Marcia Muller: The Plague of Thieves Affair

Carreaux gave an enthusiastic nod of agreement. “A true treasure — c’est magnifique !”

He went on to explain that in olden times, chatelaine bags had hung from an ornamental hook on the jeweled girdles of ladies of high station and contained useful household items — a fact Sabina already knew. Made of beadwork or silver or gold mesh, many were set with precious or semiprecious gems. The Marie Antoinette was one of these. Six by ten inches in size, it was fashioned of pure gold mesh, its rigid gold frame and clasp encrusted with diamonds and rubies.

Such a history it had! The Queen of France and Navarre had worn it at Versailles. Along with many other valuables, it had been seized by French revolutionists after the kingdom fell in 1792, and she and the rest of the royal family were imprisoned (and eventually executed), and paraded through the streets of Paris as an example of the monarchy’s profligate ways. For two decades afterward it was believed to have been lost or destroyed. Ah, but then it had resurfaced in the possession of a descendant of a minor revolutionary, who donated it to the Louvre Museum where it had been repaired and restored. And there it had been permanently displayed until M. Bernard La Follette, curator, joined with curators from museums in Florence and Venice to bring it and some two dozen other historically significant European handbags to America under his, Marcel Carreaux’s, guidance.

Private galleries in each city on the tour had been chosen to display Reticules Through the Ages, rather than museums or exhibition halls. One reason was that the collection was small and required relatively little space for viewing, but security was the primary factor. It was much easier to provide safeguards in a gallery venue, where entrances and exits were few and there were no dark nooks and crannies that could be used as hiding places. The Rayburn Art Gallery, which Sabina had visited, had been an excellent choice for both viewing and security purposes here. It was prominently located, and while Reticules Through the Ages would be open to the general public, the audience would consist primarily of members of the city’s social elite to whom invitations had been issued. The assignment promised to be a simple one and Sabina had been glad to accept it. The opportunity to view such a splendid collection of historical artifacts was a pleasure she looked forward to, and even John would agree that the fee was excellent.

“As I indicated during our previous meeting,” Rayburn said, “the exhibit will be open during evening hours only, from five until nine o’clock. How many men will you supply, Mrs. Carpenter? Properly attired, of course.”

“None.”

“How’s that? None?”

“I’ll attend to the duties myself.”

He blinked at her owlishly. “With no male assistance?”

Sabina bit back a sharp retort. The man was something of a pompous, self-serving ass and she would have liked to tell him so, but it would never do for the watchdog to bite the hand that was feeding it. She said only, “One guard should be sufficient, and I assure you I am quite competent,” and then turned her attention to the Frenchman. “I trust you have no objection to my giving this matter my personal attention, Mr. Carreaux.”

“I have heard only praise of your abilities, not only from M’sieu Rayburn but others as well. Mais oui, I am quite comfortable with the arrangement you suggest.”

“Well, if you are, Marcel, then so am I,” Rayburn said, though he didn’t sound convinced. He gave his mustache another fussy stroking. “Though I still think the presence of two detectives is preferable to one.”

“At twice the fee per evening,” Sabina reminded him.

A tendency toward penny-pinching evidently was another of the gallery owner’s less than endearing qualities. He made no further protest, saying only, “Mm, yes, well,” in a vague sort of way.

A signed contract and a retainer check concluded the arrangements. Sabina promised to present herself at the Rayburn Gallery at four P.M. the following afternoon, one hour before the grand opening, and the two men took their leave, M. Carreaux once again gallantly bowing and bestowing a kiss on her hand. A courtly and quite likable man. The opposite of Andrew Rayburn in that respect, too.

Alone at her desk, busy with routine paperwork, she found herself wondering how John was faring with his investigation into the death of Golden State Steam Beer’s brewmaster. As usual, her partner had been reticent about discussing a case in progress, but from his good humor yesterday afternoon she presumed that he was close to a satisfactory resolution. Well, in any event it was fortunate that just a single operative, her, would be providing security for Reticules Through the Ages. Even if John were free on any of the evenings, he would have protested vehemently against joining her at the Rayburn gallery. She could just hear his response if it were suggested to him. “Handbags! Reticules! Bah!” Had M. Carreaux and Andrew Rayburn insisted that a male operative also be present, she would’ve had to bring in one of the agency’s part-time operatives.

Still, she found herself picturing John in evening clothes, as she’d seen him wear on a few previous occasions. With his broad shoulders and luxuriant beard, he cut a handsome figure in both a dark tailcoat, striped trousers, and ruffled shirt, and a dinner jacket with a shawl collar and silk facings. As handsome a figure, she admitted on reflection, as Carson Montgomery had presented during their brief relationship.

Carson. She hadn’t seen him since they had said good-bye outside the Palace Hotel last October, after she’d confronted him with her discoveries about his somewhat checkered past. Nor had he attempted to contact her. Fortunately they didn’t travel in the same social circles; it might have been awkward if their paths had happened to cross. She wished him the best, but thought of him less and less and had no regrets that their brief liaison failed to develop along more intimate lines.

Her time with him, however, had wrought a certain change in her, perhaps even a profound change — one that might be labeled “Not Enough.” One of the traits that her late husband, Stephen, had most valued in her was her flexibility, her capacity for dealing with life’s adversities and then moving forward. He would have understood, though not approved, of her temporary plunge into depression after the outlaw’s bullet took his life, but he would have been proud when she’d finally dragged herself out of the depths and plunged back into her work as a Pink Rose. And he would have applauded, she was sure, her move to San Francisco, her partnership with John, and her new life here.

But while that new life had been fulfilling, it no longer seemed to be complete enough. Much as she enjoyed her friendships with women she’d met through her cousin Callie French, much as she loved her cats, Adam and Eve, they were not adequate substitutes for meaningful male companionship. The interlude with Carson had reminded her that she was a healthy, attractive woman in the prime of life; that she did not have to remain a celibate widow for the rest of her days. Nor would Stephen have wanted her to. Sometimes when she viewed the cats as they played or slept curled together, she thought: They have each other. Whom do I have?

Well, she could have John if she chose. He had made it plain from the beginning that he yearned for a personal relationship, but she had been convinced that his motive was nothing more than seduction, despite his protestations to the contrary. For that reason, and because of the pain of Stephen’s loss, she’d kept him firmly at arm’s length. As she’d kept all other men at arm’s length before Carson. Lately, however, she had begun to think that John’s feelings for her as a woman went well beyond mere sexual conquest.