a gun?" I whispered.
"Of course," he replied in kind. And then I saw he had it in his hand. A nine-millimeter Glock.
We waited, but nothing more happened.
"You stay here while I—"
"No way, buster! We're in this together. Where you go, I go." I wasn't getting left behind again.
"Be reasonable . . ." he began, only to say, "Oh, yeah. I forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"There's not a reasonable gene in your body."
"Why you—"
"C'mon then. I'm not simply standing here waiting to be shot. Let's find out who's doing the shooting."
He motioned for me to stay behind him, and at that point I was more than happy to do so. I pulled my knife from my clutch and followed closely.
Before we'd gone far, another shot was fired, and another. Someone meant business, but they didn't appear to be trying to kill us. Simply keep us where we were. As if they were waiting for someone or some thing.
I became aware of a distant droning like the buzz of a bee. "Do you hear that?"
"It's a helicopter," Jack said, his mouth grim. "Sounds like it's coming to pick up something."
"Or someone." Was it Simon? The sword? "We need to see what it is."
"I know."
Jack fired off enough rounds to get us near a solid, long lounger. There were a couple of answering reports then nothing. We crouched behind the lounger.
"Maybe's he's run out of ammo," I said.
"We don't know that, and we must proceed with caution."
"But the bee's become louder," I said desperately.
Again the puzzled look, but his expression cleared. "Yeah, a couple more minutes, maybe. Not far now."
He pointed to another lounger, a match to the one we sat behind. "I'm going to fire, and we're going there. Got it?"
I sniffed. "I'm not two, Jack."
"Sometimes I'm not sure."
My ears rang by the time we made it to the next one. There were no other shots, but the helipad was definitely close. It would be a tight fit, but a good pilot could manage.
I couldn't wait. I yelled, "Simon is that you?"
Silence.
"Simon? It's me, Laurel! What's going on?"
"Why, Laurel, you've made it after all." Simon's voice rose loud enough to be heard over the approaching noise.
Relief at finding him alive was quickly replaced by something else. His voice. The tone wasn't right. Had he been kept prisoner here?
Jack stood and approached. I stayed close behind him.
"Simon?" I called, the question in my voice apparent to even my own ears.
Suddenly, there he was. Still as coolly polished as ever. A man I had shared my feelings and my body with. A man I had thought a friend. Next to his feet was a large bag. Large enough to carry a sword.
There was also a huge shattered ceramic pot. A royal blue pot with the plant lying on its side, roots exposed.
"He's holding a remote to a bomb," Jack said casually, as if discussing the weather.
"Very astute," Simon answered. "As you've surmised I've run out of bullets, but I am holding something else in my hand that might cause a bit of a kerfuffle. You two will stay right where you are until I'm gone. The location and description of the bomb are over there." He pointed to the corner of the terrace and an envelope held down by a rock. "I certainly don't want to be responsible for hurting all these good citizens of Le Puy." He laughed. "Or destroying such a monument to man's excesses."
There were so many questions and so little time. Even seeing the remote, I still couldn't quite believe . . . "Have you been held captive, Simon? Is that why you didn't respond to any of my communications? Is Moran threatening you?"
Simon laughed. "Captive? No. Jane and I discovered life was heating up a bit too much in London, and Moran happily provided an out for both us. I warned him how good you are at always sticking your nose, and other parts of you, where they don't belong. I think when you kept outmaneuvering those dimwits he sent to keep tabs on your movements, a soft spot was created for you in his heart—or his head. But no such luck where I'm concerned. I suggest you remain where you are. I plan on boarding that helicopter."
"Is there a sword, Simon?" I had to know.
"Oh, yes, the sword. If you must know, the item you expected to carry away is with poor Jane. I just didn't have the heart to dig it out from under her. She'd gone to so much trouble to steal it from me." He held up his bag. "But this—this treasure is mine and will be the basis for my future."
"You murdered Jane?" I gasped, horrified I'd ever let this foul man ever touch me. The idea of the poor woman dying over a piece of historic art—even though that same item had been driving me crazy for days—was terrible and needless.
"It was unavoidable, I'm afraid," he said, polite to the last.
"You said Moran provided an out. Are you working with him?" I still couldn't quite believe it even though the evidence was clear.
He stared at me, and I realized irrevocably that this was a man I had never known. "Oh, Laurel, so naïve in so many ways. Of course I'm working with Moran. Art is like delicious wine, but money represents blood, life, power. When it became clear there was a cash limit to Beacham, Ltd., I realized it was time to move on. Moran has so much, and everyone else has so little. I saw a chance to grab some for myself and took it."
"Where's Moran? And why does he want Laurel dead, Babbage?" Jack's words were clipped.
Simon looked startled. "Moran doesn't want Laurel dead. In fact, just the opposite." Simon glanced over at me. "A new boy toy to play with, darling?"
"Jack's a—"
"He's tried to kill her several times," Jack interrupted.
