Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (10 page)

"In plain words, what do they want?"

"The complete ruin of the Bourbons; they
will expel them from all the thrones they occupy, and in less than
a century they will return to the rank of simple private
individuals in their different branches."

"And France?"

"Kingdom, Republic,
Empire, mixed Governments, tormented, agitated, torn; from clever
tyrants she will pass to others who are ambitious without merit.
She will be divided, parcelled out, cut up; and these are no
pleonasms that I use, the coming times will bring about the
overthrow of the Empire; pride will sway or abolish distinctions,
not from virtue but from vanity, and it is through vanity that they
will come back to them. The French, like children playing with
handcuffs and slings, will play with titles, honors, ribbons;
everything will be a toy to them, even to the shoulder-belt of the
National Guard [one of Napoleon's routes to power]; the greedy will
devour the finances. Some fifty millions now form a deficit, in the
name of which the Revolution is made. Well! under the dictatorship
of the philanthropists, the rhetoricians, the fine talkers, the
State debt will exceed several thousand millions!"

"You are a terrible prophet! When shall I
see you again?"

"Five times more; do not
wish for the sixth. Do not let me detain you longer. There is
already disturbance in the city. I am like Athalie,
I wished to see and I have
seen
. Now I will take up my part again and
leave you. I have a journey to take to Sweden; a great crime is
brewing there, I am going to try to prevent it. His Majesty Gustav
III interests me, he is worth more than his renown."

"And he is menaced?"

"Yes; no longer will 'happy as a king' be
said, and still less as a queen."

"Farewell, then, Monsieur; in truth I wish I
had not listened to you."

"Thus it is ever with us
truthful people; deceivers are welcomed, but fie upon whoever says
that which will come to pass! Farewell, Madame;
au revoir
!"

This is not a story within
a story. This
is
the story.

You will understand why I say that when next
you encounter the enchanting Francesca. And you will be a step
ahead of me, pal, when I was there.

Chapter Twelve: Series Earth

It was shortly past
midnight when Francesca took me to her studio to show me what I
needed to know. The entire room had been converted into a gallery
to display her show of paintings and sculptures, and I realized
instantly that my earlier exposure to her work had been to but a
small sample of the whole. Wall, easel, and pedestal now displayed
some forty to fifty striking portraits and an equal number of
life-size sculpted heads.

The portraits were most
arresting, in that the face of each subject seemed to have been
caught by the eye of the artist just as it was emerging from a
deeply dimensioned background of sheer color, each color blending
into the other while overlaying somehow in a strangely translucent
effect yet converging and mixing at the surface to produce the
portrait.

I wondered how the hell she did that.

Each face was unique,
yet...connected, somehow, to all the others—some commonality
implied by expression or by some subtle handling of the eyes,
or...

I had studied about five of those faces—very
closely— when Francesca casually inquired, "What do you think?"

I replied without looking at her, "This is
beautiful work. How do you get those colors to...mix in there like
that?"

She replied, "The colors tell the story, do
they not? Is all of art not representation?—and is all of
representation not illusion?—and is all of illusion not
allegory?"

I looked at her then as I said to her, "This
is the show you've been developing."

"Yes."

"I seem to detect some theme to all of
this."

"Yes. I call this
Series Earth
."

I said, "I see," but I did not see.

"Do you?"

"Not really. It's haunting, but I guess all
good art is haunting." I was moving along the portraits more
quickly, now. I told her, "I have seen all the others, but not
Valentinius. Why no Valentinius?"

She replied mysteriously, "He is there."

I said, "Guess I missed him. Did you ever
paint St. Germain?"

She gave me a perplexed look, averted her
gaze for a long moment then brought it back to say, "I have been
there, but..."

"I wasn't talking about a place."

"Oh. I referred to
Saint-Germain-en-Laye, at the outskirts of Paris." She said
it
Pah-ree.
"Some
famous treaties were concluded there. Louis XIV built a chateau
there, overlooking the Seine. A lovely spot. But I did not
paint

it."

"I was talking about Le Comte de St.
Germain."

"There is no Le Comte de St. Germain."

"Used to be. I understand he befriended the
French throne and particularly Marie Antoinette."

Those beautiful eyes rebounded instantly
from mine and brimmed with moisture. "Dear heart," she
murmured.

I felt suddenly very weird and awkward. Were
we thinking of the same "let them eat cake" queen? "Yes," I said,
not knowing what else to say.

"And so misunderstood. They hated her first
because she was Austrian, then they hated her the more for fleeing
that hatred and taking refuge at the bosom of kinder friends. The
French, the French...they do not know how to treat a lady."

I said, "Always thought they revered their
ladies."

She said, eyes still brimming with tears,
"They revere prostitutes who masquerade as ladies. They burn or
behead their ladies."

I had the strongest urge to take her in my
arms and comfort her, but I just said, "Well, not in a long
time."

She replied, "Once is quite enough."

I was thinking about the
two Francescas. The one I had met first on arrival at Pointe House
was your typical American girl-next-door. This Francesca was
old-world European in both manner and language, and I was more
than a little disturbed by that—much more so than by our
conversation on the beach, earlier. I mean, after all, this is
Southern California—Laguna Beach even, which has its cup
overrunning with sects and ashrams—where one hardly blinks an eye
anymore at hearing public references to past lives, mystic
experiences, and the like. Such talk is part of the environment
here; you do not feel compelled to interpret it
literally.

I was disturbed also by the works of art;
this stuff had master stamped all over it, yet I had never heard of
Francesca Amalie before Pointe House, nor, I suspected, had the
art world. Does an artist of this stature emerge overnight, with
no shadows cast before her?

