A Cruise to Die For (An Alix London Mystery) (23 page)

“Okay, my fault, sorry about that. I’d do it more often if I didn’t feel like such a moron sitting there repeating
kleptomaniacal
to a telephone until it decides I’m telling the truth when I say it’s me.”

Ted laughed. “Maybe you need another word.”

They walked companionably for a few minutes through brightly colored reconstructions and evocative ruins. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the soft, amber security lights had been turned on, so there was a lovely, warm luminosity to everything. The old stones themselves had a velvety sheen.

“Rollie, should we really be talking like this, off by ourselves? Won’t it make the others wonder?”

“About what? A rich, young bachelor gadabout like me glomming on to the only really good-looking, sexy woman aboard? They’d wonder a lot more if I didn’t.”

“Hm, did I hear something like a compliment in there?”

“Completely inadvertent,” Ted said, laughing. “Not that it isn’t true, of course.” The laugh settled down into what she thought was a genuinely warm smile. Even those usually steely blue eyes softened. “I’m glad to see you, Alix. I was glad when the chance came up.”’

“I’m glad too. In fact, when I…” She was starting to babble, and she cut herself off.
What was it with this guy?
She couldn’t remember the last time anybody had a knack like his for throwing her off her stride. “It’s very nice to see you too,” she finished politely.

“Hey, what do you say we have our dinner in there?” Ted was looking into the open-sided room on their left, with another of Knossos’s more famous frescoes on one wall.

“The Queen’s Megaron,” Alix said.

“Is that what it’s called? That dolphin fresco on the wall, I remember seeing a picture of it in a book when I was a kid. It was like a new world opened for me. The thought that these people from so long ago—almost
four thousand years, isn’t it?—could have art up on their walls that was so… so playful, so pretty, hadn’t ever really registered before. I thought of Bronze Age people as, you know…”

What was this? Was he a little flustered too? He was certainly babbling. Food for thought there. “Sure,” she said, “I love the dolphin fresco too. It’s not real though, you know.”

“I know. All these frescoes are replicas. The originals are in the Heraklion Museum, aren’t they?”

They navigated around a giant clay storage jug, climbed over a low, slab-like plinth that served as the base for several of the Minoan culture’s distinctive, red, downward-tapering columns—originally wood but replaced by Evans with concrete—and sat themselves down on the lip of the plinth, in an open embrasure that permitted a clear and easy view out to the sides, up and down the pathway that led to it.

“Yes, they are replicas,” she said, “but what I meant was that not even the original fresco is really original. Or real. There’s no such thing as a ‘real’ dolphin wall fresco. It doesn’t exist. It never did.”

He frowned at her. “You’ve been spending time with Lorenzo, haven’t you?”

That made her laugh. “Actually, I have, but what I’m talking about is that Evans got it wrong. The dolphin fragments that were found in the ruins had originally been in the Treasury, not this room at all, and they came from a floor painting, not a wall painting.”

“Is that so?” he said with a smile. “I’m impressed. Here I thought
I
had a lot of useless information. So tell me, is there anything ‘real’ around here?”

“Yes, right next door, the Queen’s Toilet, an honest-to-God flushing toilet, possibly the oldest one in the world. If you’d prefer—”

“Thanks, but I’d rather eat in here, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I agree, Rollie—look, can I call you Ted in here, since nobody’s around?”

“Can you do that—call me by one name sometimes and another name at other times, without slipping up?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Because not everybody has an easy time with that—which is understandable.” He was giving her a chance to change her mind.

“It will
not
be a problem,” she said firmly, as much to herself as to him. “And while we’re talking about good old Rollie, where’s that awful ‘Bahston’ accent he had in Santa Fe?”

“Hey, that hurts. I was proud of that accent, but I don’t need it here. Look, the only reason I’m Rollie de Beauvais at all this time is that I already had all the paperwork ready and waiting—driver’s license, Social Security card, business cards, even a birth certificate if I ever need one. Everything checks out. And it doesn’t hurt that ‘de Beauvais’ fits for the nephew of a Belgian countess.”

“And
is
there a Belgian countess in reality?”