"You've got the wrong end of the stick there," Simon replied, his gaze moving skyward. "Oops, my ride's here. I'm afraid our tedious little question and answer session is at an end. Not soon enough for me I'm afraid." He picked up the bag. "I suppose it was nice to see you again, Laurel and officially say good-bye." He looked me over. "Jane really couldn't hold a candle to you, but she was so willing to play along. Still, people do put so much stock in closure these days. Don't know if I believe in such a thing myself."
Something he'd said made me wonder. "Simon! In your bag. Is it another sword? Or is it the snuffbox?"
The grin he shot my way was pure evil, but he offered no other answer.
The helicopter was fast approaching.
"Give me the remote," Jack yelled, good Samaritan to the end. "How can we trust you? You might set off the bomb as you fly away. After all, you are a self-confessed murderer."
Hell. I'd barely given a thought to the
bomb. I'd been too worried about the whys and wherefores of Simon and the sword. That also meant I must not be too concerned about my own safety. What did that say about my values? For that matter, what did having a man like Simon for an ex-boyfriend say about my ability to read character?
"Jane stole from me. The people of Le Puy haven't hurt me. In fact, they've done nothing but make my stay in this backward place an almost enjoyable one. The architecture is nice, but you've seen it once, well, you know . . . "
The wind and the noise were incredible as the helicopter touched down, and I realized just how protected we'd been by the mountain. Another aspect of nature often taken for granted—the art of silence.
We both watched as the helicopter lifted. Jack retrieved the envelope and called someone before walking back to me.
"Time to go, Laurel."
"No way. I've got to get the sword before the local authorities arrive, and you're not stopping me."
Now it was Jack's turn to roll his eyes. I could understand why my grandfather hadn't liked it.
"I wouldn't dream of stopping you from interfering in a murder investigation. Be my guest. I'm going to enjoy watching you fetch it." He headed toward the big entrance we'd come through.
"Hang on a minute." I ran to the other side of the terrace, to the door I'd entered earlier.
I was back at his side in a minute carrying the duffle. He looked at it, but didn't say anything. Which was a bit odd for him. I could only be grateful. We moved downstairs doing another quick search as we made our way toward the body. Still no sign of Moran.
After a grueling, and pretty much all around horrible experience, I finally had the sword in my possession. I hadn't yet examined it. There hadn't really been time. From the fleeting glance I'd gotten shoving it into my bag, it might be authentic, or it might be a really great copy.
Jack had left my side after watching me retrieve the sword muttering about finishing some business and meeting up with me later.
Feeling a bit droopy, I walked through the lobby, briefly wondering about Rollie as I heard the loud music. It was weird to think with so much happening the party and its inhabitants were going on pretty much oblivious to the events we just saw unfold.
A uniformed man smiled and wished me a good evening as he held the door. If he only knew.
I headed toward my car, changed my mind and walked over to the water feature instead. The bridge was delightful, as was the building. But as I approached I could see the seating was, to put it kindly, ostentatious.
I stared at the bronze. What a waste of a beautiful metal. The sculpture—I hesitated to even call it that—was of overblown and grossly voluptuous nude women in various odious positions. They were holding items representing grammar, rhetoric, dialectic, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy and music, and it was the crowning glory of the emptiness of the house inside. Quite a contrast to the architecture which honored the natural environment. I wondered how many people understood the message of the black estate. Outward appearance didn't matter if not matched by the same inward integrity.
I couldn't help but remember Rollie's earlier remark about not judging him by his looks. Or Simon's obvious example of outward beauty masking the ugliness within.
I sighed. I loved art, and I believed in a certain kind of justice. That was enough. I wasn't, nor ever would be a philosopher, a theologian, or an educator.
"What are you doing out here?" Jack called from the other side of the bridge as he continued to approach.
"No, wait, don't bother. I'm coming." I grabbed the duffle at my feet and hurried to meet him before he'd gone more than a few steps.
He glanced over at the bronze. "Is that really what I think it is?"
"No." I replied flatly. "Unless you think it's a terrible waste of a valuable metal and an unspeakable outrage to certain basic philosophical ideals."
His gaze transferred to me. "That's exactly what I thought."
For the third or fourth time, I'd lost count, by mutual accord we moved toward the drive. The gate stood wide open and as empty as the estate we left. I could smell the pine and the mold, and the air was a little cold. I shivered.
"Don't forget to notify MI-6. They might need to coordinate this crime scene with the local gendarmerie. Unless Moran covers it all up, of course."
"Everything's been arranged." Jack turned toward the cars parked in perfect rows by a six-car garage. So that was what was on the other side. Briefly I wondered what had happened to the dogs.
I turned the other way.
"Where are you going?" he asked. "Isn't it a little late to go for a stroll?"
"My car's parked this way."
He paused a bit too long. "I'll give you a lift."
