Ripped From the Pages (27 page)

Derek sat back in his chair. “He’ll be able to tell us who did it when he’s awake
and talking again.”

“Maybe.” But I frowned. It had been pitch-black out there on the hill, so I was doubtful
that Garrity even saw who had attacked him. With Trudy’s memory not yet recovered,
we were still completely in the dark.

The ambulance had arrived in record time, followed by the local police. Within minutes,
Garrity had been rushed to the hospital. The police had stayed around and cordoned
off the area behind the bushes where we’d found Garrity unconscious. I figured we
would see the sheriff’s detectives sometime tomorrow.

“This is really disturbing,” I said, continuing to pace. “Since we talked to Jackson
and decided that Elizabeth is in the clear, I had Garrity pegged for the most likely
suspect. Not so much for
the murder of Amelia but most definitely for the theft of that Renoir.”

“Yes,” Derek said, nodding. “He was certainly the most likely candidate.”

“So who is it we’re not suspecting that we should be suspecting?” Gabriel and Derek
looked at each other, then at me.

I sighed and pulled my notepad out of my purse. “I guess we’d better go back over
the list.”

*   *   *

T
he next morning, I stopped at Trudy’s to see how she was doing. Gabriel answered the
door, grinning like the devil as he let me into the house.

Trudy sat on the couch and waved a small handheld computer tablet over her head. “Look
at this, Brooklyn. I can open and lock my front door from my tablet.”

“What if I decided to break in?”

She smiled broadly. “I have an app for that. It’s a panic button.”

I looked at Gabriel. “She has an app for that?”

Gabriel chuckled. He was having fun while looking hot at the same time. Go figure.

I was thrilled and grateful that Gabriel had set up this elaborate security system
and had taught Trudy how to operate it directly from her tablet. So she could work
the sophisticated, computerized system, but she still couldn’t remember who had tried
to shoot her.

I was also grateful that Elizabeth wasn’t a suspect anymore, but now I felt guilty
for putting her at the top of my list. I knew I’d get over it and maybe we’d laugh
about it someday, but right now, I watched her surreptitiously as she cleaned the
breakfast dishes off the dining room table. I knew she was beautiful, but I’d never
noticed her almond-shaped eyes. I’d thought her exotic looks were from her Italian
father, but now I realized it was entirely possible that she was Israeli. Of course,
I’d seen Israelis with blond hair, so what did I know?

She glanced up and saw me watching her and smiled. I knew then that Jackson must’ve
told her what he’d said to us the other night. She had to know I’d suspected her of
killing Amelia, but she didn’t look angry and I appreciated that. I guessed the next
step was mine if I wanted to repair our fledgling friendship.

As I’d made a habit of doing, I gently quizzed Trudy again, asking if she remembered
the surprise she wanted to show me.

“No, Brooklyn. I’m so sorry. I wish I could.”

“You will,” I said, keeping my tone upbeat and positive. “Do you mind if I keep asking
you?”

“Not at all! I want to remember.”

“You will,” I repeated. “In the meantime, I hope I’ll see everyone at the Pre-Harvest
celebration on Saturday.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Elizabeth said.

Trudy beamed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I believed her, just as I believed she would get her memory back. I wanted
her
to believe it, too. I just wished it would happen
now
.

Somewhere inside her mind, she was holding some vital, dangerous information, and
for that reason, even though Gabriel and Elizabeth were here with her every day, I
was determined to visit as often as I could. Trudy needed all the protection she could
get.

Two days later on Wednesday, we held the first official gathering of Robin and her
girlfriends to help plan her wedding. With Robin’s permission, I’d invited my new
friend and neighbor, Alex Monroe. Derek and I had become good friends with her after
she helped me fight off some really bad guys a few months back. Alex was a gorgeous,
tall, high-powered businesswoman with the best wardrobe in the world. She was also
an expert at Krav Maga and other defensive disciplines. I had introduced her to Robin
and Austin a month ago at a dinner party Derek and I had thrown, and my two friends
had hit it off nicely.

My sister London had driven down from Calistoga to join us, along with China, Savannah,
Annie, and Barb, another old friend Robin and I had gone to school with. The eight
of us spent an hour chatting and giggling foolishly about every little thing before
settling down to plan Robin’s wedding of the century. It helped to have a few true
experts at the table, namely Alex, the cupcake and wardrobe queen; China, the textiles
maven; Savannah, the gourmet goddess; and Annie, who knew everything about kitchenware.
Much to Annie’s delight, Robin would be registering at her store. The rest of us fell
into the general know-it-all category and blithely added our homegrown expertise to
the conversation as often as we could.

After lunch, I spent a half hour in the parking lot, chatting and catching up with
Alex. She filled me in on how well the construction was moving along and assured me
that our new loft was going to be fantastic. We made plans to meet for dinner and
then Alex took off to check in to one of the spa hotels in town.

When I arrived home, I felt much more relaxed than I had in a while.

