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Juliette Lagarde recited the number. When Gabriel dialed it, the call went directly to voice mail. He severed the connection and held the unfaltering gaze of the unknown woman, certain for the first time that Valerie Bérrangar had been murdered.
“Did your mother have a computer?”
“Yes, of course. An Apple.”
“It’s not missing, is it?”
“Non. I checked her email this morning.”
“Anything interesting?”
“On the same day my mother died in an automobile accident, she received a notification from her insurance agency that they intended to raise her rates. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why. She was an excellent driver,” said Juliette Lagarde. “Never so much as a parking ticket.”
Theskies poured with rain during the drive back to Saint-Macaire. Gabriel checked into his hotel, then walked to La Belle Lurette for dinner, a book beneath his arm for company. After placing an order ofpoulet rôtiandpommes frites, he rang Chiara in Venice. Their phones were Israeli-made Solaris models, the world’s most secure. Even so, they chose their words with care.
“I was beginning to get worried about you,” she said.
“Sorry. Busy afternoon.”
“Productive, I hope.”
“Quite.”
“She agreed to see you?”
“She made me tea,” answered Gabriel. “And then she showed me a painting.”
“Attribution?”
“Follower of Anthony van Dyck.”
“Subject matter?”
“Portrait of an unknown woman. Late twenties or early thirties. Not terribly pretty.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A gown of gold silk trimmed in white lace.”
“Sounds like there might be a problem.”
“Several, actually. Including the name of the gallery where her father purchased it.”
“Do you think her mother was—”
“I do.”
“Did you tell her?”
“I didn’t see the point.”
“What are your plans?”
“I need to go to Paris to have a word with an old friend.”
“Do give him my best.”
“Don’t worry,” said Gabriel. “I will.”
