Shopaholic to the Rescue

  “Of course you do,” says Danny. “You always have great ideas. Spill, Beckeroo.”

  He gives me an encouraging smile and sits back to listen, and once again I feel that flicker of adrenaline inside. That positive spirit. Like old friends coming to give me a little inner hug.

  TWELVE

  Having said that, everyone thinks it’s a mad idea.

  Even Suze, who thinks it’s a good idea, thinks it’s also mad. Luke thinks it’s a terrible idea. Mum doesn’t know if it’s good or bad but is desperate for it to work. Janice keeps flitting between wild optimism and utter pessimism. Danny’s really into it—but that’s only because he’s created my costume.

  “There.” I give a final adjustment to my scarf. “Perfect.” I turn to survey my audience. “What do you think—identical twins, no?”

  “You don’t look anything like her,” says Luke flatly.

  “I look exactly like her!”

  “Sweetheart, I think you need your eyes tested.”

  “No, I can see it,” says Danny. “You look quite like her.”

  “Only quite?” I feel a bit crestfallen.

  “Everyone looks different than their photos,” says Danny firmly. “It’s fine. It’s good.” He takes the “Guide to Artists” booklet and holds it up next to me, open at the page with the photo of Pauline Audette. And I don’t care what Luke says, I do look like her. It’s uncanny—even more so now I’ve dressed up like her.

  I’m wearing a smock-type shirt, which Danny bought at the fair yesterday evening, over some loose trousers belonging to Janice. My hair is held back by a piece of tie-dye cloth, because Pauline Audette always has some boho scarf in her hair. All morning, Danny has been tugging and pinning and adding artistic streaks of paint and clay, which we bought in the crafts tent. To my eye, I look exactly like a French potter.

  “OK, I’ll practice,” I announce. “My name, eet ees Pauline Audette.”

  Luckily, there are lots of clips of Pauline Audette on YouTube, because she does this thing called “mini-sculpt,” where she takes a handful of clay and models it into something in about five seconds flat. Like a tree or a bird. (I must say, she is pretty amazing.) So I’ve watched her over and over, and I think I’ve got the accent. “I am ceramic artiste,” I continue. “My inspiration, eet come from ze nah-toor.”

  “What’s that?” says Janice, looking baffled.

  “Nature, love,” explains Mum. “Nature, in French.”

  “I ’ave come to Arizona for ’oliday. I ’ave remember Monsieur Raymond who write me ze kind lettairs. I seenk, Zut! I will visite Monsieur Raymond.” I pause and look around. “What do you think?”

  “Don’t say Zut,” says Luke.

  “You sound like Hercule Poirot,” says Suze. “He’s never going to fall for it if you talk like that.”

  “Well, it’s our only shot,” I retort. I feel a bit offended, actually. I thought my accent was pretty good. “And, all right, I won’t say Zut. Come on, assistant, let’s go.”

  Suze is playing my assistant, in an all-black outfit with fake spectacles. Her hair is in a sleek ponytail and she’s got just a slash of red lipstick, which Danny says is definitely the “French art assistant” look.

  I head to the door of the RV and look around at the eager, hopeful faces. “Wish us luck!”

  Alicia isn’t with us anymore, obviously. I have no idea what she did last night. Called another limo service, I expect, and went back to L.A. (She left some things in the RV, and Danny was all for making a bonfire of them, but we’ve decided to send them back with a dignified note.) Over supper last night, I explained to Mum and Janice about how Alicia and her husband had been trying to rip off both Tarkie and Suze and how evil she was. Whereupon they both instantly said that they’d suspected she was up to something all along, and they’d felt it in their bones, and what a good job they’d warned me about her!

  I mean, honestly.

  “Becky, what if you’re arrested?” says Janice in a sudden panic. “We’ve already had one run-in with the police.”

  “I won’t be arrested!” I scoff. “It’s not against the law to impersonate people.”

  “Yes, it is!” says Luke, smacking a hand against his forehead. “Jesus, Becky. It’s fraud.”

  Luke’s always so literal.

  “Well, OK, maybe in some cases. But this isn’t fraud,” I say firmly. “It’s a quest for the truth. Anyone would understand that, even a policeman. And I’ve dressed up now; I can’t bottle out. See you later.”

