Good. Camille wandered off, leaving Bouck to do business. She checked out some rococo sconces hanging on the rough wooden beams that supported the roof, took another look at the small French bergere the dealer had been sitting in when they approached. Now she could see the full shape of the chair and the delicate carving on the exposed ends of the arms.
Checking behind him nervously, the dealer was trying to concentrate on showing Bouck some small art-glass pieces in a vitrine in the middle of the booth. Camille could see Bouck wanted the vitrine and not what was in it. Good, old display cases were very hard to find. Apparently the vitrine was not for sale.
“Galle is so difficult these days. I sell only authentic, but some dealers—” The dealer shrugged. “And it’s hard to tell if you don’t know what you’re doing. The Koreans are flooding the market with copies, you know. Here, let me show you.”
He picked up a magazine and passed it to Bouck. “Look at this, faked art glass. Daum Nancy, Galle, Steuben, Tiffany, complete with signatures.”
“We don’t have a problem with that,” Bouck said airily, fingering the zipper on his handbag.
“I guarantee everything I sell,” the myopic dealer said quickly.
“Hmm.” Bouck pointed at the yellow bud vase with the blue-green ivy pattern, clearly signed Galle. “That’s nice.”
“Let me take it out for you.”
The vitrine door swung open. Camille could see Bouck nodding at the way the key had turned easily in the lock and how the door swung evenly on its hinges. “Bouck?” she said.
“Yes, my angel.”
“What do you think of the chandelier?” Camille turned toward it.
“I’ll look at it in a second.” Bouck held up the small yellow vase, turning it in the light. She could see from his expression it wasn’t bad, was probably authentic. The weight was right and the edges of the pattern were not too neat, as they were likely to be in fakes.
“What are you asking for the vase?”
“Well, prices have come way down on these pieces since eighty-seven and eighty-eight. The Japanese drove the market way out of proportion and then, all of a sudden, they stopped buying. Back then this would have sold for thirty-five hundred to five thousand. Today it’s probably worth half that. For a dealer, I’d say fifteen hundred.” He hesitated as if he’d already said too much, then added, “I can do that because I bought it with a lot of other, larger pieces, from an estate about ten years ago, so I don’t have that big an investment in it.”
Bouck put down the bud vase and smiled at the dealer. “What chandelier, Cammy?”
“Oh, the Empire. That is a beauty.” The dealer trotted along behind Bouck toward the corner were Camille was standing, stroking the puppy’s head. He regarded the dog with distaste.
“You, of course, have excellent taste. That’s one of the best Empire chandeliers I’ve ever had. Unfortunately, I’ve had it only about three months, so I can’t do much on the price. But it is exquisite. Did you see the detail on the ram’s heads and Pan, of course. Ah—” he squeaked. “Don’t do that.”
Camille had reached up to take the chandelier off its hook.
“Oh, no, no, no,” he cried. “Let me do that.”
Camille didn’t wait. She lifted the chain, easing the chandelier gently off its hook. The profusion of heavy, dangling crystals swung into one another, clinking wildly.
The dealer rushed toward her, almost tripping over Bouck. “Oh, my God. That’s heavier than it looks.”
He grabbed it from her, staggering a little under the weight until Bouck steadied him. Together the two men rehung it on a lower hook, slightly below eye level. For the second time the horrified dealer backed away from Camille. Bouck smiled at his colleague’s discomfiture.
Twenty minutes later Bouck pulled the Mercedes into the parking lot of a small French restaurant Camille remembered from before. The Mercedes was old enough to have the generosity and elegance new sedans lacked, the trunk ample space for the chandelier. The pier mirror was being delivered on Tuesday. The chair in which the dealer had been sitting was comfortably nestled in the back seat. Bouck had taken it for his ritual. The display case and the bud vase remained where they were. Bouck had handed over nine thousand dollars in cash.
“I’m taking Puppy in,” Camille insisted.
“No, Camille,” Bouck said sharply. “You can see her from here.”
“I want to,” she said.
“No. You’ll have to leave her in the car.” Bouck opened the windows and poured some water from an Evian bottle into a bowl with black paws painted on it. “She’ll be fine. I promise.” When she didn’t move, he added, “Get out, Camille. Or I’ll show Puppy my gun.”
Meekly, she got out of the car and moved toward the restaurant door that suddenly opened for her as if by magic.
“Do you have a reservation?” the obsequious maitre d’ asked, leading them to the half-empty dining room, where he pointedly consulted his book.
Bouck’s round, angelic face was serene except for a small sign of strain in one cheek, where a muscle jumped. “We’ll sit there, by the window,” he said.
“Um, that’s reserved.”
“That’s where we’re sitting. Go on, Cammy, that’s your table.”
“Oh. Well … all right.” The maitre d’ followed Camille anxiously with the menus.
Bouck pushed the menus away. “I’ll have a double Glenlivet. A glass of Beaujolais for the lady.” He frowned, tapping the table with his fingertips as the maitre d’ flushed and murmured, “Right away, sir.”
Bouck glanced at Camille, directing his scowl at her. She could feel the life draining out of her and clenched her fists to hold her life in.
“Don’t start, Camille,” Bouck said, hissing through his teeth like a snake. He smiled. “We’re having lunch, remember. You’ve conquered the witch Milicia, don’t let her back. She can’t hurt you now. Don’t let her creep up on you from behind.
“Come on, Cammy. I’ll let you have a nice piece of salmon, not cooked too much. Whatever sauce you want. Ah, here’s your Beaujolais.” He waved his hand at her, commanding, “Sip, sip.”
Camille reached for the wineglass as he directed, put it to her lips, did not drink. Her face was white.
“We’ve had a good day, hmmm?” Bouck drained his tumbler of single malt without flinching, then raised his hand for another.
35
Jason didn’t expect Emma to pick him up at the L.A. airport, but she was standing in the crowd of welcomers at the gate when he arrived. He was caught behind a couple with two babies who had screamed all the way across the country. Now mother and father were determinedly trying to wheel the exhausted infants, in two heavy-duty strollers, through solid matter. Their maneuvering gave him a minute to realize the beauty waving at him, dressed in the buff-colored linen trousers and mint-green blouse, with the arms of a tan nubbly sweater tied around her neck like a fashion model, was his wife.
Emma looked different. Her hair was shorter than he’d ever seen it, cut bluntly around her jawline to make her look jaunty and young. It was lighter, too. She was wearing a heavy gold necklace that was clearly expensive and a large braided leather handbag over her shoulder. The way she was put together complimented her perfect figure and fine complexion without making a big deal of either. She had a fresh healthy appearance, like the classy cover girl of
A space opened up in the crowd. Jason walked toward her, stunned. He thought he was prepared for anything. Emma hadn’t been in good shape when she left New York right after an ordeal that would have turned most people into vegetable soup for quite some time. There were still bruises and burn marks on her body. Also on her feet. She had been naked and barefoot, and had to walk out of a house on fire. Weeks afterward, she was still finding it painful to cross the room.
And of course there was the unfinished tattoo. A couple of serpents curling up from her groin, stopping short
