A Brush With Death (25 page)

“And his dogs!” Victor grinned. His Colville was of a dog. “You can almost see the little rascal's rump swing."

John rolled up his eyes in disbelief, to hear such mild praise of one of his favorite artists.

“What will you do with these?” I asked, looking at the paintings.

“They'll have to be turned over for evidence. I wouldn't mind getting hold of a couple of them after the trial."

“Are you going to nab the Dornach guy, the one who was supposed to be buying the originals?” Victor asked. “I remember you were pretty eager to get the son-of-a-bitch."

“We were wrong about the son-of-part"’ I joked.

John said, “That'll depend on whether Ayesha has anything in writing. I doubt he'd have obliged her, but at least we're aware of what he's up to now, and we'll keep an eye on him. We'll get him sooner or later, for something."

It was only eleven o'clock. If we got moving, we could still be home in time for dinner. Victor stood up and stretched. “I hate to run off on you folks, but the manager of Thompson Hall has invited me to Christmas dinner."

“In Toronto?” I asked, surprised.

“That's where he lives. My flight leaves at one. I have to hustle. What are you two doing?"

I looked a hopeful question at John. He smiled and said, “We're going to Bangor. If we hurry, we can just make it. Can you get yourself to the airport, Victor?"

“I've always made it so far. Thank you for the holiday, John. Great seeing you again. I'll be looking forward to an invitation to your wedding. Give my love to the family, Cass.” He gave me a peck on the cheek, shook John's hand, and left.

“I'll pack while you get in touch with Gino,” I said. “Maybe Export can arrange to have the rented coat returned."

It was an hour minus three minutes by the time the limo was at the door of the hotel. Export A had the coat. Gino had arrived half an hour earlier and finished what remained of the Johnnie Walker. When the hour ticked by, we were ready to take off.

Gino stood, huddled in his parka against the cold, carrying Ayesha's luggage with the forged Van Goghs. “I'll see what I can do about snagging one of the pics for you,” he told John. “I'm not promising anything. You know the red tape."

“The one of Mademoiselle Gachet, if possible. Thanks for everything, Gino,” John said. They shook hands.

“You won't forget to put in a word for me with the company?” Gino reminded him.

“Are you serious?"

Gino looked at the limo, and at me, who symbolized “woman,” I suppose, and said, “Is this arctic wind freezing my ass off? You bet I mean it."

“Then start working up your resume. They'll want to see it."

“I'll do that. I gotta go now, drop off these pics and get home to stuff the turkey. Christmas is great, isn't it? Ma loved the dishwasher. You should've seen her face. It was lit up brighter than the tree. If I know Ma, she'll wash the dishes before she puts them in. Well, I'll let you go now. Just one thing..."

I looked out the window and saw he was coming closer to me. He grabbed my chin and pulled my head out of the window, and placed a loud smack on my lips. “I've been wanting to do that for a long time. Merry Christmas, Newman."

I suppressed the urge to have my lips sterilized and managed a frosty, “Same to you, Parelli."

He was still standing on the curb, waving and grinning, with the suitcase in his hand when I looked around.

“He just blew his job with the company,” John said, and laughed.

“My apartment isn't much out of the way,” I explained. We were going there to pick up my presents for the family and my book on Van Gogh for John. I had already given him the cologne. The car wreaked of it. I threw the unwrapped book on top of the bag, changed out of Sherry's lovely coat and into my own less fashionable “good” camel's hair, and we left.

The snow crunched under the tires. On the streets, every breath people expired turned the air into balloons of steam. But inside the car, it was warmly luxurious. We were going home for Christmas. We still had a few days together.

“I wonder what'll happen to Ayesha and Jan,” I mused.

“I can't feel too cut up about them. At least they deserve their fate. They were only thinking of themselves. I keep thinking of Vincent."

“You keep calling him Vincent, as if you were on a first-name basis."

“You kind of feel that way after you've read his diaries and letters. He's the one I feel sorry for. All he wanted was to do good, to help people, and look at his short, pitiful life. Everything turned out wrong for him. The Gauguin live-in didn't work out; he cut off his ear as a gesture of repentance. He didn't get the girl, and he didn't get a scrap of recognition when he was alive. And just when he was starting to make it, he couldn't take it any longer and killed himself. Only thirty-seven. I'm over thirty. I'm not going, to make that mistake."

“I had no idea you were contemplating suicide!"

“No, just marriage.” He patted his vest pocket. I noticed a suspicious bulge, about the size of a ring box.

I poked his ribs with my elbow. “You prefer a slow death."

“I'm going to grab the good times while they're going. You and me, we're going to enjoy our lives, Cass. Which reminds me, I promised you the fur coat if we cracked this case. What kind do you want?"

“No furs till we're married.” I nestled into the deep luxury of the limousine and snuggled against his arm. “Let the good times roll."

“What do you say we go for a diamond instead, as in ring?"

His right hand left the wheel and he slid out the box, a little blue velvet one. While he was still driving, he pressed the lid and it popped open. I found myself blinking at a huge emerald-cut diamond. He shoved it at me. I took it, literally speechless. I heard a deep sigh of bliss hover on the air. “Well, do you like it?” he asked warily.

“Stop the car, John."

“Is that a yes or a no?"

“Stop the car."

He pulled over to the side of the road and examined me with a worried eye. My expression of undiluted bliss reassured him. “I say yes,” I whispered in a trembling voice, and kissed him. “Yes, yes, yes."

“I want those McGill jocks to know you're taken."

It was quite a bit later when we turned on the radio and heard Bing Crosby moaning “White Christmas,” as the miles of snow slipped by beyond the window. It was the best Christmas ever. I didn't care if we never got home. I was with John. I
was
home.