Chapter Thirty

New York City

October 19

T osca was Reynard’s favorite restaurant, a locals-only bistro tucked away in a quiet corner of Little Italy. Tony Bennett crooned over the antiquated sound system as waiters squeezed by one another in the narrow alley between tables, delivering exquisite plates of pasta. Framed autographed photos of New York sports legends, politicians, and a movie star or two covered the entry walls. A mouth-watering aroma filled the air, flowing around laughter and lively conversation.

The boisterous host cupped Clara’s cheeks so forcefully that her lips pursed. “Your father is in town for ten minutes, and I hear from him. He calls me before he gets in the car at the airport. You live in this city, and I haven’t seen this pretty face for months.”

Clara circled Tony’s wrists and extricated herself from his grasp. “I know, Tony. School keeps me busy, but I’m so happy to see you.”

“Not half as happy as me. A gorgeous girl is good for business.” He winked, then tipped his head to the back. “Usual table, Bellissima.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

Clara spotted her father sitting in the two-person booth tucked into an alcove. As she walked in his direction, a heavy-set man approached, returning to his table from the restroom. Rather than step out of the way, he took Clara in a dance hold and spun her as Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” drifted from the speakers. With a laugh, she continued the short distance.

Reynard looked up from the large laminated menu. “Ah, mon raton laveur has arrived.”

As a child, Clara pickpocketed a chocolate bar from one of the guards patrolling Reynard’s estate. When he discovered her crime—by spotting her sitting in a tree and eating it—the guard complained, She’s like a raccoon! A tiny bandit! Reynard had loved the endearment.

“Hi, Papa. How was the flight?”

“ Rien . I worked, slept. I’m much more interested in you. How is school?”

She and Reynard each spoke seven languages; he had decided early on that English would be their chosen method of communication. Nevertheless, Clara couldn’t stop herself from a preamble of muttered French. “The dissertation is going much more slowly than I had hoped. I have to rethink an entire section on emotional symbology.”

“Ah, yes, your theory that artists hide love notes in their work.”

Clara laughed. “That’s oversimplifying a bit.”

The waiter, a wiry man with a hook nose and broad smile, presented her father’s favorite Barolo with a flourish.

“Thank you, Matty. You may pour.”

Reynard had no need to test the wine. It was expertly handled and stored and his usual choice at Tosca.

After filling their glasses, Matty picked up both menus. “With your permission, Signore, the chef has a special meal planned.”

Clara spun the wine in her goblet. Reynard was a valued customer. It was also clear from his gaunt frame and pallor that he was unwell.

“Wonderful.” Reynard toasted Matty and took a generous sip from his glass.

“What time is your appointment tomorrow?” Clara asked.

“Pfft.” Reynard hushed her as if she had uttered a hex. “No talk of doctors or hospitals. Tonight, I want to enjoy a delicious meal with my daughter.”

Clara reached across the table and took her father’s hand. “Of course.”

The first course arrived, chilled roasted beets with chevre and endive, and they ate with gusto.

“I have a favor to ask of you, darling girl. One that I think you will find rather pleasant.”

Clara lifted her brow. “I’m listening.”

“I assume you have heard of Francesco Tavarro.”

“A bit. His work isn’t really my period of interest. Obviously, the Madrid auction made headlines.”

“What do you know?”

“Reclusive Spanish painter, primarily a muralist. The majority of his work is from the early Twentieth Century.”

“I’ve followed Tavarro’s career for many years. His work has always piqued my interest. You know the painting above the fireplace in the library? Irises and Lilies? That’s a Tavarro.”

“Oh yes. I’d forgotten. That’s a beautiful piece.”

“I bought it on holiday in Chamonix when you were a teenager. Do you remember?”

“Now I do. You said the blue of the flowers was the same color as my eyes.”

“A fortunate purchase, as it turns out. I think I paid what would be about three thousand euros for it.”

“You’ve always had a good eye, Papa.”

The waiter cleared the salad plates and presented a chilled bottle of Pinot Bianco for the next course. After the standard ritual, he poured each of them a glass. The second course was three seared diver scallops with brown butter and an apple puree.

Reynard set his hands on the weathered table and traced a scar in the wood. “For years, I’ve been trying to locate a work of Tavarro’s. His only portrait.”

Clara bit into a divine scallop. “Go on.”

He continued, “It’s a painting of an unknown woman. Unfortunately, rumors about a hidden message in the painting made it harder to acquire.”

“What type of hidden message?”

Reynard chuckled. “No doubt a rumor started by some dealer to escalate the value. It has no bearing on my interest in the piece. There is talk that a poem painted along the bottom and other symbols in the background map the way to a missing royal jewel.”

Reynard passed his phone to Clara. It was difficult to see the canvas on the small screen, but that didn’t stop her sharp intake of breath. The painting was of a woman, nude but for a diaphanous piece of fabric that swirled around her body. She was reaching out for something—her lover perhaps. Her face was a mask of pain and longing. The bright foreground was balanced by a dark, almost ominous depiction of trees and storm clouds in the distance. It was arresting.

She scrolled down to look at the description. Painted in 1928, the work was titled Somewhere .

“This is the painting from the Madrid auction?”

“Yes. I purchased it,” Reynard replied.

“I’d love to see it up close.”

“That may be a problem. The painting was stolen in transit.”

“The Marseilles Customs House theft.” Clara had seen the story on the news. A heavily armed tactical team of mercenaries had broken into the building and stolen a painting in broad daylight.

“Why?”

“Lucien Kite.”

Clara had told Reynard about her narrow escape with the Renoir. “Oh, no.”

Clara sat back in shock. The move was perfectly timed as the waiter set down the plate of veal medallions, roasted heirloom carrots, and herbed risotto. It looked delicious, but her appetite had vanished.

Reynard nodded his thanks and picked up his fork. “I believe this is payback.”

“He discovered my identity.” Clara thought of those creepily comical Halloween flowers and that ominous card. She wouldn’t worry her father with that added concern. Clara already had her hands full with one overprotective man.

“I received a phone call from a man in Kite’s organization confirming it. I’m afraid The Lynx is being forced into early retirement.” Reynard savored a bite of veal. “Lucien Kite will need to be handled.”

Clara buried her face in her hands. “This is terrible.”

Reynard smiled. “This is life. Little bumps in the road, small setbacks. Nothing that can’t be solved with a little lateral thinking.”

Encouraged by her father’s words, more so by the twinkle in his eye, Clara tucked into her meal. “Please tell me you want me to steal that painting.”

When the waiter cleared and then doused scoops of vanilla gelato with hot espresso for their affogato, Reynard nodded his thanks, then returned his attention to Clara.

“I want you to steal that painting.” Reynard wiped the corner of his mouth with the napkin. “But this is a task that will require more than your skill, ma fille . Lucien Kite is an ambitious man without a conscience. In my experience, nothing is more dangerous.”

Clara wanted to reassure her father. She was happy to do it with the truth. “I have protection and help if I need it, Papa.”

Her father cupped the snifter of his preferred brandy and took a fortifying sip when something drew Reynard’s attention to the front of the restaurant. Clara followed his gaze over her shoulder; nothing caught her eye. She turned back to her father, who was innocently swirling the liquor.

“What did you see?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“Did someone come in?”

“I don’t think so, dear.”

“Why do you have that look on your face?”

“What look is that?”

Clara leaned forward, squinting. “I’m not sure.”

Reynard finished his digestif and signaled for the bill. “Let’s get you home. Busy day tomorrow.”