Now he cupped her face in his hands, kissed her. “Don’t carry that, Eve.”
“I can’t not. I can know, absolutely, it’s on him, not me. But I just can’t not. So yeah, a walk is good, and wine.”
He chose a bottle, pulled the cork. Then handed Eve two glasses.
“Why were you late?” she asked him.
“Ah, some of this, some of that. A couple of boulders reached the top of the hill this afternoon. A company I acquired a few months ago is now successfully restructured. We’ve broken ground on some new construction on Olympus. And you’ll be pleased we’ve expanded by several acres our coffee plantation in South America. I’ve my eye on a small enterprise in Costa Rica.”
And that, Roarke thought as they walked outside through the atrium, should have given her time to get her thoughts back in order.
“How do you keep it all straight? Coffee here, off-planet stuff there, restructuring somewhere else. I mean, don’t you ever get the plantation mixed up with the resort with the company with all the rest?”
“I’d best not. For whatever reason, I was born with a head for, and an instinct for, business—legitimate and otherwise. Just as you were born with a head and instinct for police work.”
He lifted her hand, kissed her fingers.
“And so here we are,a ghrá, together, never having had to put your head and instincts up against mine.”
“So we can walk through an orchard in New York.”
“Summerset tells me he made jam from the last of the peaches.”
“You make jam from peaches?”
“You can, yes. I believe it’s called peach jam.”
“I don’t mean that, smart-ass. I mean how do you… No, I don’t want to know how. That can remain a mystery.”
When they crossed over to the pond, sat on the bench, Roarke poured the wine.
“Now then, tell me where your head and instincts took you today.”
“Well, there was the porn theater, then the naked guy in the vic’s flop before the morgue and the lab, then a conversation with some snotty Frenchwoman about fancy costumes.”
“And I thought my day was interesting.”
“This is good.” She sipped some wine, leaned against him a little. “This is good.”
And wound back to the beginning to tell him.
“Clever to consult with Leonardo,” Roarke said. “Who—well, other than Harvo—knows fabric better?”
“Peabody’s having yippees out of working on that end. And pigment. I thought, if he’s so detailed on the costumes, on reproducing them exactly like the ones in the paintings, maybe he’s using the same kind of paints. And back when they made their own.”
“Clever girl,” he murmured. “Vermeer used lapis lazuli for his ultramarine, and quite liberally, though it was very expensive.”
“Why the hell didn’t I consult with you on this part?”
“I’m no expert on how it’s all done. I just know some trivia. Such as finely ground cinnabar made vermillion. Plants and so forth, made different colors. When one’s acquiring a painting, however one acquires it, it’s helpful to know a bit about it.”
“Peabody’s got a cousin who paints—natural paints, like from rocks and grass and stuff.”
“I’m not a bit surprised, and that should be helpful. I also, hearing all this, agree with your head and instincts. He has the financial resources, it seems, the obsession with details. Why wouldn’t he want to replicate using the same paints used by the master? Using commercial products would mean he wasn’t as good.”
“And he needs to be better, not just as good. I got one more potential hit from a gallery on the Lower East Side. The manager only remembered because he called her a fucking plebeian before he stormed out. But she said it was probably last fall, and she doesn’t really rememberhim well at all—except she thought, maybe, he had long brown hair. Past his shoulders. But, she admits, that could’ve been someone else.”
“Frustrating for you.”