  “Wait!” calls Luke. “Remember, if there isn’t any housekeeper or household staff, if your phone loses signal, if anything feels wrong, you leave.”

  “Luke, it’ll be perfectly safe!” I say. “This is a friend of my dad’s, remember?”

  “Hmm.” Luke doesn’t look impressed. “Well, you be careful.”

  “We will. Come on, Suze.”

  We hurry down the steps of the RV and toward Raymond’s ranch. Luke drives off to hide the RV out of sight around the next bend. As we approach the massive gates, I start to feel quite severe jitters, but I’m not going to mention them to Suze. She’ll only say, Let’s not do it, then. And I really, really want to do this. It’s our last chance.

  Plus…there’s more to it than that. Putting this plan into action, even if it is a bit ridiculous, I feel like I’ve come alive. I feel dynamic. And I think it’s the same for Suze. She’s still in a real state—she hasn’t heard anything from Tarkie, or about Owl’s Tower, or anything. But it’s like channeling her energies into this is making her feel better.

  “Come on!” I clasp Suze’s hand briefly as we approach. “We can do this! You went to drama school, remember? If I get in trouble, you take over.”

  The gates to the ranch are vast and wooden, and I count three cameras trained on us. It’s all a bit intimidating, but I remind myself that I’m Pauline Audette and head confidently to the intercom panel. I press the entry button and wait for someone to reply.

  “Wait, Suze!” I say in a sudden undertone. “What’s our code word?”

  “Shit.” She stares at me, wide-eyed. “Dunno.”

  We’ve been talking about having a code word all morning, but we haven’t actually thought of one.

  “Potato,” I say hurriedly.

  “Potato? Are you nuts? How am I supposed to bring ‘potato’ into conversation?”

  “Well, you think of a better one. Go on!” I add, as she looks blank.

  “I can’t,” she says, sounding cross. “You’ve put me on the spot now. All I can think of is ‘potato.’ ”

  “Hello?” A woman’s tinny voice comes over the intercom, and my stomach turns over.

  “Hello!” says Suze, stepping forward. “My name is Jeanne de Bloor. I have Pauline Audette here for Mr. Raymond Earle. Pauline Audette,” she repeats, enunciating clearly.

  Suze came up with the name Jeanne de Bloor. She’s decided that Jeanne was born in The Hague, has settled in Paris but has a long-term lover in Antwerp, speaks five languages, and is learning Sanskrit. (Suze is very thorough when it comes to creating a character. She’s made notes and everything.)

  There’s silence from the intercom, and Suze and I exchange questioning glances. Then, just as I’m about to suggest that Suze try again, a man’s voice comes from the speaker.

  “Hello? It’s Raymond Earle here.”

  Oh my God. Now my stomach is churning furiously, but I step forward to speak.

  “Allo,” I say into the intercom. “My name, eet ees Pauline Audette. We ’ave corresponded.”

  “You’re Pauline Audette?” He sounds gobsmacked, as well he might.

  “I ’ave see your exhibition at ze fair. I weesh to talk to you about your work, but I cannot find you. So I come to your ’ouse.”

  “You saw my work? You want to talk about my work?”

  He sounds so excited, I feel an almighty stab of guilt. I shouldn’t be doing this to a poor, innocent potter. I shouldn’t be raising his hopes. I??
?m a bad person.

  But, then, he shouldn’t have sent Mum and Janice away. Tit for tat.

  “May I come in to your ’ouse?” I say, but already the gates are swinging open.

  We’re in!

  “Jeanne,” I say briskly, for the cameras’ benefit, “you weel accompany me and take ze notes.”

  “Vairy gut,” says Suze, in what I think is supposed to be a Dutch accent and nearly makes me double over.

  The house is about half a mile away, up a badly kept track, and I realize he was expecting us to be in a car. But I can hardly go and get the RV. As we trudge along the track, I keep seeing weird sculptures everywhere. There’s a bull made out of what looks like car parts, and a man’s yelling face made out of iron, and lots of strange abstract pieces made out of what look like tires. It’s all a bit freaky, and I’m glad to reach the house, until I hear the frenzied barking of dogs.

