“You can’t get out of the car. We don’t know this guy,” Nate said, pointing to the driver. I admit I was panicked, too.
“Monsieur Beckman will be waiting. You have no reason to worry. Tati is an excellent driver.” Before she closed the door, she leaned into the car and said, “Monsieur Weller at the WAM has already been informed that the sale of the sketches has gone through at the agreed-to price. I will file all the necessary paperwork and send copies to the US. Please sign these.” Beatrice thrust a clipboard of papers through the window, neat little stickers demarcating the signature spots. Stunned, I signed and handed them back to her. “Thank you for your trust. Good to do business with you.” With that, the heavy German-engineered door slammed shut, and Beatrice Landreau and her questionable business ethics disappeared down the street, no car, taxi, or Metro station in sight.
“She must be sleeping with him,” Nate said, thinking the same I was. “Or is heavily medicated. Thank you for your trust. That’s a good line. I’ll have to remember that the next time I steal a patent or stiff a vendor.”
I laughed, “No, Nate, thank you for your trust.”
“This whole operation has veered into Twilight Zone territory.”
“I’m texting Mike. I don’t want him to wonder why the heck I’ve been torturing him all weekend when the museum tells him that the Panthéon Sketches were officially bought and paid for. At least I’m off the hook for larceny under false pretenses, and perjury, and anything other law I might have violated.” I typed quickly. “How does this sound? Dear Mike, thank you for your trust. And, also, he should know we’re in a car speeding toward possible occult practices.”
Nate waited a second and then said, “Yes, he should probably know that.”
“I’m going to text Polly, too. I want someone in France to know that we are still in France.”
“Good idea. I’ll set the tracker on my phone and alert my assistant, so at least authorities will be able to find the bodies.” Nate could tell I truly was nervous, so he added, “I think we’ll be fine.” He shifted in his seat to get comfortable for the remaining ride to Rouen. “Tell me where we’re going again?” It was a good distraction.
“Rouen. It’s about an hour to the north of Paris along the Seine and the capital of Normandy.” I was playing tour guide again. “It’s an old city, critical to the history of medieval England as well as France because of its location. Timbered houses, churches, and, of course, where Joan of Arc was imprisoned and burned at the stake.”
“Have you been here before? Of course you have.”
“Yes, when I was in college.” I’d managed to convince my American roommate, Breezy from Greenwich, to spend a weekend in the city because she had heard “there were beaches nearby.” Much to Breezy’s dismay, we spent the day visiting Joan of Arc–related sites, and by the time we got to the dank tower that had served as Joan’s prison cell, Breezy’s only comment was “This place smells. I’m thirsty. Come find me at that café near the train station.” Breezy and I had dissimilar interests.
Though even I had to admit, the town was a bit of a letdown, an industrial city going through a rough patch economically, and I had no desire to find a hostel and spend the night. The main cathedral was still in rough shape from World War II, and it appeared that renovations were not on the horizon, evidenced by a lackluster fundraising effort supported by donation tins at the entrance and the sale of Joan of Arc prayer candles. The old town was certainly old, but not charming. I had expected more of an homage to my namesake, a robust marketing scheme that lured in tourists, but the effort was half-hearted. Joan was an afterthought here, fine for a day trip but not a weekend getaway spot. It surprised me that someone like Peter Beckman made his home there.
Presumably, Beckman was drawn in by the surrounding countryside, neat, green, and heavy on the agriculture. The car sped on for a while, and I noticed that Nate had popped his earphones in. He was staring out the window like he was trying to memorize the scenery in case we needed to make our way back to Paris in the middle of the night. Blindfolded and bound. Maybe he’d watched too many Bourne movies. I patted his arm to get his attention. “What are you listening to?”
“Peter Beckman’s album from ’93. Yes, It’s Me. It’s good, really good. I’d forgotten how raw these songs are. Someone really did a number on him.”
Listen to the music. It’s all in there, my mother had said, or something like that. And 1993, the same year as Castle Burning? That’s a coincidence. “So, did I mentioned that I spoke to my mother last night? There’s something you should know about her relationship with Blackbird.”
Chapter 19
We pulled through the gates at Fortnight Studios, a bucolic Haute-Normandie estate spread out before us. Cue the milkmaids. “All right, I have to admit, this looks like one of those really upscale properties that advertises in the New Yorker in those little tiny ads in the back of the magazine. Do you think that’s the spa building?” Darkness was falling, but lights throughout the property illuminated a handful of half-timbered structures, some new, some ancient, but it was hard to tell which was which, tucked in among a meadow, a vegetable garden, and what looked to be a hedgerow beyond the structures. The houses and gardens were maintained to a level between “overgrown” and “overdone.” It was quite delightful. Damn Beatrice.
“Are you nervous?”
“Yes.” So nervous, I was grinding my teeth while I was awake. “What if this is a hoax?”
“If this is a hoax, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” Nate was a lover, not a fighter. “I’ll be really mad. I know hackers, Joan. We’ll get back at this whole crowd.”
Small signs pointed visitors to the studio and the guesthouses off to the left. We turned to the right, taking the winding gravel driveway through a grove of trees, where a stunning stone house, in just the right state of disrepair, stood before us. It looked to be truly old, like fifteenth century, with a pitched roof, crumbling facade, and a dark maroon door. The front light was on. The driver, who hadn’t said a word the entire trip, grunted as he stopped the car, “Raven House.”
“I feel like Willy Wonka is going to emerge from that door with a cane,” Nate whispered.
“He might.”
The door opened before we could knock, and a woman called Marianne let us in. She spoke to us in Franglais with a precise set of directions. “Pleased to meet you, mademoiselle. Entrez and I’ll show you to your rooms. After you refresh, then rendez-vous ici. Alors, food and drink in the library avec monsieur, oui?”
I looked at Nate. “Here we go.”
We’d been sitting in the entry hall, as instructed, for ten minutes before Beckman made his appearance. Some nerve, I thought, making us sit in the wildly uncomfortable antique chairs instead of the library, all so he could make an entrance down the front stairs. The guy we thought might be a criminal mastermind really was Willy Wonka. I checked the texts I had sent to Polly and Mike, assuring them we were safe, but asking them to keep their phones on all night, in case “something came up.” I thought that phrasing came off neutral and not paranoid. The sound of footsteps caused me to look up. A tall, fit man danced his way down the stairs, excitement on his face. It was the face I’d seen in the video.