CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When Hugo reached her, she seemed impossibly calm given T ▼ the rage that was clearly emanating from her small body. “What have you done?” she demanded in barely accented English.

“I’ve . . . not done anything.”

“I’m told the police are coming to my house. In the middle of my party. I would say that’s something.”

“Technically they will just be in the garden, and I will do everything to make sure they are both discreet and fast.”

“People are already talking about it. I would suggest that discreet is no longer possible.”

“Well, then,” Hugo said, “we’ll concentrate on the fast part of that equation.”

“You do understand that you were invited as a respected member of the embassy staff, not as an investigator acting without directions or permission.” It wasn’t a question—it was a statement of fact.

“I wasn’t the one who found the missing painting.”

“And there’s some reason you can’t just rehang it and not disrupt the party?”

“Yes, as I explained to your son it’s an item of evidence for now.” He was pretty sure she knew this already and was just torturing him. “If we want to find out who attacked Tammy Fotinos and stole the other three pictures, this one might help us do that.”

“Someone told me you’re sticking to your theory. That the girl was sleeping with someone in my family.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“In which case, that would be a further disruption, meaning I have no real desire to know who did that to her. She’s fine now, isn’t she?”

This lady definitely could kill and not lose sleep over it.“She will be fine, physically. Emotionally, who knows?”

“Emotionally,” Charlotte Lambourd repeated, as if Hugo were trying to be funny. “Please. If she was sneaking around my house seducing members of my family, well, she may not have deserved what happened, but I can hardly be expected to be concerned with her emotional state. In my opinion, she put herself in harm’s way.”

Hugo bit his lip, desperately searching for words that weren’t rude, or just plain angry.

“Adult women don’t deserve to be punished for having sex,” was the best he could do.

“If they do it illicitly in my house, with a member of my family, I disagree.” She twisted her mouth in distaste. “Nevertheless, I strongly disapprove of you summoning the police without informing me first.”

Over her shoulder, Ambassador Taylor was approaching, a look of worry on his face.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, looking back and forth between Hugo and Madame Lambourd.

“No,” she said. “Ambassador, this man has invited the police into my home on the most important night of the year—it’s unforgivable.”

“It’s not unforgiveable, it’s necessary,” Hugo snapped. “And this might be the most important night of the year to you, but—”

“Hugo, what’s going on?” Taylor seemed genuinely perplexed by what was happening, and Hugo’s uncharacteristic loss of temper.

“One of the stolen paintings has been found, in the garden by the park. A crime scene unit is on the way to take custody of it and process it.”

“And none of this can wait until tomorrow,” Madame Lambourd said testily.

“Right, we should just leave the—”

“Hugo, if I may respond, please?” Taylor interrupted.

“Have at it, boss.” Hugo took a deep breath, exasperated but recognizing he wasn’t exactly helping matters.

“Thank you.” Ambassador Taylor turned to Charlotte Lambourd. “Unfortunately, these things can’t wait. But if you like, I can oversee the collection process and make sure no one comes into the house . . . Hugo, there’s no need for that, is there, someone inside?”

Hugo raised an eyebrow. “God forbid a mere police—”

“Right, thank you, so there you go. I can make sure all the activity is outside and minimally disruptive.”

“Your man here has already offered to do that,” Charlotte Lambourd said. “And I think I’d like to take him up on it.” She turned her steely gaze on Hugo. “Once that task is complete, you may escort them off the property and enjoy the fireworks from the park like everyone else in Paris.”

Without looking back at the ambassador, she turned and walked through the large doors across the open reception area and into the busy living room.

“You know,” Ambassador Taylor began, “they say she might have killed both of her husbands.”

“I’ve heard. And I’m sure they’re both more than grateful.”

“Quite possibly.” Taylor turned serious. “So, Camille told you about the guns being stolen from the embassy. This is really, really bad, Hugo.”

“I know, boss. I almost don’t believe it.”

“She didn’t seem to have any doubt. Good of her to let us know, off the record.”

“For sure.” Hugo thought for a moment. “I assume you’ll have Mari look into this?”

“It’s the only thing she’ll be doing, until she finds out what happened.”

“Good. I know how bad this looks, but she’s good, she’ll figure it out.”

“She better.” Taylor took a long draught of champagne, emptying his glass. “Well, I guess you’re dismissed for the evening. Do you want to tell Claudia or should I?”

“I’ll do it,” Hugo said. “You mind chaperoning her if she wants to stay?”

“That’s been my cunning plan all along.” He stepped back. “Here she is. Good luck.”

Claudia drifted up to them and Taylor backed further away. “You were supposed to be right back,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“So . . . it’s not my fault, but I’ve been asked to leave the party.”

“What?”

“The old lady doesn’t like that the police have to collect evidence.”

“Hugo, you’re not making sense. Are you seriously being asked to leave?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. She’s upset because she doesn’t want the police here tonight. I don’t understand people sometimes. I mean what the hell does she expect when a piece of evidence is found?”

“Well, it’s not a piece of evidence to her, is it?”

“Maybe not, but I don’t have any discretion here—why can’t she see that?”

“Hugo, sometimes your job . . . it’s intrusive. You can’t help that fact, or the timing, I know, but not everyone sees the crushing importance of dusting a worthless painting for prints and scraping it for DNA.”

“Swabbing, not scraping,” he said sulkily.

“You know what I mean. She lives for this party, and God knows it may even be her last one.”

“This damned party. Someone was almost kill—”

“I know, Hugo, I know.” She put a calming hand on his arm. “I’m just saying, not everyone is as personally invested in solving every crime as you are.”

Hugo looked at her for a moment. “Does that include you?”

“What do you mean?”

“My investigations, do you find them intrusive?”

“Hugo, you saved my life in the last one. Well, saved me from prison, but it may have come to the same thing.”

“Don’t be evasive—I really want to know.”

She pursed her lips in thought. “Well, sometimes, I suppose so. But you’re my . . . whatever you are, so I understand that. I know what I signed up for, and I have no complaints.” She smiled. “Except for tonight, getting thrown out of the fanciest party of the year, that kind of sucks.”

Hugo smiled. “Well, it’s me getting thrown out. You’re welcome to stay—the ambassador said he’d take care of you.”

Claudia rolled her eyes. “Because I couldn’t possibly make it through a party alive on my own.”

“Right, yes, sorry.” Hugo all but blushed. “I’ll go back to my apartment in the 1950s and keep quiet.”

“As you should.”

At the sound of voices below, they both looked down the staircase, across the entrance hall to where two of the footmen were blocking the path of the crime scene team.

“That’s your cue?” Claudia asked.

“It is.”

“Then go.” She reached up and kissed him. “I love what you do for a living, and how good you are. The old witch may be angry, but I’m not. Call me later.”