He was right. Circumstances had taken a turn for the creepy. It was one thing to get nearly run over on the street, but another layer of disturbing to have a treasured artifact with a poem be delivered to my hotel. This was beyond personal; it was intimate. Still, seeing the copy of notebook page gave me a sort of hope, like I was safe.
I reread the clue again and again. “Whoever sent this has my father’s notebooks and maybe the missing sketchbook. Obviously, he wants to meet with me somewhere at six. I can’t pass that up. What time is it?”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“You can’t meet this guy, this person. Joan, he’s dangerous.”
“We don’t know that.”
“He tried to run you over.”
“We don’t know that. It could have been coincidence, right?” Obviously, Nate didn’t appreciate the turnaround, but I didn’t have the leisure to worry about his feelings. I took out my phone and checked the time. It was almost five in the afternoon. I had to get going. I fired up my computer. “I don’t want to lose this opportunity.”
“You can’t be serious. You don’t even know where to go.” Nate was determined to be the brakes on the operation.
“The Panthéon. The Joan Wall. From the sketchbook. That’s what he refers to in the clue: ‘And there she rode on horse with sword . . .’ That’s one of Lenepveu’s panels, a frieze actually. It depicts Joan accepting the sword on horseback surrounded by her men. See?” I brought up the image on my computer. “He or she, or let’s just call the person Blackbird, must want me to meet him there. Maybe he’ll have the notebooks. Look, ‘Here’s my book that tells me so . . .’ That must refer to my father’s work. Or the Panthéon Sketches. In either case, I’m going.” My voice rushed to get all the words out before Nate could shut me down.
“How many notebooks are there?”
“Fifty-three exactly.”
“Joan, whoever sent you this has a copy of one page from your father’s notebook. One page from one notebook. Something he could have gotten at any time, well before 2001. Don’t get ahead of yourself. You have no idea if this person has even a single complete notebook, never mind all of them. You need to turn this over to the police and let them do forensics or whatever they do and figure out who sent this.” Damn logic.
I could fight back. “The police told me crimes like this are a dime a dozen in Paris. They don’t run down every piece of missing art.” I started to unbutton my shirt. All I could think about was getting in a quick shower and then getting out the door. I do my best thinking in the shower, and I needed a jolt, a fresh start on this dilemma.
But Nate kept reasoning. “Maybe that’s true. But this guy added attempted murder, exhortation, and stalking. This sounds like something Interpol might be interested in. Not that I have any experience with Interpol. And this page? Is this related to Joan of Arc?” Nate said the whole name as if she were some mythical creature. Clearly, he was uncomfortable with the idea of a spiritual warrior or the fact that I was down to my camisole.
“No, not exactly.” I was with him on this. I wanted all the dots to connect, but the reference to Small World seemed out of context.
“What are you doing?” he asked finally as I stood in the doorway of my bathroom.
“I need to take a shower. I do my best thinking in the shower. Then I need to go to the Panthéon.”
He was exasperated. “I don’t understand your thought process. I would think maybe calling the police is a better use of your time than showering. Or checking out of this hotel that art thieves and stalkers seem to know that you are checked into.” Nate glanced at his watch. “One more question. What is this with the Einstein quote?” He pointed to the drawing on the page. Of course he knew it was an Einstein quote.
“That’s another piece of my father’s from 1990. Later than the Joan series.” Shit. I hadn’t wanted to get into all of that.
He cocked his head, as if to say go on.
“My father did a guerilla exhibit in Paris in 1980, illuminating the public works of Joan of Arc in order to tell a story of war and faith and hope. Five nights, five different Joans, all over Paris. It was the talk of the town. It made his reputation internationally. He called it Joan Bright & Dark.”
“So, before when you said you had no connection to Joan of Arc, that was not exactly true.” Edgy Nate was back.
“Nate, it’s all so far-fetched, it’s hard to know what matters. But this notebook page is from much later. This piece is called It’s Not Such a Small Word After All.”
“Funny,” Nate conceded. “That’s a funny title. Is it connected in any way to the Panthéon Sketches? And don’t bullshit me.”
“No,” I admitted. “And it’s not related to Joan or Paris or anything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. But it is related to a really special day in my childhood, so this is very personal for me. I can’t explain.” Damn. Maybe it was a coincidence, a cruel joke. “Nate, maybe we can talk about this all later? I feel like I need to get going.”
He surprised me with an abrupt answer. “Me too. I have a dinner tonight. I can’t miss it.” Nate threw his bag over his shoulder. I moved toward him and he reached out, running his hand across my collarbone. He sighed. “Joan, I know you want some answers. But be careful. Stay in public space. Don’t get in any strange cars. Stay alert. Don’t do anything . . . risky.”
Nate was the second guy to tell me that in twenty-four hours. I guess he didn’t know that I never ever did anything risky. “I won’t.” I stepped toward him.
An alarm went off on his watch. The mood changed immediately. Time to go, for both of us. “I guess this is it, then. I feel the need to say out loud that I think this is a terrible idea.” I nodded so he knew that I understood. “Good luck with everything, Joan.” Nate sounded like I’d interviewed with him for a job I was never going to get. Then he patted my shoulder in what must have been the Most Awkward Gesture of All Time. “You know where to reach me. . . .”
“Yes.” But clearly, I shouldn’t try.
I stood under the shower for as long as I could afford, about three minutes. Why that page? Why Small World? It meant so much to me, but who would know that? The water did the trick. And a thought raced across my brain. I hopped out of the shower and sent an email to my mother. It was too early to call her, and I didn’t have time for a long explanation. I did several rewrites to strike the right tone, not alarming but believable.
I checked my phone and saw I’d missed a call from Mike while I was in the shower. His message said that he had some information on Beatrice, the art agent. I would call him back later after I’d done exactly what he’d told me not to do: get in the middle of this.
Then I put on clean clothes. All black for Blackbird. I looked in the mirror and a thought popped into my head: I wish Nate were here.
To: Suzi Clements Blakely
From: Joan Blakely
Hi, Mom. Paris is wonderful, of course. Wore the dress already—killer. Thank you so much. Quick question: the dealer who is brokering the deal for the Panthéon Sketches implied that the buyer may be a collector of Dad’s work. He referenced Small World in a note, which is such an obscure piece, but he wants to remain anonymous, so that’s all I know. Wondering if you and Dad had any friends who ended up living in France. May have Joan of Arc interest, too. Just curious! Let me know. xoxo
To: Joan Blakely
From: Suzi Clements Blakely