“Nobody is here but us,” said Jacques de Baubin, making himself busy by pouring some red wine into green glasses. Clearly, he didn’t want to get into anything with Nate. He was taking his time, welcoming us like guests, not treasure hunters on a deadline. Jacques was tall and thin with very little hair left but a vibrant look in his blue eyes. I guessed he was in his early seventies. “I understood you to be coming. And I know that I need to give you something. That is about all.” He paused and looked at me for a good half a minute, not speaking. Then he said, “That dress. You are your mother.”
He gestured that we all take a seat at a Saarinen tulip table. The chairs were high-backed Parsons covered in a soft gray. I only noticed because we had a similar table and chairs at our house in Pasadena, and the familiarity was unsettling. “Please sit and we can talk.” He lingered over my face, taking in the details. “I must say, you look so much like Suzi. How is she? I miss her.” I noticed he said Suzi, not Suzannah. I had thought for a second that he might be the author of the letters, but apparently not.
It was like this Frenchman, in the blue jeans and navy-blue sweater, put some sort of hex on me because I answered like I was on a typical Pasadena social call with a friend’s dad. “She’s fine. Busy as she wants to be in California.” Ease seeped into my mind, like everything was going to be fine. No questions had been answered, but the pieces were coming together in a manner I could understand: the photo of my parents, a familiar face in Beckman, this lovely man Jacques. It was all connected, right?
But Nate snapped me out of it. He was still standing and searching the place with his eyes. “Okay, I have to say, enough with the small talk here. I’m Nate. I’m here with Joan. It’s midnight, and we want to know who you are and what you know about this situation. And where can we find the guy that stole the sketches and tried to run over Joan?” Nate’s buoyant mood was over. I guess he felt like we had closed in on the mystery and he wanted answers now.
“Is that true?” Jacques looked straight at me, ignoring Nate. “Did the Panthéon Sketches get stolen?” Apparently, my near death wasn’t that concerning to Monsieur de Baubin, but anything in regard to his beloved Saint Joan was shocking. And suspicious. The Panthéon Sketches weren’t the sort of piece that qualified in the “household name” category. It was hard to believe that it held any name recognition at all, even for an aging French art critic. Jacques set down the wine and a charcuterie platter as he took his seat.
“Yes. The sketches were in a portfolio that was taken from my hotel room on the first night of my trip. We believe that whoever stole them is the person who directed us to come here.”
“That I did not know. I would not be involved in theft of any kind. Unless, of course, it was a Braque. I have a soft spot for his work.” Clearly, this was a bit of a game for him. “Bread? Cheese? Are you hungry?”
Nate took a tore off a piece of bread and helped himself to some cheese because, honestly, it all looked amazing and our early dinner had been a while ago. He ate standing up, which I’m sure horrified our host but seemed to calm Nate down. He jumped back into it. “Well, then, what do you know? What are we doing here? And what does that photograph in the window have to do with all this?”
Jacques turned to me. “Do you recognize it?”
“Yes. Sort of. Obviously, it’s my parents, and I think that’s Peter Beckman, but I don’t know where or when it was taken. Is it a Dennis Hopper?”
“Yes, very good. It was taken in Paris. When your father was here for Joan Bright & Dark. That was a wonderful time. There was a tremendous sense of energy every night for that week, as your father brought his beautiful light to Paris. It seemed like everyone was here—writers, artists, musicians, philosophers, actors, chefs. After each public event, we had a party every night with music and food and wine. Lots of wine. Lots of . . . everything.” Jacques shook his head, like he still had a hangover from 1980. “Your father made the art, but your mother made it magic. The photo was taken not far from here. You can see my little atelier in the background. It’s not always in the window, but when I put it there, it draws people in. It was a gift from Dennis to your father. And from your father to me.”
Maybe Nate noticed that I had tears in my eyes, because he stopped pacing around the room and came to sit at the table. I felt like I had stepped back into another life, like my mother’s, and a sense of comfort washed over me. Nate’s voice softened, but his mission was clear. “I’m trying to look up information on Peter Beckman, but there’s no signal. Do you have Wi-Fi?”
Jacques laughed. “I did for a week, and all my customers, all my friends, they stopped talking to each other and only stared at their phones. So, I got rid of it. Here, we talk and then you can go back to your hotel and tap, tap, tap.”
I wanted to listen to Jacques for hours, but I thought Nate was going to pummel him. Apparently, Nate was immune to his charms. He kept up the questioning. “Do you have an envelope for us? And can you tell us who gave it to you?”
Jacques took the crazed American in stride. “I do have an envelope. It arrived via messenger this morning. There was a note attached that said I might enjoy meeting the daughter of Suzannah and Henry. At first, I was confused. Who is Suzannah? But then I realized it should have said the daughter of Suzi and Henry.”
Nate and I exchanged glances. “Who sent it?”
“It was unsigned, but there was a little drawing of something.”
“A blackbird?” I said
“Yes. Exactement.”
“And it didn’t strike you as odd that you would receive such a request from, from . . . nobody?” Nate’s tone was so unmistakable that I almost laughed. He was right. Who accepts envelopes from strangers anymore? Didn’t that go out with anthrax?
Jacques dismissed Nate and patted my hand. “Not odd, exciting. I am an old man now and I did want to meet this daughter. You, Jehanne.” His use of the medieval name of Joan of Arc touched me. “The note said I should expect her and her gentleman friend today around midnight. It all seemed so exciting and mysterious; of course, I thought I must play along.” Jacques stood up and walked to the desk at the front of the store. He unlocked a top drawer and took out the envelope, slowly as if he was torturing us on purpose.
Nate looked at me and rolled his eyes; I held up my hand to say “Relax.” Jacques blocked out Nate on his way back to the table and handed the familiar yellow rectangle to me deliberately. “Why don’t you open it later, after we finish our talk, yes?”
I was willing to wait, despite Nate’s obvious impatience. This was a chance to understand a slice of my father’s life I hadn’t even considered before tonight—his brilliant success in Paris, the catalyst for his entire career. I had a million questions on how the photo, the painting, the Panthéon Sketches, and this man, Jacques, all fit together. But I had to start with the portrait of Joan. “Can you tell me about that painting?”
“Of course. It’s by a little-known female painter, Virginie Bovie. She is from Belgium. Late twentieth century. I found it at Les Puces one Sunday, many years ago. A little treasure. I have admiration for the Maid.”
Joan of Arc. The maid. Sweet maid. How had I missed that in all the clues?
Nate read my mind and caught my eye. He mouthed, “Sweet maid?”
I nodded to Nate and turned back to Jacques. “That’s something you shared with my father. I noticed her shield on your website.”
“Yes. Your father and I shared many things—good and bad. It was something to know him. Now, why don’t you tell me about this Blackbird, and maybe I can help?”