Murder Painted Blue Excerpt

Murder Painted Blue

Beth Pratt

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be copied or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author.

Murder Painted Blue is a work of fiction. Any reference to cities and towns are used in a fictitious manner for purposed of this work. All characters are works of fiction any names or characteristics similar to any person, past, present or future and coincidental.

Chapter One

I’d left my lock-picking tools at home. After all, I’m not a cat burglar anymore…well, not really.
I knew from my earlier visit to the Moreau Gallery that the lock on Serge Moreau’s office door was flimsy at best. I plucked a small hairpin from my stylish chignon. I inserted the pin in the lock, took a long breath and closed my eyes. I blocked everything from my mind; the people milling around downstairs, the sound of the orchestra, everything but the feel of the pin and the lock. In six seconds I was in. My pulse quickened and a jolt of adrenaline raced through me. I glanced at the painting over the desk: Yves Klein’s Untitled Anthropometry (ANT 100). It was close to five feet tall and ten feet wide. I opened my evening bag and pulled out a sharp exacto knife. But as I stepped toward the painting, my head began to pound and the room started to spin. I bent my head down, forcing my vision to focus. This had happened to me before; I just hadn’t expected it to happen now. This wasn’t a work by Yves Klein. This was a forgery.
This morning, when Serge Moreau, the gallery owner himself had shown me the painting, it had been real, but someone had beaten me to the punch, stolen the painting and replaced it with this copy. The question was who?
Klein had never been my favorite artist, but some of his paintings were certainly interesting. This forgery exemplified one of his body paintings where the models were covered in his patented International Klein Blue and instructed to press themselves against the paper to create his anthropometries. This painting had significance because Klein used his own body to create three of the five aligned body prints. The other two prints were that of his future wife, artist Rotraut Ueker.
This painting was a departure from Klein’s norm because he usually distanced himself from the art-making process. Distance was his goal.
A client of my discreet art dealer wanted the painting, and although my cat burglar days were over (at least I wanted them to be over) I occasionally came out of what I thought of as retirement, if the circumstances suited. I loved the thrill, the excitement, the adrenaline rush, and tonight the circumstances had been perfect. I didn’t like Moreau and I didn’t like the fact he kept the Klein out of view from his patrons, keeping it only for himself in his small, private office. I didn’t know why he kept it hidden away. I would’ve thought he’d love to show the crowning achievement of his collection, but some people were strange that way. I felt fine art should be available for all the public to see. Besides…it had been months since my last heist and I ached to do it again.
From the other side of the office door, I heard the tinkling of crystal and the crowd hush. Introductions must be starting and that meant Luc Durand’s speech was about to begin. I swiftly left the room as I had found it, my attempt at stealing thwarted, and surreptitiously entered the bathroom down the hall from the office. Re-twisting my chignon, I slipped the pin back in my hair and smoothed down the lilac Gautier gown that accented my violet eyes perfectly. Before leaving, I adjusted my silk scarf ensuring that it covered the scar traversing my throat. Ever since my neck had met with the sharp end of a shard of glass, I had been acutely aware of the stares drawn by the ugly and permanent reminder of that day. I had begun noticing the scars of others too, wondering what fate had left their skin marred forever.
A knock on the door jolted me back. Someone waited for the bathroom and I knew Luc would miss me if I wasn’t there for his speech. I left the bathroom and descended the stairs.
Luc was a close friend, as well as a curator at the Musée d’Art Moderne at the Pompidou Centre. He, along with Moreau, was throwing this gala event celebrating the opening of the Klein retrospective at the Pompidou Centre. Tonight was the Moreau Gallery pre-opening party where Klein’s famous Monotone Symphony would be re-created.
I grabbed a champagne flute of some sort of blue cocktail from one of the waiters and walked along the concrete floor toward Luc’s son and new daughter-in-law, Joseph and Thérèse. The perfect couple. Joseph placed an arm protectively around Thérèse’s petit frame, not quite masking the small diamond shape scar on her shoulder. An odd place for a scar. I’d never noticed it before. It was faint and probably always covered by clothing or her long hair. Thérèse’s hand, sporting a huge canary diamond, clasped her husband’s, the diamond’s glitter taking my attention away from the tiny scar. She wore no other jewelry except for a silver locket around her neck. It looked old, maybe Victorian with the letters J and V intricate and entwined. I wondered what significance the letters had until the beginning of the speeches interrupted my thoughts.
“Attention, s’il vous plaît.” Luc stood at the mike under the glare of fluorescent lights before the audience and waited for absolute silence before beginning.
My mind wandered as Luc began thanking various people for coming tonight and for their help setting up this exhibition. I had been one of those people. Moreau stood beside Luc on the stage, obviously preening, delighted with himself, no doubt. I looked around for his wife Inès.
