“That someone in La Croix Saint-Just was a master forger. The painting in the cave was a remarkable likeness of the original, but it was fake. I wonder if one of your local Frenchmen tried to hide the painting so as to avoid bringing shame to his ancestor.”
“Clever,” I said. “So when the wardrobe was delivered to Frenchman’s Hill, the painting would go with it.”
“I believe your second theory is correct,” Derek said. “And I know exactly who it was who tried to hide the evidence of forgery.”
It had to be one of the people from Frenchman’s Hill. I knew better than to ask Derek in front of the whole crowd, but I knew he’d tell me later. For now, I was happy to change the subject. “So Noland Garrity was only guilty of being a total jerk and not a crook.”
“True, gracious,” Robson said. “He is not a crook.”
“But he is a jerk,” I insisted, although I tried to say it lightly. “Why do you work with him?”
Robson smiled. “I appreciate Noland for his ability to force me to consciously work against negative emotions.”
I shook my head. “I failed that test.”
“It is not your test to fail, gracious. You are perfect just as you are.”
I laughed at that one and noticed Mom and Dad snickering, too. I was pretty sure Derek was biting his tongue.
I looked at Elizabeth and said what I hadn’t been able to say before this. “So you hunt down stolen treasures? Are you really the granddaughter of Trudy’s old friend?”
“Of course not, dear,” Trudy said. “Elizabeth is a highly trained secret agent specializing in stolen artwork. We made up that granddaughter story so that she’d be able to slip into town and do her work without anyone suspecting.”
I felt my mouth gaping. “Trudy?” I blinked a few times, completely bowled over. “You knew all along?”
“It was my idea,” she said, and couldn’t keep from flashing a proud grin. “As soon as I saw all those treasures in the cave, I worried that there would be some hanky-panky. So I called an old friend of a friend, who recommended another friend, and Elizabeth called me back.” She gazed fondly at Elizabeth. “I think we worked very well together.”
Elizabeth’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I think you are the bravest woman I know.”
“I agree,” Robson said.
When I was over the worst of my shock, I said, “Wow. Good job, you two.”
Robson held up his wineglass. “A toast, to all the brave women we know.”
“Hear, hear,” Dad said, giving Mom’s shoulder a light squeeze.
As I watched Trudy take a slow sip of wine, I was reminded of something else. “Trudy, you said you remembered what the surprise was.”
She brightened. “Oh, Brooklyn! Yes, I wanted to give you my bookends.”
I frowned at her. “Your kitten and quail?”
“No, no. I would never give up my darling kitten and quail. They were gifts from my father. No, the bookends I had for you are two lovely brass angels. Your mother always says you need a guardian angel to watch over you because you’re always finding . . .” She blinked. “Oh dear.”
She didn’t have to say it. I was always finding dead bodies. Trudy was probably stammering because she realized I’d done just that when I’d run in and found Amelia lying dead in her living room.
“Well,” Trudy said, a little flustered as she fluffed over that detail. “I decided that morning that I wanted you to have the angels because when I talked to Robson, he called you an angel. And it’s true. You are.”
“Oh.”
Derek handed me a tissue before I asked for it. He knew me, knew that tears were already welling up in my eyes.
“And that day before the young man arrived,” Trudy went on, “I was straightening up my mantel to make more room for my marble bookends. That was when I saw the angels and was reminded of you. So I wanted you to have them.”
“That’s so sweet.” I gave her a big hug. “Thank you, Trudy.”
“I wish I had them to give you right now.”
“That’s okay. I’ll get them next time I’m at your house.”
“Oh, wait!” She laughed. “I took a picture of them with my phone that day. Just like the kids do.” She fished her phone out of her purse, found the photo, and passed it to me.
My eyes widened as I stared at the photograph of one of the angels she planned to give me. One angel was bent over, comforting a child, and the other had a sword raised above his head. The avenging angel. I handed the phone to Derek, who studied the picture for a long moment.
He passed the phone back to me, and I could tell from the bemused look on his face that we were thinking precisely the same thing: Trudy’s angels looked exactly like something sculpted by Rodin. We had both done a bit of research when we were wondering who might’ve sculpted Trudy’s kitten and quail.
We stared at each other and began to laugh. So it was possible that Trudy really did have a pair of Rodin bookends. Or they could be wonderful forgeries. It didn’t matter one bit.