twenty-five

From Max’s couch, I told Detective Vega about the ergot I’d smelled in Isabella’s art studio. I wouldn’t want to play cards with the woman; she had the world’s best poker face. I couldn’t tell what she thought of the information I gave her. Since she knew undisclosed details about how Logan Magnus died, did ergot poisoning seem like something that could be involved? I doubted they’d tested for it. Was she happy I’d given her evidence that might confirm a theory of murder? Did she believe me at all?

After she left, Max drove me home in my truck. Tobias came out the door as we pulled up.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Zoe hurt her ankle,” Max answered. He pretended not to see Tobias’s outstretched hand and helped me to the house. “I’ve got her,” he added curtly.

He lifted me to the green velvet couch, then stood hovering over me, struggling with his own internal dilemma. Did he trust me enough to trust Tobias too? I was injured, and home (supposedly alone) with a strong man who had a strange past.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Tobias said. “Making tea. It’ll take a few minutes.”

I raised an eyebrow at Max after he left the room. “You didn’t have to be such an—”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’m one thousand percent positive.”

Max winced. “I hate that expression.”

“And I hate it when my friends don’t trust each other. Or me.”

“I trust you. It’s not the same as not worrying.”

At the sound of the front door shutting behind Max, Tobias came out of the kitchen. He walked over to it and locked it without me needing to ask.

“He found out about Rosa’s age?”

I nodded.

“But he still left you here alone with me. And while a helpless, injured damsel in distress as well.”

I threw a pillow at him and stuck out my tongue. “He still likes you. He’s just struggling to reconcile his feelings with how he thinks the world works. The rational part of his brain still wonders if you’re a con man who tricked an elderly woman out of her money.”

“You going to tell me how this happened?” Tobias pointed at my knee and ankle. “Do you want me to take a look?”

“No. You’ll sprinkle cayenne in my wounds. And that’ll hurt even more.”

“I only use that in emergencies, you know. You’re not bleeding nearly enough. I’ll even stick to basic EMT training, starting with cutting your jeans open to the knee. They’re ruined anyway.” Tobias had worked as an EMT rather than going to medical school to become a doctor because there was far less chance of being found out if he didn’t pursue a degree.

“I hate these jeans anyway,” I said. “Good riddance to my only pair. I don’t know why people love them so much. They’re not nearly as comfortable as tailored slacks.” It continued to amaze me that modern people found an abundance of off-the-hanger clothing better than a few handmade clothes fitted to one’s own body. “It’s really just my sprained ankle that’s not doing well. If you bring me that tea you promised, plus garlic and olive oil so I can make a poultice for the swelling, I’ll tell you and Dorian everything.”

“Bon,” Dorian said, coming down the stairs.

“Gargoyles must have great intuition,” Tobias said.

I pointed to a corner of the wall next to the kitchen. “The old pipes of this house lend themselves to eavesdropping. As long as people aren’t whispering, from the attic it’s possible to hear what’s going on in the kitchen and living room. You have to listen really carefully for it to work.”

“I am a great listener,” Dorian said, hopping from the last step onto the hardwood floor of the open living room/dining room. “And I have just heard news. I—bof!—what has happened, Zoe?”

“You have news?” I asked.

“Not as dramatic as yours. Someone has attacked you? Who is the monster who—”

“I wasn’t attacked. Not exactly. But I have a lot to report.”

“As do I,” Dorian said. “Monsieur Freeman. If you can help Zoe to the dining table, we can each share our news.”

“We can’t do that from the couch?” Tobias asked.

“We need sustenance,” Dorian said. “And Zoe cannot eat properly while lying on the couch.”

Tobias helped me to the table and then went off to make a poultice for my ankle while Dorian brought me a platter of homemade, salted, dark chocolate caramels, which he insisted were perfect for healing both body and mind.

“I have bad news to report,” the gargoyle said as I bit into a gooey caramel. “The auction house returned my call. It is now public knowledge that they suffered a burglary.”

The mouth-watering melted sugar felt as though it was transforming on my tongue from sweet cream to burnt sludge. My throat dry, I forced myself to swallow.

“The records of the painting?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Gone,” Dorian said. “All the records pertaining to The Alchemist are gone.”

Tobias swore. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

“It’s not,” I said. “Because that’s not all. The painting itself has been stolen. That’s what I discovered when I was visiting Isabella at the Castle.”

I filled them in on erratic Isabella, the stolen painting, and the ergot poison. By the time I was finished, the chocolate caramels were gone and Dorian’s gray mouth hung agape. Tobias stood from the table and pushed open the swinging door leading to the kitchen. He returned a moment later with a bottle of wine in one hand and three long-stemmed glasses tucked between the fingers of the other. In silence, he poured us each a glass, then swallowed his own in two gulps.

“We must ask ourselves,” Dorian said, “what is so special about this painting?” He held up a clawed hand. “Oui. I know the painting is important to us. But what do others care of it?”

“Cleo believes it’s an authentic Hayden,” I said, “in spite of what the experts have said. It could be worth a lot of money.”

“Or it could be proof of the art forger in Portland,” Tobias said. “Either way, fake or authentic, there’s a motive for murder and theft.”

“There has to be a record of the painting somewhere,” I said.

“Je suis désolé,” Dorian said. “I am sorry, but my internet research has also failed.”

“What research?”

“Provenance. The history of ownership of a piece of art.”

“I know what provenance is,” I said. “I have to worry about it for the higher-end items I sell with Elixir. Especially the ones I had in storage in Paris for a while, to account for where they supposedly were when they were really just sitting in storage. My ‘grandmother’ had a lot of art.”

“But all is not lost. We know a hacker—”

“You know a hacker?” Tobias asked.

“Veronica is not a hacker,” I said.

“You diminish her incredible mind because she is only fifteen?” Dorian said.

“Brixton’s friend Veronica is smart and good with computers,” I explained to Tobias. “She built the new website for Elixir. That doesn’t make her a hacker.”

Dorian waved a clawed hand through the air. “Semantics. You should call Brixton to ask for the assistance of the hacker.”

“What’s she supposed to hack?” Tobias asked. “There’s no magical database of where all paintings are at all times. And I’m sorry, am I the only responsible adult here? If she’s only a kid—”

“Actually … ” I began.

“You can’t be serious,” Tobias said. “You’ve been rooming with the gargoyle for too long if you think—”

“I don’t mean that she should do hacking,” I said. “I wonder if we’re making this too complicated. If it’s modern experts who’ve declared this Philippe Hayden painting a forgery, and it’s not in current books and online databases, what we need is old art history books from the library. Even if my ankle was up for a trip, my library card has been revoked. Dorian can’t get his own library card, and you’ve got an out-of-state ID. We need someone—or multiple someones—who can check out art history books at the library.”

“It’s Sunday,” Tobias said, “so the kids aren’t at school.”

“If there’s no way I’m going to find the painting itself,” I said, “I need to find the best reproduction I can, to see if I can identify the clue that way. With the painting and its modern records stolen—”

“We go old school,” Tobias said.

“Perhaps,” Dorian said, “you have more gargoyle in you than I gave you credit, Zoe Faust. This is a brilliant idea from your little gray cells.”