  “This place is spooky,” I mutter to Suze as we ring the bell. The house was probably really impressive once, but it’s a bit dilapidated. It’s made of stone and wood, with gables and a veranda and a massive carved front door, but some of the wooden railings look rotten, and I can see two patched-up broken windows. The dogs’ barking gets even louder, and we both shrink back.

  “Have you still got a signal?” I murmur to Suze, and she checks her phone.

  “Yes. You?”

  “Yup. All good,” I say loudly, for Luke’s benefit. Suze’s phone is recording in her pocket and mine is connected to Luke’s, so everyone in the RV should be able to hear what’s going on.

  “Down!” comes Raymond’s voice from inside the house. “You get in there.”

  Inside, a door bangs shut. The next moment we hear what seem like about twenty-five locks being undone, then the front door swings open and Raymond Earle greets us.

  The first word that hits my mind is “grizzled.” Raymond’s beard is like a gray furry blanket and reaches all the way down to his chest. He’s wearing a blue-and-white bandanna round his head, and his ancient jeans are covered in mud or clay or something. The house smells of dogs and tobacco and dust and old food, with a faint reek of rotting vegetation.

  He could really do with a scented candle or two. I’m tempted to give him the link to Jo Malone.

  “Miss Audette.” He bows low and his beard flops down. “I’m honored.”

  Oh God. I feel even more guilty about tricking him, now we’re here. We need to get into his studio as quickly as possible and action my plan.

  “I am enchantée to meet you after all zis time,” I say gravely. “When I come to Wilderness, I remember Monsieur Raymond who has written me ze kind lettairs.”

  “Well, I’m delighted to meet you!” He grabs my hand and shakes it heartily. “This is such an unexpected pleasure!”

  “Let us go straight to ze studio and observe ze work,” I say.

  “Of course.” Raymond seems totally overcome. “I’ll just…come in. Come in.”

  He ushers us into a wide hall with a fireplace and a wooden vaulted ceiling, which would be stunning if it weren’t such a mess. There are dusty boots, coats, dog baskets, a bucket of old bricks, and a rolled-up carpet, all just lying around.

  “Can I get you a beer? Some ice water?” Raymond leads us into a messy kitchen, which smells of some meaty dish. The back wall is covered in shelves, on which are propped-up paintings and drawings and a few weird-looking sculptures. A housekeeper is trying to dust them, but I can see she’s not finding it easy.

  “Careful!” Raymond suddenly snaps at her. “Don’t move anything!” He turns back to me. “Miss Audette?”

  “Non, merci. I would like to see your work. Ze piece most dear to you in ze world.” I’m trying to hurry him along, but Raymond doesn’t seem the hurrying type.

  “I have so much to ask you,” he says.

  “And I ’ave much to ask you,” I counter. Which, at least, is the truth.

  “You’ll have noticed my Darin.” He nods toward the shelves.

  Darin? What’s a Darin? Is Darin an artist?

  “Absolument.” I nod briskly. “Shall we go?”

  “What’s your take on his use of form?” His eyes blink at me earnestly.

  OK, this is exactly the kind of question I didn’t want him to ask me. I need to come up with some convincing artisty answer, quick. Something about form. Except I never listened in art lessons.

  “Form is dead,” I pronounce at last, in my most Gallic accent. “C’est morte.”

  Perfect. If form’s dead, I don’t have to talk about it.

  “Let us go to ze studio,” I add, trying to usher Raymond out of the kitchen. But he doesn’t move. He seems slightly staggered.

  “Form is dead?” he echoes finally.

  “Oui, c’est fini.” I nod.

  “But—”

  “Form, eet ees no more.” I spread my hands, trying to look convincing.

  “But Miss Audette, h-how can this be?” stammers Raymond. “Your own design…your writings…your books…are you really giving up on a life’s work? It can’t be!”

  He’s staring at me in consternation. Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. But I can’t backtrack now.

  “Oui,” I say after a pause. “C’est ca.”

  “But why?”

  “I am artiste,” I say, playing for time. “Not woman, not human, artiste.”

  “I don’t understand,” says Raymond, looking unhappy.