I noticed her in the shadows near a large Kandinsky painting. Art circle gossips loved to repeat that Inès had brought the money into their marriage from a huge inheritance from her deceased father. Old money. However, the same gossips whispered with a sad shake of their heads that Moreau controlled the money—and brutally controlled his wife as well. I didn’t know if it was the way the light struck her or my imagination, but she looked like a terrified half-starved animal, trying to make herself invisible. She stared right at me. Our eyes met. I gave her a small smile, but her gaze quickly shot away. She bowed her head and retreated further into the shadows.
My attention went back to Luc’s explanation of tonight’s exhibition.
“On March ninth, 1960, at ten p.m., one hundred people all dressed in black-tie attire attended the Galerie International d’Art Comtemporain, right here in Paris. This was the first conceptual piece to be shown at the gallery. M. Klein, in a black dinner jacket and wearing white gloves, proceeded to conduct a ten piece orchestra in his personal composition of the Monotone Symphony consisting of one note which he composed in 1949.”
“Only one note?” a woman beside me wearing a black dress and red feather boa murmured.
Luc went on to explain how Klein had directed three beautiful, naked women smeared in IKB, International Klein Blue, to lie, twist, drag, roll and sit on the paper laid on the floor opposite the orchestra. The symphony and the creation of art had been meant as a metaphysical and spiritual event for all present. After twenty minutes, the symphony stopped and was followed by a strict twenty minutes of silence when everyone in the gallery had frozen themselves in their own private meditative state.
I glimpsed at the faces around me. Tonight Luc would recreate this experience and I couldn’t help but wonder if the immaculately attired guests would all participate in the meditative state as the guests had in the 1960s. New age spiritualism didn’t interest me in particular, but I’d play along.
“How very strange,” the red-boa woman said as the speech ended.
Thérèse looked over to the woman and gave me a knowing smile. Thérèse, an expert on Klein, had met her husband Joseph through Luc. Thérèse had recently earned her doctorate, her thesis based on the works of Klein. Luc had been her advisor and they continued to work closely together now.
The crowd parted and I moved closer to Joseph and Thérèse. I didn’t know either well but I had met Thérèse several times while visiting Luc at the Pompidou Centre.
“Bonjour, Véronique. Ca va?”
“Oui, I’m good, thanks. Congratulations on your marriage. I heard the wedding was beautiful.”
Thérèse turned her blue eyes to Joseph and smiled.
“It certainly was.” Joseph softly kissed his wife’s cheek.
“That is a lovely brooch you’re wearing,” Thérèse said.
My hand immediately went to the Cartier diamond panther perched on a cabochon sapphire that secured my scarf. “Thank you. It was a gift.”
My thoughts flew to Andrew McFadden, the man who had given me the panther before disappearing several months ago. I had no idea where he was or when he’d return and I missed him dreadfully.
After chatting with Thérèse for a few minutes, I mingled in the crowd for an hour or so, exchanging pleasantries with a few familiar faces. I wandered around the gallery, taking in the paintings displayed on the stark white walls. All the Kleins, with the exception of the one in Moreau’s office, had been lent to the retrospective and now were on display at the Pompidou Centre. But there were several Rothko colour fields and Pollock splatter paintings prominently displayed along with modernist and post-modernist works by lesser-known artists. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man dressed in a finely cut suit walking toward the exit. He seemed familiar…very familiar. I don’t know if it was the way he moved, his gait or the way he held himself, but I knew him. It would be just like McFadden to appear here, unannounced, unexpected.
“McFadden! McFadden! Pardon!” I weaved my way through a throng of partygoers, trying to catch up. He didn’t stop—or slow down. Finally I reached out and grabbed his arm just as his hand met the door.
He whirled around, a question in his dark eyes.
I stepped back. The resemblance was striking, but this was not McFadden. He was too burly, older, and not fat but squidgy around the edges. He had McFadden’s dark curls and Roman nose, but this man was older and certainly not as handsome or cultured. He looked out of place in the knock-off Armani. I knew I was being a snob, but McFadden would never wear a knock-off.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.” Embarrassed, I looked down, and noticed a loose button, a smudge of blue paint on the cuff of his shirt, scuffed shoes. Hardly someone I would have expected to be invited to Moreau’s party, let alone a man in McFadden’s category.
A terrified scream cut off my thoughts. My head turned to the direction of the south gallery where the symphony was to start in ten minutes. The Moreau gallery consisted of two main galleries, the north and south. The gala was held in the north gallery, while the south gallery was closed off until the start of the recreation of Klein’s masterpiece. I looked back to the man, but he was gone.
Along with the other guests, I rushed and jostled my way through the south gallery entrance to see what had happened. A collective gasp raced through the crowd along with several whimpers and words of shock. I shimmied my way between two couples to the front. My breath caught in my throat. I could feel the colour drain from my face. Before me lay Thérèse, naked, covered in blue paint, crumpled, face down on the floor. Her thick auburn hair fanned around her and in her hand she clutched a long rolled up piece of canvas. Both Luc and Joseph crouched down on the floor beside her.
“Mon Dieu! She’s dead,” Luc cried.

