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  The first waiter offered plates and helped serve from the buffet. I started with a celery heart wrapped in prosciutto and topped with a tart cheese sauce, the aroma of which sent my taste buds salivating.

  "I hope this will please your palate," the waiter said. "If not, you only have to ask for what you want."

  "I'm finding everything I need, thank you," I murmured, too focused on the food to speak any louder. Jack appeared even more famished than I and loaded his plate almost to the overflow point.

  "Is there anything else?" the first waiter asked me.

  Just at the point of shaking my head, I realized there was something he could do for me. "Could you turn down the lights in the room for a few minutes? I'd love to see the starlight over the bay."

  "Good idea." Jack took my plate and handed both to the waiter. "Please set these at the table, midrange, and lower the lamps." Then his hand was again at the small of my back and guiding me toward the long sofa and the intersecting windows with their panoramic view.

  Even in the dark, I could see thick clouds to the south. "The stars are lovely right here, but we may still see some of the tropical storm remnants by the end of the weekend."

  "It's not supposed to get past Cuba," Jack murmured. "But this still is hurricane season. It's quite optimistic of the Browning to stage an outdoor event this time of year."

  Several catty remarks nearly escaped my lips. Melanie was never the sharpest knife in the drawer, but her tongue certainly was, and since she was Jack's friend of sorts, I didn't want anything negative I said to get back to her. I did have to wonder about his taste in sources given her innuendo about their past, but the way Jack responded said he might not have the same memories, or at least feelings, about the incident. It was something we probably needed to discuss later. If we were going to use his contacts, I wanted to know they could all be trusted.

  A number of smaller vessels crisscrossed the boating channels, lights bobbing on the crafts at bow and stern, and several more at midpoints on the larger crafts. All too soon the beauty of the night was overcome by the hunger pangs we experienced from just smelling the food waiting for us. Candlelit tapers sat in crystal holders on the table, and the flames wavered like fingers calling us over, their reflection in the wine almost enough to entrance me in the moment.

  I scooted onto the cushioned chair by my plate and crossed my legs to the side. The waiter had set Jack across from me, each of us in the middle of the long sides of the table. I was surprised, wondering why Jack didn't take the head position instead.

  Sad to say, we attacked our food with classlessness derived from pure hunger and fatigue. We didn't even try to talk over our dinner despite the perfect proximity we had for conversation. And we made little more than monosyllabic noises of assent when the waiters replenished our glasses or offered to bring over dessert.

  Finally sated in a way I don't think sex had ever accomplished, I let my gaze rove over the darkened room. I was about to ask about a Picasso on the wall behind the buffet when the door breezed open and a Sophia Loren lookalike entered the lounge. Jack rose from the chair as she entered. She wore heels and a clingy black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. Her smile stretched from Venice to Rome.

  She offered that smile to me, along with a "Buonasera!" But she hugged Jack and kissed and patted both of his cheeks. He made introductions for us, and as I moved out from behind the table, Margarite surreptitiously looked me over then gave Jack a tiny nod. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Laurel Beacham. If you need anything while you are aboard, you need only ask. Anyone can help you or will locate someone who can do so. Please, you are our guest."

  "Thank you." I shook the hand she extended and noticed the firm grip. The woman was likely late-fifties or maybe even sixties, but she wore her age well and obviously kept in shape. I took her to be a female majordomo on the yacht, and she had probably run things for the family for decades. Jack's next words confirmed my thoughts.

  "Margarite is the best friend any traveler can have, Laurel." The woman almost preened under his compliment. "I don't think even the captain is truly in charge when Margarite is around."

  She slapped his shoulder playfully. "Oh, Jack Hawkes, you will get me into trouble. Shame on you."

  "It's very nice meeting you, Margarite." I couldn't contain a yawn any longer and hid it behind my hand. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I don't want to inconvenience you, but if you could show me to my room, I would appreciate it."

  "But of course. Everything is ready."

  "Laurel." Jack's voice carried that warning tone. "We need to talk, you and I."

