Beth Pratt

I

Excerpt from the third Véronique Berri novel

Murder Restored

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

“This must be the place.” I pulled my Range Rover up to an elegant art nouveau wrought iron gate at the end of a long pine studded road on the Cap d’Antibes in the shadows of the evening.

“I still don’t see why we didn’t take the Ferrari.” My boyfriend, Andrew McFadden pouted next to me.

“Will you shut-up about the stupid Ferrari? You’ve been grumbling about it since we left Paris.”

He cocked his head to one side and ran his hand through his wavy dark hair. “We would’ve gotten here much quicker.”

I rolled my eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. “And what exactly were we supposed to do with Pinkerton? Stuff him in the trunk?”

McFadden grumbled something incomprehensible in his Scottish accent. We both looked back at Pinkerton, my black and white Great Dane who lifted his head and thumped his tail at the mention of his name. “Couldn’t you have left him with someone?”

“I don’t like leaving him with other people. I feel bad about putting him in a kennel.”

“You have no problem leaving him with Mme. Pavel,” McFadden said.

Mme. Pavel, my eccentric neighbour who lived one floor below me in my Palais Royal apartment in Paris, usually looked after him for me, but she was here in Antibes, staying with Franck Roux, in the Villa we were pulled up in front of.

I turned back to the gate, rolled down my window and pressed the intercom button. I waited a couple of seconds and pushed the button again. No response.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.” McFadden craned his neck forward. There wasn’t much to see. Small lights sprouted along a flagstone walkway, but they didn’t throw much light. The villa itself couldn’t be seen, shrouded in darkness. “Weren’t they expecting us?”

“Not till tomorrow. We got here early. Try the gate. See if it’s open.”

McFadden yawned and stretched his arms over his head. “Come on, Ronnie. The gate isn’t open. I’m sure security here is tight. What did you call this area, home of the residential rich? Let’s just go to the hotel and come back tomorrow.”

Tempting. The thought of the luxury hotel I booked us, a nice hot bath, followed by…I sneaked a look at the gorgeous man sitting next to me…hot, incredible sex.

McFadden put his hand on my shoulder and leaned closer. “I know what you’re thinking Ronnie. I know that look.”

Was I that transparent? “What look?”

“That smoldering ‘I want your body look.’” He winked. “And I’m all yours.”

I laughed and pushed him away. “I don’t have any look and I think I can last a couple of more hours without ‘your body’.”

“What about my needs,” he whined. “Why is everything all about you?” He stuck his lip out in an exaggerated fashion.

I laughed. “Come on, you nympho, and try the gate.”

“Who is this bloke, Franck Roux, anyway?”

“Only one of the greatest Picasso scholars of all time. He’s writing the latest Picasso catalogue raisonné and restoring Picasso’s Man with a Sheep, the bronze statue in Vallauris.”

“Aye, you’ve said that five times already, but why does he want you here?”

I shrugged. The same question had plagued me since Mme. Pavel called me two days ago, asking me to come down to Antibes on the Cote d’Azur. She was great friends with Franck and had been visiting him for a week. He asked her to call me. No reason was given. Even Mme. Pavel didn’t know why. Apparently he wanted to talk to me in person and wouldn’t say more than that. I came anyway and brought McFadden and my dog with me. It gave me an excuse to come to the South of France. I’d rather spend the winter on one of the Caribbean or Greek islands where it was nice and warm, but at least a few days in the South of France, though fairly cold, was better than tromping through Paris streets in freezing rain, or snow. I shivered at the thought. While here I’d planned to buy myself a villa, maybe near Vence or Antibes, or anywhere with a sea view on the Cote. This was the perfect excuse. McFadden and I had never had a real vacation together before and what could be better than some lazy time in the South of France with lots of hot sex with my incredibly hot and sexy boyfriend?

“Why is it so important that we go in now?”

“I’m curious, okay? I’m curious why he would ask me here. Why he offered to pay for my services.”

“Your services? He doesn’t think your some high-priced hooker?”

I punched McFadden’s arm. “Hooker? Why would he think I was a hooker?”

McFadden grinned. “You said ‘pay for your services.’”

