by Sara Rosett
Jack lunged for him, grabbed an arm.
Zoe scrambled to her feet. The figure swung around, using his momentum to carry both himself and Jack toward the staircase in a large arc. They slammed into the iron railing. The canvas slipped from the black figure’s gloved hand as he and Jack teetered on the top steps, stunned from the impact. Zoe dashed across the room and plucked the canvas from the floor.
The figure in black steadied himself and gripped the railing. He planted a foot in Jack’s chest and shoved. Already off balance, Jack reached for the railing, but missed. He disappeared down the steps in a clatter of ringing metal.
Zoe backed away as the masked figured turned to her. For half a second she felt terrified about Jack, but then she heard a string of curses and the solid thud of his feet on the stairs.
Zoe scuttled backward into the kitchen area of the apartment between the kitchen counter and the large worktable. There was nothing on the worktable or the sink that she could reach to fend off the black figure closing in on her. Even the teacup and hotplate were too far away to reach as the figure advanced.
The only thing she had was the rolled painting. I’m holding several million dollars in my hand, she thought tangentially. Can’t hit him with that—not that canvas would work as a weapon anyway.
He lunged for the painting. Jack’s footfalls were closer, louder now.
Zoe whipped the painting behind her. She was boxed in. With the kitchen counter on one side and the worktable on the other she didn’t have anywhere to go. Even if she managed to squeeze through the narrow opening between the worktable and the apartment wall, Masard’s body and the slippery, spreading pool of blood were on the far side of the worktable.
The black figure snatched a handful of Zoe’s hair. Her eyes watered as he yanked her head toward him. Through a haze of pain, Zoe stretched her arm with the painting out behind her, putting it as far from the other grasping glove as she could. The reverberation of Jack’s footsteps on the iron stairs stopped.
A shrill scream split the air, startling Zoe and the attacker. The tension on her hair eased a millimeter. It’s the teapot, Zoe realized as the loud whistle continued.
Before he clamped down on her hair again, Zoe pushed her shoulder into the figure’s stomach. She propelled him backward, and together they hit something solid. The worktable, Zoe figured as she tried to twist away.
Then Jack was there, too, and there were a few seconds of utter confusion as they struggled, a mass of tangled limbs. The interminable whistle of the teapot continued as they rolled as a unit, squashing Zoe to the worktable. This is what it must feel like to be trampled. She felt the rough canvas of the painting moving across her fingertips as the weight of two bodies pressed down on her.
She tightened her grip, at the same time wondering if she was damaging the painting, but she couldn’t let the black figure take it. She squeezed her hand tighter around the canvas and yanked it free. “Jack, the painting,” she wheezed as she tossed it away from them.
Then suddenly the pressure on her chest was gone. Jack and the black figure had pulled away, still struggling. Zoe gulped air as Jack’s fist connected with the black ski mask. The figure fell to the floor and didn't move.
Breathing hard, Jack looked at her as he shook out his hand. “You okay?”
“Um...unbelievingly, I think so. Bruised, but not broken. What about you?” Zoe asked, glancing at the stairs. “How far did you fall?” She removed the still whistling teapot from the hotplate and put it in the sink.
In the sudden quiet, Jack said, “Almost all the way to the bottom, but I’m okay. I’ll be sore tomorrow, I’m sure.” He put a hand to his back. “However, I think that is the least of our worries.”
Zoe looked from the crumpled black figure to Masard’s prone form. “Assault and battery as well as murder. Yeah, it can’t get much worse.”
***
FOR the second time in twenty-four hours, Sato pressed the doorbell on Zoe and Jack’s front door and waited. It was a warm afternoon, but the massive cottonwood tree in the yard shaded the front of the house and porch. After a second try, he went around back again and pounded on the door. Deborah had indeed been home yesterday and glad to hear from him. He might call her again, see if she wanted to go to dinner. He was whistling as he cupped his hand around his eyes and looked in the window.
