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stood, sleek and stylish, carrying a designer tote bag over her arm.
    The delivery truck’s brake squealed in the rear cobbled passage. Over the open skylight, a flurry of blackbirds fluttered from the flowering honeysuckle. “My assistant’s disappeared, but if you’ll look at our catalogue while I deal . . .”
    “Please, go ahead.”
    By the time Mathieu guided the chestnut planks to the rough pine pallets, Suzanne, breathless and red-faced, appeared.
    Mathieu’s lips turned down in disapproval. “Suzanne, clients, deliveries and how I can work when . . .”
    “Monsieur . . . the police line,” she said, hanging up her jean jacket, scooping up the mail, and hitting the answering machine playback in one swoop.
    Suzanne had a head for figures, unlike Mathieu. And when she appeared, she smoothed the office into routine and organization with an effortless charm. He ignored her bare midriff-tops, pierced navel, and penchant for Bastille club DJs who picked her up after work.
    “Another strike?” Mathieu sighed. “Who is it this time?”
    “ Mais . . . they’re setting up police barricades,” she said, her eyes wide. “Didn’t you hear?”
    Mathieu gripped the desk. His mind flew to the furniture.
    “A woman murdered in the next passage; they say it’s the Beast of Bastille.”
    The serial killer? Was that what the dwarf had been asking about?
    “I had to prove I work here before they would let me into the passage,” Suzanne said. “They’ve started questioning everyone.”
    What if they searched . . . found the furniture?
    “Monsieur . . . excuse me,” the woman said.
    Mathieu looked up. He’d forgotten about the elegant woman in the showroom.
    She stared at the commode taking up most of the window space. Her hair fell across her face, and she flicked it away with a graceful movement of her long fingers. Her other hand rested on a black wooden cane.
    “My great-great-grandfather’s work, the last one left,” Mathieu said. “I like to display the family’s tradition. It’s on loan from a client. My great-great grandfather kept the business going after the Revolution. Figured tradesmen needed furniture even if aristos didn’t.”
    “A smart move, yes?” the woman said.
    Or, as he remembered the saying attributed to his great-great grandfather, “They needed to park their rears to count the money.”
    Was she a client?
    “Suzanne, my assistant, can show you samples.”
    “Perhaps this is a bad time . . .” An unsure look crossed her face as she reached for something in her bag.
    Honor your clientele . Hadn’t his father drummed that into their heads? Artisans must respect clients . Mathieu preferred to stay in back and work, but he knew craftsmanship wasn’t the only thing that kept the shop door open.
    He smiled and stuck his ruler in his blue work coat. “Madame, I welcome special orders. Please sit down.”
    She ended many of her sentences in the old style with a questioning yes . She must be in her seventies, but her complexion could be that of a woman half her age. Wherever she came from, they took care of themselves.
    He gestured toward a rosewood chair, brushed a speck of sawdust from the seat.
    “For just a moment, but I’m afraid it’s not what you think. I feel guilty taking you away from your work, monsieur,” she said, sitting, resting the cane against her leg. “People tell me I’m chasing what is long gone, but my lawyer gave this to me.”
    She pulled an envelope from her bag. “This list came to us from the Comte de Breuve’s estate. Evidently he’d gone bankrupt and the state took it over upon his death. On it, Monsieur Cavour, were some pieces owned by my family: paintings, sculpture, and furniture. Some of these had been in my family for generations. But they disappeared years ago, during the war. They’ve never been seen or heard of again. Now this list has come to light.”
    Cold fear rooted Mathieu to the spot. His mouth felt as dry as the sawdust beneath