Acacia stepped into the car. He closed the door behind her.
“Where’s the gallery?” she asked Nicholas as he settled into the driver’s seat.
“A few streets over. Kurt will follow us, and when we arrive, security will let us in.”
The Porsche roared to life.
Acacia congratulated herself on texting Kate. If, for some reason, Nicholas and his minions decided to hurt her, she’d do her best to fight them off. If she failed and wasn’t able to text Kate again, Kate would call Luc.
“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you,” Acadia thought, channeling Joseph Heller.
She’d always thought her paranoia served her well.
They exited the gates and turned left, then drove down a tree-lined road populated by other large estates.
Nicholas glanced in her direction. “Would you rather go back?”
She tore her gaze from the window. “Why do you ask?”
With his right hand, he gestured to her lap, where she clutched her purse with both hands.
She forced a smile. “You’re driving a bit fast.”
“And this from a Parisian driver.” He grinned.
He took his foot from the accelerator and slowed the car.
“In Paris you have to keep up with the flow of traffic, or you’ll end up in an accident.” She looked over her shoulder and saw the Range Rover had slowed as well. “We’re in a residential area.”
He flashed a wide smile. “I’d like you to take me for a ride on your motorcycle.”
“Really?”
“Rick says you handle it well.” Nicholas slowed the car again as they approached a roundabout. They took the first exit and drove along another residential street and up a hill. Two more turns and they traveled a private road.
Acacia’s phone buzzed with a text.
She removed the phone from her purse and looked at the screen. The message was from Kate.
You’re scaring me.
I’m calling Luc now.
Nicholas peered over at Acacia. “Something important?”
Discreetly, she hid the screen from view. “Just my neighbor fussing about the damage done to my apartment. I’ll assure her it’s being looked after.”
Acacia replied to Kate, keeping the screen from Nicholas’s prying eyes.
Don’t call Luc unless you don’t hear from me
for several hours. I’m okay.
“I thought your neighbor was your friend,” Nicholas remarked.
“She is, but she worries.”
“Then she’s a good friend.”
“Yes.” Acacia’s phone buzzed again.
Okay. But be careful.
Acacia could barely restrain her sigh of relief at Kate’s reply. She muted her phone so she wouldn’t be disturbed.
Nicholas pulled the Porsche in front of a set of high iron gates. The gates opened, and they passed through.
The gallery was actually a small estate that overlooked Lake Geneva. There were several buildings, all connected, with a large and elaborate fountain situated in the beautifully landscaped quadrangle.
“This is where your family houses their art collection?” Acacia asked in amazement.
Nicholas parked the car near the fountain. “Yes. It was opened to the public in 1951.”
Acacia noted that some of the large windows in the buildings were shuttered, probably for conservation purposes.
Nicholas helped her out of the car and accompanied her to the central building. “I told the curator we wanted to tour the collection privately. Or would you prefer he be our guide?”
“A guide isn’t necessary.” As she entered the building, Acacia noticed the interior lighting was very low. The display cases and exhibits, however, were well lit.
They shook hands with the curator, who welcomed them and made a few remarks about the collection.
Nicholas and Acacia turned a corner into the first exhibition.
Acacia stopped so suddenly Nicholas walked right into the back of her.
“My apologies.” His hands gripped her arms from behind, steadying her. He took a very large step back.
Acacia barely noticed their collision. She was at a loss for words.
“Is that…” She took a step forward. Before her hung a famous portrait of Dante Alighieri. It was an image she’d seen a hundred times on the cover of her copy of The Divine Comedy.
Nicholas strode past her. “Come closer.”
She approached the painting with wonder. “I didn’t know you owned it.”
“One of my ancestors had a fondness for Florence. I told you we used to be in possession of a set of illustrations of The Divine Comedy that were copies of Botticelli’s. This is an original, painted by Botticelli around 1495. Of course, Dante died in 1321, but it’s considered a very good likeness.”
“Incredible.” She looked closely at the colors, at the way Botticelli spread the tempera over canvas.
“I’ve always liked this painting,” he mused as he followed her gaze.
“Me too,” she admitted.
“I thought you liked the Impressionists.”
“I do.” She gave Nicholas a sheepish look. “Botticelli has always moved me.”
He searched her eyes. “Look as long as you like. We have the entire gallery at our disposal.”
He moved away and left Acacia to admire the piece.
She joined him a few minutes later. “It was such a surprise to find that painting here. I thought it belonged to the Uffizi.”
“No, we’ve owned that work for generations. We don’t publicize our best pieces. Not since the theft.”
She cleared her throat. “Do you mind if I ask about the paintings that were stolen?”
His shoulders tightened. “The Mante family, a pastel on paper by Degas. Ice Floes on the Seine near Bennecourt by Monet. We also lost a Renoir, Dance in the Moulin de la Galette.”