“And hooker immediately comes to your mind.” I shook my head. “Why am I not surprised? I have a feeling this has something to do with art, not sex. I know sex is all you ever think about, but some men have other things on their mind.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I just want to know why he asked for me specifically. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

He shrugged. “I don’t suppose it has anything to do with your murder solving capabilities?”

I shook my head, preferring not to think about the rash of murders I’d been involved in, much to my dismay, in the past year. “I doubt it. Mme. Pavel didn’t mention any murder, and you know she would’ve.”

Mme. Pavel had a penchant for gossip, always seemed to know things she shouldn’t, and fancied herself a character out of an Agatha Christie novel.

“Just try the gate before we turn back,” I said.

McFadden frowned, shook his head and hopped out of the Rover. He leaned his shoulder against the gate and it silently slid open.

“See, I told you. Maybe he left it open in case we got here early. ” I said as McFadden jumped back into the car.

McFadden stared at the gate quizzically. “I don’t like this. This isn’t right.”

I shook off McFadden’s skepticism. Unlocked entries always worried him. Probably because he was a jewel thief. In his profession, if something was too easy…something was usually wrong. As a former cat burglar of fine art myself, alarm bells rang in my ears as well, but I shook it off. It wasn’t like we were breaking in. We were invited here.

I drove the car up the stone drive and parked it in front of the single-storey stucco villa. Not nearly as large as I imagined for a man of Roux’s stature. No lights appeared in the windows and no cars stood in the driveway. Of course they could’ve been in the three-car garage.

McFadden and I stepped out of the Rover, leaving Pinkerton asleep stretched out in the back.

“Doesn’t look that impressive,” McFadden said.

Doric columns entwined with flowering vines stood on either side of double oak doors and a couple of palm trees flanked the front porch. Yet beyond that, the front of the home seemed quiet, solemn, with a few windows visible. I stepped up and rang the doorbell. I heard the echoing Westminster chimes, but no one opened the door.

“I booked us a room at Eden Roc…” I turned, but McFadden was no longer beside me. “McFadden?”

He wasn’t in the car either. I crept down a slate path that led around to the back of the house. Now this was impressive. The house was perched on a cliff and terraced into three floors sporting picture windows to the sweeping view and art nouveau balconies matching the front gate. The house was U-shaped, and in the middle a huge infinity pool seemed to drop into the ocean.

“Now this is more like it.” McFadden stretched out on a cushioned lounge chair next to the pool. Although the night air carried a chill, the pool steamed with heat. “Fancy a dip?”

“No! We’re here to see Roux. Even if I could dig out my bikini, Mme. Pavel and Franck are probably out for dinner. They could be back any minutes.”

He encircled me with his arms. “You know how long dinner takes in France. It’s a long drawn out affair. They aren’t expecting us till tomorrow. They won’t be home for a while yet.”

“But my bikini…”

“Who said anything about bathing suits?”

Whenever he was this close to me, whenever I could feel his hands on me, my insides melted and my brain turned off and desire took over. I couldn’t help it. He was gorgeous. Dark green eyes, 6 feet and two inches of lean muscles and irresistible in every way.

“Let’s have some fun.” His mouth was so close I could feel his tongue on my ear lobe.

“Mmmm,” was all I managed.

Then he grabbed my hand and pulled toward a set of stairs and pointed to a set of French doors. “These would be easy to get into. You have your lock picks, right?”

This wasn’t really the kind of fun I had envisioned. “You have to be joking. I’m not breaking into Franck Roux’s house.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean ‘why not’? Are you crazy? They invited us here, we don’t need to break in.”

“Sure we do. They aren’t here. We are. Besides, Pinkerton needs a drink.”

“No he doesn’t.”

“I can’t believe you’re neglecting your dog like this. That borders on abuse.”

I shook my head and walked back to the Rover, McFadden trailing behind me. Pinkerton was spread across the leather back seat, on his back, paws in the air, head squished against one window, tail sticking out the opposite window. He tongue lolled out and every few seconds his paws would twitch in his dream.

“He doesn’t look like he’s parched to me,” I said.

“Well, I am. Come on, it’ll take a couple of seconds. You need practice.”

“What? You think I need practice. I can pop that lock in less than a second. You just…wait a second. No way, McFadden. I’m not breaking in. There’s no need.”