And the clay!—those beautifully sculpted
heads that seemed ready to come to life at the snap of some
magician's fingers...

I had to look again, and I was right:
sculptures and paintings were all of a piece, went together, almost
blended together—yet every lump of clay was Valentinius!

"He is there," she'd told me.

Damn right he was there.

He was there in each of them.

Chapter Thirteen: On the Beach

I was suddenly dog-tired in both mind and
body—soul- weary maybe—so I said good-night to Francesca as soon as
I could go gracefully, and went straight up to bed. I paid no
attention to the time but it must have been close to one o'clock
when I reached my suite. I stripped naked and got in bed, intending
to mentally review the day's events, but I guess I was asleep
before my head was firmly upon the pillow.

I slept well and did not dream of Pointe
House, thank God. Hai Tsu awakened me at a few minutes past eight
with coffee and juice on the side table. "Official visitor awaits,
Shen," she informed me.

I guessed that she meant Jim Sloane, the
lawyer, and I wanted to see him too, so I asked her to make him
comfortable and to tell him that I would be right down.

I hit the shower as soon as Hai Tsu left the
room, then got into tennis shorts, a polo shirt, and sneakers, and
went down without shaving.

Sloane was not in the library and there was
no sign of Hai Tsu so I went exploring and found the "official
visitor" enjoying coffee at a courtyard table. Actually there were
two visitors and neither was Jim Sloane. They were plainclothes
cops from the county of Orange, Sergeant Alvarez and Detective
Beatty; they were being entertained by Francesca in skintight
workout suit and nothing else—and obviously enjoying the
experience immensely.

They stood up to shake my
hand anyway as we exchanged introductions. I have worked with
cops, but not much in this particular jurisdiction. These two
seemed like nice guys, entirely courteous and affable, relaxed,
respectful. Francesca I (the girl-next-door) laughed lightly as we
all sat down. "Now you can tell me why you're here," she declared
in a conspiratorial tone. "It's driving me crazy."

Alvarez and Beatty exchanged glances but
both were smiling as Alvarez looked at me and said, "The
housekeeper tells me that you two are the only residents."

I opened my mouth to correct that
impression, then decided to save it for later. The cop did not
notice; he was already asking, "Who drives the Maserati?"

I said, "Guilty."

He turned the gaze to
Francesca, asked, “And the VW Beetle...?”

"Mine all mine," she said. "Made the last
payment two months ago, so you couldn't be here to repossess
it."

"No other vehicles on the property," the cop
noted.

"Only when someone comes," she replied.

I said, "Uh, I am one of those someones. I
don't live here."

The two cops again exchanged glances. Beatty
took a sip of his coffee and Alvarez asked me, "Where do you live,
Mr. Ford?"

"I live in Malibu."

"Would you mind telling me why you spent the
night here last night?"

I replied, "Not after you've told me why you
want to know."

He smiled, said, "We are conducting a
routine investigation. You are not suspected or accused of any
crime. We'd appreciate it if you would cooperate, make our job
simple, and we can be on our way without disturbing you
further."

I asked, "Routine investigation of
what?"

He sighed, glanced at Beatty, said, "The air
patrol spotted a body on the beach below this house early this
morning. We are trying to develop information relative to
that."

I said, "I'll bet you are. Are we talking a
dead body?"

"Yes. Male. Fully clothed.
Apparently fell from the top of the cliff. The body had not been in
the water."

Francesca was holding her breath, staring at
the cop and hanging on every word. She softly exclaimed, "Wow! This
is a murder investigation!"

Alvarez showed her a
faintly embarrassed smile as he replied, “Not at all. Cause of
death has not been determined. We are merely developing
information. Your housekeeper assured us that no one here is
missing. So-”

I asked, "Have you identified the
victim?"

"No. It's the body of a white male, age
thirty to thirty- five, no identification."

I lit a cigarette, pushed back my chair,
said, "I arrived from Malibu at about two o'clock yesterday
afternoon and had a meeting with Jim Sloane of Sloane, Sloane and
James, attorneys for the owner of this property. I have been
retained to develop information, to use your own terminology, for
use in the defense of a suit by the state of California to seize
this property. That is all I know about anything here. But of
course I will cooperate with your investigation in any way that I
can."

Beatty had been taking notes as I spoke.

Alvarez smiled and told me, "Thanks, we
appreciate your attitude. You wouldn't mind taking a look at the
body, then, and..."

"How did you recover it?"

"Still there. One of our marine units from
Newport Harbor is on the scene and standing by. And of course we'd
appreciate it if our medical examiners could use your private
access to, uh, reach and secure the scene. They should be here at
most any minute now. I'm assuming that you do have beach access. We
noted stairs from the lower shelf. Do they go—?"

"To an elevator," I told
him. "Entry hall, inside the house."

"No other way down?"

I said, "Sounds like someone found it."

He gave me a wry smile, said, "Could we see
the elevator?"

The guy wanted to see more than the
elevator, so I

played his game and led
them through the long way so he could satisfy his curiosity inside.
Hell, I just took charge, assuming it was expected of me by whoever
sent for me. We encountered Hai Tsu along the way. I explained the
situation to her and hinted that it could be a long day of official
traipsings. I have to say that I was a bit numb about the entire
thing; the news of a corpse on the beach neither alarmed nor
surprised me. But I did suggest that she contact Sloane and alert
him to the situation.

As it worked out, Francesca and I took the
elevator down with Alvarez; Beatty remained topside to greet and
direct the expected official traffic.

A powerful looking police
cruiser was idling just beyond the surf line and two deputies in
wet suits were on the beach. They'd covered the body with an orange
tarp and were just sitting there on the sand as though enjoying a
day at the beach. Alvarez excused himself and went over to have a
word with them.