Céline and Gil in Monaco, 2014

“PICASSO!” GIL EXCLAIMED AS WE drove along the highway to Monaco in the white minivan from the mas, since we couldn’t very well take a painting on a motorcycle, and I’d already returned my rental car. “That’s who your grandmother cooked for?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out Grandma Ondine’s notebook. I opened it up to the flyleaf and showed him. “See? P for Picasso. Every single recipe in this book was for him.”

“Incredible,” Gil said, stunned. “No wonder she kept that notebook all her life.”

“Mom said Picasso gave Grandma one of his paintings as a gift. So I’m telling you, she must have kept that all her life, too,” I insisted. “I don’t believe she sold it. She just didn’t want my father to find it, because it would be worth a lot of money. I think she went to great pains to hide it.”

Gil absorbed this in awe. “And you really think you’ve tracked it down?”

“Right,” I said, showing him the photo of Grandma Ondine in front of the blue cupboard.

But I was glad that the heavy, unpredictable traffic distracted Gil, because I didn’t want to tell him that it was a fortune-teller who gave me the “hot tip” that put me on this trail.

When we reached the bustling city of Monte Carlo, Gil drove right past the casino, past the fancy Hôtel de Paris, past the pricey, blingy shops and the deceptively plain-looking buildings that housed some of the world’s most expensive apartments. Toward the outskirts of town he steered past a heliport, and beyond that, a very large, unassuming structure that looked like a gigantic warehouse. When he pulled into the parking lot behind it, I glanced up at him questioningly.

“What’s this?” I asked. “A private airplane hangar?”

“Hardly,” he said. “You are looking at one of the most exclusive storage facilities in the world. Inside those walls are priceless everythings: artwork—antique furniture—rare jewels—prized Persian carpets—multimillion-dollar vintage wine collections—ancient sculptures—elephant ivory—and God knows what else.”

“Are you serious?” I said. “In a garage?”

“This ‘garage’ is a state-of-the-art fortress,” Gil said as he shut off the motor. “Every vault is climate-controlled and big enough to hold whatever you fancy. Yet each vault can, if necessary, be put on a giant freight elevator and moved down to the showroom level, where there are special meeting rooms for you to privately exhibit whatever items you wish to sell to the select buyers you invite here. Or, you can just come here on your own, sit there in your box and stare at your haul,” he added as we got out and approached the building.

“Looks pretty drab and nondescript,” I observed.

“Discretion, my dear,” Gil said with a knowing look. “So nobody knows the extraordinary value of what’s inside. A collector can quietly show up and pack his treasures quickly to move them to, say, a similar vault in Switzerland, South Africa or Dubai.”

I finally caught on. “Sounds like some of the clientele got their collectibles in questionable ways? Looting an archeological site, taking artwork the Nazis stole—or buying it off the back of a truck?”

“Quiet, the guards will hear you,” Gil warned. “Act as though you belong here. Just leave this to me, okay?”

As we approached the front doors they automatically opened, and as soon as we stepped into a foyer they instantly closed behind us with an aggressive whoosh. Three burly security guards stood at the ready. Gil signed in at the reception desk, where a fourth man kept watch. The foyer was as cool as a wine cellar, but it had the scent of money the way banks do. It was all steel, chrome and glass.

Across from the reception desk were two elevators. One door was very narrow. The other was very wide. Gil chose the narrow one and we stepped in.

“Tight squeeze,” I commented. “What was wrong with the bigger elevator?”

“Freight elevator,” Gil said out of the side of his mouth.

“How come you didn’t have to tell them where you’re going?” I asked.

“They have my information on their computer. They know,” Gil said, still sotto voce.

“Hey, there aren’t any buttons for the floor numbers in here,” I said, feeling slightly panicked.

“Front desk. Remote control,” Gil said shortly.

Silently I counted the floors as we rose past them. One, two, three, four. Then, rather eerily, the elevator stopped of its own accord and opened onto another reception area with low lighting. This was more glamorous than downstairs. It looked like the lobby of a very posh auction house, with plush red leather chairs, golden glass-topped tables, and expensive carpeting.

“This way, please.” A woman in a severe black pantsuit, with her pale brown hair pulled back into a tightly braided ponytail, appeared out of nowhere and seemed to know exactly where to lead us. She walked ramrod-straight with both hands held rigidly behind her at the small of her back, and with her elbows out, military-style. I suppressed a mad desire to giggle.

We followed her noiselessly down the carpeted corridor. More security guards floated past us, wearing visible guns in leather holsters. I waggled my eyebrows at Gil. Occasionally other collectors and their clients wafted down the corridor, so light-footed and silent as they vanished beyond the doors of their own vaults that they seemed more like ghosts who’d melted right into the walls.

Our escort stopped suddenly in front of a door marked with three brass numbers. Just then the walkie-talkie in her jacket coughed the way police radios do, and she stepped away to murmur into it.

Gil moved up to our vault’s entrance where, instead of a doorknob, there was a keypad on which to enter a security code. He punched in some numbers. The keypad’s light flashed red in response.

“Shit,” Gil whispered. “Rick must have changed the code, dammit.”

I noticed that our ponytailed guide was now standing with two security guards who’d wandered over to her. The three of them were conferring in hushed tones. Were they discussing us? Had someone downstairs alerted them?

Desperately I turned to Gil and hissed, “Well, you’d better figure out what the new code is, before Brunhilde over there has us arrested.”

“It was the last four digits of his phone—the one he keeps in his car,” Gil said, trying again in case he’d punched it in wrong. The light flashed red once more. I thought of the day Rick gave me a ride in his fancy car.

“His phone,” I repeated. “The one with the diamond and emerald horseshoe on it?”

“Haven’t seen that model,” Gil said. “Maybe he upgraded when his racehorse won the Derby. He was ecstatic and he still won’t stop talking about it.”

“What was the name of the horse?” I suggested.

“Fancy-Dancer,” Gil said. “Too many letters for this code box.”

“What was the date that he won the Derby?” I prodded.

Gil looked skyward, trying to remember. I nudged him to hurry as one of the guards approached us. Gil drew in his breath and punched new numbers.

The keypad absorbed this information thoughtfully.

Then, just as Brunhilde moved toward us, the keypad’s little light turned green.

A second later, the door to the vault quietly slid open on its tracks.