Chương 13
Adrien approached first.
“Hello, Dad.”
Henri looked up. “You’re late.”
“For what?”
“The insurance men.”
“There are no insurance men today.”
Henri frowned at Mara. “Who is she?”
“My cousin Lucien’s daughter.”
The old man’s face showed no recognition.
Mara sat across from him.
“My name is Mara.”
Henri returned to the puzzle.
She pulled the pendant from beneath her blouse.
His hand stopped.
The reaction was small but unmistakable. His fingers closed around a wooden piece shaped like a dog.
“Where did you get that?” he asked.
The same words Vivienne had spoken in the gallery.
“My father gave it to Emil Voss.”
Henri looked toward the locked sunroom door.
“You should not be here,” he said.
“Why?”
“They’ll see.”
“Who?”
“The men from Halden.”
Adrien crouched beside the wheelchair. “Dad, Halden Fine Arts closed years ago.”
Henri stared at him. “You don’t know anything.”
“That is possible.”
Mara leaned forward. “Did you go to the north residence the night of the fire?”
Henri’s gaze returned to the pendant.
“I told Lucien to stop,” he said.
“Stop what?”
“Making copies.”
Adrien’s face changed. “Lucien was making copies?”
“No. No, I made—”
Henri slapped the puzzle piece onto the table.
A nurse looked through the glass door.
Adrien raised one hand to show everything was calm.
Henri’s breathing quickened. “Your uncle said the house mattered. He said one painting could become two if nobody asked to see them together.”
“Did you start the fire?” Mara asked.
Adrien whispered, “Mara.”
Henri looked past them toward the fish tank in the hall.
“Smoke gets low first,” he said. “People think it rises. It crawls.”
Mara’s skin tightened.
“Were you there?”
“I opened the window.”
“Why?”
“The papers wouldn’t catch.”
Adrien closed his eyes.
Henri gripped the wheelchair arms. “Lucien came too soon. Sofia came after him. Everyone came too soon.”
The nurse entered.
“That is enough,” she said.
Henri looked at Mara and suddenly began to cry. Not loudly. Tears moved down his face while his expression remained confused.
“I left the side door open,” he said. “I thought that was good.”
Adrien stood. “We’re leaving.”
Mara did not move.
Henri reached toward the pendant. “The baby had that.”
“No,” Mara said. “My father did.”
“Lucien?”
“Emil.”
Henri recoiled.
“Thief,” he said.
Adrien took Mara’s arm.
She pulled away but stood.
As they reached the door, Henri called after them.
“I told Armand she was alive.”
Adrien stopped.
The nurse shook her head. “Please do not continue.”
Henri pointed at Mara. “He said dead was cleaner.”
Outside, Adrien vomited beside a row of trimmed hedges.
Mara stood a few feet away, holding his coat.
When he finished, he rinsed his mouth with water from the bottle in his car.
“He may have been mixing events,” Adrien said.
“Yes.”
“He may have repeated language he heard from someone else.”
“Yes.”
“We cannot treat that as a reliable confession.”
“I know.”
“He said my father knew I was alive,” she added.
Adrien leaned against the car.
“He also called Emil a thief.”
“He believed what protected him.”
“So did everyone.”
They drove back without speaking.
Henri’s fragmented statements could not stand alone, but they directed investigators toward the side door and the original fire photographs. New review showed the door had been propped open with a brass sculpture base. The matching sculpture appeared in Lucien’s hidden catalogue as one of the pieces Henri planned to move.
Chemical analysis of preserved debris suggested an accelerant had been used in the records room.
The district attorney announced that no prosecution was likely. Armand was dead. Henri lacked legal competency. The statute of limitations had expired on several financial offenses, and the evidence could not establish a prosecutable homicide case after twenty-two years.
The finding enraged the public for a week.
Then another scandal replaced it.
For Bellavere, consequences continued.
The foundation board scheduled a public hearing to address provenance claims, Emil’s false accusation, and the future of the estate. Insurers threatened litigation. Donors withdrew pledges. Employees accepted severance.
Adrien proposed transferring disputed works to an independent restitution trust while keeping Bellavere open through limited public access and the sale of noncollection property.
Several board members opposed him.
One suggested releasing a statement portraying Henri as a rogue employee whose actions had been hidden from the family.
“He was family,” Vivienne said.
“Public language can distinguish governance roles,” the board member replied.
“Public language has already done enough distinguishing.”
Another member argued that Emil’s conduct remained questionable because he had not contacted police after taking Mara.
Mara, seated at the end of the table, felt heat rise into her face.
“He did contact Bellavere,” she said. “Armand threatened him.”
“That is based on his notebook.”
“And the phone records.”
“The records show a call, not its content.”
Vivienne removed her glasses.
“My husband told me he received that call,” she said. “He said Emil demanded money. I did not disclose this earlier because I had no proof he lied.”
The room changed.
Adrien stared at her. “You never told me that.”
“No.”
“Why now?”
“Because silence has become a habit I can no longer distinguish from character.”
The board member folded his hands. “Countess, this statement creates serious exposure for the estate.”
“Yes.”
“You understand it may be used in litigation.”
“Yes.”
“You may wish to consult personal counsel.”
“I have spent half my life consulting people who taught me how not to say what happened.”
She looked at Mara.
“Emil called. Armand told me the child was dead and Emil wanted payment to disappear. I believed him because believing him allowed me to remain his wife.”
Mara’s anger came, but it did not arrive cleanly. Beneath it was exhaustion, and beneath exhaustion something like pity that she did not want.
The hearing was scheduled for April 18 in Bellavere’s marble gallery.
May you like
The same room where Vivienne had knelt.
Television crews filled the driveway. Former employees, museum representatives, donors, local residents, and reporters occupied the chairs where auction guests had once held paddles. The Painted Lake hung behind the long table, no longer listed for sale.
