The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne (24 page)

“I'm sure it's authentic,” Rebecca answered, setting the canvas down. “I grew up looking at these, and my doctorate is on Cézanne. But you'll want another opinion, I'm sure.” She tried not to smile, but Antoine heard the sarcasm in her voice.

“We have to take it back to Aix tomorrow,” he said. “An expert can come down to Provence; I'm not moving it anymore.”

His father snorted and then pretended to cover it up with a cough. “Shall we eat a little of this snack Hortense has arranged?” he asked, gesturing to a table that had been laid out with a watercress and orange salad and a small cheese plate.

“I'm ravenous,” Rebecca said. “And you didn't get to finish your dinner.”

“You should have told us you were hungry,,” the elder Verlaque said, taking her by the arm. Antoine Verlaque stood by the fireplace, watching his father and Dr. Schultz across the room, laughing. He wished he could be as lighthearted as they were, but he still had so many nagging thoughts. Two unsolved murders. An unidentified nineteenth-century woman. A menacing motorcycle driver from Aix, someone whom Rebecca thought she recognized. And Jean-Marc's innocent phone call that had brought such unwelcome news: that Pierre had a motorcycle permit. Had Rebecca recognized the motorcycle driver because Pierre was there the night they found René murdered?

An hour later the trio made their way upstairs, politely wishing one another a good night's sleep before entering their respective bedrooms. Verlaque showered and then dressed for bed.
Before turning off the light he texted Marine, wishing her a
bonne nuit
, telling her he'd be home tomorrow. He then texted Paulik, informing the commissioner that he had recovered the painting, and Dr. Schultz, and that they'd both be returning with him to Aix the next day. Marine didn't answer, but Paulik did, saying that he'd be at the TGV station to pick them up, and that they'd also have a Parisian officer escort them on the train ride home. Paulik added that Flamant and Schoelcher were cross-checking the names of motorcycle owners who left motos outside Aix's TGV station with those who rented motorcycles at rental companies within walking distance of the Gare de Lyon, sometime after their arrival in Paris at 9:00 p.m.

Antoine Verlaque fell asleep within minutes, as he usually did. He woke up a few times in the night, listening to the rain tap against the windows, and once he heard a door open and close in the hallway, but he rolled over and fell back asleep.

M
arine cleaned up after her grilled-cheese-sandwich lunch. She washed off the dining room table and put a stack of
Le Monde
s, which always seemed to take up half the table, in the recycling bin. Half of them were left unread; she felt bad for the trees but she would have felt worse not having a newspaper subscription. It was her way of supporting the dying world of print journalism.

As the front door buzzer rang, she set four pencils and a stack of paper, along with two bottles of sparkling water and four glasses, on the table, and then walked across the room to buzz in her parents. She could hear them chatting as they almost ran up the three flights to her apartment.

“Hello, chérie,” her mother said, a bit breathless from the conversation rather than the climb. She gave Marine the
bise
.

“How was your movie night with the students?” her father asked, embracing his daughter then closing the door behind him.

“They loved it,” she answered. “I could hear some of the sniffling.”

“
Le Retour de Martin Guerre
,” Anatole explained, turning to his wife. “Marine showed it to her first-year students. It's—”

“I know, I know,” Florence Bonnet said, waving her hands in the air. “The film about that soldier—wasn't he?—who takes another one's place. We saw it at the cinema when Marine was young.”

“Maman,” Marine said, winking at her father, “who played Martin Guerre?”

“Now I know, judging by that big smirk on your face, it must be the same actor who played Cyrano.” She looked at her daughter, and then her husband, as if searching their faces for clues. “Oh drat. I can't remember his name.”

Marine and her father burst out laughing. “Well, you're great at research,” Marine said, “and that's what we're doing today. Thanks so much for coming.”

“Glad to help,” Anataole said.

“And I'm intrigued by these notebooks,” Florence added. “You say that Mme Michaud never looked at them? Unbelievable . . .”

“That's what she claimed, right, Papa?” Marine said. “By her own admission, she was too busy with raising kids and running the business, which I believe. Come, sit down in the dining room. I have them set out here.”

“Is Antoine coming?” Anatole asked. “There are four spots.”

Marine's heart sang. She loved that her parents—at least her father—liked Antoine's company.

“No,” Marine said, “he's on his way back from Paris, with Dr. Schultz.”

“Noted Cézanne expert,” Dr. Bonnet explained to his wife.

