Murder in the Painted Mask: a 1920s cozy historical mystery (A Ginger Gold Mystery Book 27) by Lee Strauss

Author:Lee Strauss [Strauss, Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2025-09-25T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The air in the study smelled of aged leather, smoke, and the faint trace of jasmine that preceded Mlle Brousseau as Ginger led her in. The Frenchwoman moved without sound, her heels cushioned by the thick carpet, her presence cloaked in poise and perfume—jasmine, yes, but laced with something darker.

Basil rose from his chair, nodding politely. “Mademoiselle,” he said, gesturing to the armchair opposite his own. “Thank you for joining us.”

Vivienne Brousseau inclined her head with that trademark serenity. She crossed the room with the liquid grace of a woman accustomed to being watched. When she settled into the chair, it was with the ease of someone who never felt out of place—her silk skirts arranged just so, one gloved hand smoothing the folds, the other resting delicately on the carved armrest. Her ankles crossed neatly, her smile cool, controlled. It stopped just shy of her eyes.

“We appreciate your time,” Basil said, resuming his seat.

Mlle Brousseau offered a polite nod. “Naturally. Though I doubt I can offer anything... startling. Lucien was never dull, but his habits were hardly mysterious.”

“We found a pastel drawing, Mademoiselle. Of you.”

Mlle Brousseau didn’t flinch, but her lashes dipped for the briefest moment. “Lucien drew many women.”

“But none were obviously done from a sketch that disturbed you when you found it earlier, Mademoiselle. And furthermore, none of the others were hidden away in the coach house—delivered there privately by Mr. Endicott.”

There was a pause—just long enough to register.

Mlle Brousseau turned her gaze towards the fire. “So,” she murmured, “he did not burn eet after all.”

“No,” Basil said. “He kept it. And chose not to exhibit it. Which leaves us wondering—why did he spare you, when all the others were targeted publicly?”

Mlle Brousseau sat still, her shoulders perfectly straight beneath the smooth line of her bodice. Then she turned her face back to them. The mask of composure did not slip, but something behind her eyes cooled.

“Lucien and I were once lovers,” she said, her voice low. “Years ago. Montmartre. He was brilliant, savage, intoxicating. I was young and arrogant and convinced that brilliance would never burn me.”

She smiled faintly, without warmth. “I was wrong. He painted me because he could. That sketch—eet was not a tribute. It was a tether. Proof of his possession.”

“Yet you let him draw it?” Basil asked.

“I did not let him,” she replied. “I asked him not to. But Lucien didn’t respond to requests. He responded to power. His, never yours.”

Ginger’s voice softened. “So what happened this time?”

Mlle Brousseau hesitated, her gloved fingers tightening slightly in her lap. Then she exhaled, sharp and controlled. “He sent an invitation. And a message. He planned to display zee sketch. Unless I gave him something een return.”

Basil’s brows drew together. “What sort of something?”

Mlle Brousseau looked directly at him, unblinking. “A night. One night. With me. He said he wanted to relive what we had. One last time. He promised that if I agreed, he would keep the sketch out of the exhibition.”

Ginger’s brows lifted slightly.

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