Gwendolyn and I drove together in my truck. Before stepping into my green 1942 Chevy, I sent a text message to Perenelle, letting her know I was bringing the real Gwendolyn Graves to see her.
“Are you going to tell me who this mysterious person is who you’re taking me to meet?” she asked.
“It’ll be easiest to explain once we’re there. You’ll see why.” I winced. “That sounds sketchy, but really—”
“I trust you. I asked Detective Vega all about you and that handsome former detective. I know you’ve helped solve a couple of mysteries.”
“She told you that?”
“There are some benefits of being a little old lady. People do open up to you more.”
“The Miss Marple effect.”
“Which happens to be very true, though you have a way to go before you’ll experience it. I’m honestly surprised you’re taking my theory seriously at all.”
“Why didn’t you ever publish your theory?”
“It’s complicated… I did so much research. And there are so many clues. Philippe Hayden didn’t join any Artist Guilds, and only worked secretively in Rudolf II’s Court in Prague. If she was a woman who’d disguised herself as a man, that would explain a lot. And because so many masterpieces that appear to be Hayden’s span a period of time over 150 years only makes sense if she trained an apprentice in her style and with her recipe of mixing paint—again, needing to be done more privately than if she’d been a man. Hayden produced paint recipes that nobody else has managed to reproduce since the 1700s.”
“Countless historical recipes for paints have been lost over the years,” I said, feeling almost physical pain as I said so. So many recipes for healing have been lost as well. “Back when knowledge was handed down through apprenticeships.”
Gwendolyn was looking out the car window at the evergreen trees—Douglas Fir and Yellow Cedar in this stretch—but turned back to look at me.
“The established experts don’t want anything to change about our understanding of history,” she said. “When I was young, I was egotistical enough to think I could make big changes. Instead, I’ve settled for moderate ones. But Hayden… Hayden was the one that got away.”
“You still have your research?”
“Of course. But I wasn’t foolish enough to publish anything before I could prove it.”
“That’s why you mentioned being a coward?”
She scoffed. “Academia is difficult enough without making baseless claims. I was afraid when I was young, but what are they going to do to me now? Although… of course I still can’t publish anything without proof. I don’t know why I’m even going with you on this mysterious visit! I suppose I’ll be nice to talk with someone who has a similar idea, even if I can’t publish my findings.”
I glanced away from the road for a moment to study her face. Optimism was trying to poke through, but losing.
“What if you could get proof?” I asked.
“It’s what I’ve been looking for fifty years.”
“The world,” I said, “wasn’t ready fifty years ago.”
“You think it is now?”
Was it?
“People are beginning to question art connoisseurs now,” she admitted. “Now that less invasive techniques to test pairings are available, they can’t argue as loudly against scientific testing that challenges their assessments.”
I turned off the road onto the narrow road leading to the Flamels’ house.
“This woman you’re taking me to meet,” she said. “She’s an artist?”
“How can you tell?”
“Even I as a dusty old academic can see the beauty of the light through the trees here. It’s the perfect spot for an artist.”
“Nearly there.” I turned off the road onto the private drive leading to the Flamels’ house.
“Stop the car!” she cried.
I slammed on the breaks and came to a stop next to the start of the pigment garden.
“I’m sorry. That was overly dramatic, wasn’t it? But I need to see this.” She stumbled out of the car and stepped toward the edge of the garden. She turned to me. “These plants… I swear I’ve only seen some of these in books before. Never planted in real life. This is a pigment garden, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
She gasped. “Even the rocks. All the minerals right here…. Where did this artist find these rocks?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
Using her cane to steady herself, Gwendolyn knelt. She let go of the cane and pressed both palms to the rocks. “Before we go any further, I need to say something.”
I waited, not wanting to break the magical spell Perenelle’s garden had cast.
“Regardless of who this is that I’m about to meet, this whole experience since yesterday has made me realize something. That’s why I’m telling you this dream I haven’t spoken aloud for decades. I always thought that one day I might be able to convince the world that Philippe Hayden was a woman, but ‘one day’ never came. And here I am, eighty years old, scared that I might be embarrassed by my colleagues like I was more than half a century ago. What am I so afraid of?” She laughed at herself. “I can’t believe I’m the same woman who once thought I would change the world. I won’t let a thief steal away the evidence that I’m right that Philippe Hayden was Philippa Hayden. I can’t believe it took a murdered woman impersonating me and two stolen paintings to get me off my duff!” She chuckled again. “Speaking of which, could you help me up?”
I offered her my arm, and with the help of me and her cane, she hoisted herself from the ground. She brushed the traces of rock dust off her slacks. “I know it sounds foolish that I could finally prove the truth—”
“It doesn’t sound foolish,” I said. “But it’s not my decision to make.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s mine,” another voice said.
Perenelle strode up the path from the house, her emerald-green skirts billowing behind her, her copper hair swirling in the wind.
“I hear you’re a Philippe Hayden expert.” Perenelle’s eyes shone with a wicked glint. “We have much to talk about.”