Lights around Lake Minnetonka were starting to come on as I parked in front of the inn. I’d listened to talk radio during the drive, not really paying attention to the subject matter, while I plotted my next few moves. But I did catch the weather report. That night there was supposed to be a full moon. More arrests were usually reported during a full moon. It wasn’t just an old wives’ tale that the world suddenly seemed to be overpopulated with lunatics on those nights. I just hoped that Antoine Rousseau wasn’t one of the crazies.
He’d given me his room number, so there was no need to stop at the front desk this time. I walked straight through the lobby and to the bank of elevators located in the middle of the building. As I stood waiting, I looked down in my bag to make sure Nathan’s gun was within reach. Maybe I’d been foolish mentioning Stacey’s ledger earlier at the guesthouse, but there didn’t seem to be any point in making this investigation drag on longer than it had to. And my strategy must have worked out because I’d gotten an immediate reaction from Antoine.
But letting him know about the book might have pushed him into a corner too soon. How far was he willing to go to protect his reputation and bank accounts? If somehow he’d found out that Stacey was keeping records of their transactions while she was alive, would he have been desperate enough to kill her?
The elevator doors finally opened. The car was empty and I stepped inside. There was a security camera in one corner, near the ceiling. Aware that sort of security system was never equipped with sound, I pulled out my driver’s license and held it up. Then I flashed four fingers, then two, then three, signifying Antoine’s room number: four twenty-three. Maybe it was silly. There had been many times—too many to count—when I was on the force and called to the scene of a burglary. The victims proudly pointed to their elaborate security system. But when they tried showing us the video, there was none because they’d failed to turn the darn thing on. Well at least I’d tried leaving evidence that I’d been there and where I was headed.
I knocked once and was raising my hand to follow it with another when the door jerked open. Antoine stood there, perspiration beaded along his forehead.
“Come in,” he told me. “Hurry.”
After I was inside the room, he walked out into the hallway and checked in both directions. When he was satisfied no one had followed me, he closed the door. His hands were shaking as he secured the chain then turned the deadbolt.
“I don’t mean to be so mysterious but I fear I am being followed. Please, sit down.”
The room was larger than the one he’d stayed in last time—not a full suite but what was referred to as a minisuite. There was one large room with a bed on one end and a couch, television set, and desk on the other.
“Are you all right, Mr. Rousseau? You look ill.” I sat in a chair by the window, putting my tote bag on the floor, keeping it close to me.
“I haven’t been right since coming to this horrible place.”
“And why is that?”
Antoine sat down. He was still wearing the same clothes he’d had on earlier. But the way he was perspiring made his suit look confining, as if it was shrinking. I took off my jacket; just looking at him made me uncomfortable.
“You are a very smart woman, Mrs. Sullivan. You must know by now what Miss Jordan was up to.” He waited for me to fill in the blanks.
But I just nodded, needing more information before I spoke.
“I first made her acquaintance three years ago when I was working as the head consultant on a project in Milwaukee. It was a large estate belonging to a very prominent family. The building was to be used for hospice care patients. When the project was complete, there was a cocktail party. My staff was invited, as well as doctors, patients, and their families. There were hundreds in attendance that night.”
“And that’s where you met Stacey?”
“Yes. Of course, I first reacted to her beauty. How could I not? She was breathtaking. As we talked, she told me about her mother, so distressed over the mounting medical bills. When I asked about her background, we found out we had our great appreciation and love of art in common.
“After a few dinners, and many drinks, I came to respect her intelligence. She was an educated, charming woman.” He stopped a moment remembering happier times. “It was on one of those occasions that she told me of finding a rare statue in the attic of an elderly woman she worked for part time. Out of desperation to help her mother, she asked if I knew of someone who would pay for the piece.”
“And you helped her?”
“Not at first. I am very respected in my field, Mrs. Sullivan, I couldn’t take the chance—”
“Look, Mr. Rousseau, I’m just trying to find out who killed Ms. Jordan. I’m not interested in art theft or fraud. That’s for a whole different set of police. So have no fear that I am going to call the FBI or Interpol.”
He looked somewhat relieved.
“So why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me what happened when you came to Edina?”
“Bon. But first I must have a drink; my nerves are shattered. Would you like something?”
“Thank you that would be nice.” I was worried Antoine would pass out before he could finish his story and decided to slow down and take my time with him.
“I’ll call down for some wine. Do you have a particular preference?”
“No. Whatever you decide is good.”
He picked up the phone and called room service.
“It will take several minutes.” He was ever the polite host, even in what was obviously a most difficult time for him.
“While we wait, could you please continue?” I suggested. “You were telling me about coming to town.”
Antoine sat back down and loosened his tie. “I was contacted by a board member representing the Pierce estate. I was asked to fly in to oversee the renovations.”
Gently, I said, “Yes, I know, we’ve been over this before, Mr. Rousseau.”
“Forgive me.” He smiled weakly. “I contacted Miss Jordan, remembering she was from this part of the country. It was then that she told me the rumors about Marshall Pierce smuggling stolen art out of Europe during the war. It was said he had them hidden in the walls of his mansion.”
I smiled. “I grew up hearing those stories. But I never thought they were true.”
“Believe me, Mrs. Sullivan, there are great treasures hidden in the strangest of places.”
“So you believed Stacey when she talked about the Klimt?”
“Most definitely. That is why I persuaded the board to hire her as my assistant. Stacey and I agreed that it would be the perfect opportunity to allow us to search the mansion thoroughly.”
“Was it you who found something?”
“No. Miss Jordan did.”
“And you saw it? With your own eyes?” My heart was racing; I wanted to hear every detail.
“Oui. It was magnificent. A Klimt in perfect condition. A miracle, really, considering what it had been through.”
“So where is it now?”
“I would assume you knew. After all, you told us that the authorities have it.” Antoine smiled slyly. “But of course, my dear Mrs. Sullivan, we knew—you and I—that the other one was . . . how you say . . . fibbing?”
“You caught me, Mr. Rousseau. I fell back on my tried and true interrogation methods. So tell me please, where is the painting and did you find more than one piece?”
“Only the one, I’m afraid. And it is hidden in the guesthouse. When you and Mr. Walker came out today, the three of us were discussing how to get it out of there safely.”
I took a deep breath. So Jackie was playing me. When I told her about the painting being with the police, she knew I was lying. “Mr. Rousseau, I have to ask you a very important question.”
“I have no reason to lie to you, Madame. I’ve told you everything I know. You may ask me anything you like.”
“Did you kill Stacey Jordan?”
His face fell. “Ah, my dear Mrs. Sullivan, there is no way I could ever have harmed that sweet girl. No. I am a thief and liar but never a murderer.”