Page 44

TWENTY-SEVEN

W yatt is still kind of pissed off at me for keeping Party , but I call him anyway. “You saw it?”

“I told you whenever you make a move, Damien is going to come out punching.”

“That’s neither here nor there. What I need to know is whether this hearing is bluster or an actual threat.”

“With Damien, it’s usually both.”

“Can he do it?”

“I’m guessing both he and the foundation have a lot of clout in Paris, not to mention that he’s already shown himself to be both nasty and persistent. He’s got money, influence, and a famous name, which is a dangerous combination for you.”

“Are you saying he’s going to be able to take her to France?”

“I’m not going to lie to you—it could happen.”

“The Conference said she’s mine. They’ve got money, influence, and a famous name.”

“Probably not going to matter to a Parisian court.”

“I know you’re not happy about this move, but I did what I thought was best and—”

“Which it wasn’t.”

I’ve noted before that he’s never tried to understand my feelings about Party , but now I see it’s more than that.

He’s just not all that interested in discovering what’s driving me, in knowing me.

Which I guess is the way I wanted it—enjoyable and shallow—yet it troubles me.

“Look, it’s over and done, no point rehashing.

If you’re still my lawyer, I need you to help me with this.

” I pause and add coquettishly, “You’re still my lawyer, right? ”

“I suppose,” he says reluctantly.

“So what’s next, Counselor?”

“I’ll try to get an extension.”

“What if that doesn’t work?”

A pause.

“I’m not selling to him,” I reiterate for at least the tenth time.

“If he succeeds in taking Party to Paris, he’s going to try to find a way to keep it there.”

“Can he do that?”

“Again, money, influence, and a famous name. Plus the French are both passionate and possessive about their art and their artists. Listen to me, Tam. Given who we’re dealing with here, once he gets the painting on French soil it could take years, if ever, to get it back here.”

I stare at my tiny shard of river. Obviously, there are no sailboats, just steel-colored water, which matches the small patch of gray sky above it. I hate January.

“I can probably get him to thirty.”

“I don’t want thirty.”

“Listen to yourself. You don’t want thirty million dollars?”

“I don’t want to give up Party for thirty million dollars.”

A long sigh. “I’ll see what I can do about the court date, but the only way to make sure you keep this painting is to prove that Léon never inherited it.”

“I’m guessing you haven’t found an investigator?” I ask, although it’s only been a week since Nova quit and Wyatt would have told me if he had.

“Good guess, Sherlock.” Clearly, he’s still holding a grudge, which my rejection of $30 million did nothing to quell.

SO NOW THAT I’ve honed my investigative skills by failing to discover anything about Party ’s sole-survival adventures, I’m supposed to use this nonexistent aptitude to find evidence Party wasn’t covered by édouard’s will?

That seems to be Wyatt’s implication, and although I have neither the time nor the inclination, there doesn’t appear to be an alternative. Detective Rubin.

Wyatt is thrilled when I tell him I’m going to try to get some answers, and he seems to have finally forgiven me. “Terrific idea,” he says. “Great stopgap measure.” A stopgap fiasco is more likely.

I order a dehumidifier—which is what I need, not a humidifier—and everything else necessary to protect Party , except for a guard, which is prohibitively expensive.

The building’s security was impressive during the media onslaught, so maybe I don’t need a guard at all.

Between setting up Party ’s cocoon, work, and the time Wyatt requires, I manage to buy books about Berthe, édouard, and the other Impressionists, then fire up my computer.

I soon discover that Léon Manet changed his name from Léon Leenhoff when he was in his twenties, and there are long-standing questions about his lineage. I fall into the rabbit hole of nineteenth-century gossip.

édouard married a woman seven years his senior, Suzanne Leenhoff, who brought her much younger brother Léon with her, and the boy lived with them until adulthood.

Apparently, Léon referred to édouard as his godfather, which is odd, because as Suzanne’s brother, wouldn’t he have been édouard’s brother-in-law?

It seems that everyone in their social circle found this strange also.

Why the obvious ruse? And even more vexing, why the marriage?

Why would édouard, young, handsome, and outgoing, tie himself down to the older and meek Suzanne, who was apparently a quite unattractive and unsociable woman with whom he had no children?

Although both édouard and Suzanne maintained this account of Léon’s birth until their deaths, this did nothing to quell the rumors.

I meet Wyatt for dinner at Aquitaine, an upscale restaurant on Tremont that’s across the street from Metropolis, the site of our first date.

It’s pricey, but Wyatt always insists on paying—traditional male that he is—so I’ve given up arguing about it.