Acacia made a sound of shock and covered her mouth momentarily.
“I’m so sorry. I’m not familiar with the Degas, but I know the Monet. It’s lovely. But the Renoir…” She shook her head. “That’s a very famous piece. I didn’t know your family owned it.”
“We used to own it,” Nicholas said bitterly.
Abruptly, he stepped back. “In addition to artwork, the gallery houses a library. There’s an extensive collection of papyri, manuscripts, early printed books, and letters. Would you like to see some of them?”
Acacia bobbed her head. The Cassirers’ loss was tragic on many levels. She wondered how Nicholas was able to enter the museum, which represented so much grief.
He led her through room after darkened room and pointed out some of the more important items. The collection of papyri alone was priceless. Acacia couldn’t believe how impressive the holdings were. And one family owned them all.
Acacia paused in front of a beautiful manuscript of the Qur’an. Unthinkingly, she touched her hamsa pendant.
The manuscript was open to the fifth Surah. Acacia read aloud in Arabic, “…cooperate in righteousness and piety, but do not cooperate in sin and aggression.”
“You read Arabic as well as speak it.” Nicholas’s voice intruded on her reading.
“Yes.” She avoided his eyes.
“What does it say?”
She translated the line for him, and he nodded. “There are significant differences between Islam, Judaism, and Christianity. But I’m always struck by the way the traditions mirror one another.”
“That’s true.”
When she’d finished admiring the manuscript, Nicholas steered her to another display case. According to the printed sign, the papyrus inside was the oldest copy of the complete Gospel according to Saint John. It dated from the second century.
Acacia studied the Gree
k letters in wonder. “How did your family acquire these treasures?”
“My ancestors were people of the book. Most of the family was Jewish, although there were a few converts to Christianity here and there. I believe this piece was acquired by one of those converts.”
Acacia looked at him with interest. “And your family?”
“Jewish.” He studied her face, as if looking for a reaction.
Acacia offered none.
Nicholas’s shoulders relaxed somewhat. “My family was part of the Reform movement in Judaism in the nineteenth century. But at this point, we celebrate the high holidays and that’s it.”
Acacia nodded and followed him to another display case.
“This is a medieval manuscript of the Zohar. Do you read Hebrew?” Nicholas glanced over at her hopefully.
“No.” She moved closer to the case so she could admire the writing.
“The books are at peace.” Acacia gestured to the series of cases, featuring Islamic, Christian, and Jewish works side by side.
“Sometimes I wonder if they speak to one another when the museum is closed, sharing their secrets.” Nicholas smiled.
His whimsical reflection surprised Acacia. It also pleased her. “Maybe they will share their secrets with us.”
“One can only hope.” He winked.
She turned in a circle and surveyed the exhibit hall. “It’s an incredible collection.”
“You’ll notice the entire gallery is accessible by wheelchair. We have ramps at all the entrances and an elevator for the upper floors.” Nicholas’s pride was evident.
He pointed to a sign in Braille posted next to a display case featuring Le Terze Rime, a first edition of the works of Dante dating from 1502. “The visually impaired can read the signs posted next to each item. We also have a guide book that features raised illustrations so they can experience the works with their hands.”
“That’s amazing.” Acacia ran her fingertips over the Braille sign. “You have raised illustrations of each work?”
“At least part of each work, yes.”
“I wish more museums and galleries would accommodate visitors’ special needs.” Acacia touched the Braille once again. “Art should belong to everyone.”
Nicholas’s smile slipped. “My sister agreed. She was very passionate about increasing access to art. She founded several educational programs for various groups, including children.”
Nicholas led Acacia into the corridor.
“Tell me more about the programs you have.” Acacia looked up at him.
“We’ve continued them in my sister’s memory and expanded them. The programs for those suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s are particularly successful. Caregivers and patients come to the museum once a month and are given comfortable places to sit so they can admire the artwork. We play music through the sound system, or sometimes we have musicians perform. The atmosphere is very relaxed and…” Nicholas paused as if he couldn’t quite think of the correct word. “Joyous. The patients and the caregivers seem to experience a great deal of joy.”
He grew somber as they approached a large, open doorway. “There was a time when we wondered whether there would ever be joy in these halls again. My sister’s programs ensure that there is.”
His black shoes stopped just shy of the entrance. “This is the central exhibit hall.”
She entered the room, but turned around when she realized he wasn’t with her. She lifted her eyebrows.
He shook his head.
Puzzled, Acacia faced the room. The walls were blank, with the exception of a single painting. Low lighting shone from overhead and washed down the brick red walls. Empty frames were strewn haphazardly on the floor.
Acacia didn’t understand what she was looking at. It was very odd to have so avant-garde an art installation in what seemed to be a conventional gallery.
Her gaze was drawn to the painting. She gasped.
She twisted her neck in order to find Nicholas. He remained standing near the threshold, his body still.