Part of my feeling of calm came from knowing that Elizabeth hadn’t killed Amelia.
But as I walked into the house, I suddenly wondered if she was the one who’d taken
the Renoir. She’d been obsessed with the photograph of the painting at the town hall
photo exhibit. Could the painting have belonged to a Jewish family before World War
II began? Had Elizabeth been assigned by Mossad to look for it? Had she somehow gotten
into the cave and taken it? Had Jackson given her the key?

“Impossible,” I muttered. My brother would never allow that to happen.

Not only that, but I couldn’t see Elizabeth sneaking in and stealing it. If she had
found evidence that a piece of artwork in the cave was once owned by a Jewish family,
it would be a simple matter of alerting the local authorities and starting an investigation.
She was welcome to do so, as far as I was concerned.

But knowing the history of how this artwork had made it from a village in France to
a wine cave in Sonoma, I didn’t see how any of our treasures could be what she was
looking for.

*   *   *

T
hat evening, Derek and I took Alex to dinner at Arugula. She had already given me
the highlights earlier, but now she elaborated, filling us in on all the news going
on in our building. Our new space was beyond wonderful, she assured us. Derek and
I planned to drive into town next weekend to see it for ourselves. And Vinnie and
Suzie’s little girl, Lily, was growing so fast, she reported.

It was during dessert that Gabriel stopped by the table. “Hello.”

We greeted him enthusiastically and introduced him to Alex.
I watched his face as she spoke to him and it reminded me that Gabriel was very good
at hiding his reactions. But I did see one of his eyebrows lift appraisingly and that
told me a lot. It was easy to see why he would find Alex attractive. She was simply
beautiful. Tall and confident with a good sense of humor. What was there not to like?
But unfortunately for Gabriel, Alex would never get involved with him because as a
super-high-powered woman, she preferred the attentions of more passive men. She called
them beta types, as opposed to alphas like Gabriel.

Of course, knowing Gabriel, I doubted that he’d give up after just one meeting. I
couldn’t wait to talk to Alex about him, but she was unusually quiet once we were
in the car.

After dropping Alex off at the inn, we drove home. I did a quick check of my e-mail
and found a message from Claude. He had translated the letter completely. I thanked
him profusely, but he turned around and thanked me instead.

“You lead a much more interesting life than I do, Brooklyn,” he wrote. “This was the
biggest thrill I’ve had in months. Normally, the only excitement I ever experience
is when I read it in the pages of a book.”

I smiled at that, since much of my excitement came from books, too. Sometimes, though,
it was a little
too
much
excitement.

I printed out Claude’s translation and found Derek at the kitchen table, scanning
his phone for messages while waiting for me to finish. He glanced up. “Are you ready
for some news?” he asked.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“You go first,” he said.

“No, mine will take some time.”

“All right then. I just heard back from the London office.” He read from his phone
screen. “‘Elisheba Asimov, known as Elise, is
a high-ranking Mossad agent in charge of tracking down artwork stolen from the Jews
during the Second World War.’”

“Wow, just as you suspected. I was right. You are brilliant.”

He smiled. “It was a good guess.”

“And Elisheba,” I said. “That’s an interesting name.”

“It’s the Hebrew version of Elizabeth, according to Corinne.”

“Corinne knows everything,” I said, smiling at the picture of Derek’s delightful assistant.
She had followed Derek over from his London office last year, and she and her husband
had fallen in love with San Francisco.

“Yes, she does,” he agreed.

“So I guess the name Elizabeth wasn’t far from her real name.”

“No.” He set his phone down on the table. “What is your news, love?”

“Claude sent me his translation.”

“Excellent,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Sit and read it to me.”

“I already read you that first paragraph, remember? But I’ll start it there so we
can get the full picture.” I began to read Marie’s words from Claude’s translation.

“Dear sister,

“Oh, Camille, I have witnessed something so terrible that I’m almost afraid to tell
you about it, but I must get it off my chest.

“First I must say how wonderful it has been having Jean Pierre visit. Anton was so
happy to have his best childhood friend here! He’s been so carefree, like the boy
I met and fell in love with so many years ago. But in the last two days, the two men
have been like strangers to each other, avoiding each other and casting dark looks.
Anton refused to tell me what was wrong.

“Then late last night, he rose silently, got dressed, and left the bedroom. I was
nervous and decided to follow him. He walked
across the vineyards to the cave where they store the wine barrels. I hid outside
the entry, afraid that if I went inside, he would see me. I heard someone walking
in the brush and ducked down to escape detection. It was Jean Pierre! They were meeting
in the cave. Oddly, he carried a suitcase and was dressed for traveling. At three
o’clock in the morning!

“I ventured a few feet inside the cave and hid in an alcove near the entry. Anton
and Jean Pierre were too wrapped up in an argument to notice me.

“Jean Pierre insisted that he had to give everything back. But Anton . . . Oh, Camille,
you know how he can be. His mind is no longer right. Every day he grows more afraid
that the Nazis will arrive in California and kill us and take our possessions. It
isn’t reasonable, of course, but somehow he believes his dark dreams more than he
believes the newspapers and news reports. I’m terrified that the war has taken a grave
toll on Anton that he will never recover from.

“But back to the argument. Jean Pierre kept shouting at Anton, telling him he couldn’t
keep those things; they didn’t belong to him.

