Except it wasn’t so much an apartment as a dazzling time capsule from a different century. It was a residence straight out of a history book, filled with luxury and opulence, and meant to impress. The exquisite furnishings and rugs were of the quality that was currently in demand at high-end auctions. At the far end of the room, over a wide hearth, a marble mantel was lined with antique jade sculpture. The hearth itself was flanked by two towering bookcases that rose all the way to the ceiling. The light caught the gilded print on the leather spines, and Gabriel couldn’t help but wonder how many first editions existed in the ordered rows.

And on almost every wall, there was art.

“This is…” He struggled for a word, taking in the space, all awash in sunlight and tiny rainbows cast by the chandelier above their heads.

“Overwhelming?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“I found it like this,” she told him. “It was, of course, significantly dustier and mustier, but the curtains had been drawn and nothing had faded much. I’ve cleaned since then. Carefully and extensively. But I haven’t touched the paintings. This is the first group that I need appraised.”

Gabriel moved toward the collection of landscapes and seascapes on the wall opposite the windows. His practiced eye easily picked out two compositions that had all the hallmarks that had made John Constable so famous. There was likely a significant fortune hanging on this wall alone.

“What do you mean you found it like this?” he asked, her words finally registering.

“I inherited this apartment,” she explained. “Grandmère willed it to me. It seems she lived here during the late twenties, throughout the thirties, and into the early forties. I found correspondence dated up until 1943.”

“And no one in your family has lived here since?”

“No one in my family knew it existed,” she corrected. She swiped an errant hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “Until recently, I believed Grandmère had lived in Marseille her entire life.”

“I see,” Gabriel said again, not seeing anything at all.

“This is her.” Lia moved away from him and picked up a photo from a carved table, holding it out to Gabriel. “Estelle Allard.”

Gabriel reluctantly left the paintings and took the photo from her, examining the image. He’d seen old movie posters of film stars like Olivia de Havilland or Ingrid Bergman, and they had nothing on the woman in this photo leaning against a lamppost.

“She was stunning,” he said honestly.

“She was,” her granddaughter agreed with little enthusiasm.

There were other photos of Estelle Allard. One had her in the driver’s seat of a low-slung car, another mounted on a sleek horse.

“Looks as though she was quite the daredevil too,” Gabriel remarked.