  I yawned again, this time cupping both hands so more of my face was hidden. The second yawn was a fake, but I truly was sleepy, and I squinted my eyes to give it everything I had. "Oh, Jack. I'm exhausted. We'll talk tomorrow when both of us are much fresher."

  "Your friend is correct." Margarite took my side. "I can see the fatigue on your face as well, Jack. Let Renaldo get you a cognac while I take Laurel to the sleeping deck. You will have plenty of time to talk tomorrow."

  "But the event—"

  "Is at ten," I said. "You and I are both still functioning on London time, so we'll likely be up with the sun. We'll have plenty of time to discuss our options."

  His eyes drooped a little when I mentioned time zones. Margarite waved for me to follow, and Jack offered no further objection.

  "You have an en suite." Margarite crossed the lovely aqua-and-cream room to open the door I would be using shortly for the shower I desperately needed. The queen-sized bed drew me like a magnet. I couldn't remember when I'd been so tired. While putting off my talk with Jack until morning was my standard plan to determine exactly what I wanted to reveal, tonight it had been a necessity. I didn't want to think about how easily my brain would spill things I wanted to keep to myself. Then Margarite threw me a curve.

  "I knew your mother, you know."

  It was fortunate for me that the bed was right there, or I would have probably landed on the floor when my knees gave way. "No, I didn't. Jack never said anything."

  She moved to the small desk and straightened the wild riot of fragrant colors that rose from the crystal vase. "I was a few years older than she, but we had much fun." Her hands stopped fussing with the flowers, and she turned to give me a devilish grin. "We could get into much trouble. One time we spent the whole day on the beach in Nice. Your grandfather had a fit when he learned we'd both been topless. Luckily for me he liked me, or he could have gotten me fired! He shook his finger at me and said, 'MJ, don't you ever do that again.'"

  I remembered my grandfather talking about a beautiful Italian girl he called MJ. The room spun for a moment. "Did you work for my family?"

  "No." She shook her head. "I worked for one of your grandfather's business associates. But when I was treated badly by the man, your grandfather helped me get into business school. Once I graduated, he helped me to get a job. Now I live aboard this yacht and take care of all of its business."

  "Who owns the Folly Roost?"

  Margarite acted like she didn't hear my question and crossed to the closet. Behind the louvered doors was a veritable boutique specializing in clothing sized around my figure. "I had things sent from a few local stores. Jack gave me an estimate about size. He is pretty good in such things. All that observation training, you know."

  "No, I really don't. How long have you known Jack? Did you work for his family?"

  She laughed and shook her head. "Not really. But he was around often and was a most precocious boy when I first met him."

  "And he hasn't changed one whit."

  My remark made her laugh all the harder. She said, "Oh, you do know him well. I had such a feeling."

  "A feeling about what?" This conversation was leading me in circles, and I didn't think lack of sleep was completely at fault. "Margarite, please tell me what you mean."

  Her smile softened a touch, and she walked over and took my hands. "Trust him. Trust yourself. I know w
hat I say is true. You each have what the other needs."

  "What are you talking about?"

  She patted my hand. "Sleep. Your eyes are barely open. Here." She walked to the dresser and removed a full-length silk charmeuse gown in soft ivory. A matching robe lay draped over the upholstered bench at the end of the bed. She put both pieces in my hands. "Go, stand under a warm shower, change into these, and sleep. You need to be well rested."

  With this cryptic advice, she sashayed to the door, flashing one last grin before she disappeared into the night.

  Three a.m., and after a few hours of shut eye, I'd awakened even though my cabin and bed were incomparable. Normally I would have reveled in a long slumber, but I had things to do and needed to use every opportunity. I moved almost in a dreamlike state, not really feeling awake or asleep, and scooped up the robe I'd replaced on the footboard bench. From the Fendi, I pocketed my tiny, powerful flashlight, and then I slipped quietly from the deliciously cool air of the cabin and into the sultry atmosphere. Yes, there were storms brewing out on the horizon. I could feel them. But I hoped they stayed away until we accomplished whatever we needed to ultimately do in Miami. I remembered the snuffbox then and smiled to know it would soon be in my hands, so I might discover any secrets it yet held.