“And Anton was shouting back, telling Jean Pierre that he had shared the secret with
his beloved childhood friend and no one else. He trusted Jean Pierre. And now he was
threatening to betray him.

“At first, I didn’t understand what they were talking about. Then Anton promised he
would give the precious treasures back after the war was over. Jean Pierre shouted
that the war was over and it was time to return everything. But Anton swore that the
Nazis were poised to attack again at any moment.

“They continued to talk back and forth about the Nazis, the villagers’ belongings,
the artwork and cherished bits of silver that they had entrusted us with.

“Anton told me he had already sent everything back to the
village. But instead he hid it all away, thinking the Nazis would track him down and
take it if he didn’t. He lied to me, Camille. Did he think I would turn him over to
the Nazis or something equally evil? Does he not trust his own wife? Is he so sick
in his mind that he believes his own words? I was praying that with Jean Pierre’s
arrival, things would be straightened out and poor Anton would come to his senses.
But instead they argued incessantly. Jean Pierre knew my husband better than anyone
in the world, and instead of helping him, instead of understanding his sickness, he
accused Anton of stealing and lying about it.

“‘I have packed my bag,’ Jean Pierre said, ‘and I’m taking with me the one thing from
your home that always meant the most to both of us.’

“‘Not the book,’ Anton shouted. ‘Give it to me.’

“‘No. You are breaking the blood bond we’ve had from the age of seven. You are no
longer my blood brother.’

“‘You are the one breaking it! But I will always be your blood brother, and you will
be mine, no matter what you say.’

“‘I wash my hands of you.’

“‘No!’ Anton screamed the word. ‘You have to help me. I’m so afraid.’

“I could hear Anton sobbing, Camille. The sound stabbed at my heart. My poor broken
husband.

“‘I can’t help you, Anton,’ Jean Pierre said. ‘You’ve lied to everyone. I’ve only
come back to the cave to salvage what little I can and return it to our friends.’

“I crept closer until I could see Anton and Jean Pierre. They were in another alcove
at the back of the larger cave. The ceiling hung down so low that I could see only
Jean Pierre’s hands as he began to gather up small items from the dressers and bookshelves.
Jewelry, several pieces of gold, a precious kitten sculpted from marble.

“Anton fought with him over every piece. He shouted at him
again, trying to persuade him to stay, to change his mind. They could become partners.
Jean Pierre would not bend. Anton was beside himself, and he lashed out. Jean Pierre
shoved him, and Anton fell, hitting his head. I was afraid he was knocked unconscious,
but he stumbled back onto his feet. And then—I hesitate to write this down, but I
must—Anton pulled out a gun and shot Jean Pierre!”

I swallowed hard, looked up at Derek, and saw the same grim resignation I felt carved
into his features. After a moment, I began reading again.

“I ran from the cave, no longer caring if Anton saw me or not. He didn’t, though.
And over the next few days, he banned the workers from the storage cave. I watched
him push a heavy wheelbarrow back and forth from one of the supply barns to the cave.
It was filled with bricks and stones. A week later, Anton was called into town on
business, and I ventured back into the cave. He had plastered over the entire alcove!
The small inner cave where he’d hidden all of our friends’ treasures was completely
concealed behind a wall of brick and cement.

“And suddenly I wondered if Jean Pierre’s body as well was hidden forever behind that
wall. We will never know, because as you know, Camille, Jean Pierre’s mother and father
passed away during the war. He has no brothers or sisters, no family left to question
where he disappeared to. No one will inquire why he has not returned home to France.
I thought to myself, if only your Luc had been home during Jean Pierre’s visit. Of
all times for him and Jacques to go fishing! Now no one will mourn the poor man’s
departure. Except me. And perhaps Anton, in those moments when his mind is clear.

“Anton seems happier now that the cave is closed off. He goes about his days, working
in the fields and pressing the grapes.
But I can’t look at him without thinking of poor Jean Pierre. They were best friends,
Camille. I know you must remember what great comrades they were when we were all in
day school together. I yearn for those carefree times.

“I don’t know if I will mail you this letter, knowing my words will betray my husband.
But if I do, please remember that he was a good man, Camille. Never forget that, I
beg of you.

“I feel relieved to have written down my story, and I pray that my dear Anton will
find peace someday. I am not sure I ever will.

“With much love,
Marie.”

Speechless, I looked up at Derek and shook my head. It was unbelievable.

He placed his hand over mine and squeezed. “I can tell by your expression that you’re
thinking of Robson.”

“I feel awful. I’m going to have to give this to him and watch him read it.”

“I’ll go with you when you do.”

“Please. I’m dreading it.”

He stood up and went to the refrigerator to pour each of us a glass of ice water.
He handed a glass to me and remained standing as he drank his. “You probably need
this after all that reading.”

“I’m parched,” I admitted. “Thanks.” After taking several long sips of water, I said,
“I don’t believe Marie ever mailed the letter. So no one else ever knew.”

“I think you’re right.” Derek leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Now we have
to ask ourselves if Anton was essentially a good man or if he had some underlying
need to steal from his friends.”