He broke off mid-note. The kitchen looked exactly the same as it had yesterday. No one had moved the dishtowel, added more dishes to the sink, or washed the two glasses and silverware. He turned and made for the house next door. The neighbor informed him that she hadn’t seen either Zoe or Jack for several days, but that wasn’t unusual. Their paths only crossed when they happened to see each other at the mailbox or when the neighbor contacted Zoe to dog sit. Sato left, already making a list of who he could contact to track down Zoe Hunter and Jack Andrews.
***
THE wrinkled canvas was on the floor near Zoe’s foot. “All for this.” She picked it up and set it on the kitchenette countertop.
She turned back to face the room and saw Masard, blood congealed on his face and covering one side of his body, sitting up. She shrieked and took a step back.
“Do not be afraid,” Masard said, in slightly accented English. “I was only stunned, not murdered.”
Zoe exchanged a quick glance with Jack, who was already moving toward Masard. “No, stay there.” Jack put a hand on Masard’s shoulder to keep him from standing. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Masard positioned his glasses more firmly on his nose. “I am fine.” He struggled to his feet with a couple of grunts, swayed, and reached for the table. “I’ll just...” He gestured to one of the chairs near the fireplace. Jack put a hand under Masard’s elbow and guided him to the chair. Zoe found some more tea towels under the sink and ran warm water on one. Masard looked like something out of a slasher film. “We need to call 911—or whatever the French equivalent is. You need medical attention.”
Masard applied the towel to the gash that ran over his eyebrow. “Later. Later,” he said, flapping his other hand.
“No, really. Speaking as someone who’s recently been hit on the head, you need to be checked out.”
“Soon.” He tapped his head. “I am...how do you say it...hard-headed. I will be fine. First, we must take care of the thief.”
Zoe shifted uncomfortably, thinking he was talking about her and Jack, but then she realized Masard was gazing with distaste at the black figure still sprawled on the floor. “I’d almost forgot about him. You do think he’s just knocked out, don’t you?”
Zoe had spoken to Jack, but it was Masard, who replied, “Bah. You cannot hurt that one.” He’d wiped his face with the towel and most of the blood was gone from his face but with the gash on his forehead and the blood caked on his robe and the collar of his pajamas, he didn’t look like the respectable antique dealer they’d seen earlier. His color was improving, though; he didn’t look like a recently revived corpse.
“You know who it is?” Jack asked.
“Of course. It is Alex.” Masard pantomimed pulling a mask off his face, and then pointed at the black figure. “Go ahead.”
Jack pulled the mask off, revealing a head of blond hair floating with static electricity around a heart-shaped face.
“I hit a girl. Damn,” Jack said under his breath.
“Don’t feel bad,” Zoe said. “She deserved it. I saw her in the street earlier. Nearly ran her down tonight.”
Jack swiveled toward Masard. “And she works for you.”
“Did. She did work for me. I suspected she was stealing from me, but could not prove it. Until now.” Masard shifted toward Jack and Zoe. “And I have you to thank for catching her.”
Zoe snorted. “Don’t think too highly of us. We’re thieves, too.”
She could feel Jack giving her a hard stare, but she ignored him.
Masard said, “But not by choice, I think. I heard you mention Darius Gray, no?” At Zoe’s incredulous l
ook, he said, “Yes, I heard you talking. After that one,” he pointed to Alex, “struck me, I pretended to be unconscious.” He shrugged and settled back in his chair. “I, myself, cannot throw the first stone, so I do not look too harshly on you. Besides, you were kind enough to try and help me before that...that slippery one attacked you.”
Jack looked down on Alex. “Do you think...she’s okay? I hit her pretty hard.”
“I am sure she will recover,” Masard said. “But check her for weapons while she is out.”
“Really? Wouldn’t she have used one earlier if she’d had it?” Zoe asked.
“Might not have had time to get it out,” Jack said. He bent down reluctantly.
“Here, I’ll do it.” Zoe stepped around him. She’d never patted anyone down before, but did her best to imitate what she’s seen in the movies, running her hands over the woman’s arms, legs, and patting her waist. “Nothing,” Zoe said.