  The narrow deck was empty. I leaned over the smooth railing to stare at the moon lazily reflected on the slowly undulating black water. My movements were deliberately measured, like the sea below.

  I wanted another look at the Woman Dressing Her Hair in the main saloon, but I didn't want anyone observing to be aware of my interest. Nonchalantly, I strolled the deck before moving toward my destination. Like any guest who couldn't sleep, I would pour myself a drink to help coax my mind to relax. No one needed to know about my special interest. Especially Jack.

  The saloon was almost pitch black, the curtains all closed, but I located a sliding switch near the doorframe and pulled the lights up to just past dim. I knew what Jack had said, but I wanted to be sure while I had a chance to verify my own thoughts. Something was familiar about the brushstrokes and tickled an idea in the back of my mind.

  Within a few minutes I'd confirmed for my own interests that what Jack said was true, but I couldn't remember what my subconscious still seemed a bit obsessed over. Eventually, I knew the information would surface. I had just returned the tiny torch to my pocket when I heard a startled "Oh!" from behind me.

  "I am so sorry." Margarite gave me her broad smile as she moved closer. "I walked by and saw the lights on a bit and thought Ernesto had forgotten to extinguish them."

  With a wave toward the painting, I explained, "I couldn't sleep, so I came in to take another look at the paintings and see if I could find that wonderful cognac I was too sleepy to enjoy earlier."

  She laughed and moved to the bar. "But of course. The best way to get back to sleep, I say. Is the room comfortable for you?"

  "Absolutely. No complaints at all." I accepted the small snifter she passed to me, then watched as she poured another for herself. She was still in the dress she wore at dinner, and nothing about her looked slept in. "When do you go to bed, Margarite?" I took a sip. Heaven.

  Once again, she laughed. "I am…oh, what is the word? Insomniac. That is it." She set her glass back down on the bar top and waved her hands as she spoke. "I sleep a few hours here, another few there. It all adds up in the end."

  The liquid slid effortlessly down my throat. "This cognac is excellent. Of course, everything about Folly Roost has been superb as far as I can see."

  She picked up her glass, raised it high above eye level, and swirled it near one of the recessed lights. "This is the owner's private collection. He keeps it especially for his valued guests."

  "Who owns the Folly Roost?"

  At that second, the captain burst in. "Oh, good, you're here. We received your call. He's holding for you."

  "Please excuse me." She slid her glass back to the middle of the bar. "I've been waiting for my son to call. I must go to the bridge." She slipped her hand through Captain Morgan's arm. "Thank you for coming to notify me." And they disappeared out the door.

  I finished my cognac and rinsed the glass under the faucet behind the bar. I wandered past the Picasso, but my heart wasn't into examining it any closer. It looked like the real thing, and the fact that Jack pointed up the other as being a fake right away, without mentioning the Picasso, made the probable answer lead my feet back to Woman Dressing Her Hair.

  Something. Something. But what? Those brushstrokes. Whose were they? Why do I remember them, and what am I remembering?

  The effort was too great. I was trying too hard, and the answer wouldn't come as long as I persisted. Besides, fatigue was coming back suddenly in great waves. I hadn't had enough sleep, and the liquor on top of the exhaustion was the final push.

  By the time I made it back to my stateroom, I was nearly operating on autopilot. I'd left my lamp on and oriented my feet toward the bed. Then I remembered nothing else.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next morning dawned overcast, the distant clouds of the wee hours now settling comfortably in the Miami environs. I was ahead of Jack getting to the saloon, despite the fact it was after seven already. I couldn't remember when I'd had a better night's sleep, and discovering the beautiful fawn-colored linen suit in my closet—and finding it a perfect fit—pushed me into the delirious zone on my happiness meter. I'd even decided to tell Jack about the snuffbox, let him know we could be at the end of our journey in searching for the microchip that supposedly held details of what could soon be the greatest heist in the art world. We also might reasonably have the chance to halt all preparations in their tracks.