Breaking and entering was McFadden’s favorite past time. For him it was a game…fun. Let’s see how fast we can do it, let’s see how easy we can make it, let’s see if we can do it without anyone the wiser. Lately, he’d been trying to get me into his game. He knew I was trying to give it up and was intent on pulling me back in. Not to mention the fact that he was horny. And he knew nothing aroused me more than the rush from an illicit B&E.

“Oh yeah, well take a look through that window.” He gave me that look, that I-know-something-you-don’t-know look that grated on my nerves.

I gritted my teeth, determined not to pick any locks or slip through any doors. I wasn’t really proud of my profession. I’d stolen millions of dollars worth of art in the past, at first to help my brother escape his gambling debts and the men who would’ve tortured or killed him or both for their money…but then—well, it was addictive, and I can’t say I minded the money. I’d done very well for myself, in fact. I justified my efforts by stealing only from people who didn’t deserve the art. Like people who had stolen the art in the first place, who didn’t appreciate it. Most recently from an abusive husband, and I donated that piece to a museum. So it wasn’t really criminal; or at least that’s how I liked to see it. Still, I was trying to quit.

“Come on, Ronnie, take a look.”

I took a deep breath and walked up the steps again. I peered in through the window. It was dark. I couldn’t see what the room was, or anything about it, but clearly visible under the light of a portrait lamp was the painting. Picasso’s Owl on a Chair with Sea Urchins, my favorite Picasso painting.

“That can’t be. This painting’s down in Antibes, in the Picasso Museum in the Chateau Grimaldi.” I took a closer look. It was an original Picasso, my gut told me that much. Yet it was slightly different from the one in the museum. The owl was perched on the opposite side of the chair...a different chair and there were urchins and sea shells. Another version. If I could just get a closer look…

“I know you want to, Ronnie,” McFadden said.

I pulled a pair of surgical gloves and a small piece of metal out of my purse. “Okay, but were not taking anything. Nothing, you understand? No jewelry, no diamonds, no paintings.”

He held his hands up in surrender. “Understood.”

“You can take a quick drink…of water, and then we go.” After I take a look at that Picasso.

“Aye, whatever you say.”

McFadden snapped on a pair of gloves and ran his fingers along the door, checking for the alarm. “That’s strange, it’s been disabled. Take a look.”

A switch was mounted in the door frame. It was aligned with a magnet that held the switch closed. When the door moved the contact switch would open and break the flow of electricity. That’s when sirens would start and the police would be called.

“See these two wires?” McFadden pointed to two wires at the top of the switch that had been stripped and twisted together and disconnected from the contact switch. “This is what prevents the alarm from going off. The master control box will still receive voltage from the twisted wires.”

I nodded, knowing the basics of disabling security systems, but lock picking was my strong suit; circumventing alarms was McFadden’s.

McFadden stroked his chin and had that puzzled look on his face again. “First the gate and now this. Maybe we should stop…go back.”

Too late for me. My eyes were focused on the Picasso and my pick was in the lock. Less than a second and the door opened.

I entered the room, turned on my pocket flashlight and spread the beam around. “Merde!” I swore in French.

“Aye, you can say that again.” McFadden stood beside me.

The place was trashed. Someone had beaten us to the punch. We weren’t the first to break in tonight. We were obviously in one of the bedrooms. Sheets and linens had been pulled off the bed, the mattress upturned. Clothes lay scattered on the floor along with an assortment of trinkets and baubles. The closet door had been pulled off its hinges and the desk and night side drawers lay open, their contents spilling out.

“Ronnie, you wait here. I’ll check and make sure they’re gone.” He flicked on his blue LCD flashlight and left the room.

Gone? I froze. Whoever had trashed the place was looking for something specific. They knew what they were doing. Like ours, the break-in was clean. No smashed windows or alarms screaming, however they were looking for something. And it wasn’t an original Picasso. I examined a slash in one of the feather pillows. Whoever the burglar was, he had a knife and he might still be here. I wasn’t aroused this time, I was scared. This trip wasn’t starting out the way I’d envisioned.