* * *

Soon a brigade of police and crime scene investigators arrived. I noticed Anton Théodoric, the Inspecteur Principal de la Police Judicaire, 3ème Division. I had run into him before and did not want to repeat the experience. He always looked at me suspiciously, as if I were guilty of something. Unfortunately that was usually the case—only so far he either didn’t know it or couldn’t prove it. I pretended not see him and hoped he hadn’t noticed me.
Tonight, fortunately, a young uniformed gendarme took my statement. Théodoric kept himself busy interviewing the more important players, like the model who’d found Thérèse, as well as interviewing Luc, Joseph and Serge Moreau. The police interviewed the other guests alphabetically. With my last name being Berri, I was one of the first to leave, but not before I saw Thérèse’s body carted away in a heavy black bag. I could see the impression her blue painted form had left on the white tiled floor. A perfect anthropometry. A chill crab-crawled up my spine.
There were few guests leaving at the same time as me, so I easily maneuvered my Porsche out of the parking lot and toward my apartment on the Rue Montpensier in the Palais Royal. I exhaled, letting the tension slip away as I turned the corner and caught sight of the large glass pyramid in front of the Louvre. Although I tried, it was hard for me to quench the thirst to steal. Maybe Paris wasn’t the best place for a cat burglar trying to quit, to live in such close proximity to wonderful art begging to be lifted, but I loved it here. And if I couldn’t steal art, I at least wanted to live with it. And I was trying—both to quit stealing it and to enjoy living near it. I filled up my time working as a docent at the Musée d’Orsay, reading about art, painting, and I had even started work on my doctorate in art history. Anything to keep myself occupied, so I couldn’t think about theft.
Many tourists lingered by the fountains and walked hand-in-hand through the Louvre colonnade enjoying the late October evening. I wished my evening had been as pleasant. I had seen too many dead women, none I wished to remember. I counted myself lucky that I had nothing to do with this one. I intended to keep it that way. I had seen enough murder and mayhem to last at least one lifetime.
I parked my Porsche in front of the blue door of my apartment building and reached into my evening bag retrieving my electronic key sensor that unlocked the door, trying to erase the image of Thérèse Durand from my mind. I had talked to her only an hour before, and now she was dead. All I wanted to do was fall into bed and forget the whole evening. I felt for Luc and Joseph. I knew Luc was extremely fond of Thérèse and believed she was a great scholar. I think he had hoped one day she would take over his position at the Pompidou when he retired.
I walked up to the door and reached out with my key when a strong arm grabbed me from behind and yanked me backward. My heart lurched into my throat. A scream arose, but before a sound emerged, a large hand covered my mouth.
Hot, fetid breath moved toward my ear. “Shut-up! I’m not going to hurt you,” my assailant said in harsh tones.
I mustered up all the strength and courage I had inside me and rammed my elbow into his stomach.
An audible grunt sounded from his mouth and his grip loosened. That was all it took. I twisted my body around, my keys pointed towards his face. I came face to face with a menacing stranger—no, not a complete stranger. The man I had seen at the gallery only hours earlier.

