He glanced over at her to see a troubled frown on her face. “What is it?” he asked.
“He looks like Callie.”
“Let me see,” he said, coming to a stop at a light and taking the phone. There were three children in the photo, and Noelle didn’t have to point out which one was Fontane. He did look like Callie. He looked like boyhood pictures of Evan himself.
He looked like his father.
Evan swallowed, handing the phone back to Noelle as the light turned green. The little boy was his father.
He didn’t understand that. He’d never heard the name Lejeune in his life. Why would his father move from Belgium and change his name?
He parked down the street from André Baudelaire’s antique shop, taking Noelle’s hand after they’d both exited the vehicle and hurrying toward the black awning with the gold lettering.
Evan pulled the door open, and Noelle went in first. The same scent greeted him as the first time he’d been in the shop, and there was something comforting about it, and something spooky. Again, it brought to mind some attic full of a grandmother’s treasures. Not that he’d ever known either of his own grandmothers. His mother’s mother had died when he was two, and he’d been told his father’s had died before he was born.
But he suddenly wondered about that.
Wondered if she was alive and well and living somewhere in Brussels.
When they entered the shop, Mr. Baudelaire himself was wrapping what looked like a crystal champagne flute in a piece of tissue paper at the counter. The old man glanced up, a look of surprise lighting his face. “I had a feeling you’d be back for that ring.” He smiled, placing the glass carefully inside a padded box in front of him as they stepped toward the counter.
“No.” Noelle smiled. “Actually, we’re here to ask you another question. Sorry to take more of your time. I’m sure you’re very busy.”
The old man pushed the box full of items wrapped in the same tissue paper as the flute to the side next to several more boxes just like it and rested his palms on the L-shaped glass counter. “It’s not a problem. Most of my clientele shops online now. My son, Gervais, is in charge of all that. He’s quite good with photography and computers, while I’m useless with technology. Sometimes I feel more like I operate a shipping business these days than anything. These flutes, for instance”—he nodded to the open box of wrapped items, next to the already sealed boxes—“are going out momentarily, and they will grace the tabletops of a local formal event that will be attended by very important men, or so I hear. Nineteenth-century Baccarat crystal.” He glanced at the boxes again, his gaze almost loving. “The best on earth. Available to a certain clientele with the means and the appreciation for such rare beauty.” He seemed to come back to himself. “Oh goodness, there I go blathering on again and holding you up. My point is, consultations with actual humans are a pleasure, so ask away.”
“Thank you,” Noelle said, pulling the jewelry box from her purse and laying it on the counter.
Mr. Baudelaire looked curiously between him and Noelle and then down to the box. “This company was in Belgium,” he said. “The logo is very recognizable.”
“Oh. You’ve heard of it?” Evan asked.
“It’s world renowned. Their pieces are known for the high quality of their gems and Van Daele diamonds,” he said. “They’re not in business anymore, but when they were, they catered only to the wealthiest clientele. That’s still true, only now their pieces are collectibles.”
“Van Daele diamonds,” Evan murmured, shooting a look at Noelle. There it was, that link.
“Yes,” Mr. Baudelaire said, glancing up momentarily. “The two companies worked hand in hand. Van Daele is no longer in business either. There was rumor at the time of the closing that the heir to the company had brought some trouble upon himself.”
“What kind of trouble?” Evan asked.
Mr. Baudelaire tapped a finger on his lips. “Hmm, from what I recall, a party got quite out of hand and even turned bloody.”
“Bloody?” Noelle asked, blinking.
“Mmm,” Baudelaire hummed. “So it was said. I even heard whisperings that it was a massacre. I can’t imagine that was true, however, or certainly the police would have made an arrest or two.” His face did something funny, but Noelle didn’t know the man well enough to guess what it meant. Massacre. It was the same word that man from the second-floor room had used in his story. A chill made her draw her arms toward her body. “But in any case,” Baudelaire went on, “the business folded. I suppose the family has . . . moved on to other pursuits. When they closed their doors, many other businesses in the area linked to them did as well. I suppose they all relied on each other in various ways. Anyway, I’m eager to see what you’ve brought me.”