“That’s it there,” he murmured, pulling into one of the street parking spots a few doors down from the sign for BAUDELAIRE’S FINE ANTIQUES.
They got out of the car and began walking toward the storefront. It was a warm day, but the awnings provided shade. There were large planters of tropical flowers on each corner, and people strolled the street, window-shopping.
Baudelaire’s display featured several large pieces of furniture, and though Evan knew virtually nothing about antiques, he knew luxury when he saw it. He’d lived among it all his life. These were obviously items that had come from very wealthy homes.
The bell over the door jingled softly as they entered, inhaling the scents of old leather and furniture oil. “Do you know anything about antiques?” Evan asked, leaning into Noelle, whose head was turning this way and that as she took in the myriad items: furniture, linens, paintings, china, and an L-shaped glass jewelry case in the middle of the dim store.
“A little,” she said. “Chantilly has several pieces handed down through her husband’s family. Chantilly didn’t have a good relationship with them. Or her husband, for that matter,” she said cryptically. “But Chantilly says beautiful things should be appreciated, and so she kept them all.”
He’d like to hear more about Chantilly and this deceased husband of hers, but that was for another time.
“May I help you?”
They looked up, and a tall, thin, middle-aged man was approaching. He was wearing a slight smile on his face and had a rather large strawberry birthmark at his hairline.
“Yes,” Evan said, stepping forward and extending his hand. “I’m Evan Sinclair, and this is Noelle Meyer.”
The man took his hand and gave it a shake, his grip much more robust than his appearance. “Gervais Baudelaire.”
Evan retrieved a business card and handed it to the man. “We’re looking for André Baudelaire.”
Gervais looked down at Evan’s business card. “A private investigator?”
“Yes. My . . . partner and I are investigating a cold case, and his name came up.”
“He’s my father,” Gervais said, a crease forming between his brows. “He’s here in our office. Would you like to speak with him?”
“That would be great.”
Gervais gave a nod, tucking Evan’s business card in his vest pocket and then turning and disappearing through the doorway near the back from which he’d emerged. He heard him climbing a set of steps that must go to their business office overhead.
“It can’t be,” Noelle said. Her voice sounded hoarse, breathy, and Evan spun around to see her leaning over the jewelry case as she peered at something inside.
He walked to where she stood. “What is it?”
“It’s my mother’s wedding ring.”
“What?” Evan leaned over, looking below where her finger tapped on the glass. It was a platinum band featuring filigree detailing, a large stone in the center, and two stones flanking the sides. It was delicate and beautiful and looked very expensive and very old. “It belonged to my great-grandmother. I . . . is this why my father came here?”
Movement caught Evan’s eye, and he straightened, watching as an older man walked from the back of the shop, a pleasant smile on his face. “Mr. Baudelaire?” Evan asked.
“Yes. Good morning, Mr. Sinclair, Ms. Meyer.” He shook Evan’s hand and then Noelle’s. “My son tells me you’re investigating a cold case. May I ask what case it is?” He had a subtle French accent, as though he’d been in America for many years but still retained the bare hint of his mother tongue. Next to him, Evan noticed Noelle wrap her arms around herself as though chilled.
“Yes. A man named Dow Maginn was the murder victim of an apparent mugging gone wrong eight years ago. We have new information that he may have been specifically targeted.” A little bit of a stretch but true enough, and he didn’t want it to sound like they were questioning him over a few scrawled notes in an old calendar and a hunch. Which was basically the case but may not have inspired the man to offer any information he might have. “But first, Mr. Baudelaire, may I ask you about a ring in your case? My partner, Noelle, believes she recognizes it, and it may tie into the case I just mentioned and the reason we’re here.”
The older man glanced at the display case. “Of course,” he said, walking around it to the other side, where he could open the lock and the sliding portion of the glass that allowed access. “Which one?”