“I’m sorry for…” Alaric almost said “your loss,” but the old coot was still alive. “I’m sorry for intruding at this time, but that painting has to go back to its rightful owners. And we’ll need to speak with Harriet.”
“I understand.” Hegler took a sip of his drink and grimaced. “The coffee’s awful here. You should try the place along the street. Or I can make you a fresh cup back at the ranch. Harry has a wonderful coffee machine. She says that if she’s got to get up at five a.m. to see to the horses, she needs caffeine pumping through her veins.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Emmy said. She’d taken one sip from her mug and left the rest, so it must have been truly terrible. “Ready to go?”
“Now?”
“No time like the present.”
As Emmy led the way out of the café, a bud of hope swelled in Alaric’s chest. They were so close to Red, he could practically smell the paint. This time, they wouldn’t let her go.
CHAPTER 6 - ALARIC
“HARRY? THESE FOLKS are from the FBI.”
Harriet Carnes was younger than Alaric had expected. The senator had turned seventy-one last November, but his daughter didn’t look more than twenty-five. The family resemblance was clear, though. They shared the same sharp jaw, the same assessing blue eyes, and although the senator’s hair was more salt than pepper now, it had been the same glossy mahogany as Harriet’s when he was younger. And while Harriet might have been small in stature, it appeared she’d inherited her father’s imperious attitude. Chin high, arms folded, that haughty expression… Yes, Harriet was definitely a Carnes.
“Do you have a warrant?”
“We were hoping to have an informal chat. Do we need a warrant?”
She raised an eyebrow at Stéphane, just the faintest quirk. He nodded.
“Yes, the painting. I couldn’t lie.”
Harriet sighed and dismounted her high horse with a little more grace than Hegler. “I thought you’d come, but I didn’t realise it would be so soon.” The tremble in her voice betrayed her polished act. “Daddy’s going to be… He’ll be…”
“Be what?” Alaric prompted.
“Devastated. He’ll be devastated. I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, but that’s the only reason the painting’s still here.”
“It’s true,” Hegler put in. “Harry was going to send it back to the museum when…when…” The colour drained from his cheeks as he realised what he was about to say. “Oh, darn it.”
He leapt forward with a handkerchief as a single tear rolled down Harriet’s cheek, but she waved him away and used a sleeve instead, tucking her shoulder-length hair behind her ears before she straightened and faced up to Alaric.
“My father’s dying, Mr.… I didn’t get your name.”
“Call me Alec.”
“Alec. My father’s sick. He might last a week, he might last a month, but he doesn’t have long.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Words were inadequate.
“Daddy…he’s never been the easiest man to live with, but in recent months, he’s become even more difficult. Unpredictable, but in his lucid moments, still sharp. He waited until I was out of town before he sent Stéphane to pick up Dominique.”
The same name Hegler had mentioned. “Why do you call her Dominique?”
“Because that’s her name. The woman in the painting.”
“I didn’t realise anybody knew who she was.”
Though many people asked, the artist had never revealed his muse’s identity. The enigmatic redhead walking through the forest, half-turned as she invited all who saw her to follow, had remained a mystery to the art world.
“Few people did. My mother forbade anyone from talking about her. The affair happened when I was very young, but our old housekeeper filled me in on the details, God rest her soul.”
“So who was Dominique?”
“Daddy’s mistress. The only woman he ever truly loved, I suspect.” Harriet suddenly turned away. “This is wrong. All wrong. None of this should have happened.”
Hegler steered her towards the table at the far end of the kitchen. The thing was huge, at least twelve feet long, made from what looked like rough-hewn oak worn smooth with age. The kitchen didn’t really fit with the rest of the house—it was homey, lived-in, while the other rooms Alaric had glimpsed as they followed Hegler through a maze of hallways could have come from a magazine spread.
Country homes of the rich and famous.
The paddocks out front fit with the model-home theme too. Lush grass manicured to within an inch of its life, white post-and-rail fencing, a couple of horses grazing for show. But from the kitchen window, Alaric spotted a beat-up old jeep with a dent in the side, and the pastures in the distance didn’t look quite so green. A life of two halves?
He’d compare notes with Dan later. She was around. Somewhere. Emmy had tasked her with watching the comings and goings from Lone Oak Farm in case a misstep alerted the Carnes family to Alaric and Emmy’s intentions and they tried to move the painting. It didn’t seem as if that would happen, though, judging by Harriet’s demeanour. She looked more defeated than anything else as she took a seat.
Rather than joining the others, Emmy headed for the massive stove and picked up the kettle. She’d spent most of the drive over reading emails, and Alaric hadn’t been entirely convinced she was listening when he talked through the playbook—namely that he’d lead the conversation—but drinks were a good idea. Sharing a cup of tea or coffee built rapport.
“Why do
