Page 32 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
A thrill of excitement and relief whips through me. “I’ll be there right away.”
“And Julien? Bring that calf you won at the party. You never know when the Muses’ dust might come in handy.”
Ending the call, I grab my messenger bag containing the calf, head out the side exit, and dart into the nearest Metro.
11
The address is on Rue des Rosiers. The area is arty and fashionable, and I pass familiar shoe shops selling short boots with high heels, and stores hawking expensive tailored shirts for men. Along with fashion boutiques, this arrondissement is home to several museums and galleries, so I know my way around. I particularly like the Jewish deli—it’s housed in an old dress store where blue mosaic tiles read “LES JOLIES JUPES” above windows now full of rugelach and challah bread.
I walk past a falafel shop where Simon hangs out in the evenings, holding court at one of the red vinyl booths, but it must be too early, because I don’t spot him now.
The app on my phone tells me I’ve reached my destination, a vintage shop, the kind with a pastiche of goods from black lace skirts to silver tea sets to sky-blue vanities.
I grab the door handle and pull, but it’s locked, and then I notice a sign that says BE BACK IN FIFTEEN MINUTES.
I stare at it, befuddled for a moment, then turn around, scanning for Sophie. Behind me, the shop door opens, and a hand grabs my arm, and yanks me into the dim—and closed—shop.
Remy’s sister lets go of my arm and shuts the door, then motions me back a few steps where we can’t be seen through the front window.
“Did you break into this shop?” I ask.
Sophie waggles her hand in a so-so gesture. “I hid behind a dresser when I saw them put the rugelach out in the deli.” Sophie points across the way to LES JOLIES JUPES. “I’ve been keeping an eye on this place since Remy and I caught wind of a potential forgery scheme. The other day I spotted the guy with the hair”—she mimes Max’s flop of hair on her forehead—“come around. And I’ve been watching the shop since then to figure out when to slip in. The secret lies in the rugelach. As soon as the rugelach goes out over there, the shop owner here closes the store for fifteen minutes, has some with an espresso or sometimes a cigarette, and comes back. We have about ten minutes left before she returns.”
“And who is she?”
Sophie takes her phone out of her jeans, unlocks it, then shows me the picture at the top of a news article from The Guardian about a year ago. A man and a woman are in the photo, but I don’t bother to look closer because the headline rivets my attention.
“Forging Generations: Father and Daughter Con the Art World.”
Their names are in the caption: “Oliver and Cass Middleton under investigation in fake Gauguin scandal.”
The article dates from when they were nearly caught in a scheme involving a fake Gauguin. In the end, there wasn’t enough evidence, and the case was dropped and the pair disappeared.
“You’re joking,” I accuse her.
Sophie swings the phone around and enlarges a different picture, showing that to me next. “No joke. That’s who I saw walk right past me. Cass Middleton, in the flesh.”
“So, we broke into the Middletons’ shop. That’s just great,” I say, because running afoul of world-renowned con artists was not on my to-do list today.
“Technically, you didn’t break in, I did. Though, technically, I didn’t either. I was in, and I just stayed in.”
“I don’t know that master criminals are going to appreciate the difference,” I comment, but I’m hardly running out the door. Is it strange that I am more afraid of Clio being stolen away from me than I am of being caught by these fraudsters? “Let’s get on with it.”
She leads me deeper into the store. The place is large, and the path through gilded mirrors and pastel hatboxes meanders like a maze.
At last, Sophie points to a door with peeling paint and a long scratch near the keyhole. “I already tried the door, and it’s locked. But do you smell that?”
As we get closer, something familiar tickles my nose. “India ink?” I ask. I’m not an expert, but I know it makes new documents look old.
“See? That’s where they must have been dummying up the papers so your pal could claim our Renoir was his. And that irks me.”
Irk. Such a funny word for such real vehemence. “You’re not indignant just because it’s a crime, are you? You feel a true connection to the painting, don’t you?”
She rolls her eyes, then counts off on her fingers. “I’m indignant for many reasons. One. Because forgers suck. Two. Because my great-great-great-however-many-greats grandmother asked our family to keep that painting safe because of the curse on it.”
