02_Coyote in Provence (3 page)

She remembered requesting a one-year residence card the day after she’d arrived in Marseille. She’d gone to the French Office of Immigration and Integration which was located several miles from her hotel in a very old government building. The man who authorized the card for her looked like he’d been there from the time it had been built.

“
Monsieur
, my name is Elena Johnson. All of my personal belongings were stolen during my flight from the United States to France.
S’il vous plait
, I need some identification. Can you help me?”

The French bureaucrat was far more interested in trying to look down her blouse than he was in her story, so when she left his office, she was officially Elena Johnson. For all intents and purposes, Maria Brooks no longer existed.

After she rented the cottage near the small village of St. Victor la Coste, she sent for funds from the secret Cayman Islands bank account she’d opened when Jeffrey, her husband, began to slide into madness. From time to time Elena had money transferred to the village bank in order to pay for her living expenses. She didn’t want the townspeople to know how much money she had. Villagers could be nosy and talk was cheap. They didn’t need to know that she had enough money to last a lifetime, maybe several.

As she thought about what to prepare for dinner, she still couldn’t believe she’d asked a total stranger to her home. Elena promised herself she’d have one dinner with him and that would be the end of it.

CHAPTER 4

Jordan finished his wine, paid his bill, and wandered around the village until the gallery opened at 2:00 p.m.  He wondered whether it would only be a matter of time until Western greed set in, and small villages like this one would no longer honor the tradition of closing for a leisurely lunch. Jordan loved being able to eat a big meal at lunchtime and then let it settle without having to immediately return to work
.

When he entered Galerie Reynaud a small bell rang, letting the owner know that a customer had entered the shop. Jordan looked around and saw that the gallery had some very good art on display. Although most of it was contemporary, there was also some early 20
^th
century art, mainly oils and a few watercolors. The landscape of the Provence area was prominent in a number of pieces, depicting rolling hills with picturesque vineyards and olive groves.

The paintings showed the seasons, and the various shades of colors created by the changing times of day. There were some still-life paintings and a few of the Marseille harbor. Most of them had Monsieur Reynaud’s name on them. Looking at them, Jordan thought he was an extremely talented artist. Jordan didn’t see any American paintings other than the one in the window.

While he was examining the art on the walls, a bearded bear of a man with a diamond stud in one ear pushed aside the draped doorway separating the gallery from his studio and walked over to Jordan.

“
Bon jour, Monsieur.
  I am Alain Reynaud, the owner of this gallery.  May I help you?”

He’d be perfect for a painting entitled “Portrait of an Artist,”
Jordan thought. The bear wore an open-necked man’s renaissance shirt and jeans, covered by a paint-specked apron.

 “Yes. I’m interested in the painting in the window.”

“Ahh, that is a very good piece. I bought it from an American dealer. It’s by Alfred Mitchell, a California artist.  He was part of the California Impressionist movement of the early part of the 20
^th
century. A number of American tourists have been interested in it. I am asking 4,500 euros for it.”

“May I look at it? I have some other California artists in my collection, and I am always interested in adding to it.”

“
Oui.
  Let me get it out of the window for you.”

Jordan spent several minutes inspecting the small painting which depicted a scene from the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California. The cliffs in the background were bathed in a pink light, with large boulders in the right foreground. The brilliant blues of the lake at the foot of the cliffs seemed to jump off the painting. There, at the very bottom of the painting, was the well-known signature, “Alfred Mitchell” in red block letters. A closer inspection only verified what Jordan had thought when he first saw it.  It was an original, and it was the one that had been stolen from the gallery in Laguna Beach.

“Thank you. You have some very good pieces here and I particularly like your paintings. You’re really able to transfer the beauty of the landscape of this area to the canvas. What led you to become an artist?”

“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have a paintbrush in my hand. It’s as if the brush was another finger. I planned on moving to Paris and living there after my studies at the Sorbonne, but I missed the countryside and came back here. I opened this gallery several years ago. Painting and art are my life.”

Jordan thought back to his days when he studied to get his degree in art history. He’d known even then that he lacked the “hunger in the belly feeling” that creative artists like
Monsieur
Reynaud had to have to make painting their life. Many years ago he’d decided he’d appreciate their efforts instead of becoming an artist.

“I understand, my friend. I like the Mitchell painting a lot, but let me think about it. I’ll be staying in the area for a few more days. Thank you for your time. I enjoyed talking to you,” he said as he opened the gallery door to the cobblestone sidewalk.

Leaving the gallery, his thoughts turned to Elena and dinner. As a police detective, he was very wary of relationships, and unusually careful about the women he dated. He’d never been married or even lived with another woman. To Jordan, women were objects to be wined and dined and then taken to bed. For over twenty years, that had been his custom. None had complained, and none had ever convinced him there could be more to a relationship than wine, food and sex.

I can’t believe I asked a woman I met on the patio of a bakery to dinner. I don’t know anything about her other than she’s beautiful and she’s a great cook
. He smiled inwardly.
Well, I’m in France. Maybe it’s something in the air that’s causing me to act so rashly.

He decided to buy a couple of bottles of wine for dinner from a winery he’d seen on his drive into the village that morning. Jordan drove to the winery and parked the Renault. He watched as people took what appeared to be large plastic jugs out of their cars and entered the door leading to the winery. He couldn’t figure out what they were doing as he followed them into the building, curious.

Inside a large room in the winery were numerous tubes connected to large wine casks in the back of the building. People inserted the tubes into the plastic jugs and filled them with wine. There were some wine bottles on the shelves, but nothing like what was displayed in the Napa or Sonoma wineries. There was no tasting area, no sommelier, no cheese, crackers, or water, and no one explaining the different kinds of wines to the customers. People filled up their jugs, capped them, paid what seemed like ridiculously low amounts of money, and loaded them into the trunks of their cars. Jordan had traveled to a number of places in the world, but this method of selling wine was completely new to him.

