Chapter 1
I ran barefoot after the thief.
But here’s a life lesson.
Kitten heels and cobblestones don’t go together.
Never have. Never will.
And since there was no way to avoid the treacherous ancient walkways, I just kicked off my shoes and kept going. Making matters worse, the narrow, wet street twisted upward in a brutal S curve, but I managed to keep the dark gray sweatshirt in sight as my quarry plunged through the few tourists who’d braved the nasty weather.
Eze was part town, part museum, part a-place-from-another-time. Its shops, galleries, hotels, and cafés attracted people by the busload from around the world. The oldest building dated to the early 1300s, the whole thing just a mere few acres and appearing like something created as an amusement park. The tourist office loved to boast that Walt Disney once spent a lot of time there. Why? Who knows. But I’d like to think it provided a bit of inspiration.
The tiered village nestled high in the clouds above the French Riviera, about halfway between Nice and Monaco, and carried a mystique that I’d always been drawn to. Writers likened it to an eagle’s nest atop a rocky seaside peak. So many had tried to claim its valuable perch. First the Phoenicians, then Greeks, Romans, Italians, Turks, and Moors. By the 14th century the French had gained a firm hold and the House of Savoy fortified it into a stronghold.
From its 430-meter elevation above the sea, an enemy could be seen a day in advance of coming ashore. Its motto was particularly apropos. In death I am reborn. Its emblem was a phoenix perched on a bone. Not exactly Mickey Mouse, but the symbolism seemed to fit this charming piece of the past.
I kept running.
Thankfully, I stayed in shape. Not three miles every day, but at least every other. But that was usually on flat French terrain. This obstacle course was a different story. Still, I was gaining on the bastard.
And I’d get him.
The thief disappeared over a crest.
A black thunder cloud rolled across the sky. Rain continued to pour down in ever-increasing sheets, the water filling the drains at either side of the shiny cobblestones, rushing downward in two swift currents. A sharp flash overhead was followed by another thunder clap which rattled glass in the olden buildings. I came to the crest and started downhill, the winding twists working even harder against me.
News flash.
Bare feet and wet rocks don’t mix either.
Gray Sweatshirt was wearing rubber-soled sneakers. New ones, I’d noticed earlier. Not a mark on them. Working like wings at the moment, providing sure footing. He was toting the knapsack he’d carried into the museum, which surely still held the wooden box. What a way to spend what was supposed to be a relaxing day with an old friend.
I wasn’t sure of Nicodème’s age. Maybe mid-eighties. I’d never asked, though he’d been around nearly my whole life. He was a gnarled, walking stick of a man with a face like the pummeled look of an unfinished sculpture topped by a mop of unkempt white hair. My father, doing what wealthy men did, had been a collector of rare coins, stamps, and books as well as ancient Egyptian and Roman glass and pottery. Nicodème had long been a dealer in all of those and visited us several times a year in Spain, always bringing curiosities for my father’s perusal, staying with us a few days, telling stories of the world, then leaving with more money than when he’d arrived.
Knowing how much I loved perfume, he never failed to bring me a flacon of some kind. My favorite was still the tiny quartz bottle with a black jade stopper that hung from a silver chain, which I wore often. Opened, I could catch a whiff of the original formula it had once held. I’d never filled it with anything else for fear of losing that faint suggestion of that long lost scent. My curiosity about scents began as a child when my mother gave me my first bottle of cologne. A light floral lemon with a hint of orange blossom. Expectations. A curious name. But one I never forgot.
A jolt of pain surged up my right leg.
Dammit.
Something had bruised the bottom of my foot. Aware of the fragility of ankles and the price of stumbling, I slowed and reached down, applying pressure which resulted in more pain.
No choice.
I kept going.
More of that self-discipline I’d taught myself through too many life lessons and bad decisions to count.
My target remained in my sights about thirty meters ahead. I stumbled on a cracked cobble and nearly lost my balance, but I wasn’t going to stop. This thief had stolen something invaluable. How did I know that? Nicodème’s instructions as I’d bolted from the shop.
Get it back. No matter what.
His air of urgency unmistakable.
Nicodème’s shop sat at the end of one of Eze’s oldest streets, against the outer wall, pressed to the moun
tain, where not all that many tourists ventured. The thief had knocked, entered, and examined what he’d come to see—a wooden box waiting for him on the counter. He was polite and asked intelligent questions. Which raised no alarm bells, as antique dealers were the shop’s main customers.
He even provided a name.
Peter Hildick-Smith.
Nicodème never advertised and no signage identified the building or business other than a bronze number 16. The door stayed locked and all visits were by appointment only. Hildick-Smith had scheduled his last week, there to see some of the ancient glass, as he’d heard Nicodème stocked quite a bit.
Which was true.
The display cases were filled with rare antique bottles, glasses, bowls, jugs, and jars. Differing styles and craftsmanship from around the world. The shelves were stacked with catalogs and books about glass, pottery, and carved stone. A reference library any museum would be envious to own. Hildick-Smith, though, had come to see something in particular, something that he’d confirmed was there at the time of the appointment.
A wooden box.
Rectangular shaped, fashioned of shiny rosewood, the cover inlaid with cabochon stones—amethysts, moonstones, garnets, and sapphires.
From the back of the shop. In what Nicodème called the Museum of Mysteries.
Where access to the front was by invitation, only people who possessed treasures Nicodème was trying to acquire, or scholars who harbored information about treasures already ensconced, were invited into the museum itself. Few of the locals living in Eze knew the stone house and storefront, located at #16 on Rue de Barri, harbored a secret museum. Nor did they know that the elderly antique dealer, Nicodème L’Etoile, was also a mystic whose passion was collecting supposedly powerful and sometimes dangerous portents from the past.