The Fine Art of Murder (17 page)

As if suddenly remembering, he said, “Yes, I must have forgotten.”

“And how did you happen to be working with her again?”

“Oh . . .” He brushed off his pant leg even though there wasn’t anything to brush off. “Let me see . . . I was hired to work here and asked if I could recommend someone to assist me. Mademoiselle Jordan was just one of many I mentioned. So I guess it was a coincidence.”

Nathan snickered. “There’s no such thing as a coincidence, Mr. Rousseau. At least not in a police investigation.”

“Well, in life there certainly is.” Antoine smiled at him.

I pretended to be confused. “I can certainly understand if that last job slipped your mind. You are a busy man and your job takes you all over the world.”

“This is true.”

“But you’ve worked with Stacey on at least three other occasions. In fact, over the past few years you, personally, have made several large deposits to her account here in Edina.” I looked up, waiting for his reaction.

“My accountant handles such things through my foundation.”

I couldn’t believe my luck and decided to go for broke. “So L’Etoile du Nord was set up by you?”

“Oui.”

“Why would a French citizen, living in Paris, name a foundation after the state motto of Minnesota?” Nathan asked. “Another coincidence, Mr. Rousseau?”

“In a way . . . I guess. My accountant is American . . .” He seemed to be making his story up as he went along. And he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

“Well what are the chances of that happening?” I asked.

Antoine shrugged. “’Tis a very small world indeed.”

I checked my notes again, just for show, and looked up as if I’d suddenly remembered something. “Oh, did I mention that among Miss Jordan’s belongings was a book with a list of names? My office is going through it now. I think it may be people you worked for on other projects as well. The dollar amount next to their names must have to do with expenses or something like that?” I looked at him quizzically. “Do you have any idea what that might be about?”

There it was, at last. His cool veneer was slipping, and he looked startled and a little alarmed.

“I would have to see this book before commenting.”

“I understand.” Then, looking at Nathan, I asked, “Is there anything you’d like to ask?”

“Yes.” He glared at Hank.

“A few nights ago we were on the grounds and were accosted by three men.”

“Are you accusing me of somethin’?” Hank asked. “’Cause if you are . . .” He jumped up, coming at Nathan.

“Sit down!” Jackie shouted.

Like an obedient pet, Hank sat back down next to his mistress.

“Now, Mr. Walker, as I’ve told you before, this is private property. You had no right being here, especially in the dead of night. And may I ask why you were here to begin with?”

“Searching for the murder weapon,” he lied without hesitation.

Jackie looked at him, scrutinizing his face. “Now we’re done here.”

I stood up, eager to be out of there. “Thank you all for your cooperation.”

Jackie led the way to the door. As she reached out to grab the knob, her bracelet fell to the floor. Hank bent down to pick it up.

“What a beautiful piece,” I said. “I remember admiring it that day in front of the gallery.”

Her face twisted up into a smile. She rubbed Hank’s arm. “It’s a present from my teddy bear.”

“Wherever did you buy it?” I asked Hank. “My daughter’s birthday is coming up and I’d love to get her—”

“Can’t remember,” he said and put the bracelet back on Jackie’s wrist, kissing her hand. “But nothing’s too good for my girl.”

“All that ‘babe’ and ‘teddy bear’ talk made it really hard to take those two seriously.” Nathan said as we walked to his car.

“Jackie sure seemed to be eating up the attention.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” he asked. “A younger, handsome man—he is handsome, right?”

“Most women would think so.”

“Okay. A younger, handsome man fussing over her like that. Buying her expensive jewelry.”

“He didn’t buy that bracelet,” I said, getting into the car. “I remember seeing one like it on Stacey’s wrist at the gallery. He could have stolen it from Stacey while she was alive—”

“—or took it from her after she was dead. But can you prove it’s the same one?” Nathan asked as he turned on the ignition.

“It’s a memorable piece. I’m sure I can get statements from people who saw her wearing it. Or maybe there’s a receipt in her house. But I’d have to examine it first. Maybe there’s something engraved inside . . . something that will help identify it as belonging to her.”

“Good luck prying it off Jackie’s wrist.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult. You saw how it just fell off. And did you notice that umbrella stand just inside the door?” I asked.

“Not really.”

“Besides umbrellas, there were a few canes. One had a metal knob on top. I’ve seen it before. It’s Antoine’s.”

Nathan turned. “Want me to go back and grab it? Then you can take it to Barb.”

