I grope for words, feeling the gaze of two pairs of eyes. The accusation in Mrs. Thackeray’s face is terrifying. Sylvie exclaims over the portrait and moves closer to examine it.
“It was in the shed,” I say, desperate. My lie knifes me in the gut. Lying really doesn’t get any easier.
Sylvie’s face is incredulous. “The shed on the roof?” she asks, as she places a kettle on the stove and fetches cups from the cupboard.
“Yes,” I answer, completely miserable.
Mrs. Thackeray stares at me with a strange, pinched expression that does nothing to improve her already shriveled appearance.
“I’d like you all to come for dinner,” she says, suddenly, strangely, dropping her former inquiry. “Tonight. It’s rather short notice, but I do hope you can come.” Her words are directed at Sylvie, but her eyes never leave mine.
“That would be lovely, but we already have plans. Tomorrow we are having a little party. Would you like to join us, perhaps?” Sylvie says. She places a cup on the table in front of Mrs. Thackeray.
“Yes, thank you. I would like that very much,” the old woman says. “Please, sit, both of you. You’re not entertaining the Queen. I’m simply your neighbor.”
Sylvie laughs at this. To my horror, I find myself guided to a chair right next to the old lady. I plop down and stare at the window, where a fly buzzes, caught between glass and wire screen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. T. smile and pick up her tea. Sylvie turns her back to open a cupboard, and as she does, the old lady leans toward me.
“Tommy and I have been wondering how we might retrieve what’s missing from the apartment,” she murmurs in my ear.
Straightening, she sips her tea and says in a normal voice, “Delicious, Sylvie. Do I detect a hint of hibiscus?”
Sylvie nods, smiles, and sets bread on the table, and again she turns away, this time to retrieve jam from the fridge. Mrs. Thackeray leans over once more.
“The police don’t need to be involved if you return everything by tomorrow before the party,” she murmurs in my ear. She straightens and sips her tea as Sylvie returns to the table and I digest the old bat’s threats. I mumble something unintelligible about being tired, shove back my chair and vanish into the bedroom. I stand with my back braced against the door, fighting the urge to find something to throw.
What was she telling me? Marguerite was her grandmother. Does that mean that Mrs. Thackeray owns the all the lovely paintings, sculptures and books? The dresses? It isn’t fair.
Working as quietly as I can, I stuff the rolled canvases into my suitcase and cover larger framed pieces with blankets. I don’t care if she’s the rightful owner. I’m not giving this stuff back to the old lady. Then, I stand and put my ear to the door. I’ll wait until the hag is gone. Once she leaves, I need to borrow Sylvie’s phone. I pray that Jada can help me one more time. I’ve got to find a new family.
Twenty-Three
The old lady finally leaves, taking my painting with her. Sylvie quietly knocks, but I don’t open the door. As much as I’d like to talk to her and know what she meant when she said everything was all right, there’s something else I have to do first. So, stretched out on the bed, I don’t open my eyes when Sylvie peeks inside. She sighs and eases the door shut.
Once the apartment is empty, I grab Sylvie’s cell and shove it into my pocket, then smuggle heavy loads down the stairs, cursing the fact that this building doesn’t have an elevator. Once everything is on the ground floor, I lug it with me and sneak out the back way, through an alley that reeks of fish.
Once I’m away from Sylvie’s street, I’m safe in the anonymity of a thriving tourist town. I’m grateful that Nice is crowded and busy all day long, full of people who ignore me. I’d counted on that. The narrow lanes are filled with shoppers who carry bright mesh bags spilling over with bread, vegetable leaves or antique shop treasures, and students or tourists with massive backpacks slung over aching shoulders. No one pays any attention to the teenage girl struggling along with a bulging suitcase, as well as a massive bundle that teeters atop a child’s wooden wagon.