I do like it here. It’s narrow, snuggled into the first floor of a nineteenth-century building, with a twelve-foot ceiling clad in ornamented copper.

I imagine Berthe might have visited a restaurant that looked a lot like this one.

Wyatt likes it because it’s trendy and has a full bar. I wish it weren’t so noisy.

He’s waiting with his martini and has already ordered me a cabernet. As I slide into the booth, he raises his glass. “Got the hearing moved back to the end of February, maybe even later.”

“Excellent work.” I raise my glass. “And I’ve also done some excellent work, if I do say so myself.”

“Hit me.”

When I finish describing some of what I learned, I add triumphantly, “So if Suzanne’s claim is true, it means Léon was édouard’s brother-in-law, not his godson. And, most important for us, he definitely was not édouard’s son.”

“Then why would édouard leave everything to him?”

“There’s more.” I take another sip of wine, relishing the slow parsing of my discoveries.

“Suzanne was édouard’s piano teacher, and there’s speculation—which almost everything I’ve read supports—that she was also his father’s mistress and gave birth to a son while she was working for the Manets.

Then, in order to give the child legitimacy, she names him Léon Leenhoff and claims he’s her brother. ”

“Couldn’t get away with that now.”

“She disappeared for a few months and returned with the infant. Told everyone their mother died giving birth to him, and that it was her responsibility to raise him. No internet or DNA to dispute her story. And édouard either believed her tall tale or backed her up to uphold the Manet name. And if he did know, maybe he wanted to keep the boy in the family.”

“So you’re saying édouard married his father’s mistress because he wanted to hide his father’s indiscretion?

To maintain the honor of the family name?

” Wyatt pops a cheese-stuffed olive into his mouth.

“That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t get how that would even work—and it makes even less sense if he was as good-looking and charismatic as you say.

” He grins at me. “Not to mention the age difference.”

“Don’t see you complaining much about that.

” I bat my eyes flirtatiously. “And listen to this. It turns out that Antoinette Manet, édouard’s mother, disliked her daughter-in-law and wasn’t particularly nice to Léon.

But the best part is that the boy seemingly bore an uncanny resemblance to édouard’s father.

” I chuckle. “Isn’t this just delicious? ”

“Who knew you had such highly honed investigative talents? Maybe we won’t need to hire anyone else.”

I ignore him. “So this means Damien isn’t a direct descendant of édouard’s. He’s the descendant of édouard’s half brother, while I’m the descendant of édouard’s full brother.” I raise my fists in the air. “Nah, nah, na-nah nah. I’ve got more of édouard’s blood in me than you do, cuz.”

Wyatt laughs. “And given that you were able to discover this, Damien had to know it all along. Lying to intimidate you and further his case. What an ass.”

I hold up my palm for a high five.

Wyatt high-fives me, then sobers. “You get that this has no real effect on the lawsuit, which is based on the will? Damien still would inherit Party through Léon, no matter his and édouard’s relationship.”

“Sure, I get it. But right in his first email Damien said that as édouard’s direct descendant he was the rightful heir. That his claim was more valid because I’m only from some side branch of the family.”

“If I remember correctly, he also said it was because he’s Léon’s direct descendant. Which is why it’s all about finding solid proof that Party was never Léon’s.”

“I’m not going to be the one doing the digging.”

“I hear you,” he says. “My assistant contacted a few possibilities, but they all seem to be booked for the near future. And I don’t like our time frame. The New York court date is the first of May. Which isn’t as far away as it may seem.”

THAT NIGHT, FOR the first time in a while, I dream about Berthe.

She and I are dancing together. Waltzing, I think, but I don’t know much about ballroom dancing.

Of course, in the dream I do. She’s leading, and I’m following as if I’ve been waltzing my entire life, classical music sweeping around us.

Berthe, wearing a floor-length black velvet gown with lace along the neckline and cuffs, is slender and beautiful and extremely elegant.

She beams at me, her white skin radiant and her dark eyes mischievous, as we dip and weave around a series of rooms that appear to be an oversized artist’s studio.

Shiny black curls fall prettily to her forehead.

There are a dozen easels holding half-finished paintings.

Some I recognize as édouard’s. Others appear to be Monets or Renoirs, and the two domestic scenes have to be Berthe’s.

We loop through them and around overstuffed chairs that look to be some grandmother’s castaways, then push through a curtain that hides a humpbacked red couch and circle that also.

I’m having fun, and apparently Berthe is too.

When the dance ends, we bow to each other, still holding hands.

“Excellent, child,” she says in French, and I can understand her although I don’t know the language. “I believe we should continue discovering each other, don’t you?”