When the ride stopped, Lara looked up to see that both Cecile and Margot stood there waiting at the controls.
Lara could see versions of her face in both women. It was like a time-lapse projection with Margot being the bridge between Cecile’s rather frost-like features and the warmer complexion that she’d inherited from Audrey.
“It’s a horrible machine,” said Margot, staring at the carousel. “They aren’t real, you know. When I first came here, I rode it for hours to see my Dez.”
Cecile touched her daughter’s arm. Lara could tell how fragile Margot was and how protective Cecile was toward her. This was her family, her legacy. And Lara considered how a painting had brought her here.
“I tried to give you clues all along,” said Margot. “The record and the Ouija boards. I wanted to help.”
“You sent the message in the record?” And Lara remembered the description of the woman who’d dropped off the Ouija board at Feed Supply.
She nodded proudly. “I also sent a message to that detective of yours through the board.” Margot laughed a little too loudly, her whole body rippling like it came from somewhere deep inside. “He looked terrified.”
“You did?” Lara held Margot’s hands. She thought of Ben Archer, so far away, yet connected to her by this mystery.
“I gave him a clue,” said Margot. “To steer him on the right path.”
“We’ve all suffered so much.” Cecile’s jaw clenched and she pulled Margot toward her. Then she took Lara’s hand. As the three of them held on to one another, Lara could feel the powerful magic flowing through the three of them, buoying her for battle.
They took a cab down the Rue de Rivoli and turned up a narrow street that had a courtyard and an older building. A neon sign read:
Le Cirque de Fragonard Performance Tonight
Ben, Barrow, and Gaston found the employee entrance open, but the box office was shut tight. Inside, a tall man with suspenders leaned against the building smoking a cigarette. Barrow took the lead. “Is the manager in?”
“That depends,” said the man. “What do you want him for?”
“What do you care?” Gaston seemed irritated at the man’s tone.
The man shrugged, seemingly realizing he was outnumbered, and directed them back to a hallway through the open door. The three men heard sounds of horses snorting and a gait of a trot. Two men were shouting “Allez.”
A door was cracked open, and Barrow knocked.
“Entrez,” said a voice.
The three men found their way into a cramped, windowless office with circus memorabilia covering the walls.
“We are looking for the manager?”
“I am the owner,” corrected the man in impeccable English. He was an older man with a shock of graying hair and small reading glasses. A tiny light illuminated the office, which was filled with a smoky gray haze as the owner sat smoking a short brown cigarette.
“I am Edward Barrow of the Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art. These are my colleagues from les États-Unis. A few days ago, another colleague of ours was shown a painting here.”
“That is impossible.” The man leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
“Pourquoi?”
The man shrugged. “I just returned from Rome yesterday. The circus only reopened this morning.” He paused when Barrow didn’t seem to believe him. “It’s expensive to keep a place like this cool in the summer. No one was here.”
“Are you sure?” Gaston was looking around at the paintings. “No one was cleaning?”
“Quite sure,” said the man. “There is no cleaning crew here when we’re not here. The place has been closed tight since April.” The man ran his hand over the bookshelf beside him and held out his hand—a thick layer of dust coated his fingers. “See, no janitor.”
“This painting that our colleague saw,” said Gaston. “It is a painting of Cecile Cabot.”
The man nodded and pointed nonchalantly to the wall. “Oui.”
Ben was standing nearest to the area where the man had motioned. On the wall, he noticed a small painting and leaned in to study it. The painting was surrounded by photos, many of them disturbing vintage nudes. The canvas was the same size and style as Sylvie on the Steed, but this one featured a silver-haired woman wearing a pink striped leotard on the second rung of a ladder. She was gazing at the painter, a small smile on her lips, her body bending as he imagined it would with the movement of a soft ladder. Ben could tell there was more detail in this painting than the one in Barrow’s office. While the other had featured the relationship between the horse and the trick rider, Sylvie, this painting had only one subject: the girl.
In one swift movement, Barrow pushed Ben out of the way. “It is the second painting.” The excitement in his voice was audible as he leaned down to examine it. Turning back to the man, he said, “This painting was done by Émile Giroux.”
The man put his cigarette out in the full ashtray next to him. “Why should I care about who painted it?”
“Because it’s a very important painting.” Barrow seemed exasperated. “It’s quite valuable. It should be protected and placed in a museum, not hanging on your wall, especially when you don’t keep the building cool in the summer. This painting is a national treasure.”
“My father was quite a collector of cirque memorabilia,” said the man. “He found that painting in a little shop in the Latin Quarter. Someone had sold it off to pay debts along with paints and other equipment. They told him the artist had died suddenly, leaving the stuff in his small apartment. My father was only interested in that painting. It has hung on that wall safely for seventy years. There it will remain.”
“Our colleague has gone missing,” said Gaston.
“That is not my concern. If your colleague saw this painting a few days ago, then they broke into this building. Perhaps they have done this again and this time it did not fare