All I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears as my heart slammed against my chest. I peeked around the corner into the hall. The rest of the house looked similar to the room I stood in. I walked out onto the black and white tiles and looked over the balcony to the marble floored foyer below. McFadden ran up the stairs.

“No one’s here.”

But my eyes no longer focused on him. They focused on the front door handle as it began to twist open.

Before we could escape, a small octagernian woman in a bright coral dress with a leopard print scarf around her neck and zebra print shoes burst through the door.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” she cried as her green and magenta shadowed eyes surveyed the damage. Then her gaze flashed from me to McFadden. “Véronique! Andrew! What’s happened?”

I raced down the stairs stuffing my gloves into my pocket to meet her. Mme. Pavel looked unusually pale despite her excess of make-up.

“We just got here,” I said. “When we came in it was like this. It looks like someone broke in.”

I was so relieved that it was only Mme. Pavel who had caught us that at first I didn’t notice the stunningly beautiful woman standing beside her. Her long red hair blazed around her bare shoulders. She wore a gorgeous silk Armani cocktail gown in a pale aquamarine that matched the colour of her large eyes. I watched as McFadden’s eyes scanned her angelic face and slender figure. Even in my butt-hugging Prada jeans and favorite Stella McCartney blouse, I paled in comparison.

“What’s going on here?” the woman asked in a honey voice with a slight British accent.

“Someone broke in,” Mme. Pavel said.

The woman looked around, stepping slowly through the debris. “My God. Can things get any worse? First Franck and now this.”

“Franck?” I asked. “Where is he?”

Mme. Pavel’s shoulders slumped forward. Usually she looked young for her age, but not tonight. “It was so awful, wasn’t it Pierre?” Mme. Pavel looked to the empty space beside her. She believed her dead husband Pierre Pavel visited her from the afterlife. Unfortunately or maybe fortunately, she was the only one who could hear or see him.

“What happened?” McFadden asked.

“Franck is dead. He was murdered!”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

Everyone seemed stunned into silence. The red-haired woman’s face paled and a couple of tears rolled down her cheek. She crumpled, her knees giving out. She fell down on the sofa, a little too close to McFadden. She was one of those wretched people who looked beautiful when they cried. Vulnerable. When I cried my nose turned red, my eyes swelled and my skin became a blotchy mess. Still, I felt a certain amount of pity for her, but the feeling was dulled by the tiniest bit of jealousy.

“Andrew do you have any of that Scotch with you?” Mme. Pavel asked.

McFadden reached around to the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and handed it to Mme. Pavel.

“Thank you, mon cher.” She patted his hand. “Here, Anastasie take a sip of this.” She handed the flask to the other woman.

Anastasie took a gulp, and coughed. But it seemed to fortify her. She looked around the room once before her eyes settled on me and McFadden.

“Who are you?” she asked. “And how did you get in here?”

I rummaged through excuses spinning in my head. How could we explain our breaking and entering to this woman? Before I could open my mouth Mme. Pavel spoke up.

“I’m so sorry. This is Véronique Berri and Andrew McFadden. Franck had me send them the gate’s security code and a set of keys in case they arrived early. Obviously they did. ”

Without pushing the point by more than a sly wink occasionally, Mme. Pavel had figured out some time ago that our occupations, or at least McFadden’s, involved clandestine efforts.

Mme. Pavel continued the introductions. “This is Anastasie Roux, Franck’s niece and a conservationist with the National Gallery in London.”

“You’re the couple from Paris, the ones my uncle was so anxious to meet.” She shook each of our hands.

I had a hard time controlling my urge to smack the stupid grin off McFadden’s face. “You can stop drooling anytime now,” I hissed.

Mme. Pavel picked up a cordless phone that had been tossed off its base and now lay on the sofa. “We have to call the police.” She went to the kitchen to place the call.

The police were the last people I wanted to see. I’d never been comfortable around them. They always looked at me as if I was guilty. Probably because I usually was.

“I’m so sorry about your uncle,” I said to Anastasie.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I’m sorry no one was here to greet you.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s completely understandable. This is terrible.”

But she was no longer listening. Her gazed flicked from wall to wall. I knew she was looking at the paintings. I immediately noticed the Picassos, Miros, Chagalls and Kandinskys that hung on every available space. There was even a Henri Rousseau. An impressive collection. If any one painting had been stolen over these it must be worth a fortune.