“I know that, Anatole,” she answered. “Just how forgetful
do you think I am? I may not remember movie stars' names, but I do remember what you and Marine have been getting up to this past week.”

The buzzer sounded again and Marine said, “That will be Sylvie. She has only morning classes on Thursdays, like me, so offered to help.”

As Marine went to buzz Sylvie in, she saw her mother look at her father and roll her eyes.

“
Coucou tout le monde!
” Sylvie announced a minute later as she walked in and gave everyone the
bise
. This week Sylvie had her short, spiky hair dyed with henna and wore a pleated green Issey Miyake tunic, with matching pants, one of her first designer purchases. It was also the only outfit that had survived two seasons in Sylvie's closet.

“Hello, Sylvie,” Florence Bonnet said curtly. “How is little Charlotte?”

“Fantastic,” Sylvie answered, handing her fur coat to Marine. “Don't worry, Mrs. B, it was my aunt's coat. I didn't buy it.” She winked and saw that Marine's father was stifling a laugh. She didn't tell Marine's mother—whom she knew was an animal rights activist—that she did have another fur coat at home, which she had bought in Rome after a particularly successful gallery show of her photographs. “Let's get down to business, shall we?”

“All right,” Marine said. “I've set the notebooks in the middle of the table. I had a quick look late last night, and Amandine seemed to have dated some of the pages, but very few. And in some cases she gave the day, or month, but not the year.”

“One of my pet peeves!” Sylvie said, raising her hand in the air. “A Parisian gallery last year printed the month of my
exhibition
chez eux
, but not the year! What about posterity? I asked them. What about the archivists, years from now?”

Florence Bonnet let out a tiny squeak, which Marine tried to cover up with moving the stacks of notebooks around. She knew that her best friend had been being sarcastic; while she enjoyed the financial success, Sylvie was in fact quite shy about her rising-star status in the art world.

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Florence asked.

“Well, any reference to Cézanne,” Marine answered.

“And any references to the girls who would have worked with Amandine around 1885,” her father added.

Marine agreed. “Mme Michaud told us yesterday that her aunt was born in 1860, so she would have been twenty-five when Cézanne painted our mysterious woman. He did go into the shop; Mme Michaud confirmed that for us. Papa and I have a hunch that the sitter in the portrait is a girl he was in love with, and that she worked at Michaud's in 1885.”

“But we have no idea what her name is,” Sylvie said.

“Correct,” Marine answered. “She had red hair and green eyes, if we are to believe the painting.”

“And perhaps—” Anatole then stopped speaking, and rubbed his chin.

“Perhaps what?” Florence asked.

“Perhaps,” he continued, “she had some scars on her face . . .”

“Did you get that idea from the painting?” Sylvie asked. “Because Cézanne put colors and patterns everywhere . . .”

“I know,” Marine said, “but this painting is more realistic than others. And I agree with Papa; there's some unusual patterning on the girl's face.”

“It's just an idea,” Anatole said. “I may be wrong.”

“Well, call out when you read anything of interest,” Marine said. “Or write it down and we can check over everyone's notes later.”

“
Bonne chance!
” Sylvie called out as she opened her purse and got out a new pair of leopard-print reading glasses she had just bought.

 • • • 

The drapes had been pulled closed, so Rebecca Schultz had slept in well past 10:00 a.m. She sat up and rubbed her eyes as someone gently knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Rebecca said.

“
Excusez-moi, mademoiselle
,” Hortense said, setting a breakfast tray on the night table. “Judge Verlaque asked me to wake you.”

“Judge? Oh yeah, Antoine. Thank you.”

Hortense took her time walking across the room to open the drapes so that she could study the guest. She did not like the look of her. Never mind how thin she was—so was Mme Verlaque, and look where that got her. Nor was it her big Afro—not at all pretty hair, like that of America's First Lady, also an African American—that bothered the maid the most. It was more the
comportement
of this
professeur
(as they had introduced her): the way she sat last night by the fire, her giraffe-like legs stretched out as if she owned the place. And the smile she had seen pass between—

“Is everyone up?” Rebecca asked.

“Judge Verlaque is working in the dining room,” Hortense said as she finished opening the drapes. “He asked me to tell you.”

Rebecca mumbled a thank-you and poured coffee from a small press into a porcelain cup. Hortense walked back across
the room toward the door. She took one last look at the professor and tried to see if she had tattoos, but the professor had pulled the comforter all the way up to her chest.
She probably has one
, thought Hortense as she walked out and closed the door.
And I can easily guess where
.