“No. We don’t want to tip our hand. And . . . I might be wrong. Besides, it has to be taken officially, or it’s inadmissible.”

“You should know, Chief,” he said, with a wink. “But first we have to stop at the office. I want to see how Rosie’s coming along with that ledger.”

***

As we drove, Nathan and I talked about what had just happened in the guesthouse. We agreed that if Antoine, Jackie, or Hank had been involved in the murder that Antoine was most likely the mastermind behind it.

“But there’s always the chance that a worker, some stranger, who had been on the property everyday heard the rumors and happened to walk in when Stacey found the painting. They struggled. When she wouldn’t give it up, he killed her,” Nathan said, playing devil’s advocate.

“It’s possible,” I agreed. “But if that was the case, she couldn’t have been struck from behind. Unless . . . there were two people there that night.”

“True,” Nathan said, staring at the road ahead.

“But you and I both know that ninety-nine point nine percent of all murders are committed by someone the victim knew.”

“What if Stacey had been dating one of the construction guys? She told him, in an intimate moment, about finding the painting and . . . it even sounds farfetched to me as I’m saying it,” Nathan admitted. “No, if we take Randolph out of the mix, it had to be one of those characters back there.”

“So you haven’t completely eliminated Randolph, have you?”

“Sorry. I know he’s involved with Lizzie and all but . . .”

“That has no bearing on the case,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well, talk about motive. The guy’s handing over his family’s estate, losing all claim to it. He’s been raised on stories of valuable artwork hidden in the walls. What a perfect smokescreen. Claiming that the renovations are to get the house ready for the centennial while all the time he’s really searching for paintings—anything of value. Then when something’s found, the workmen plaster over the wall and Randolph, who has friends on the art scene in New York, puts feelers out to find a buyer.”

“And if he did find a buyer or word on the street was that he was looking, wouldn’t Rosie know about it? Or at least be able to find someone who does?” I asked.

“Positively.”

***

Her Harley was parked in front of Nathan’s office. I was eager to see how far she’d gotten deciphering the ledger and hurried into the building.

A radio was blaring good old rock and roll. Rosie didn’t hear us come in and was sitting with her back to the door, hunched over Stacey’s ledger. At the top of her lungs, she sang along with the music. Amused, Nathan and I waited until the song was over and then started to applaud. Startled, Rosie spun around in her chair.

When she saw it was us, she stood up and took a bow. “Thank you, thank you, I’ll be signing autographs later.”

“You sounded good,” I told her.

“Yeah, well next time cough or something. Will ya?”

Nathan walked over to an empty desk and grabbed the chair in front of it, rolling it next to Rosie’s. I did the same and sat on the other side of her.

“So what do you make of it?” he asked her, nodding toward the ledger, which was open on the desk next to her computer.

“After making a few calls, sending some e-mails, I can account for each and every name in there.” Rosie sat back, resting her folded hands on her stomach.

I couldn’t believe it had been so easy. “You mean you’re done? You know what all those names and numbers mean?”

“Yep.” She looked so proud of herself. “That’s what I mean.”

“Then tell us,” Nathan said.

“Each name is a private collector. A very rich, powerful private collector who will do anything—and I mean anything—to get what they want. With these people, it’s all about having what no one else has.” She picked up the book and turned a page, then pointed to the name in the middle. “Like this guy. He collects Peruvian artifacts. He’s paid a
fortune to have pieces smuggled out of the county. He has pottery found at an archeological site that was on its way to a museum.” She turned another page. “And this woman is using an old bomb shelter to hide and protect her Egyptian gold pieces.”

“What about the dollar amounts recorded next to their name?” I asked.

“It’s what they paid just for one particular item.”

“And if the authorities had this book, would they all be arrested?” Nathan asked.

“And their collections confiscated,” Rosie said.

“Did you talk to any of these people?” I asked.

“Oh God, no. None of them would even pick up the phone for a nobody like me.”

“Not even if they thought you might have information to blackmail them with?”

“If they knew this book existed . . . let’s just say any one of them would kill to get it.”

I thought a moment and then asked, “So how does Stacey figure into all this?”

“You’re gonna love this,” Rosie said. “She was the go-between. Your fancy Mr. Rousseau made the initial contact when he worked on a house or at a museum. That’s how he met Stacey, at a museum party. When he figured out she needed cash, and lots of it, he paid her to steal a painting or whatnot. Then he’d pay her more to shut up and sell the piece for ten times what he gave her. This book represents jobs she’s done for Frenchie.”

