Beckman let that last sentiment sink in. It worked. I wanted to hear more. “I contacted Beatrice. She has a certain skill set that really came in handy this time. Once, she put this auto-tuned teen diva in a real haunted castle for a few days. It was brilliant. Scared the crap out of her, and her next album was nominated for three Grammys.”
Again with the self-congratulations. Peter Beckman may not have been onstage for the past two decades, but he had retained the need to hear his own voice. “When you refused to be booked in the hotel where we had a front desk contact, we had to come up with a plan B to get the sketchbook. But then Polly hinted at the name of your hotel in her blog, and it was almost too easy. Claude was an old friend and has a very sketchy past. He’s a great guy. He pulled a bunch of extra shifts to execute the heist. We got lucky there. You went out to dinner with Nate on the first night, and he sprang into action. We thought you might never leave your room, but night one, you were out the door because of this guy here,” Beckman said, pointing to Nate with two finger guns. “He lifted the sketches from your secret compartment. That was a fake police officer. Totally fake! An actor! Did you know that?”
I knew Claude was suspicious, but Inspector Agnier? No wonder he only left me messages at the hotel desk and never called my cell. Because he didn’t exist, and his callback number would have proven that. And now I understood how Beatrice afforded that Chloé bag. None of this could have been cheap. “This was all so elaborate. And, I’m guessing, expensive.”
“It was a few key people in key places. And throwing some euros around.”
“What about the clues? Why those sketches from my father’s notebooks? Why those locations?”
Beckman was thoroughly enjoying himself now, like he had made it through the roughest part of the evening. “Well, starting at the Panthéon was a no-brainer. I needed to make the first clue pretty obvious or else the whole setup would have failed. And then I chose spots that had some history for me or your father. I thought the hair salon was a bit of fun. I wanted to signal that this was more of a lark than a threat. When you went to Polly’s for her help, I knew you’d nail it. Great apartment, you two,” Beckman said to JM and Polly, who looked like they were guests at the best murder-mystery party ever. “I mean, from the outside. Don’t worry, I don’t have someone on the inside in your building.”
“Thank you. You should come by for lunch the next time you’re in town,” JM said. Beckman said he would. I was losing control of this.
“And Jacques de Baubin? Did you pay him?” In the same way I couldn’t bear the thought of Luther knowing about the notebooks, I wanted my conversation with Jacques to have been pure. But I’m sure he could have used a few bucks.
“Jacques was delighted to be a part of my scheme. It was all in good fun for him. He only wanted to meet Henry’s daughter.”
I was relieved. It was as Jacques had said, he was an old man and wanted to meet me. “Did you consider my job at all?”
“Yes. And I hope you lose it.”
Now I understood my mother’s reaction on the phone when I mentioned Beckman’s name. I also wanted to howl out a string of expletives aimed at his condescension and ego.
My mother spoke first. “Peter, that’s too far.”
“I’m sorry. It’s that you have so much more to give the world than tours to donors and carting art around the world,” Beckman waxed on, more motivational speaker than mastermind, defusing the tension. “There was one thing I didn’t plan on, though: Nate here. You did that all on your own, Joan. You, too, Nate. Well done.” Beckman high-fived Nate, who, caught off guard, reluctantly played along.
“Did you arrange for the first-class upgrade?” I asked, needing to know how much I owed to Beckman and how much I owed to the gate agent.
“No, I don’t have an airline in yet. But if I did, I would have taken credit for Nate.”
“I didn’t sign a nondisclosure agreement. I could blow your cover.”
“Oh, no, you signed one,” Beckman said. “Remember when Beatrice asked you to sign off on the transfer paperwork? There was an NDA in there.”
Son of a . . . “But Nate didn’t. He could expose you.”
Beckman rolled his eyes; Nate shook his head. “Who would believe me, Joan? I’m not the celebrity daughter in this story.” He was right.
Beckman nodded. “I can tell you this: I wrestled every day with what your father asked me to do, to hold on to the notebooks for as long as I did. You read the letter. Yes, circumstances had changed, but I believe Henry’s wishes would have been the same if he knew he was going to die. He wasn’t ready for the work to be seen in hindsight. I felt compelled to honor your father.” Finally, Peter Beckman looked like a man with some humility. “And, admit it, Joan, you had some fun.”
Yes, I had.
Beckman looked at his watch. “Okay, kids, time to go. Let’s load up the van. It’s party time.”
It must have been the music that carried away our concerns, because I looked at the collection of faces on the dance floor and maybe, for the first time in ten years, I was awash in happiness. We were in a bar on the outskirts of Rouen, and Peter Beckman was onstage with a backup band that had appeared out of thin air playing a cover of “Brown Eyed Girl.” It was one of my mother’s favorite songs, although that probably goes for most American women of a certain age. As soon as the first few notes started playing, she dragged us all onto the dance floor—me, Nate, Polly, and JM. We were dancing and laughing and singing along like we were closing down a wedding. Typical Americans.
Nate had some dance moves that I was going to have to get to the bottom of later. The L.L.Bean mocs delivered. I liked that he sang along to every song, too.
Once again, we’d been part of an elaborate scheme, but this time, the intentions were good. After a dinner of simple, rich food, most of which Beckman didn’t touch, he excused himself from the table. The conversation was lively, and the place was packed, so it took us all a moment to realize that when the lights went down, it was the former lead singer of the Ravens who took the stage. Beckman, in his black shirt and black jeans, could have been opening for the Stones again. I looked at my mother’s face. She was already in deep. Polly leaned over and said into my ear, “Man and guitar. Oldest pickup trick in the book, and it’s working on me. Pregnancy hormones, I guess.”
“Oh, please.”
“I meant JM was going to get lucky tonight,” Polly explained. “The all-black look is not my thing. Give me a man in a blue blazer. Now, that’s hot.”
“Bonsoir, mes amis!” Beckman shouted, a line I thought was a little hackneyed, but the locals ate it up. Clearly, they knew who he was, and I got the feeling that this appearance wasn’t quite as spontaneous as he wanted us to believe. He was thorough in every detail, as I’d come to know. This was a total setup for my mother’s benefit.
Beckman and the band played a full set, starting with early Ravens tunes that got the crowd up on their feet and kept them there. Nate was like a teenager, grabbing my hand and rushing to the front of the stage. Polly and JM surprised me with their enthusiasm, bobbing up and down at the edge of the dance floor, entangled in each other. She was right about those hormones. My mother stayed at the table, watching Beckman, but not giving anything away. She was no groupie.
Then Beckman moved into a few songs off his solo albums, heavy with meaning. He barely took his eyes off her as he sang the lyrics about his crushed soul and his lonely existence. She stared back a little too intently for my liking. Nate, too. I thought he might cry, he was so overcome with the moment.