Chapter Two

“Hey, hey, don’t scream, lassie. I won’t bite.” The man raised his hands to his face to ward off my attack.
I took a step backward. Who was this guy? Common sense told me to knee him in the groin or stab at his eyes with my key and run for my life, but he looked so much like McFadden—sounded so much like him— he caught me off guard. I lowered my hand slightly. He smiled and took a step forward.
My heart thudded in my chest. He might look like McFadden, but he wasn’t— he was a stranger who had just grabbed me outside my home. A stranger who I’d seen hours earlier where a woman had been murdered. All curiosity vanished. My heart raced in my chest. I opened my door with the sensor and jumped though the doorway as the blue door swung open. The man was fast. He slid through the door before I could slam it in his face.
I glanced toward the small elevator. Still at the top floor. There was no time to wait. I began to sprint up the stairs with the man on my heels. As I reached the third floor, one measly floor down from my penthouse apartment, the heel of one of my Monolo Blahnik shoes cracked off. I fell to my knees. Instantly, the man grabbed my arm and pulled me up.
Again, his clammy hand closed over my mouth muffling any attempt at a call for help. He hustled me up to the fourth floor.
“Unlock the door,” he demanded.
It seemed I had no choice. I stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. He pushed me through, his hand still over my mouth his other hand clamped tightly on my bare arm.
“Will you stay quiet if I take my hand away?” he asked.
Of course, I nodded.
Just as his hand came off my mouth, Pinkerton, my huge black and white Great Dane came rumbling from the bedroom bounding towards me and my captor. Tail wagging, tongue lolling out of his mouth he took a flying leap toward the man, knocking him to the floor in exuberance.
“Good boy!” I said.
Not being much of a guard dog, instead of growling and gnashing his teeth, Pinkerton proceeded to bathe the man’s face with his tongue.
The man sputtered and coughed and tried to push my dog off. Before he could manage to get to his feet, I planted the spiked heel of my intact designer shoe onto his chest.
“Wait just a minute, you. Who the hell are you?” I reached behind me and grabbed the cordless phone, my foot still pinning him down.
“Ah, Lassie, don’t call the bloody coppers!” he pleaded.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Because I believe you know my brother, Andrew McFadden.”
My breath caught in my throat. This was McFadden’s brother? I didn’t know McFadden had a brother. He’d never mentioned a brother, yet the similarities between the two men were undeniable. I eyed him suspiciously and removed my foot. Pinkerton sat next to me, his tail swooshing back and forth.
Slowly he got up off the floor and took a step towards me.
I still didn’t trust him, nor was I sure he was McFadden’s brother. Maybe related…but still attacking me hadn’t endeared me to him. “Don’t you come near me…or I’ll…I’ll…”
His dark eyes bored into mine. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll….” I looked around and grabbed a bronze Giacometti statuette from a side table. “I’ll—”
“Bash my head in?” He began laughing a deep raucous laugh. He extended his hand toward me. I shrunk back.
“Ewan McFadden, at your service.” He Scottish brogue was thicker than McFadden’s and he was certainly less refined, not only in speech but in manner and dress as well.
“Why are you here and where’s Andrew?” I asked. I hoped he’d have an answer. I hadn’t seen McFadden in ages. Months. No contact whatsoever and I was anxious to hear from him. Desperately anxious.
“I ain’t got no idea where the bloody git’s gone off too. Saw him the day I got out of…” he mumbled something incomprehensible. “Month ago. Haven’t seen him since.”
“But he sent you to me?”
“Well…not exactly.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He pulled a small black note pad out of his pocket. “My brother left this behind.”
A little black book. No surprise. Women lusted after McFadden. They fell all over themselves trying to get at him. And who could blame them. Sex exuded from him, gorgeous did not begin to describe him, and he had money. Lots of money. McFadden was a renowned jewel thief, although most people though he’d inherited a fortune from a rich aunt. I think the most powerful draw McFadden possessed was the hint of danger in his eyes. I knew that’s what hooked me. All women really want a bad boy.
I reached for the book, but Ewan shot his hand upward so it was just out of reach. “Now you don’t really think I’d divulge my brother’s secrets to a skinny bird like you, do you?”
I glared at him. “Hand it over.”
He shook his head. “I’ll tell you this, you’re the only bird he knows in Paris. Strange. He knows plenty of lasses in other cities. Yet you’re the only one in all of Paris.” He flipped open the book. “Look here. He’s given you five stars. You must be good.”
I growled and snatched the book from his hands. It was an address book. Inside was the contact information for dozens of people, both men and women, yet I was the only one listed in Paris. No stars by my name though.
“Why are you here?” I asked again.
He grinned. “I needed a place to stay. Just for a couple of days.”
“Who the hell do you think you are? A complete stranger attacks me outside my front door and then expects me to let him stay in my home for ‘a few days’?”
He shrugged. “I said the magic words. It’s worked before?”
What? I furrowed my brows trying to follow his train of thought.
“You know, Andrew McFadden. As soon as I tell people I’m his brother, they fall all over themselves to help me out. Having this,” he pointed to the book, “is like having a hotel directory of Europe.”
My immediate impulse was to throw the guy out onto the street, McFadden’s brother or not, but then again, was it possible that McFadden might show up if his brother was staying in my place? Unlikely. He probably didn’t even know his brother was here. Then again…any possibility of seeing McFadden, no matter how remote made me consider offering Ewan a room…at least for the night.
“Okay, I guess you can stay.”
His smile widened, the same smile I had seen on McFadden hundreds of times. But where was he? What was he doing and why was his brother in my apartment instead of him?
Ewan walked past me from the front porch to the open-concept main room composed of a large kitchen separated from the dining room by a granite-topped island. He moved over into the living area and sank down into my suede sofa near the large windows overlooking the Palais Royal Gardens.
“Nice spot you got here. So how do you know my brother?”
I pulled off my shoes and shook my head. “No, you first. Why are you here in Paris.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Business.”
My eyes narrowed. An answer like “business” suggested something shady. What was it that he didn’t want me to know? “What kind of business?” I asked.
“Nothing interesting. Just a monetary transaction.”
I didn’t like his vague answers, but it was late, and I would let it go for tonight. Besides, I didn’t want to answer any of his questions either. Maybe he was an art dealer of some sort. That would explain why he was at the Moreau Gallery.
“There are two bedrooms upstairs.” I pointed to the open spiral staircase at the back of the large room. “Take your pick.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I stared at him. “You didn’t really answer mine. We’ll talk in the morning.”
He shrugged and watched as I opened the door to my bedroom off the kitchen, Pinkerton not far behind me.
As soon as I closed the door I walked over to my antique bedside table and opened the drawer, removing the note McFadden had left with the Cartier panther before he disappeared from Paris and my life for the second time.
The note was creased and worn from the times in the past few months that I’d read and re-read it. I fingered the words I knew by heart.

Ma chère Véronique,
I came back to Paris for you. I’ve never loved anyone else, I never will. Please accept the panther as a token of my love. I have to go out of town for a while, but I’ll be back. I lost you once, I won’t again.

Love Andrew.