“We left it as it was found,” he whispered.
The painting of Riva Cassirer was hung high on the back wall—too high in Acacia’s aesthetic judgment. It had the effect of enabling the former curator to look down on the carnage. She wasn’t smiling, although her face was both regal and beautiful.
Acacia counted three empty frames on the floor, three works of art that had been stolen and never recovered. Bits of canvas were still visible at the interior edges of the frames. The works had been slashed and cut before they were stolen.
Her stomach pitched.
She exited the hall, her footsteps echoing. She reached out to Nicholas but didn’t touch him.
He looked over her shoulder. “My parents commissioned the portrait. They wanted her presence to be the focus.”
“It’s a beautiful painting.”
His lip curled. “I hate it. Riva was always smiling—especially here, inside the gallery. Of course we couldn’t have her smiling down on this.”
Acacia withdrew her hand. “Are you close to finding the thieves?”
Nicholas’s entire body tensed. “Close. Far. Who knows?”
She noted his reaction and moved to his side. “We should go.”
It took a moment for him to focus on her. When he did, he seemed puzzled. “You haven’t seen the whole collection.”
“You’re upset.”
“You want to forego seeing the rest of the gallery because I’m troubled?” He sounded incredulous.
“Yes.”
His focus sharpened. “You’re unselfish.”
“No, just human.”
Nicholas rocked back on his heels. “You are most unexpected, mademoiselle.”
She looked up at him sadly. “I’m sorry the world is so dark that embracing one’s humanity causes shock and surprise.”
“I don’t know why I continue to be surprised by you. You’ve demonstrated over and over again that you have an admirable character.”
She lowered her gaze. “Thank you.”
“Would it surprise you if I told you I can’t remember the last time someone denied themself for my benefit?”
“You need new friends.”
Acacia cringed at her own words. “I apologize. That was rude.”
“Your observation was correct.”
His acknowledgment didn’t seem to require comment, so Acacia refrained.
“Suffering is the great equalizer,” he observed and turned his attention once again to the exhibit hall.
“I agree. Through empathy we can try to have a better understanding of our fellow human beings.”
“Riva would have agreed with you.” He faced Acacia. “You and she would have much to talk about.”
“She did an excellent job with the gallery.”
“She did. She found items in my parents’ house that we’d overlooked, including the Degas that was stolen.”
Acacia’s eyes widened. “You didn’t know it was there?”
“It hung on a wall in the master bathroom for decades. No one knew it was a Degas. It’s pastel on paper, not an oil painting. Whoever framed it covered up his signature.”
“Your sister recognized it?”
“She had her suspicions. When she removed it from the frame, she found the signature.” He regarded Acacia solemnly. “We should continue.”
He gestured to the far end of the corridor.
For the next hour, they viewed more of the Cassirer collection, until Acacia could no longer disguise her fatigue.
Nicholas checked his watch. “It’s after midnight. I’m sorry I’ve kept you so long.”
“Thank you for bringing me.”
He bowed his head. “I never come here. To me, the place is a tomb. But I knew you’d appreciate the artwork.
”
He escorted her to the entrance, where they were once again greeted by the curator. Kurt and his associate stood outside by the vehicles.
Nicholas opened the car door for Acacia, but waited to speak to her until he was in the driver’s seat. He pointed his chin in the direction of the gallery. “I was at my parents’ house when it happened. We were having drinks, waiting for her to come home.”
“I am so sorry,” Acacia whispered.
He wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. “Although I tried, I was not in a position then to do anything about what happened. I’ve led a fictitious life since, quietly acquiring information and contacts.”
He turned his head, his eyes meeting hers. “I’m no longer the prey. I’m the predator.”
The Porsche roared to life, and they sped out of the compound.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ACACIA HAD SLEPT most of the day, so her insomnia wasn’t surprising. She wanted to sleep. She craved the bliss of slumber, but it eluded her.
She’d texted Kate after the visit to the gallery, assuring her she was all right. She’d tossed and turned in her darkened room long after she’d bid Nicholas good night and placed Marcel’s journal in his hands.
He’d thanked her, a look of triumph flitting across his face. Then he’d put one of his large hands on her shoulder and wished her a good rest.
But her rest had not been good.
At three o’clock in the morning, she’d had enough. She threw off the covers, dressed quickly, and turned on her computer. She Googled the Degas that had been stolen the night Riva Cassirer was murdered.
It wasn’t an especially striking piece, although she liked it. It featured a young ballet dancer, whose mother was fixing her hair. Another young girl stood next to the pair, holding a handbag.
The subjects of the works stolen from the Cassirers were all different. There wasn’t a single thread that linked the three, other than the fact that Degas, Monet, and Renoir were all Impressionists.
Why didn’t the thieves steal the portrait of Dante by Botticelli? Or the Egyptian Book of the Dead? Or the manuscript of the Gospel of Saint John?