Alex’s eyelashes fluttered, and her head rolled slightly to one side. Zoe stepped back. “She’s coming around.”
Alex groaned and put her hand to her jaw. The instant she opened her eyes, Masard let out a barrage of French. She did a disoriented sweep of the room, taking in both Zoe and Jack before her gaze ended on Masard. He was still talking, gesturing with his free hand, pointing at her, then to his head. The bloody tea towel was now pressed against his head, except for a few times when he pointed it toward Alex to emphasize his point.
Alex sat up slowly. Jack tensed, but Alex held one hand up, conveying she wasn’t going to make a move. Jack didn’t relax his stance or look away from her. Alex said something in French to Masard, but he overrode her words. Zoe watched Alex’s gaze dart around the room as she argued with Masard until it came to rest on the roll of canvas on the kitchen counter. Jack was positioned between it and her. Masard must have realized what she was staring at, too, because he said something sharp that drew Alex’s attention back to him. He waved a hand at the stairs and barked a command, then said in English, “Alex is leaving. Now.”
“Is that wise?” Jack asked.
“Yes. She understands her choices.”
Alex’s eyebrows lowered in a scowl as she got slowly to her feet. She moved stiffly to the stairs and walked down them slowly, each footfall decisive and loud. A few seconds after she reached the bottom, the front door closed with a rattle of glass.
“Dieu merci! She is gone.” Masard nodded, a single exaggerated motion of his head, then immediately winced in pain.
“Are you okay?” Zoe asked.
“Yes. If I do not move quickly, I will be fine.”
“Are you sure that was smart? To let her go?” Zoe asked.
“Ah, you see it as letting her go. For me, it is getting rid of her, which I have been trying to do for months. She will not trouble me again. I made it very clear that I will be calling the police to inform them of her assault and attempted theft. If she moves quickly, she may be able to get out of Paris before they come looking for her.”
Zoe shot Jack a quick look. How could their lot be any different from Alex’s?
“What is that smell?” Jack asked at the same moment Zoe caught a whiff of an acrid, smoky aroma.
“Something hot. The hotplate is still plugged in—” Zoe turned to the kitchen counter. “The painting!”
Both Zoe and Jack darted forward. The cylinder of canvas had rolled two inches across the counter and now rested against the glowing coil of the hotplate. A thin line of smoke rose from the canvas.
Zoe got there first and jerked the canvas away.
“Oh, my God.” Zoe unrolled the canvas with trembling fingers. An inch-wide hole in the upper right hand corner had been burnt away. The blackened edges of the circle still smoked. “We’ve ruined a masterpiece,” she whispered.
Zoe felt like she was going to throw up and faint at the same time. She dropped the painting on the worktable and backed away. The smell of hot metal and burnt fabric filled her nose.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” said Masard. “It is only a fake.”
***
“SO you’re saying you don’t have any idea where Zoe Hunter is?” Sato asked.
“No,” Helen said. Sato had caught Helen at work, the county clerk’s office, before she left for the day. When he asked if he could talk to her for a moment, she’d led him to the break room, which smelled like microwave popcorn. They were seated at a small round table that had one leg shorter than the other and wobbled when either one of the them leaned on it.
Sato raised his eyebrows at her sharp tone.
She tossed her head, swinging her long gold bangs from her eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn’t snap at you. I can’t believe she’s done it again.”
“What?”
“Gone off without telling me where she’s going. She’s done this before, leaving on the spur of the moment. One of the other times she gave me a story about going to see her mom for Thanksgiving, which I didn’t believe for a second, but at least she had the decency to pretend she was keeping me informed.”
“Why didn’t you believe she was going to visit her mother?” Sato glanced at his phone, where he’d sent all the pertinent info on Zoe Hunter. There wasn’t much on Jack Andrews. His parents were dead, and he didn’t have any close relatives in the immediate area, so Sato was concentrating on Zoe first. “Her mother lives in California?” he asked.
