It had been a long time since plague doctors stuffed beaked masks with myrrh and rose petals to protect from the miasma that they believed surrounded illness, poking and prodding their patients from a distance with canes, offering little that could truly help their desperate patients. As much as medicine has progressed, hospitals still make me uneasy.
But it was worth it to be here this morning. A thief was after paintings Perenelle Flamel had painted. The police were intrigued by the connection of two paintings in a similar style being stolen, but I couldn’t tell them that Perenelle was the artist. I needed to understand what the thief was truly after. What was so important that he was willing to kill a professor? Did Gwendolyn Graves know something? Had she lied to me about not knowing the true identity of Arthur Finder?
The other victim was my best lead, so after talking with Nicolas and Perenelle about what had happened, I was here at the hospital, waiting to see Adam White. Max had wanted to come with me, but I insisted he open his shop on time. He was the only employee for now, so it wouldn’t open without him. I also expected it would be easier to see Adam White on my own.
As I waited on a pink chair in the cold waiting room, I yet again kicked myself for not getting better backstories for Nicolas and Perenelle. What if the police dug deeper than their IDs and superficial stories? I was thankful that at least I had someone to contact.
Theo—an alias and only known by his first name—was a former FBI agent turned identity forger. He’d left the bureau after an unjust tragedy, vowing to help worthy people in need through backchannel means. Though Theo wasn’t his real name, Tobias swore that he was trustworthy. Tobias told me he’d become disillusioned with the system when he was unable to protect a woman who was testifying against her abusive boyfriend. The FBI had pressured her to take the stand in a larger criminal trial against the man, promising protection. But the man on trial had her killed. After that, Theo decided to help good people who needed to disappear, but who had to do it on their own.
Theo knew I’d be contacting him, thanks to a note from Tobias, so I hoped the former agent would help us. Even if he agreed to help, would we have enough time? As far as I knew, they weren’t suspects, so they wouldn’t be under too much scrutiny. But I had a bad feeling about where the investigation would lead.
He didn’t help everybody. He ran whatever kind of background check a former FBI agent turned criminal knew how to do, judged whether someone was worthy of his assistance, then created meticulous documents and fully developed backstories. When possible for the circumstances, Theo recommended people take one of the identities of people who didn’t exist that he’d created over time. The Flamels already had names and IDs. What we needed was for Nicolas and Perenelle to have backgrounds built out that fit their names and lives.
The Flamels were born three hundred years before me. They had so much history behind them, but were also skilled at adapting. We’d settled on a story that was close to the truth: Perenelle had been previously married, and she feared for her life from the man’s family. That’s the story we needed help with. The idea was for Theo to plant the breadcrumbs that anyone who dug deeply would follow.
Though the story bent the truth, it was easy to remember because at its core, it was true. Perenelle’s first husband had been a good man—she would never have married him if this had not been true—yet his family was horrid to Perenelle after his death. They refused to display her portraits of him. It crushed her spirit when her brother-in-law hid the paintings instead of celebrating the life of the man she’d loved. Perenelle fled this constrictive life to Paris, where she met Nicolas. It was a sad truth that it was all too believable for a woman to be forced to flee a powerful, vindictive man. It was also a story Theo was predisposed to believe.
From the hospital waiting room, I wrote a message explaining to Theo as much as I safely could reveal about the Flamels, then held my breath as I hit send.
I wasn’t asking for help for myself today. My backstory was something I always kept in mind. It’s why I’d spent so many decades living out of my Airstream trailer without a permanent address. An itinerant young woman following in the footsteps of her mother and grandmother might solicit shaking heads from well-meaning people who wished she’d settle down, but it hardly raised suspicion.
“Zoe?”
I stood hastily as a dark-haired woman with a slight frame and large, stylish glasses said my name. She wasn’t dressed like a doctor or nurse, and she wore slippers. She winced when she saw me glancing at her feet.
“It didn’t even occur to me I was in slippers when I left the house,” she said.
“I’m pro foot comfort,” I assured her. “You know who I am, but I didn’t catch your—”
“Oh! Sorry. I’m Willow Matsumoto. Adam’s wife. When the police banged on my front door in the middle of the night to tell me Adam had been attacked, I wasn’t thinking straight. That’s how I ended up here in slippers.”
I’d read their bios on the Renaissance White website, so I knew the couple had met in graduate school for chemistry a decade ago. Adam and Willow, along with Oberon and April Salazar, had founded the company three years ago. I didn’t recognize her because there were no photos with their bios. Instead, each of them had a photo of a glass jar of pigment next to their bio. Adam’s jar held bright white granules, Willow’s a golden yellow and orange powder, Oberon’s a charcoal as black as night, and April’s an assortment of green crystals.
“How’s Adam?” I asked.
“Awake, but he got a nasty bump on the head, so I’ll be on concussion watch—once they let me take him out of here. Thanks for coming. You were robbed by the same thief last night?”
“I got off lucky.”
Willow nodded. “I was just talking with a detective. She told me a woman had been murdered and that it might be connected. They said you weren’t under suspicion, so I told the detective it was all right to tell you about Adam. I thought maybe we could figure out why both our paintings were targeted.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said, relieved I wouldn’t have to make up an excuse for why I was asking questions. “My painting wasn’t close to being the most expensive they could have taken, but it’s in the same style as yours.”
“A killer who cares more about beauty than money? I don’t know if that’s reassuring or not.”
“What worries me most,” I said, “is that my painting wasn’t even listed online. I don’t know how they knew about it.”
“Ours wasn’t a secret.” Willow looked up at the ceiling, as if caught up in a memory. “It used to hang in the lobby outside our lab, but Adam worried it might be mistaken for something more valuable than it is, since it’s so old.”
“Is Adam up for talking about what happened last night?”
“Of course. He’s desperate for answers about—” Willow broke off. “There’s something you should know about my husband before you meet him.”
I waited for her to continue.
“The way his mind works,” she began, her voice still hesitant. “He cares so much about both art and science. Those thoughts are always at the forefront of his thoughts. He was devastated about the theft of The Apothecary’s Cabinet.”
“You mean,” I said, “that I shouldn’t expect him to shed a tear for Gwendolyn Graves, the woman who was murdered?”
Willow pursed her lips. “Not exactly… Since the murder happened after he was attacked and both of your paintings stolen, the police had already taken his statement. He was with the doctors when they followed up with me just now to tell me about that…”
“You mean,” I said, “Adam doesn’t yet know there’s been a murder.”