“Oh, sure, and she was really meaning to be on the cruise. That much is true, but—”

“But she doesn’t really have a wrenched knee.”

“No, she doesn’t. But she does have some suspicions about these investments Papadakis has supposedly been making for her, and she’s had them for a while now. I’ve spoken with her about them several times, and just a couple of days ago, when we were talking, I came up with the idea. She loved it, and here I am.”

“Okay, I understand all that, but how—”

He held up his hand. “At some point, do I get to ask some questions too?”

She smiled. “Ask away; the floor is yours.”

“All right, question one. What do you say we have something to eat?”

“I’ll second that.” She opened her satchel, which held what looked like enough for three people, and that suited her fine. She started with a transparent carton that had hummus in one compartment and sticks of radish,
celery, and cucumber in the other, and quickly got to work on it. Ted did the same.

“Two,” he said, “how about filling me in on what’s been happening so far?”

“Whew, where do I start? I assume you’ve already heard a little about my, ah, misadventures?”

“No, I’ve heard a lot about your, ah, misadventures. You seem to have made yourself the number-one topic of conversation. Not that I’m being critical, you understand,” he said, munching away, “but generally speaking, we in the spook business don’t consider that the best way to start off an operation.”

“Oh, well, excuse me. I sincerely apologize for getting whacked on the head.”

“I’ll let it go this time, but see that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Trust me, I’ll do my best.”

He stopped chewing. “Alix… you are okay, aren’t you? I understand you refused to see a doctor.”

“I didn’t need a doctor. Honestly, I’m fine, thanks. It’s still a little tender where I got hit, but that’s all.”

“Good.” He poked around in his satchel. “You think there might be some wine or something like that in here? Ahh…” He pulled out a half bottle and let out a sigh as he read the label. “Bollinger Special Cuvée Brut. Damn, more champagne. I was hoping for some simple, plain white wine, Chablis or something.”

“Aw, I feel for you. Life can be hard sometimes.”

“Well, I guess I can stand it if I have to. Want me to pour you some too?”

“Please.” She laid some more cartons out on the plinth beside her. “This is wonderful, a feast.” There were oily black olives, Greek salad, string beans with almonds, and cold salmon with capers and what looked and smelled like fresh dill sour cream dressing. Rolled inside a thick napkin
were sturdy, full-size metal utensils and tiny silver salt-and-pepper shakers. The plastic glasses were stemmed champagne flutes.

Ted got the cork out with a soft
pop
and poured both their glasses from it, topping them off as the fizz settled. “Alix, what’s your take on what’s going on?” he asked, handing her a glass. He raised his to hers and they nonchalantly clicked glasses.

“I don’t have one. All I have are questions.” Between bites of salmon, she went over the confused and confusing thoughts that had racketed around her head when she’d awakened that morning: Who had slashed the painting? Why? Did it have something to do with her raising doubts about it, or was that simply coincidence?

Ted came up with no better answers than she had. At one point near the end he laughed, and she raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, “I was just thinking that I left DC yesterday on an assignment concerning a pyramid scheme involving fractional-share investments. Interesting in its own way if you like that kind of thing, but really pretty straightforward, even pedestrian. And when I get here I find out that you hadn’t been onboard for five minutes before you’d totally stirred things up—”

“Ted—”

“You managed to get yourself assaulted and damn near killed—”

“Ted—”

“You’ve gotten everybody all shook up with the accusation—an unsubstantiated accusation, I gather—that the most valuable and coveted painting on the ship is a fake—”

“Ted—”

“And that same painting has since been slashed by some villain, identity unknown—”

“Ted—”

“And all of this was accomplished within half an hour of your setting foot on the
Artemis
. Amazing, really.” He was laughing again. “I can see
that working with you might have its problems, but being dull is never going to be one of them.”

“
Ted, dammit
—”

“Yes?”

But she’d forgotten what she was trying to say, so she jumped to the attack. “It was not an
accusation
about the Manet. I haven’t accused anybody of anything, have I? It was an observation, an educated deduction. And it was certainly not unsubstantiated. It
is
a fake. And yes, I know about the letters of authenticity and the lab tests and all that. How it got by the lab… okay, I can’t explain that. But I do know it’s a fake, a copy.”