  I felt like the cat that ate the canary—cliché, I know, but apropos. Out the windows, I watched the sun move higher in the sky and heard a speedboat zoom away from close by. It may have even been the boat Jack and I arrived on the previous evening. The motor sounded familiar anyway. I imagined the speedy craft made many ferries back and forth for supplies, as it obviously had yesterday to return with all the clothes Margarite stocked in my bedroom suite.

  In an instant, I realized exactly how much I'd missed this life and how I planned to relish this mini-return. The world was a glorious place when Laurel Beacham was rested, optimistic, and eating eggs Benedict on a yacht nicer even than the one Granddaddy used to own. I was in my element and invincible and ready to offer Jack an "in" into my happy space.

  "Ah, I knew you would be early." Margarite swooped in with a smile and a yummy mimosa in each hand. "Here, we'll share a little early girl talk."

  My plate was empty, and my hand was full with the lovely flute. We clinked glasses and each took a sip.

  "I didn't think I'd finish breakfast before Jack even made it in here." I laughed. "Guess that final cognac was just what the doctor ordered for total relaxation."

  Margarite waved a hand. "No, no, Jack left on the launch a few minutes ago. He said he would meet you at the Browning event."

  The glass slipped from my fingers and shattered across the tabletop.

  "Oh, how careless of me." As one of the waiters cleaned and someone else brought me another filled glass, I went through the motions, said the right things, but was still trying to figure out exactly what I'd heard a moment ago. Jack left. Jack left without me. And without talking to me before he departed. Despite the fact he was the one so gung-ho to make plans and trade information the previous evening.

  I wasn't sure what it all meant, but I knew he'd just lost his opportunity to learn about Tina and the snuffbox. I intended to hold that secret as close as I could when I had the item in my hand within the next few hours.

  The appeal of girl talk vanished about then too. I smiled a lot and made conversation, but neither my heart nor my brain was truly in it. Jack was long gone, and I waited until I heard the return sound of the high-performance boat before I asked, "Is that the launch now? Would they mind returning to shore right away? I have a few things to take care of this mo
rning."

  "No problem at all." Margarite rose. "I'll tell them you'll be ready momentarily."

  "Give me five minutes."

  While she left to inform the crewman, I flew to my room and returned any items I'd taken from my Fendi, then scooped up yesterday's clothes. Everything looked the same. I admit to wishing I could stay longer, and not just for the luxury. This desire was partly due to wanting to tap into Margarite's knowledge of Beacham history. To be completely honest, I would have loved to talk with her about my mother. Having lost my mom when I was barely four, it was other people's stories that kept her real to me. Still, if wishes were horses, yada, yada… I wasted no time taking my leave.

  At the ladder, Margarite did nothing to stop me, didn't even try to slow my progress, but her expressive brown eyes said she was disappointed in some way. Just as likely, the roots of her "look" may have hinged on that last reveal she'd offered before she left my room the previous night. I still needed to think about that when I had the time. The mission came first, however, and while I had no idea if I was the cause of her disappointment or the result, I didn't take a moment to ask. Nevertheless, I wondered just the same.

  Minutes later, I was the solo passenger on the black launch as we drove into the wind toward Miami. The water was choppy and inhospitable, as if it knew reinforcements were coming and didn't have to play nice anymore. Sheer speed swept my hair back and away from my face, and the momentum seemed to sweep the cobwebs from my brain at the same time.

  I contemplated how Margarite fit in with Jack and/or his family. If she'd known him since childhood, they had a history. A history that might include her making sure something was slipped in my wine the previous evening, so my exhaustion could be enhanced and allow Jack to slip out without me come morning light.

  Yet, this idea begged the question as to what he could be up to so early and why he needed to go alone. Unless Melanie gave him a lead he hadn't shared, we were still waiting to see what Nico came up with before proceeding. At least, that was the plan as far as Jack and I had discussed. My connecting with Tina had been a fluke—well, not completely, since the girl never failed to use art events in her husband-trapping plans. But he could not have known when he drove us to the Browning Gallery that I would encounter Tina in her new career endeavor. And he couldn't know what she told me unless he was the person eavesdropping.