Chapter 22
When I got home, there was just enough daylight available, and optimism that the rain would hold off long enough for a quick, fast run. The day had been bloody endless, and the best way to put it behind me was to get out and get the heart pumping.
Because of all the rain, I hadn’t run for a week and I suffered for it. I was stiff and slow when I started out, and the cold afternoon weather didn’t help. The rain held off, but there was a brisk wind that smelled of the ocean, so I knew there was more in store; this might be my only chance to get out for a while.
I headed down the canyon to Crags and stayed on the remnants of the narrow paved road laid to service the set of the old “M*A*S*H” TV series when it was filming in Malibu Creek State Park. There had been many winter storms and mudslides since the series ended and much of the pavement had washed out, but some pavement to run on was better than all mud.
Down in the canyon bottom along the creek, sheltered by ancient live-oak trees, I was out of the worst of the wind. By the time I reached the crossing with Bull Dog Trail, my stride had opened and each step came more easily. I turned up Bull Dog, headed for home.
I arrived hot, sweaty, breathless, to find Jean-Paul feeding carrots to the horses.
“Caught me again,” I said, grabbing a clean towel out of the feed shed to wipe my face.
“Los Angeles freeway traffic-what can I say?” He smiled his upside-down French smile and shrugged. “There wasn’t enough of it tonight, and so here I am, too early. Do you natives ever figure out how to time an arrival?”
“Never.” I wrapped the towel around my neck and reached for his hand.
As he leaned forward to kiss my cheeks, his eyes elided to my chin.
“Did you fall?”
“No,” I said, touching the scratch. “I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, let’s find some wine and take it inside. I have something for you to look at while I make myself more presentable.”
I punched numbers into the key pad next to the garage door, and the door rolled up.
“Where is your car?” Jean-Paul asked as we walked in.
“My mother borrowed it,” I said.
“So you are driving the truck?”
I sighed; how many men had asked me that question with the same hint of doubtfulness in the tone of their voices?
“I am,” I said. “For a few days.”
“For a few days, then, would you like to trade with me?”
Hah! I thought, there was the heart of the question; he wanted a turn with the truck.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, opening the door of the wine cupboard.
Upstairs, we passed through the kitchen to collect a corkscrew and a couple of glasses, and then I led him into my work room. I pulled up the dictator’s inventory sent by Max’s clerk that afternoon and asked him to look through it, to see if anything set his bell ringing again, while I showered and dressed.
He was wearing cords and a lightweight collared sweater; casual, no tie. Thinking about what I should wear, on my way out I asked, “Where are we going for dinner?”
“It has started to rain again,” he said. “Is there somewhere nearby?”
I thought through some possibilities, but all of them came back to the same answer: It had been a long day for me; Jean-Paul had dark circles under his eyes.
“How about my kitchen?” I asked.
He smiled. “If you don’t mind, yes, a wonderful idea.”
I left him in my work room poring over the inventory list. When I came back down, freshly scrubbed and brushed, Jean-Paul was on the telephone, speaking with someone in very rapid French. He had printed the inventory of the dictator’s collection. During the conversation he would make occasional notes on the printout or on the yellow legal pad next to it as he scrolled through images of paintings on the computer monitor in front of him. When he noticed me, he smiled and gave me a little wave, and continued with his conversation.
I replenished his wineglass and went to see what I could find in the kitchen for dinner.
A few weeks earlier I had made a big pot of potato leek soup, because you cannot make just a little pot of soup, had some for dinner twice, and froze the rest. I pulled out enough for two servings and put it in a pan on the stove to heat. Chicken breasts, green beans, and a salad would make up the rest of the meal. I’m not much of a cook, but no one has starved at my house yet.
“Sorry to abandon you,” Jean-Paul said, bringing his glass with him into the kitchen; he was in his stocking feet. “But I was having a most interesting conversation with an old friend of mine.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He is familiar with your Dr. Chin and several of the collections he curated. Interesting man, Dr. Chin.”
“Is he?” I asked. Instead of explaining, Jean-Paul looked at the chicken and asked what I intended to do with it. I turned it over to him.
The telephone rang, another call from “caller unknown.” Tired of the calls, I picked up the receiver and listened. After a moment, a young female voice said, “Miss M?” Because only my students called me that, I said, “Yes?”
She hung up. I touched the flash button and when I heard a dial tone hit Redial. The phone at the other end rang, but no one answered. I replaced the receiver and turned back to Jean-Paul, who was rifling my spice cupboard.
“Have you plans tomorrow morning?” he asked.
“Setting up interviews, unless you have a better offer.”
We were invited to brunch at the home of Lisette Olivier, Hiram Chin’s Broad Beach neighbor, he told me. In another cupboard, he found a small roasting pan to his liking. As he put the seasoned chicken into the oven, he cocked his head and smiled at me enigmatically.
“Dr. Chin is also invited. We shall grill him over croissants.”
“What shall we grill Hiram Chin about, sir?”
“The international art market, fakery, chicanery, and…” He took me by the shoulders and noisily kissed both cheeks. “And black market arms sales.”
“Arms sales?” I said, hanging on to him. “Where does that come in?”
“Through the back door. I will tell you over dinner.”
“Mr. Bond, James Bond,” I said, looking up into his face. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I am,” he said, pulling me against him. I winced when, unaware it was there, he rested his hand on the pellet hole in my shoulder. “I am a quite boring businessman. This world of intrigue I seem to have fallen into on your behalf is far more interesting than tracking exchange rates and commodity fluctuations.”
“But it may also be more dangerous,” I said, taking his hand from my shoulder and holding it.
“I trust you to watch my back,” he said.
“What if I told you someone took a shot at me yesterday?”
He was thoughtful for a moment, unsure whether I was kidding. He ran a finger across his own chin, mimicking the scratch on mine.
“Is that what happened?”
“And this.” I pulled down the neck of my sweater enough to show him the edge of the bandage. He lifted the corner of the dressing and looked at the wound.
“Fronde?” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Slingshot?”
“Pellet gun.”
“Ah, a kid. One of your students is perhaps angry over his marks?”
“If I had to venture a guess, I’d start by asking our sculptor friend Frankie Weidermeyer where he was Tuesday afternoon.”
“Of course, young Weidermeyer,” he said. “My acquaintance mentioned someone named Francis Weidermeyer. But the man he mentioned is too old to be your very bad young sculptor. The father, perhaps?”
“As far as I know, Weidermeyer has three daughters. No sons.”
He laughed, shaking his head, teasing. “You Americans are so sweet in your outlook. Mr. Weidermeyer has three legitimate daughters. But does that also rule out a son?”