“Yes. Southern California. Perfect place for her.”
“Why?”
“You know about Zoe’s tween years, right? The reality show? Smith Family Robinson?”
Sato nodded. When he and Mort first got the Andrews case, he’d watched an episode of the old reality show about an average family surviving on a tropical island. The mom had been what his dad called a real piece of work—selfish, controlling, and so beautiful that most people overlooked her bad behavior.
“That show gave Zoe’s mom a taste of fame and she’s like a...I don’t know...an addict searching for her next fix. Ever since that show got cancelled, Donna’s single goal in life is to get on another reality show.” Helen leaned over the table.
“What does that have to do with Thanksgiving?”
“She’s a size zero and never celebrates Thanksgiving. She hates ‘food holidays’ as she calls them. The idea of Zoe going to celebrate Thanksgiving with her is ludicrous.”
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone? A favorite vacation spot? Another family member?”
“She has an aunt in Florida. They’re close—her Aunt Amanda is her only sane relative, actually. She’s a possibility. She’s in Sarasota. As for travel, Zoe’s never been able to afford a proper vacation. She’s traveled recently, but I doubt she can afford a last minute trip to Italy or London. Unless that knock on the head really messed her up.”
Sato was entering the information about the aunt into his phone, but paused. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Just that it worries me. After the head injury, you know. I’m sure she’s fine, and you said you think Jack is with her, so he’ll take care of her, but...”
“Head injury?”
“Yes.” Helen’s eyes widened. “You...didn’t know about that? Yesterday, she was injured at a client’s house, Lucinda McDaniel’s. She was—” Helen broke off sharply.
Sato squinted his eyes. “She was...what?”
“Dead. Zoe said she found Lucinda McDaniel dead. Zoe was hit on the head and knocked unconscious.” Helen leaned toward him and the table rocked under her weight. “I know Zoe would only leave town if something was very wrong.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Chapter Eleven
––––––––
“YOU see here,” Masard pointed to the land portion of the painting, “the brush strokes are too short.” He handed Zoe the jeweler’s loupe and motioned for her to look.
He’d retrieved the loupe, the desk lamp, and a large photograph of Marine from his desk and positioned them on the worktable. Before he’d assembled the
items, Masard had retreated to the other room for a few moments and changed out of the bloody robe and pajamas. He’d returned wearing a pair of light gray pants and a thick sweater over a button-down white shirt. He’d thrown down several frayed towels and mopped up the pool of blood near the worktable. Zoe had offered to help him, but he’d tossed them in a bucket and said he’d call his cleaning lady. They were now all hunched over the painting.
Zoe looked at the magnified brush strokes, focusing on several thick splats of gold, green, and tan then transferred her gaze to the section of the photograph that Masard was pointing at now. She shrugged. “I don’t see it.” The difference in the size of the painting and the size of the photograph made it hard to judge the length of the brushstrokes. And, truthfully, she couldn’t stop looking at the ugly, charred hole in the painting.
“They are different. I suppose you will have to trust me on that, but it is not the only thing. Look at the signature. See the stroke on the letter C of Claude? Now look at the photograph. What do you see?”
Zoe squinted at both a moment before saying, “The C on the painting has a wider curve than the one in the photograph.”
“Excellent!” Masard proclaimed as if she were his star pupil. “The forger was so worried about getting the word Monet exactly right that he—or she—did not work as hard on the first name. But that is not the biggest error.” Masard flipped the painting over roughly and a few bits of ash fell to the table. “What do you see?”
“Um, nothing.” Zoe wondered if he wanted her to examine the back of the painting with the jeweler’s loupe.
“That is right. Nothing!” He sounded as delighted as if he had found the actual painting.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Most paintings have marks on them—stickers, stamps, something of that sort. As great masterpieces move through museums and large personal collections, marks are made on the art itself to keep track of the pieces. Inventory marks, if you will. This painting has been in existence since the late 1800s, moving in and out of collections and museums.” He waved his hand over the canvas like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat. “They forgot to forge the back.”