His hesitation spoke volumes. I glanced back at him and wondered if it was the last time I'd see him. "No, thanks, I'd rather walk. I've got a lot of thinking to do."
I headed toward the gate. I could feel his burning gaze shoot holes through my backside with every step I took.
"What's in the duffle?" His voice sounded irritated.
"Bouldering gear," I answered, without bothering to stop or turn around.
The expletives came fast and heavy. His anger music to my ears.
"And the problem with your arm?" His normally smooth, melodious tones were jerky and gravelly with frustration. Mr. Cool overdosing on steroids.
"I was shot," I truthfully responded as I walked through the gate, leaving him and the recovery site of the missing sword behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A week had passed since the incident in Le Puy-en-Velay. I kept the sword wrapped and padded in a blanket I'd found in the trunk of the car, then transferred it to my Louis Vuitton duffle when I collected my things at the hotel in the Auvergne. I'd bought the biggest bag primarily because Max was paying, but since I now needed the length I was glad my intuition was a step ahead of me.
It took some string pulling from Max's end, but both the sword and I hit the English shore in one piece. He personally arrived on my doorstep the next morning to take possession of the sword, the British authentication expert standing beside my boss, twitching a little. I understood. Between the prospect of the sword's history, and having to stand so close to Max, I would do some serious wriggling, too.
"The board unanimously voted you in charge of the London office, Laurel, effective immediately." Max tried to smile, but I felt his desire to cut and run, to give all his attention to the sword. I hoped the piece was worth his anticipation, but every time I held it my doubts increased.
Oh, the color and patina were right, but they would be in the case of a fake. The rubies and sapphires met the criteria for cut in the day. The correct term for the piece was a broadsword, the earliest of the medieval swords, with a two-edged blade. The hilt showed its gold base, and the handle design was that of an Anglo Saxon ring sword. Definitely special, likely a royal sword, and according to my archaeological contacts a real one was a true find since the ring sword design was not used past the seventh century. Naturally, this one was dull, after having been supposedly hidden centuries ago below the church cornerstone. As with most swords of this type, it looked heavier than it truly was, about five pounds, but I'd measured the blade at just under three inches wide and just shy of forty-six inches long. It was the size and design necessary for a favored knight or warrior king, and tapered to the customary point on the business end. The blade's length showed the dull spots where it would have needed to be hammered out after battle. The handle was fashioned for grip. It was a pleasing look while still functional, and the blade had trace designs near the hilt, but the pattern faded as it made its way toward the killing point. Without doing a chemical analysis to prove metallurgy, I had to say it appeared to be iron. Even the parchment that had been partially rolled around the hilt looked authentic, and it went a long way to shore up our hopes. Still . . .
There was something. I really didn't know what, and I truly hoped I was wrong, but something told me Simon left this und
er Jane's dead body for more than to simply make a statement. Yet, we knew Moran was a master at attaining fakes to swap for the real thing. These last two reservations alone were the true reason I kept my expectations low until the final analysis was completed.
The authentication expert burned the midnight oil, usually with Max at his heels, trying to conclusively say whether the sword was true or not. Even her majesty sent a representative to shadow the pair, but this didn't surprise me if I believed Jack's story about how he got involved. The expert didn't say as much, from the outset I think he had the same misgivings I experienced. It had all the pieces that should have made authentication a no-brainer, but something kept everyone from sharing high-fives.
So, it wasn't earth-shattering to me when, before the week was out, the verdict came back as "excellent fake, but counterfeit."
No matter, I had my own crosses to bear as I mopped up the mess Simon and Moran had left. A cleaning crew had already been in to gut the office, of course, as well as a crime scene crew to document fingerprints and DNA evidence. However, there were literal and figurative ends hanging everywhere. I should have been too busy to think, except nagging thoughts kept pressing in my mind. Each answer initiated new questions. And each question led to more thinking.
Interpol flagged Simon's passport right away, and his picture was circulated for everyone's facial recognition software, but no sign of him yet hit the radar. They kept us posted, since he was as much a risk to the foundation as he was the world. When it was learned Simon and I had spent months in a more personal relationship, a dapper inspector leading the search paid me regular visits until he finally realized, as I'd sadly concluded, I truly didn't know Simon at all. I was probably a suspect for a time but was never really treated as one. The inspector left his card and asked me to call him any time, that no memory or idea was too insignificant. I promised and put the card in my Prada. It's still there, I suppose.
Max was ready to spit nails at the results of the sword's authenticity—or, rather, lack thereof. He believed Simon took the real icon on the helicopter in the large duffle. If such was the case, he truly was using the one under the late Jane Leland's dead body to have a last macabre joke on me. Max was never the optimist unless it meant a coup for him, but he couldn't let loose of the idea of Arthur's sword, so continued believing it was out there somewhere with Simon. He could be right. Or, like the black mansion, the entire escapade likely was constructed as a joke, with Moran the chief architect behind what shaped up as a perpetual hoax in the art world.