  “I must seek ze truth,” I add, with sudden inspiration. “I must be brave. Ze artiste must always be brave above all, you understand? I must destroy ze old ideas. Zen will I a true artiste be.”

  I hear a tiny snort from Suze but ignore her.

  “But—”

  “I do not weesh to speak of it further,” I cut him off firmly.

  “But—”

  “To ze studio!” I wave my hands. “Allons y!”

  My heart is thumping hard as I follow Raymond through the house to the far end. I can’t cope with any more conversations about art; I just want to know about my dad.

  “Are you supposed to be Pauline Audette or Yoda?” Suze’s murmur comes in my ear.

  “Shut up!” I mutter back.

  “We need to cut to the chase!”

  “I know!”

  We arrive at a big room with white walls and a glass roof. It’s bright and messy, with a heavy wooden table in the center and two potter’s wheels, all covered with splotches of clay. But that’s not what I’m seeing. I’m eyeing up the big set of display shelves at the far end of the room. They’re covered with clay statues and sculptures and weird-looking vases. Bingo. This is what we wanted.

  I glance at Suze, and she gives a tiny nod back.

  “You must tell me, Raymond,” I order. “Which, to you, are ze most precious pieces in ze room?”

  “Well.” Raymond hesitates. “Let me see. Of course, there’s Twice.” He gestures at a sculpture which seems to be of a man with two heads. “That was nominated for the Stephens Institute Prize, few years ago. It was mentioned on a couple websites; I don’t suppose you…” He shoots me a hopeful look.

  “A fine piece,” I say, with a brisk nod. “And which ees precious to your heart?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Raymond gives an awkward, heavy laugh. “I have a fond spot for this one.” He points at a much larger, abstract piece, glazed in lots of different colors.

  “Aha.” I nod. “We will examine zem….” I pick up Twice, and Suze picks up the multicolored one. “Let us study zem in ze light….” I move away from Raymond, and Suze follows. “Aha. Zis one, it remind me of…a potato.”

  Suze was right. Potato is a really, really bad code word. But it works. In one seamless movement, Suze and I hold the sculptures above our heads.

  (Suze’s looks much heavier than mine. I feel a bit bad. But, then, she’s got strong arms.)

  “All right,” I say, in my most menacing voice. “Here’s the truth. I’m not Pauline Audette. My name is Rebecca. Graham Bloomwood is
my father. And I want to know the truth about what happened on your road trip. If you won’t tell us, we’ll smash the pieces. If you fetch help, we’ll smash the pieces. So you’d better start talking.” I break off, breathing hard, wondering whether to add “buster,” then think better of it.

  Raymond is clearly one of those very slow, think-everything-through types. It feels like about half an hour that we’re standing there, our arms aching, our pulses racing, waiting for him to respond. He scans from me to Suze. He blinks. He screws up his face. He opens his mouth to speak, then stops.

  “We need to know,” I say, trying to prod him into action. “We need to know the truth, right here, right now.”

  Again, Raymond frowns, as though pondering the great mysteries of life. God, he’s frustrating.

  “You’re not Pauline Audette?” he says at last.

  “No.”

  “Well, thank God for that.” He shakes his head in wonder. “I thought you’d gone crazy.” He peers more closely at me. “You look like her, though. Just like her.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, that is incredible. You’re not related?”

  “Not as far as I know. It is incredible, isn’t it?” I can’t help unbending to him a little. I knew I looked like Pauline Audette.

  “Well, you should google that.” His eyes brighten with interest. “Maybe you have some ancestor in common. You could go on one of those TV shows—”

  “Enough of zis chitchat!” barks Suze, sounding like a Nazi kommandant. “We need the truth!” She frowns disapprovingly at me, and I see I’ve let myself get sidetracked.

  “That’s right!” I say hastily, and hold Twice up even higher. “We’re here for a reason, Raymond, so you’d better give us what we need.”

  “And don’t try any funny business,” adds Suze menacingly. “The minute you call the cops, your two pieces of pottery will be in smithereens.” She sounds like she can’t wait to get smashing. I didn’t realize Suze had quite such a violent side.

  There’s another minute or so of silence—which feels like half an hour—as Raymond digests this.

  “You’re Graham’s daughter,” he says at last, staring at me. “Don’t look like him.”