“May I help you,
Monsieur?
” asked a rotund man with a flushed face.

“
Oui
. I’d like to buy two bottles of good red wine, and two bottles of good white wine. I didn’t bring any containers with me. What do you suggest? I will be drinking the wine with an evening meal, but I don’t know what the hostess is serving.”

“
Certainement, Monsieur
. May I suggest a red Bandol and a white Sauvignon blanc? I think you’ll be happy with both of them. Here, try a sip of each and see if you like them.”

“Thank you,” he said as he tried each of them. A moment later, he said, “Yes, those will be fine.”

“Let me get them for you.” He went into the back of the building and returned with a wine carrier
.
Jordan paid what he considered to be a shockingly low price and returned to his car, shaking his head. It was a far cry from what he would have paid in Napa.

He drove back to the chateau, deep in thought. As soon as he arrived, he dialed the number for the Laguna Beach, California chief of police. When the police department’s operator answered, he said, “Chief Lewis, please. This is Detective Kramer. Yes, I’ll wait until he finishes his call.”

A few minutes later the chief’s voice came on the line. “Well, Jordan, what have you found out?”

“The Mitchell is authentic and it definitely is the one that was stolen in the Laguna Beach heist. The gallery owner said he bought it from an American dealer. I don’t think he knows it’s stolen. How do you want me to proceed?”

“Since the Mitchell is there, and that area of Provence has become such a mecca for tourists, it would make sense if the man who sold it to the gallery owner sold the other stolen pieces to galleries located in the nearby area as well. That’s assuming he’s the thief.”

“Chief, that’s a large assumption. He may just be the middleman.”

“That’s true, but I think you should spend several days going to villages in the area that have art galleries, and see if any of the other stolen pieces are for sale. You have photographs of all of the pieces. Find out which villages have galleries and map out a route. Forget going to Paris.  If the thief or some other person sold a painting to a gallery in a small village in the south of France, he’s probably too smart to try and peddle any of them to galleries in Paris.  He’d be worried about the authorities there alerting the galleries, and I think we can assume that buyers there are far more sophisticated.”

“I can do that. How far south of Paris do you think I should start?” Jordan asked.

“I don’t think you need to go farther north than Lyon. Give me a call or email me in a couple of days and let me know what you find out. Two questions stand out in my mind. Number one, is the guy who sold the Mitchell to the gallery the thief? And number two, if he is the thief, how did he get that much stolen art into France without raising red flags when he went through French Customs?  It’s not like you can put that much art in a suitcase and carry it on a plane.”

As Jordan listened, he remembered having read about several well-known restaurants in the area around Lyon. He could combine his love of food with his search for the missing paintings. France was known for food and wine and with the addition of art, it was an irresistible combination.

“Maybe he has an accomplice in France,” the chief went on to say, “Discretion is crucial. We don’t want one of the gallery owners blowing the whistle on you and making a potential suspect head for the hills. I know I don’t need to tell you to be careful, Jordan, and to watch your back side. These pieces were stolen. Someone broke into the gallery. That same person does not want to be caught and you might be in danger. I assume you got the gun I arranged for delivery to you by the Marseille Police Department. Good luck!”

“Yes, Chief, I got the gun and I have it on me at all times.  I agree. Violence is usually not far behind greed.  I’ll be very careful.”

The last few days had been a whirlwind. Jordan thought back to the phone call that had started it all.

SOUTHERN
CALIFORNIA

CHAPTER 5

Jordan’s phone rang in police headquarters in downtown Los Angeles. “Art Theft Division. This is Detective Kramer.”

“Hello Detective, I’m Chief Lewis. I run the Laguna Beach Police Department. Detective, do you remember the theft of several California Impressionist paintings that occurred at a gallery here in Laguna Beach a few months ago?”

“Sure. Everyone in the Southern California art world knows about that one. As I recall, there was a Payne, a Mitchell, a Rose, a Redmond, a Schuster and a Wendt, plus one other one. I think there were seven in all. Some of the best works from the California Impressionist period were stolen in that burglary.”

“Yes, obviously you do remember.”

Jordan continued, “The detective who initially investigated the case thought it might have been an inside job. I remember hearing that the thief used a glass cutter to cut a hole in the glass door next to the lock. The detective thought it must have been a woman, or a very small man, because the hole was so little, just large enough for someone with a very small hand to reach in and unlock the door. The alarm was connected to the door, but the thief was able to disarm it. Why do you ask?”

“Well, we’ve received a tip there’s a Mitchell painting for sale in a small village located in the Provence region of France called St. Victor la Coste, about three hours north of Marseille,” Chief Lewis said. “A couple from Laguna Beach was on vacation in Provence. After lunch they were walking through the village when they happened on an art gallery, and much to their surprise, they saw an Alfred Mitchell oil painting prominently displayed in the window.”

“That would be very unusual. Paintings by Mitchell are almost exclusively sold in the United States and mostly in California.”

“Yes, they couldn’t believe there would be an original Mitchell in the small village, but then they remembered there had been a burglary because it was in all the papers.”

“Is this something I can help you with?” Jordan asked.

“Detective, I’d like you to go to France and help us investigate this lead. If you’re agreeable, I’ll call your captain and see if he’ll loan you to our department for a few days. Yeah, I know, it’s a tough gig, but someone has to do it. Actually, depending on what you find out, you might spend a few days there and look around the area to see if any of the other stolen paintings surface. What do you think?”

Are you kidding me? Provence is Mecca for a foodie like me and to have the police department pay for my trip?  This just might be my lucky day!