My eyes drifted to Gen.
Focus,I ordered myself.
We had to track down the painting and expose Celeste for who she was — murderer, thief, and swindler.
But the succubus wasn’t making that easy. Sid had made inquiries with the antique shop, which had documents to “prove” the painting was part of a legitimate sale between Celeste and the heirs of a woman named Geraldine Dantou-Beaudetier.
In other words, Mina and Gen. Geraldine was their grandmother.
They’d seethed upon hearing that.
“Now Celeste is forging documents?” Gen had screeched.
“I wouldn’t sell that bitch the shit pile around the back of the stables if she begged for it,” Mina growled.
“It gets worse,” Sid had reported. “The forged documents claim the painting was part of your grandmother’s collection, which included other artworks hidden at Château Nocturne since the Second World War, when your grandmother collaborated with the occupying Nazis.”
“When shewhat?” Gen had shrieked.
Further evidence that Celeste was baiting them — and possibly setting them up for investigation.
I stroked my chin, trying to figure out what Celeste was up to.
Marius put it best. “Working out the logic of a mind as twisted as Celeste’s is beyond me.”
“None of this makes sense,” Bene agreed. “Why steal a painting, only to sell it? And who’s likely to buy a painting by an unknown artist?” He held up his palms in an apologetic gesture. “No offense meant to your father.”
Gen sighed. “None taken.”
I called to notify Gordon of the new development.
“How would you like us to proceed, sir?”
Gen was beside me, and she leaned in to suggest, “We can attend the auction and buy it back.”
My eyes slid shut, and I inhaled her flowery scent. As crazy as the situation was, her presence calmed my soul, pushing away the tense anticipation of the shit about to hit the fan.
“Absolutely not,” Gordon barked. “For one thing, I refuse to bid on something stolen from me. Secondly, I don’t want Celeste to know we’re onto her. That means observing the auction inconspicuously — something you should leave to Monsieur Anand and the other members of my team.”
“What if someone buys it?” Gen protested.
“Leave it to Monsieur Anand and his team to follow them. We need to piece together what kind of game Celeste is playing, and with whom,” Gordon ordered.
Which was how we found ourselves huddled around a laptop in a café across the street from a modest little antique shop calledChez Robert — Cabinet des Arts et Objets d’Époqueon the evening of the auction.
Chez Robert might be small, but it was firmly in the twenty-first century, with the auction live streamed to potential bidders who had registered in advance. I’d created an account under an alias, so we were in.
The split screen showed the interior of Chez Robert, with about a dozen people milling around before the auction began. One camera pointed at the crowd from over the auctioneer’s shoulder, while another took in the room from the side.
“Recognize anyone?” Marius asked.
We all shook our heads, keeping our eyes on the screen.
My idea of an art auction came from the movies, with a classy venue, neat rows of chairs, and patrons dressed to the nines. This was a more modest affair, both in size and grandeur. The clients, however, fit my stereotype. All looked to be over fifty, artsy, and rich.
“There’s Dad’s painting,” Gen pointed to the screen.
It was propped up on an easel near the front of the room, but no one approached for a closer look.
