“Have you seen the news this morning that the media has now connected Betty Kubiak’s murder with two art thefts?” Dorian called from the kitchen as I let myself into the house after having breakfast at Max’s house.
I was nursing a sugar-caffeine-liquor hangover, but Max’s ministrations had helped me at least feel human this morning. Plus, it helped that it was a sunny day.
“Max read the news while I was sleeping.” I pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and found Dorian standing on his stepping stool, kneading dough on a floured wooden cutting board. “But don’t worry. Theo worked quickly and already set up a better online history for the Flamels. I don’t know how he does it, but their close-to-true backstories are now more believable, if reporters connect us to the crimes and started digging.”
Dorian hopped off his stepping stool and faced me. “I am glad to hear the criminal came through for you. But this is not what I wish to discuss this morning.”
“You found out more about April Salazar’s death?”
“No additional information is available to the public,” he said. “But I do not believe Renaissance White’s possession of a Perenelle Flamel painting was pure happenstance. There is a tangled web afoot with more tentacles than we can yet imagine.”
He’d combined a dizzying number of mismatched metaphors, but I had no desire to quibble with the sentiment.
Dorian cleared his throat. “But you are not mistaken about my having made progress during the night. I have indeed made a step forward in our investigations. It does not relate to Renaissance White. It is Gwendolyn Graves. She is not what she—”
“I get it,” I cut in, cross with the untrusting gargoyle. “Gwendolyn isn’t what she seems. She’s a complex human just like the rest of us.”
“Alors, she has told you about the Brushstrokes and Brimstone Society?”
“The what?”
“The name of a clandestine, secret society of women artists. Gwendolyn Graves attempted to share their secrets with the world—and it nearly ruined her career.”
I stared at the gargoyle. “The hooded figures you mentioned?”
“That has yet to be confirmed.” He lifted a file folder from the kitchen table and handed it to me.
I sank into a chair at the table as I flipped open the folder. The letter-size sheet of paper had yellowed with age, but the blank ink hadn’t faded. My guess was that it hadn’t seen sunlight in decades. The mark from a rusted staple had left a dark red stain in the upper left corner. Though a reference to 4,000 words was noted on this cover page, it was the only sheet of paper that remained. It was a research paper titled The Brushstrokes and Brimstone Society. The author? Gwendolyn Graves.
I looked up at Dorian. “Where did you get this?”
“It is by Dr. Graves.”
“I can see that. You’ve read it?”
“It is quite fascinating. I wonder why she did not tell you about it.” He rocked back and forth on his heels.
“She’ll be back from Seattle today. I’m meeting with her and Perenelle this afternoon.” I looked back at the faded pages. “This is from fifty years ago. This is the paper she presented before she finished her PhD. The one that made her a laughingstock.”
Dorian blinked at me and frowned. “She has told you of it?”
“I’m sure she’s embarrassed by it. You never answered my question. Where did you get this?”
He dismissed my question with a wave of his hand.
I was about to press further when my phone screamed from the bag on the floor next to my feet, causing my headache to return. Sometimes I really despised the twenty-first century.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” said Nicolas, his voice chipper. “But we’ve been asked to return to the police station.”
“Is it optional?” I asked.
Even though Theo had come through with online breadcrumbs that would confirm their identities if the police dug deeper, it was still an unwelcome development.
“I’ll meet you there,” I said.
The Flamels were already meeting with Detective Vega when I arrived, and I had to wait half an hour to see them.
“She had a few follow-up questions for us,” Nicolas said when they emerged from their meeting. “But the main purpose of the visit was for the detective to assure us that the art dealer we met with was nothing to worry about.”
“But also that Joni Mitchell won’t trouble us again,” said Perenelle.
Something was going on. What was Detective Vega keeping from us? She couldn’t already have the results of the toxicology on the paint sample, could she? Did she already know if it was poison? Even if it did, would that tell her who stole the paintings and killed Betty Kubiak?
“Are you still feeling unwell?” Perenelle asked me as we walked to the police station parking lot. Her red curls were pulled back in two hair clips, one silver and one gold.
“I’ll feel better once I understand what’s going on,” I told her.
“And I,” said Nicolas, “wish the detective would tell us more about what she’s learned.”
“You think she’s learned more.”
“I’m certain of it.”
I’d parked next to them. We reached our cars, and keys jingled like wind chimes as Nicolas unlocked the passenger side door for Perenelle.
Perenelle lifted her ankle-length indigo blue skirt of silk taffeta to step into the small car, revealing white silk stockings and silver Mary Jane shoes with golden buckles. Most people wouldn’t be able to pull off the combination of colors, but for her, it worked.
The powerful Perenelle Flamel had once kept many things from me. She believed it was for my own good at the time, but had since realized the error of her ways. Was there more she was keeping from me?
“What’s the Brushstrokes and Brimstone Society?” I asked before she could step into the car.
A flash of recognition passed over her face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“You know something,” I said.
“I’m an old woman, Zoe. One who has lived for many centuries. I know many things.”
“What do you know about the secret society?” My head throbbed, but I didn’t look away from her or shield my eyes from the sun.
“Secret society?” She blinked at me, confused. That wasn’t what she’d expected me to say.
I glanced at Nicolas. His face held the same expression of open curiosity that he wore most of the time.
“Brushstrokes, brimstone…” Nicolas repeated. “Can’t say I’ve seen it.”
They got into their little car. The engine revved for a few seconds before they drove off.
Nicolas said he hadn’t seen it. Why would he have said it like that? What were Nicolas and Perenelle keeping from me?