Read Online A Brush With Death by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joan Smith
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John grouched.
“It's a money-raiser for the museum—for a good cause."
“I better get a ticket for Gino too."
“He'll be along, will he?” I asked, trying to control my spleen.
“If we want to get out of here by Christmas, he better be.” We went into the cavernous building, where a few antique bowls and statuettes on pedestals, backed by a tapestry, advertised the institution's wares and lured the clients onward. The east wing, where the Art Nouveau show was to be held, was closed, but we were free to wander around the rest of the exhibits. I had been there often, and John didn't appear particularly interested in old tapestries, porcelain, and old art.
“Any idea where the administrative offices are?” he asked, while ostensibly admiring a hanging Gobelin.
“No. I'll ask at the desk."
I once again used the ploy of working for the McGill student newspaper as an excuse to request an interview with one of the curators. “Ms. James is busy,” the clerk said, “but you might try Mr. Bergma."
She directed me upstairs and around the corner. I tossed my head and John came trotting after me. “What, exactly, are we going to say or do?” I enquired.
“We're not going to say anything. We're going to loiter, and listen."
“You can't loiter around the administration area without an excuse, John."
He wiggled his eyebrows. “That depends on whether the secretaries are friendly."
“And pretty,” I hmph'd. Chatting up pretty women is one of John's favorite ways of finding out secrets. This was to he discouraged at all costs. “I could ask Bergma for an interview for the university newspaper,” I suggested.
“That'll make a good excuse to get a look at him. We won't be together. Do you want to go first?"
I certainly wanted to he on hand when he hit on the secretary, and said, “Yes."
“I'll give you five; then join you. Remember, we don't know each other."
To display my acting ability, I looked right through him and said, “Excuse me, were you speaking to me, Sir?” I went on alone to the administration offices.
One look at the secretary guarding the executive door and I nearly swallowed my tongue. I recognized her at the first glance. Her hair was not arranged in seaweed strands as it had been for Latour's Pre-Raphaelite painting, but the face was remarkably similar. The nameplate on her desk said Ms. Painchaud, which literally translates to “hot bread.” How had a dainty morsel like this ended up with such a name? She looked more like a tart or, to he fair, a petit four. She was one of those dainty women, all pale skin and dark eyes, with hands about the size of a doll's. She must have been getting a preview of the Art Nouveau exhibit. Today she was done up like an Erté painting in a black dress with bat-wing sleeves, and her hair was twisted up like a jelly roll on the back of her head.
If she was Bergma's accomplice, as seemed probable, she certainly didn't look like a killer.
“May I help you?” she asked, in a dainty voice that matched her appearance. She had a delightfully seductive French accent. If a murderess had to be so attractive, she should have a voice like an unoiled hinge at least.
The phone rang. She excused herself and took the call. Mr. Bergma was busy, would the party like to call back?
When I had her attention again, I said, “I'd like to know if it's possible to have a few minutes of Mr. Bergma's time.” I smiled insincerely, and gave my excuse.
She shook her head. “I'm afraid that's impossible. You've come at a bad time."
My nose quivered in excitement. “He's out, is he?"
“No, but he's very busy this morning, completely booked up, I'm afraid. He doesn't want to be disturbed. Perhaps Ms. James...” The phone rang again. She took the call and talked for two minutes with some dress shop about picking up a dress.
When it was settled that she would have the dress picked up by a taxi and pay for it tomorrow, she excused herself and looked at me. “Ms. James
“It's a money-raiser for the museum—for a good cause."
“I better get a ticket for Gino too."
“He'll be along, will he?” I asked, trying to control my spleen.
“If we want to get out of here by Christmas, he better be.” We went into the cavernous building, where a few antique bowls and statuettes on pedestals, backed by a tapestry, advertised the institution's wares and lured the clients onward. The east wing, where the Art Nouveau show was to be held, was closed, but we were free to wander around the rest of the exhibits. I had been there often, and John didn't appear particularly interested in old tapestries, porcelain, and old art.
“Any idea where the administrative offices are?” he asked, while ostensibly admiring a hanging Gobelin.
“No. I'll ask at the desk."
I once again used the ploy of working for the McGill student newspaper as an excuse to request an interview with one of the curators. “Ms. James is busy,” the clerk said, “but you might try Mr. Bergma."
She directed me upstairs and around the corner. I tossed my head and John came trotting after me. “What, exactly, are we going to say or do?” I enquired.
“We're not going to say anything. We're going to loiter, and listen."
“You can't loiter around the administration area without an excuse, John."
He wiggled his eyebrows. “That depends on whether the secretaries are friendly."
“And pretty,” I hmph'd. Chatting up pretty women is one of John's favorite ways of finding out secrets. This was to he discouraged at all costs. “I could ask Bergma for an interview for the university newspaper,” I suggested.
“That'll make a good excuse to get a look at him. We won't be together. Do you want to go first?"
I certainly wanted to he on hand when he hit on the secretary, and said, “Yes."
“I'll give you five; then join you. Remember, we don't know each other."
To display my acting ability, I looked right through him and said, “Excuse me, were you speaking to me, Sir?” I went on alone to the administration offices.
One look at the secretary guarding the executive door and I nearly swallowed my tongue. I recognized her at the first glance. Her hair was not arranged in seaweed strands as it had been for Latour's Pre-Raphaelite painting, but the face was remarkably similar. The nameplate on her desk said Ms. Painchaud, which literally translates to “hot bread.” How had a dainty morsel like this ended up with such a name? She looked more like a tart or, to he fair, a petit four. She was one of those dainty women, all pale skin and dark eyes, with hands about the size of a doll's. She must have been getting a preview of the Art Nouveau exhibit. Today she was done up like an Erté painting in a black dress with bat-wing sleeves, and her hair was twisted up like a jelly roll on the back of her head.
If she was Bergma's accomplice, as seemed probable, she certainly didn't look like a killer.
“May I help you?” she asked, in a dainty voice that matched her appearance. She had a delightfully seductive French accent. If a murderess had to be so attractive, she should have a voice like an unoiled hinge at least.
The phone rang. She excused herself and took the call. Mr. Bergma was busy, would the party like to call back?
When I had her attention again, I said, “I'd like to know if it's possible to have a few minutes of Mr. Bergma's time.” I smiled insincerely, and gave my excuse.
She shook her head. “I'm afraid that's impossible. You've come at a bad time."
My nose quivered in excitement. “He's out, is he?"
“No, but he's very busy this morning, completely booked up, I'm afraid. He doesn't want to be disturbed. Perhaps Ms. James...” The phone rang again. She took the call and talked for two minutes with some dress shop about picking up a dress.
When it was settled that she would have the dress picked up by a taxi and pay for it tomorrow, she excused herself and looked at me. “Ms. James
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