“I must have missed something. What’s your substantiation again?”

She went through her rationale with him, judiciously leaving out the fact that she’d consulted with Tiny and Geoff. Ted, she knew, had some lingering doubts about Geoff’s moral fiber and credibility. Not that Alix didn’t have them as well, but there was a big difference. Ted had gotten to know him as a member of the team that had worked so hard and successfully to get him put away for his several crimes; Alix had known him as his well-loved child.

“ ‘The background’s too
good
’?” he repeated doubtfully. “That’s your proof?”

“You don’t think I’m right?”

“Well, maybe when we get back to the yacht, you could show me—”

“I can’t show you. Panos has locked it away in some special storage place and nobody can get near it.”

“I see.” He frowned down at his glass.

“You
don’t
think I’m right, do you?”

“Alix, you made a believer out of me in Santa Fe, so when you say something like that, yes, I do think you’re right—well,
probably
right. But you have to admit it’s not what anyone would call incontrovertible proof.” He held up the second small bottle, taken from her satchel, and when she nodded he twisted off the cork and refilled their glasses.

“Ted, I’m just telling you what I saw and what I concluded from it. I’m convinced I’m right, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to prove it, especially since the lab decided there was nothing suspicious about it, and I can’t get another look at it anyway.”

“Huh. I might have an idea about that, though. The fact—if it’s a fact—that it’s a
copy
of an existing, known painting, rather than some kind of ‘in-the-style-of’ pastiche, might make it possible to…” He stopped and sipped thoughtfully for a couple of beats. “You know, I’m not familiar with the painting myself. You did say it’s pretty well known?”

“No, I wouldn’t say ‘well known.’ It’s never been on permanent exhibition in a museum, as far as I know, but it’s in Venturi’s catalogue raisonné, and it’s got a provenance going all the way back to the 1861 Paris salon show. Why, what difference does it make?”

Instead of answering he opened his phone and pressed a key. “Jamie? Hi. Listen—yes, the flights were a piece of cake and everything’s fine here. Listen, I need you to see what you can get in the way of digital photos—the highest resolution you can find—of a Manet painting.
Le Déjeuner au Bord du Lac.
” He repeated the name more slowly. “Painted in…” He looked at Alix.

“Eighteen-sixty-one, same year as the salon.”

“Eighteen-sixty-one,” he said into the phone, and then again to Alix: “Do you have any idea how long Panos has owned it?”

“No. Yes. I heard him say he bought it fifteen years ago.”

Ted returned to Jamie. “Make sure you get something from before 1997, which shouldn’t be any problem, but then, if you can possibly find any that’ve been taken since then—he may have lent it to a gallery or a museum for a showing or something—I want those too. Got it? Hey, what kind of question is that? When I
always
need it by, of course. Right away. E-mail it to me when you have something, okay? Thanks. Yes, I’ll tell her. Bye now.”

“She says hi,” he said.

“Thanks.” Alix had had all the salmon she wanted and was now using her fork to dig into a sinfully sweet and gooey square of baklava, studded with slivered almonds and glistening with honey. “What was that call about? What’s getting a photo supposed to do?”

“Nothing, probably, but give me a chance to see if anything comes of it, and I’ll let you know. Jamie’s good; I should know something tomorrow.”

It had gotten dark as they’d talked, and they gathered up their plates and cutlery to take back to the buffet area (the satchels had been provided with removable inner linings so they weren’t stained by the leftovers). Ted stood up and extended a hand to pull her up too. “I guess I’d better get back and do some mingling. Oh, and may I make a suggestion? I realize all this forgery stuff is highly absorbing and exciting, but if you find yourself with some free time, and you’re getting bored, maybe you might also keep alert for anything that might come up about what you’ve been sent here for—those fractional investments?”

“Those what?”

“Those—” he began, but broke out laughing when he realized she was kidding.

“I will, Ted,” she said. “I promise. But…” She paused. “You’re here now. You’re a professional. I hardly know what I’m doing. You can talk to Panos about his investment system right out in the open, which I obviously can’t. So is there still really anything useful for me to do on that count?”