I wasn’t the kind of woman to pine for a man, even one like McFadden, but he was the only person I trusted with my one true secret. No one but McFadden knew I was…or had been a cat burglar. Not my closest friends, not my brother, no one.
I stole from people who had stolen the art in the first place. Shady dealers and collectors, Nazis. They couldn’t call the police because they weren’t supposed to own the art I had taken anyway. And when I looked at it that way, what I was doing wasn’t so wrong. More like a public service—restoring art back to the people. I had morals. Moreau might not have obtained the Klein illegally, but he abused his wife and hid the Klein away. In my opinion he was no better than the others.
McFadden’s moral code was one of the reasons I trusted him and was drawn to him. It might not be exactly the same as mine, but he had…or at least I had justified his stealing in my mind. He figured the people he stole from had so much money they could afford a few missing diamonds here or there. And the Cartier panther? He’d bought that for me—finding that out made the gift all the more precious to me. Maybe with money from other stolen jewels, true, but he didn’t steal it.
I unzipped the Gaultier dress and stepped out of it, unclasped the panther and lay it on the night table along with my scarf. I stepped into my ensuite bath, scrubbed the make-up off my face and brushed my teeth. When I crawled into bed, I picked up the jewel encrusted brooch and traced the panther’s form with my finger. Where was McFadden tonight? Was he alone thinking of me, or was he with another woman?
A cold knot of fear tightened in my stomach. Not the kind of fear I felt when Ewan had grabbed me, but a far greater fear. This fear had plagued me for weeks. Maybe McFadden was never coming back. Maybe he didn’t love me like he claimed. Maybe he had found someone else. Or maybe he couldn’t come back. That thought scared me the most. It was the one thing that had kept me from getting close to McFadden before. The possibility that he might get caught during a heist. McFadden was a good thief…maybe the best, but he took risks. Bigger ones than I ever did. The risk was part of the thrill for him. But the greater the risk, the greater the possibility of capture.
I took a deep breath. No. Not possible. If he had been caught I would know. It would be in the papers. It would be on the news. Somehow, I would know. I lay the panther back on the table. But then why didn’t he call? Why hadn’t he contacted me?
Pinkerton hopped on the bed and nuzzled me with his nose. I draped my arm around the huge animal that took up more than half the bed. Though I loved my dog, tonight I wished my arms were draped around McFadden instead.
It felt as if I had just closed my eyes when the persistent peal of the phone jolted me awake. I looked over at the clock. It was 8 am. That meant I’d been asleep for about five hours. I didn’t function well on less than eight. I didn’t answer and eventually the ringing stopped.
I grabbed my robe from the hook on the back of my bedroom door and went into the kitchen. I rubbed my eyes and stared at Ewan, sitting at my dining room table with a beer in one hand and a packet of cheesies in the other. I almost gagged.
“Morning,” he chirped.
I glared at him and turned on the coffee maker.
The phone shrilled again.
“Are you going to answer that?” he asked.
I didn’t answer him or the phone. The machine picked up. “Mlle. Berri? This is Inspecteur Théodoric. I noticed you were at the Moreau gallery last night. We need your expertise. We’ll send a car.”
I jolted out of my morning stupor and grabbed the phone. I needed to dissuade him. The last thing I wanted was the police coming to my home. “Inspecteur? This is Véronique Berri.”
“Ah, I’m glad you’re home. We need you down at the gallery as soon as possible.”
I could feel panic rise in my throat. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t taken the painting, but when faced with the authorities, especially Théodoric, I always felt guilty. “But I gave my statement last night. I don’t know anything.”
“I have your statement. We need you in a professional capacity. This is not about the murder. This is about the Yves Klein paintings.”
“Look, Inspecteur, I have minimal knowledge of Yves Klein. There are far more experienced people—”
“When can you be here, Mlle. Berri? We need you to authenticate a painting. We would greatly appreciate your cooperation.” His nasally voice had a slightly menacing tone. “Shall I send a car?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll be there within the hour.” I slammed down the phone and poured myself a large cup of coffee.
“What was that about?” Ewan asked.
“Inspecteur Théodoric. The police who is heading up the Durand murder. You remember from last night?”
Ewan took a swig of beer. “Aye. The murder.”
“He needs me to authenticate a painting. A fake painting in Moreau’s office, I imagine.”
“A fake painting?”
“Yeah. I saw a painting in Moreau’s office last night. It was a fake.”
“How do you know? And why do the police want you?”
“I guess they need an answer fast and I’m the only one around who can do it.” I knew it had been a mistake to tell Théodoric I was a fakebuster, but I had been forced to do that several months ago.
A fakebuster is a person, usually an art historian, who can tell if they are in a presence of a forgery by the physical reactions they get. The dizziness, the pounding in my head, the blurred vision that I had felt in Moreau’s office were the reason why I knew the Klein was a fake. I’d never considered myself a professional fakebuster, it was just something I could do. I didn’t tell many people, and this was why. I didn’t want to be called upon to authenticate paintings, not by anyone, certainly not by the police.
“I don’t get it.” Ewan looked up from his breakfast…if you could call it breakfast.
I shook my head. “Never mind.” I didn’t want to reveal anything about myself to Ewan. My fakebuster skill and cat burglary days included. I didn’t trust him. I wasn’t even sure he was who he claimed to be…but he certainly looked a lot like McFadden…at least from a distance.