 • • • 

“Flamant and Schoelcher have been calling motorcycle rental places near the Gare de Lyon all morning,” Paulik said. “They have three hits already. I'll keep you posted.”

“Thanks,” Verlaque said, trying to sound more enthusiastic over their detective work. It didn't surprise him that moto enthusiasts would rent motorcycles in Paris when they got off the train; it was the easiest way to get around. Alain and Jules would probably find a dozen more names by the time they were ready to go grab some lunch.

“Can you check the Interpol archives for a Long Island family named Bolibar?” Verlaque asked. “Dr. Schultz told me about them; they used to collect the artifacts about to be auctioned at Sotheby's, until they were caught with crateloads of the stuff hidden in a warehouse. I'm expecting a call from Commandante Barrès, too, about Edmund Lydgate. Dr. Schultz's parents didn't trust him.”

“I'll see what I can find,” Paulik said. “Roussel is yelling that we're taking too long on this.”

“Let him yell,” Verlaque said of Aix's often-hysterical prosecutor. He thanked Paulik and hung up. He hadn't told the commissioner that Rebecca had been the one to steal his bag—and the painting—off the train. He hadn't seen the point, as he could keep an eye on her himself, and now the motorcycle man seemed more threatening, and urgent to find. Verlaque hadn't told anyone about the coincidence that Pierre rode a
motorcycle, and had keys to the building on the rue Boulegon. And on the night of René's murder, Pierre seemed to have reached the rue Boulegon in record time. Verlaque picked up his cell phone and dialed Fabrice's phone number. “Yo, Judge!” Fabrice answered on the first ring.

“Fabrice, I have something that's nagging me that I need to talk about. Are you free to talk?”

“I'm sitting in the sad, underheated trailer that Julien calls his office,” Fabrice replied. “I'm buying a used Mercedes for my wife off him.”

“Does Julien have a speakerphone?” Verlaque asked. “I could use his advice, too.”

A crackling noise came over the phone and Verlaque could hear shuffling and the men arguing in the background. “Let me guess: Julien has only one armchair?” he asked.

“Yeah, and he won,” Fabrice said after a few seconds. “So what's this all about?”

“It's about Pierre, in our club,” Verlaque began. “How long have you guys known him?”

“I met him first!” Julien yelled into the phone.

“No, I did!” Fabrice said. “My company redid the plumbing in the bookstore.”

“Liar!” Julien said. “I met him years ago in the bookstore. I was asking him questions about guidebooks on Cuba, and we got to talking about cigars—”

“You bonehead,” Fabrice said. “I'm the one who bought that guidebook for our first trip to Cuba.”

“Last of the big-time spenders!” Julien called out.

Verlaque heard another scuffling noise and held his head in his hands. “Are you two finished fighting?”

“Hey!” Julien said. “We met him together!”

“I think you're right,” Fabrice said. “We were both in the bookstore that day. What is this all about, Antoine?”

“I can't say right now,” Verlaque said. “But what are your general impressions of him?” He waited for an answer but there was silence. “You guys?”

“We're lighting cigars,” Fabrice said.

“Well,” Julien said, puffing, “I've always wondered how a bookstore employee can wear such fancy clothes.”

“
Julien
,” Fabrice said. “It's important to—”

“Gays?” Julien asked. “That's what you were going to say, isn't it? You're being homophobic!”

“How do you
spell
that, Julien?” Fabrice asked.

“Listen, Mr. Fancy Pants,” Julien said, “you're no better than me! You may own plumbing stores all over Provence, but it's really all about backed-up toilets.”

“Okay, I'm going to let you guys go now,” Verlaque said. “Thanks for—”

“Are you going to tell us what this was about?” Fabrice asked.

“Later,” Verlaque said. He hung up and thought about what Julien had said of Pierre's ability to buy expensive clothing; he himself had wondered the same thing, Pierre had dressed like that long before he began dating Jean-Marc. He was about to call Commandante Barrès when Rebecca appeared, looking fresh and awake despite the fact that she was wearing the same clothes from the previous evening. His father stuck his head around the door and said, “Good morning, Antoine; good morning, Rebecca. Jamel is here to take you to the station.”

Verlaque looked at his watch. “
Merci, Papa.
I lost track of the time.”

“I'm coming with you,” the elder Verlaque said.

“Really?”

“Jamel sometimes drives me around the city,” he said. “It clears my head. That way, after we drop you off, Jamel and I can go to Boulogne and get your bag at the hotel; and, Rebecca, where did you leave yours? Café de Flore?”