Dordogne, France
May 16
Clara Gautreau made her way through the labyrinth of hallways that led to her adopted father’s office. Without discussion or pomp, she had started calling Reynard, “papa” when she was thirteen. She had come into his office after a riding lesson and stomped her booted foot on the floor. When he looked up she exploded, “I cannot take lessons from Monsieur Brun anymore, papa. He is an idiot, and he is cruel to the horses.” It was as if she had simply come to a decision. Reynard was her father, and that was that. His expression had revealed nothing when he nodded his agreement, but when she went to buss his cheeks before leaving the room, he had pulled her into a warm embrace and kissed the top of her head. She had wriggled free and scampered off.
Now, twelve years later, she pushed through his office door and gently placed the two Degas sketches on his desk. Reynard gave them a cursory glance and motioned for Clara to set them on his work table next to the Rembrandt she had already acquired.
“Monsieur Cain is peeved with you.”
She shrugged. “He’ll get over it.”
Reynard gave her a probing look. “Yes, I imagine he will.”
“What will you do with them?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Where could she have hidden the rest? Imagine it, papa, missing works of art thought lost forever.”
Reynard could see the wheels turning in her beautiful head.
“Now listen to me, Clara.” Reynard employed a tone he rarely used with his adored charge.
She sighed heavily. “Yes, papa.”
“To the best of my knowledge, no one has a clue what Elizabeth Brewer was up to. She was brilliant and crafty. She had three paintings and one object from the Gardner collection that I know of, and I strongly suspect there are others. The art in her residence has been fully cataloged and authenticated. The stolen paintings are most likely being stored in a vault. The authorities are still investigating her murder, and the attorneys are still settling her estate. When the time is right, I will look into it.”
“But…”
Reynard cut her off with a lifted hand.
“The answer is no. This situation requires the utmost patience and care. No one else has this information. The worst possible thing to do at this point is tip our hand.”
“Fine.” Clara sounded more like a petulant teenager than a refined adult.
“Trust me, mon rayon de soleil, I will find that art.”