By the time I’d finished showering and getting ready, Ewan was gone. I poured myself another cup of coffee. Sun streamed in through the floor to ceiling windows that looked out on the Palais Royal Gardens. Pinkerton padded over and sat by my feet waiting for his ritual morning walk. I gave him a scratch behind the ears clipped a leash on him and let him out for five minutes.
When I brought him up and hung up his leash, he immediately grabbed it off the hook in his teeth and circled me a few time. “I know it wasn’t much. I’ll get to you when I get back. Sorry.”
He looked up at me, disgusted and slumped down in his dog bed in the corner of the room.
I felt guilty. I didn’t like leaving Pinkerton cooped up in the apartment for so long. Nothing would make me happier than making Théodoric wait, but I knew the Inspecteur was nothing if not persistent. I took a gulp of hot coffee and hunted around for my Gucci shoes. I slung a Chanel jacket over my shoulders.
As I walked down one flight of steps to the third floor, Mme. Pavel’s face popped out of her door.
“Véronique, ma chère, you must be thrilled! Andrew’s returned.” Her face was flushed pink and her thin fuchsia lips curled into a brilliant smile. Mme. Pavel, an old widow with peculiar eccentricities, loved McFadden. He played into her fantasies, namely that her dead husband communicated with her from the beyond, and that she had once been Picasso’s lover. Then again, she did have a rather large original Picasso portrait hanging in her living room.
“I’m sorry, Mme. Pavel, but Andrew’s not back.”
He face crumpled. “But I heard him last night. I heard you talking to him.”
“I wish it was Andrew, but it was his brother, Ewan. Apparently he found my address in Andrew’s address book and decided maybe I would put him up while he’s in Paris.”
“Oh yes. I do remember him. I saw him come down the stairs a few minutes ago. I wondered who he was. Mme. Pavel lowered her voice. “I didn’t like the look of him. He has shifty eyes. But he knows where Andrew is, doesn’t he?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. No one seems to know where he is.”
I knew if I stopped to chat I’d never get away. “Why don’t we go out for dinner later? I’ll tell you about it then.”
Mme. Pavel clapped her gnarled hands in delight. “Oh, and then you can tell me all about the murder last night.”
I should’ve known Mme. Pavel would know all about Thérèse’s death. She loved mysteries and fancied herself an amateur sleuth. A Parisian Miss Marple.
I waved as I got into the small elevator. I usually walked down the stairs but the Gucci shoes were new and pinched my feet. I got in my Porsche and sped my way down Rue Montpensier and past the Louvre toward the Moreau Gallery.
Two uniformed gendarmes stood guard at the main entrance to the Moreau. Théodoric came out to greet me as I showed my identification. He looked the same as always, rather bird-like with a long pinched nose, thick horn-rimmed glasses and a permanent cowlick standing at attention on his thin oblong head. I frowned at his brown polyester suit and stained blue tie. Like I said, I’m a fashion snob.
“Good of you to come, Mlle. Berri.”
I nodded and followed him up the stairs toward Moreau’s private office. The gallery looked much as it had last night, but police had scoured the grounds and the guests had disappeared. Bright yellow police tape hung across the entrance to the south wing, a grim reminder of the evening’s tragedy.
As I entered the office, my stomach dropped. Ainsworth, Théodoric’s side kick from Interpol loomed before me. We had a mutual distrust and dislike of one another. He headed up the art theft squad and certainly had no faith in fakebusters. He crossed his thick arms across his broad chest, his bushy eyebrows furrowed together.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled sweetly. “Bonjour, M. Ainsworth, nice to see you again.”
He made a grunting sound and scowled. Serge Moreau sat in a chair near the window. “Véronique?” He looked from me to Théodoric. “What are you doing here?”
Théodoric sniffed loudly and cleared his throat. “Mlle. Berri is here to tell us which Klein is a forgery and which one is the original.”
So they had found the original. I wondered if they knew who took it.
“I told you already this one is the original.” Moreau’s face appeared an ugly shade of puce. He pointed with a stubby finger toward the Klein fake above his desk. “The one in Thérèse’s hand was the forgery.”
“Yes, so you’ve said,” Théodoric replied. “Mlle. Berri is here to give a second opinion.”
“Wait a minute! What qualifications does she have?” Moreau asked.
“She’s a fakebuster.” Théodoric pushed the bridge of his glasses up and began unrolling a large canvas.
“So she says,” Ainsworth grunted.
Moreau stared at me. “You never said you were a fakebuster.”
I knew Moreau had a big mouth. Now everyone would know, but there seemed no way to diffuse the situation. “Not professionally. I don’t really think of myself as a fakebuster, per se.”
“But you can tell if this is a forgery?” Moreau waved his hand toward the unrolled canvas on the desk.
I nodded.
“Please take a look at the painting.” Théodoric turned to me.
I took a step forward. Since I knew the one on the wall was a forgery, I was fairly certain this was the real thing, but I stared at it anyway. Immediately the image of the five body prints focused and unfocused. The room swarmed and my head ached. A wave of nausea swept over me. I grabbed the edge of the desk to steady myself. Squeezing my eyes closed I took a gulp of air. When I felt steady, I straightened and looked at the men standing in the room. “This is a forgery.”
“This is only your supposition,” Ainsworth replied. “This isn’t real proof.”
I shrugged. “You asked for my opinion, and I gave it.”
“I told you mine was the real one,” Moreau sneered.
“No. That one’s a fake too.”
All three men swiveled their heads toward me. “Are you certain?” Théodoric asked.
“Yes.”
Ainsworth growled but didn’t dispute my opinion this time.
“But…but you saw this painting yesterday morning. You said nothing then!” Moreau’s voice verged on hysteria.
“The real Klein hung on your wall yesterday morning, but I’m sure this is a forgery.”
“Are you saying someone switched the real one with a forgery sometime between yesterday morning and this morning?”
I shook my head. “All I know is the Klein I saw yesterday morning was an original and these,” I motioned toward the canvas on the desk and then toward the one above it, “are not.”