“Your sources knew Antoine?” I couldn’t believe it. “They said his name? Described him? There’s no mistake?”

“None. It’s him all right.”

I fell back in my chair. Nathan sat staring at the ledger.

“You know what we have to do, don’t you?” he asked.

“Push Antoine until he cracks,” I said.

“Like a walnut.” Rosie said and laughed. “Like a big ol’ walnut.”

“But how do we . . . ?” I didn’t get to finish asking my question when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Sullivan?”

“Yes.”

“This is Antoine Rousseau.”

I motioned to Nathan and Rosie that Antoine was on the other end.

“Yes, Mr. Rousseau?”

“I must see you. As soon as possible. Please come to the inn. You remember the place?”

“Yes.”

“When can you be here?”

“In about an hour—hour and a half.”

“Good. And Mrs. Sullivan?”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t bring anyone with you.”

After hanging up, I said, “Well, Nathan, you’ll be surprised to know that coincidences really do happen.”

“What did Rousseau want?”

“He wants me to come to his hotel right away.”

Nathan started to get up.

“You’re staying here,” I told him. “He wants me to come alone.”

“No way!”

Rosie grabbed Nathan’s arm. “Relax, Boss. Aren’t you the one goin’ on all the time about how this lady can handle herself? And it’s just a meeting. You can drive along—”

“That won’t work,” I told them. “Have you been out to the inn?”

They both nodded.

“Then you know you can’t see into the rooms like you can at a motel. It’s a huge building, four or five stories high, with a big lobby and two banks of elevators. There’s no way you’d be able to know what’s going on inside.”

“You’re just putting yourself in danger,” he said. “Come on, Kathy, it could be a trap.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

He started to offer up another argument but I wouldn’t let him.

“Nathan, aren’t you the one who always tells me that I have good instincts? That I should trust my gut feelings?”

“Well . . .”

“Trust me, I can handle Antoine Rousseau.”

When he finally realized he couldn’t change my mind, he told me to at least take his .22, which he kept in the office. Just in case.

I agreed.

Lights around Lake Minnetonka were starting to come on as I parked in front of the inn. I’d listened to talk radio during the drive, not really paying attention to the subject matter, while I plotted my next few moves. But I did catch the weather report. That night there was supposed to be a full moon. More arrests were usually reported during a full moon. It wasn’t just an old wives’ tale that the world suddenly seemed to be overpopulated with lunatics on those nights. I just hoped that Antoine Rousseau wasn’t one of the crazies.

He’d given me his room number, so there was no need to stop at the front desk this time. I walked straight through the lobby and to the bank of elevators located in the middle of the building. As I stood waiting, I looked down in my bag to make sure Nathan’s gun was within reach. Maybe I’d been foolish mentioning Stacey’s ledger earlier at the guesthouse, but there didn’t seem to be any point in making this investigation drag on longer than it had to. And my strategy must
have worked out because I’d gotten an immediate reaction from Antoine.

But letting him know about the book might have pushed him into a corner too soon. How far was he willing to go to protect his reputation and bank accounts? If somehow he’d found out that Stacey was keeping records of their transactions while she was alive, would he have been desperate enough to kill her?

The elevator doors finally opened. The car was empty and I stepped inside. There was a security camera in one corner, near the ceiling. Aware that sort of security system was never equipped with sound, I pulled out my driver’s license and held it up. Then I flashed four fingers, then two, then three, signifying Antoine’s room number: four twenty-three. Maybe it was silly. There had been many times—too many to count—when I was on the force and called to the scene of a burglary. The victims proudly pointed to their elaborate security system. But when they tried showing us the video, there was none because they’d failed to turn the darn thing on. Well at least I’d tried leaving evidence that I’d been there and where I was headed.

I knocked once and was raising my hand to follow it with another when the door jerked open. Antoine stood there, perspiration beaded along his forehead.

“Come in,” he told me. “Hurry.”

After I was inside the room, he walked out into the hallway and checked in both directions. When he was satisfied no one had followed me, he closed the door. His hands were shaking as he secured the chain then turned the deadbolt.

“I don’t mean to be so mysterious but I fear I am being followed. Please, sit down.”

The room was larger than the one he’d stayed in last time—not a full suite but what was referred to as a minisuite. There was one large room with a bed on one end and a couch, television set, and desk on the other.

