Milo... Mona Lisa

      By Pattie Lawler

 

 

            On their final night in Paris, Milo escorted Albany to a private dinner with one of the city’s most celebrated celebrates. Seated side by side, they enjoyed their silent companion’s company while talking of inconsequential things.

            “I’m surprised,” Albany said between courses, “that she’s not alone in the room. The place is crammed with art!”

            Milo nodded toward the Mona Lisa. “Where better to display your finer pieces then in the highest traffic area?”

            “I suppose. It also makes sense to hide her at the furthest reaches of the museum and make people pass not so great pieces to get to her.”

            “The caterers wouldn’t thank you for the thought.”

            Albany’s smile grew as she twisted to face him. “Yes. I’m massively impressed.”

            “Frankly, I am, too. I was convinced my credit on Joan’s sword had expired.”

            “And yet you manage another dazzling save. Not only at Notre Dame but at the Bibliothèque. Do you ever run out of tricks?”

            He lifted his wine glass to touch hers. “I hope not.” After a sip, he nodded toward the painting again. “She’s also an excellent opening for a story I’d like to share.”

            Albany sobered, placing her glass down. “Oh?”

            Milo smiled, leaning closer to kiss her cheek. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing dangerous or multi-generational. In fact,” he sat back, crossing his legs, “it might just improve your opinion of me.”

            Her eyebrow arched as she waited.

            “How much do you think she’s worth?” He gestured toward the painting.

            “Priceless, I’m sure.”

            “And what if you were a collector, like me, though not as handsome, and you had to own her? What then?”

            “Hire a therapist?”                                                                                                      

            He chuckled and shook his head. “Not an option.”

            “Then you tell me.”

            “Let’s pretend. Imagine she’s stolen. France is in an uproar, pointing fingers at Italy, America, England, Russia, closing borders, detaining innocent tourists. Time passes, passions cool and you, dedicated collector that you are, have all but exhausted your resources in trying to track down the thief.”

            “To make him an offer?”

            He nodded. “Precisely. So, when you’re finally approached, you’re overjoyed.”

            Albany looked at the painting. “But how would I know for sure it’s the real deal?”

            “And even more worrisome is what to do with her when you finally get her alone?”

            She frowned. “I certainly can’t display her.”

            “And among collectors such an item is called a Mona Lisa. Something that would land you in a vat of boiling unpleasantness if anyone found out.  However, you are now in possession of your personal Holy Grail. Congratulations.”

            The frown faded as she smiled up at him. “It feels good to own something no one else can have.”

            “It does. But it feels even better when you can gloat.”

            “And so we come to the point.”

            “I’m not the gloating type.” He hurried on before she could comment. “Do you know how many paintings Leonardo made?”

            She shook her head.

            “Well, there’s no definitive answer to that, but the estimate is around thirty, of which fifteen survive. Now, imagine I have one of the missing fifteen.”

            Albany smiled. “Actually, I can see that.”

            He smiled back. “I’m flattered, but that’s only the background. The real story begins with six good friends, too much wine, and a firm once upon a time…”

 <0>

            Milo looked down at the scrap of paper then across the table at Payton, who was busily writing on his own scrap. A quick glance around the board confirmed that the other five collectors were eager to share. So why did he hesitate? Before him stretched a treasure chest of possibilities. Curiosity, fear, excitement, avarice.

            Which would win?

            “Are you in, Milo?”

            There was no reason to seek out the speaker as Jorge’s Scandinavian accent was unique in the group.

            Payton folded his page in half and flicked it into the center of the table. “He’s trying to decide which Mona Lisa to share.” Over the ripple of chuckles he added, “I’m in.”

            There was that, too, Milo thought. Yes, he trusted these men, and yes, he knew the risk they were all taking. He knew there was the potential of admitting to owning stolen goods, perhaps even stolen from someone present, but the desire to brag was as strong as the desire to hoard.

            Which should win?

            He mentally switched tracks. What would Beth say?

            Milo smiled. He could see her black eyes alight as she laughed at him. She wouldn’t hesitate. Beth lived large, could he do less?

            He relaxed back, mentally running through his collection and musing aloud. “Which would impress you all the most?”

            Again there was soft laughter from those gathered. “What shall it be, men? Milo’s collection’s the oldest,” Payton said.

            “And the biggest,” Connors added.

            “And the most secretive,” Jorge said.

            “I know what I’d like him to have,” Oliver said as he added his paper to the pile.

            “A will that leaves everything to me!” Everle roared, sitting forward enough to toss his paper into the pile. “I do believe that all the speculation in the world will never exceed Owswells’ holdings. The insurance premiums alone would balance the budget. And that, gentlemen,” he stabbed a finger at the pile, “is a drop in the bucket in comparison.”

            “While I’m flattered that you all have such an inflated opinion of my collection, I would never suggest that any of these titles,” Milo gestured to the pile, “is less worthy than anything I might hold.”