Chapter Three

Moreau’s face turned into an ugly mask of anger. He looked as if he’d lunge at me any minute. Théodoric escorted me outside the office.
“Mlle. Berri, you do forgeries, do you not?”
Great. It was bad enough that he had me involved in this investigation, now he’d taken the leap to tie me into criminal activities too. He looked at me suspiciously again. I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t had a chance to steal the painting last night. “I don’t do forgeries, Inspecteur, I paint copies of famous art works that I hang in my apartment for my own personal enjoyment. I don’t sell them, and I don’t claim they are the real thing. Copies are only forgeries if they are claimed to be authentic to turn a profit.”
He must’ve read the irritation in my voice. “My mistake. I apologize. Have you ever copied a Klein?”
I shook my head. “Klein isn’t my thing and I can’t imagine painting someone in blue and making them press themselves against a piece of canvas. I paint with an actual brush.”
“You don’t know any forgers who would do something like this?”
I stared him down. Even if he didn’t think I was a criminal, he certainly seemed to think I had criminal connections. “Why would I know a forger? I’m an art historian. I don’t associate with forgers.”
Théodoric sniffed and nodded. “Of course not. Thank you again for coming.” He turned and walked back into the office. As he opened the door, I heard Moreau whining loudly about his forged Klein.
I walked down the brushed steel staircase into the north gallery. I headed for the door when a small hand grabbed my arm. I whirled around coming face to face with Inès Moreau. The hand that grasped my Chanel jacket was marred with several puckered circular scabs, her jaw was an ugly shade of purple underneath her left ear and a small white scar crossed her upper lip. With Serge Moreau as her husband, I didn’t have to imagine what had caused her injuries. I hadn’t noticed them last night, but she could’ve been wearing enough make-up to cover them.
“Is it a forgery?” Her voice was soft, filled with tension.
“Yes. I believe it is.”
Her already pale face turned a whiter shade, accentuating the dark circles under her large brown eyes. Once again I was reminded of a terrorized animal. A baleful moan escaped her lips. “Serge will be so upset. This murder, and now a theft. Oh, it’s been so awful.” Her hands trembled as she let me go.
“I’m very sorry.” I didn’t want to get involved, but I asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.” She turned and dashed off.
As I walked outside to the car park, with a sense of relief, I breathed in the autumn scent of fallen leaves. I’d fulfilled my duty to the police in this murder investigation and could now wash my hands of the affair. But no sooner had I eased into the seat of my car when Théodoric materialized out of nowhere. He motioned for me to roll down the window. I pressed the automatic window button.
“Is there something else you need, Inspecteur?” I asked.
“Could I perhaps persuade you to join me for a coffee?” he asked.
There was no way I was about to socialize with the police. I wanted to get away from him and this whole mess as quickly as possible. I glanced at my watch. “I’m very busy, Inspecteur, maybe another time.”
Suddenly Ainsworth appeared at Théodoric’s side. “It’s not a request, Mlle. Berri,” Ainsworth replied. Follow us…please.”
This wasn’t social. What could they possibly want now? Tension tightened the muscles in my neck making my head throb. This couldn’t be good. They got into an unmarked black Citroen. I was forced to follow them to a non-descript café on one of the side streets. I parked and followed them to a small round table at the back of the dark café. My palms sweated and my stomach churned. Signs of the guilty. I tried to take deep breaths and calm myself. I took a seat across from them. We all ordered coffee from the barman.
No one talked until the drinks arrived. It only made me more uncomfortable. Ainsworth’s beady eyes drilled into mine. I could see him sizing me up, measuring my guilt. I stared back at him. I wouldn’t cow to this man. I thought of McFadden. He would sit here with assurance and confidence, not at all nervous. This is exactly how I would handle Ainsworth and Théodoric.
“Mlle. Berri, you’re close acquaintances with M. Andrew McFadden,” Théodoric asked after taking a sip of coffee.
The question threw me off. This wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I nodded. “Yes. We’re friends.”
“Where is he?” Ainsworth barked, leaning toward me.
I recoiled. “I’m not sure. What’s going on?”
Neither answered my question. “Do you know M. McFadden’s brother, Ewan?” Théodoric continued.
My stomach dropped. I knew it had been a bad idea to invite Ewan into my home. What had he done?
“I met him for the first time last night,” I answered.
“Do you know where he’s staying, Mlle.Berri?” Théodoric asked.