“Are you all right, Mr. Rousseau? You look ill.” I sat in a chair by the window, putting my tote bag on the floor, keeping it close to me.

“I haven’t been right since coming to this horrible place.”

“And why is that?”

Antoine sat down. He was still wearing the same clothes he’d had on earlier. But the way he was perspiring made his suit look confining, as if it was shrinking. I took off my jacket; just looking at him made me uncomfortable.

“You are a very smart woman, Mrs. Sullivan. You must know by now what Miss Jordan was up to.” He waited for me to fill in the blanks.

But I just nodded, needing more information before I spoke.

“I first made her acquaintance three years ago when I was working as the head consultant on a project in Milwaukee. It was a large estate belonging to a very prominent family. The building was to be used for hospice care patients. When the project was complete, there was a cocktail party. My staff was invited, as well as doctors, patients, and their families. There were hundreds in attendance that night.”

“And that’s where you met Stacey?”

“Yes. Of course, I first reacted to her beauty. How could I not? She was breathtaking. As we talked, she told me about her mother, so distressed over the mounting medical bills. When I asked about her background, we found out we had our great appreciation and love of art in common.

“After a few dinners, and many drinks, I came to respect her intelligence. She was an educated, charming woman.” He stopped a moment remembering happier times. “It was on one of those occasions that she told me of finding a rare statue in the attic of an elderly woman she worked for part time. Out of desperation to help her mother, she asked if I knew of someone who would pay for the piece.”

“And you helped her?”

“Not at first. I am very respected in my field, Mrs. Sullivan, I couldn’t take the chance—”

“Look, Mr. Rousseau, I’m just trying to find out who killed Ms. Jordan. I’m not interested in art theft or fraud. That’s for a whole different set of police. So have no fear that I am going to call the FBI or Interpol.”

He looked somewhat relieved.

“So why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me what happened when you came to Edina?”

“Bon. But first I must have a drink; my nerves are shattered. Would you like something?”

“Thank you that would be nice.” I was worried Antoine would pass out before he could finish his story and decided to slow down and take my time with him.

“I’ll call down for some wine. Do you have a particular preference?”

“No. Whatever you decide is good.”

He picked up the phone and called room service.

“It will take several minutes.” He was ever the polite host, even in what was obviously a most difficult time for him.

“While we wait, could you please continue?” I suggested. “You were telling me about coming to town.”

Antoine sat back down and loosened his tie. “I was contacted by a board member representing the Pierce estate. I was asked to fly in to oversee the renovations.”

Gently, I said, “Yes, I know, we’ve been over this before, Mr. Rousseau.”

“Forgive me.” He smiled weakly. “I contacted Miss Jordan, remembering she was from this part of the country. It was then that she told me the rumors about Marshall Pierce smuggling stolen art out of Europe during the war. It was said he had them hidden in the walls of his mansion.”

I smiled. “I grew up hearing those stories. But I never thought they were true.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Sullivan, there are great treasures hidden in the strangest of places.”

“So you believed Stacey when she talked about the Klimt?”

“Most definitely. That is why I persuaded the board to hire her as my assistant. Stacey and I agreed that it would be the perfect opportunity to allow us to search the mansion thoroughly.”

“Was it you who found something?”

“No. Miss Jordan did.”

“And you saw it? With your own eyes?” My heart was racing; I wanted to hear every detail.

“Oui. It was magnificent. A Klimt in perfect condition. A miracle, really, considering what it had been through.”

“So where is it now?”

“I would assume you knew. After all, you told us that the authorities have it.” Antoine smiled slyly. “But of course, my dear Mrs. Sullivan, we knew—you and I—that the other one was . . . how you say . . . fibbing?”

“You caught me, Mr. Rousseau. I fell back on my tried and true interrogation methods. So tell me please, where is the painting and did you find more than one piece?”

“Only the one, I’m afraid. And it is hidden in the guesthouse. When you and Mr. Walker came out today, the three of us were discussing how to get it out of there safely.”

I took a deep breath. So Jackie was playing me. When I told her about the painting being with the police, she knew I was lying. “Mr. Rousseau, I have to ask you a very important question.”

“I have no reason to lie to you, Madame. I’ve told you everything I know. You may ask me anything you like.”

“Did you kill Stacey Jordan?”

His face fell. “Ah, my dear Mrs. Sullivan, there is no way I could ever have harmed that sweet girl. No. I am a thief and liar but never a murderer.”