“He’s usedMina, and that’s terrible. But he also helped us when we needed it most. He paid most of my college tuition, for goodness’ sake! The least I can do is drop in for tea. Then he’ll get off my case.”
Roux’s nostrils flared. “He’s been on your case? What does he want?”
Boy, the guy really did suspect everyone.
“He just wants to chat.” I cut off his retort. “I know, I know. I have to be careful what I say. But I owe it to him to at least say hello.”
Roux grimaced. “Safest not to say anything.”
“Don’t you think it looks suspicious if we completely avoid him?”
His grimace told me I’d scored a point.
“Just two hours on the train in, an hour at Gordon’s, and two hours back,” I said.
Roux grimaced. “Just how I like to spend my Sundays.”
I jerked a thumb behind me. “I could put you on the next bus home, and you could enjoy your Sunday with the Jaguar.”
He shook his head firmly.
Which was how I found myself on the train to Paris with Roux a short time later. Parking in Paris was a bitch, so we always drove to our nearest station and took the train from there.
It wasn’t a holiday weekend, nor were the personnel on strike, nor had any demonstrations been called, so the train was on time — hallelujah — and relatively uncrowded.
Well, most of the train was uncrowded. Roux kept me boxed in at my window seat like I was the Hope Diamond aboard a train full of jewel thieves. And boy, did the guy take up a lot of space. Him and those bulging cargo pockets of his.
“What do you even have in there?” I demanded when his thigh brushed against mine for the third time.
He shrugged. “Just the bare necessities.”
My mind filled in the blanks. Grenades? A rocket launcher? A Swiss Army Knife and bolts of every possible size? Or did he carry a nail clipper in case his claws grew a little too long?
He spent the first hour staring ahead furiously, like this was my fault and not his. I took out my sketchbook, drew our 1936 Jaguar, and showed it to him.
He grimaced. “Rub it in, why don’t you.”
“I’m not rubbing it in. I’m reminding you you have choices.”
He looked away, muttering, “Not as many as you think.”
I frowned. What did that mean?
I turned a page and sketched an angry tiger.
Roux huffed. “The stripes are all wrong.”
He didn’t correct me on the beast’s expression, though.
I turned another page, thought a while, and started sketching again.
Roux peeked from time to time, and I sensed his curiosity mount.
“What’s that?” he finally asked.
“I’m working on a design for the ballroom, but I can’t decide on one.”
Roux, Bene, and my sister had come up with the idea of painting every room in the château with the theme of a different artist. She had already painted a replica of Franz Marc’sThe Tower of Blue Horsesin the corner of one room, with the idea to do the remaining walls in complementary colors. We had plans for a Van Gogh room too, with sunflowers painted on the walls, and furniture and bedding that matched the scene in hisBedroom in Arles. But the ballroom was huge, so I had to find a theme that would work over a large area without becoming totally unmanageable.