I shook my head.
“He’s staying at your apartment.” Ainsworth’s tone was accusatory.
I crossed my arms in defiance. “I just told you I didn’t know where he was. And if he was staying with me, why would that be any of your business?” I asked.
“When you’re harbouring a criminal, it is our business.”
I felt all the colour drain from my face.
“Mlle. Berri? Are you all right?” Théodoric sounded concerned.
I steeled myself. “What do you mean, a criminal?”
“Ewan McFadden is a convicted felon, Mlle. Berri. He was released several months ago after serving time for grand theft auto. Did you not know?”
I shook my head, stunned. “If he’s served his time, what’s the problem?” But I knew the answer already. He, somehow, was involved in Thérèse’s murder…or the theft of the Klein. My mind flashed back to the smear of paint on his cuff. The forgery. The paint probably wasn’t even wet. Ewan had stolen the Klein. I should’ve known he was a thief. And a bad thief at that.
Ainsworth’s eyes were trained on me, trying to read every nuance in my face, every expression. “We’re just warning you of who you’re dealing with.”
It didn’t sound like a warning. It sounded like a threat.
The whole way home I fumed. I wanted to stay out of the police’s way, lay low and not get involved in any theft/murder investigation. Nothing good happened when I got involved. Now, Ewan McFadden had slammed me right in the middle of one. Worse then screwing-up his own theft of the Klein, he’s screwed up my score. I was the one who was supposed to steal the Klein and he had beaten me to it.
I stormed into my apartment fifteen minutes later. I heard a shuffling sound coming from my glass studio off the living room distracting me. Let me guess. McFadden number two. I walked in to find Ewan, a cup of coffee in one hand and a copy I had done of a Van Gogh self-portrait in the other. It was the one he had done just after he cut his ear off and sent it as a gift to a prostitute. I found the look of desperation in Van Gogh’s eyes intriguing and loved working with the bright blues and oranges in the bold strokes he favored.
“You were in jail? You’re a thief!” I said.
Ewan shrugged. “Maybe.”
“When were you planning on letting me know?”
Ewan grinned. “I would’ve told you if I’d known you’re one of us. Now I know why Andrew had your address. ”
I grabbed the painting and set it back down on an easel. “I most certainly am nothing like you.”
“Ah, but you’re wrong there, lassie. You’re a forger. A criminal. Honour among thieves.”
Indignation filled my voice. Second time today I’d been accused of forgery. “I’m not a forger. I copy famous paintings. It’s a hobby. I don’t sell them. In case you didn’t notice the Sonia Delaunay in my bedroom, the Picasso in the upstairs hallway or the Franz Marc over the fireplace, I copied them for my own personal apartment. I don’t claim they are the real thing.”
He shook his head. “That’s a shame. You could make good money as a forger. I have some contacts. I knew a great guy, lived in the south somewhere. Could paint the Mona Lisa like you wouldn’t believe. He retired, but we could go in together. Fifty-fifty?”
“No!”
He held up his hands. “Thirty-Seventy. My final offer!”
“Get out!”
He backed out of the studio and into Pinkerton who stood just outside the studio door. Coffee sloshed over the edge of Ewan’s mug onto my white designer rug.
Ewan put his mug down on the dining room table and lumbered up the stairs before I could say more.
I grabbed a bottle of spot cleaner and some paper towels and started mopping up the dark liquid.
A few minutes later I could hear the rush of water from the shower on the second floor. I crept up the stairs and entered the bedroom on the right.
The sheets and the white melassé cover were balled up on the bed, unmade. The floor to ceiling windows stood open, the linen curtains billowing in the breeze. At the foot of the bed I saw a large black duffel bag.
I quickly unzipped it and rifled through the clothing, looking for a tube that might hold a rolled canvas. If Ewan stole the Klein from Moreau, fine. I’d just steal it back. All I found was a mangled heap of clothes that smelled none too fresh.
His evening jacket still hung over the back of a white damask tub chair. I reached into an inside pocket and fished out his wallet and his passport. According to the passport, which I believed to be real, he was Ewan McFadden. His date of birth made him four years older than McFadden. In his wallet was a worn picture of two little boys, their arms flung around one another. Printed on the back in blue pen were the names Andrew and Ewan.
So, Ewan was McFadden’s brother, but where was the painting? I searched the pocket of his suit pants, hoping to find any clue. I felt something in the left pocket. I reached in and pulled out a ring. But not any ring. Thérèse’s Durand’s canary diamond engagement ring.

Beth Pratt

Murder Painted Blue (Chapters 1-3)