“Don’t try to sugar coat it,” Everle said, leaning forward to see what Milo had written.

Milo rocked to the side, out of Everle’s view, folding the paper. “I’m in, on condition.”

This drew a round of protests.

Milo held up a gloved hand. “Hear my condition first!”

Protests became fading chuckles.

“It’s simple; no explanations. Just the what, not the who, where, how or when.”

Everyone, including Milo, nodded. “Good.” He dropped his title in with the rest. “Jorge, you’re closest, would you like to do the honors?”

Jorge sat forward and gave the pile a stir. “Shall we guess who holds each title?” This suggestion being agreed to, Jorge picked up a paper, unfolded it, frowned, and read aloud. “Un Coeur Fendu par le Deuil.”

There was a moment of profound silence before Payton picked up his wine glass and said with a wry smile, “I have no idea what that is.”

This admission was echoed by all but Milo. “Trust Jorge to get mine first,” he said, also reclaiming his wine. “The Grief Cloven Heart,” he repeated, “written and illustrated by René of Anjou…in the year 1453.”

            “Ah!” Connors breathed. “The year Isabelle of Lorraine died!”

            Milo’s eyes closed as he nodded. “Before writing his well-known masterpiece, Le Cueur d'Amours Espris, Rene poured out his grief in Cloven Heart.”

            There was a breathless pause as this mental image took on its own life in the minds of those gathered. And then the flood of questions began. Milo did his best to answer them all.

            “How’s the art?” Everle asked once the technical description had been given.

            “Superior to the Book of Love in every way.”

            “I’d like to get my hands on that,” Connors said.

            “The door’s always open, though I have to warn you, it’s not an easy read. It’s like a grief magnet. It took me months to get through.”

            “Still,” Connors sighed, “I’d like to try.”

 <0>          

            Albany waited, her gazed fixed on his face. Finally, she couldn’t take any more. “Well? Did he read it?”

            Milo nodded. “It took him less time than me, but he didn’t have the option to walk away as easily as I did.”

            “Why was he so interested?”

            “A distant family relation, if I’m not mistaken.”

            “And the other titles? Were they as impressive as Cloven Heart?”

            Milo nodded. “One was important enough to force me to invite myself to his estate.”

            “And nothing bad happened, right?”

            “No one has breathed a word,” he agreed. “Sincerely, I trust them all, even with a Mona Lisa.”

            “How many do you own?”

            “We own almost four dozen. The number fluctuates as fashions change and books are discovered or lost, but we have fourteen that could change the face of history should they be made known.”

            “Please tell me they’re not at Owswell.”

            “They are not. Well, one is, no, two. You almost touched one, you may recall, while dressed in a burqa.”

            She looked thoughtful before nodding. “That Qur’an.”

            He smiled. “Yes. It originally belonged to Abd Allah ibn Mas’ud, one of Prophet Mohammad’s inner circle and was a gift to me from a certain metal bird.”

            “Wow.”

            “Yeah. And fear not. That room is like an airplane’s black box. I think a direct strike wouldn’t make a dent. And now,” he pushed back from the table and rose, his hand out for hers, “a stroll before we head home.”

            “And by stroll you mean we find a dark corner with no cameras watching, I’m sure.”

            He smiled, catching her hand. “The thought had occurred. And if I’m really lucky, you’ll favor what has to be kickass acoustics with a song.”

<0> 

            They flew from Paris to London, pausing long enough for Joe to met them at the airport with work for them both.

            “This is interesting,” Milo murmured when they were again airborne. He leafed through the stack of papers with one hand and held a single piece of paper up in the other. “Seems we have a hit from the web site.”

            Albany’s head tilted as she squinted at the page. “The one about the spell?”

            “Yes.  Miss Lilla Kaplan claims to have another piece.”

            “Oh?”

            Milo handed her the printout and then reached for his phone. “Let’s see what Simon has learned about Miss Kaplan.”

            Simon picked up on the first ring, and Milo frowned. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

            “Then why are you calling?”

            “Hmm, good point. Habit, I guess.”

            “Joe gave you the email.”

            “She did. And this is where you praise my excellent idea.”

“Excellent idea there, Milo. Let’s hope this isn’t a wild goose chase.”

“I accept your gushing praise. So tell me, what have you learned about Miss Kaplan while you’re supposed to be relaxing?”

            “I relax best while investigating, though sadly, there was little to learn.”

            “Oh?”

            “The initial pass showed a rather vanilla life.”

            “Prefab?”

            “It has that feel.”

            “So, are you telling me your vacation’s over?”

            “I’ll take it another time.”

            “I know better than to insist.” Milo extended his arm, looking at his watch. “We’ll be home around nine. Join us for breakfast, please, and you and I can review.”

            “I told Jameson to meet us at the penthouse at noon.”

            “Good enough. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

 

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