She got to her feet. “I must look around and see if anything has been stolen. My uncle’s art collection was quite valuable.”

That was an understatement. Millions, maybe thousands of millions hung on these walls.

After she left the room, I cleared away some of the debris off the sofa and sat next to Mme. Pavel. “Franck’s dead?”

“Oui, c’est vrai.”

“But how? When? What happened?” Dozens of questions fought each other in my head. Another murder. I was beginning to feel as if I was succumbing to an evil curse hung over me. Murder followed me wherever I went. If this kept up no one would want to hang around with me for fear of being the next.

“We were at a party at the Chateau Grimaldi, for the Restoration and Conservation conference. You’ve heard about it?”

Who hadn’t? It had been in the news for weeks. The best art conservationists and restorers from the most illustrious and famed universities and institutes had come to the area for a conference. They were displaying some of their techniques at the Chateau Grimaldi for the next few weeks. I had been looking forward attending for some time. It was a topic that fascinated me and of course the Picasso museum was also in the Chateau.

“He was killed at the party?” McFadden asked. “There must’ve been a lot of witnesses.”

Mme. Pavel shook her head. “Oh, no. Franck wasn’t killed at the party. He was killed in Vallauris. He got a call on his cell phone. Something about an emergency.”

“Vallauris. What was in Vallauris?” McFadden looked at me for an explanation.

“Vallauris is about six kilometers away from here. It was known for its pottery making. In the 1940s Picasso stayed there and made pottery, and in turn, made Vallauris famous.”

“His statue of the Man and the Sheep you’re always talking about is there, right?”

I nodded again. “It’s coated with years of grime and dirt. Franck was about to restore it using a new infra-red laser technique.”

“And now he’s dead!” Mme. Pavel cried. “He was found at the foot of the statue with a slash across his throat.”

Instinctively my hand went to my own neck. Over six months ago my throat had been cut with a jagged piece of glass and I still had an ugly scar to prove it. At first self-conscious, I used to wear scarves and turtleneck sweaters to cover it, but I no longer cared about the stares from others. It became tiresome to cover it up and I got used to it. I had to. It would always be an awful reminder of the murder that stole the lives of two brilliant art historians.

“His throat was slit?” McFadden asked.

Mme. Pavel shook her head. “Not slit, burned.”

We looked around, each in out own thoughts. Minutes later there was a knock on the door. Mme. Pavel stood up and opened it. A couple of uniformed gendarmes walked in first. Brad Pitt followed. Actually, it wasn’t Brad Pitt, but he looked so much like him I had to do a double take. Long (but not too long) sandy blonde hair, piercing blue eyes and that square sculpted jaw, that made him look so sexy, and of course the matching perfect body. Did everyone here look so damn good?

As the Inspecteur said a few words to Mme. Pavel, McFadden jabbed me in the ribs.

“Hey, what’s your problem?” I asked rubbing my side.

“You might want to stop staring, remember he’s the police.”

Was I that obvious? McFadden looked disgruntled. I wondered if it was because this guy was a cop, or if it was because this man competed with McFadden in the looks department.

Mme. Pavel turned to introduce us. “Inspecteur Dubois, this is Véronique Berri and Andrew McFadden, friends from Paris.”

“And what brings you here tonight?” His voice was just as sexy as the rest of him.

“Franck Roux invited us here,” I said. “I’m not sure why.” I looked at Mme. Pavel.

“I don’t know, Véronique,” Mme. Pavel replied. “He asked me to call you and invite you down. He never gave a reason.”

“And you have no idea…Madame…?”

“Please, call me Véronique.” I could feel McFadden’s glare without looking his way.

“D’accord, Véronique. Is there any reason why M. Roux would want to make your acquaintance?”

In my mind I went over all the explanations I had thought about on our way down from Paris. I was an art historian, working on a doctorate, my thesis focusing on portrayals of women in late 19th and early 20th century art. But Franck wouldn’t need my help. I could probably use his. He was a renowned Picasso expert, a consultant for the Picasso foundation and writing a Picasso catalogue raisonné. There would be nothing about the artist that he didn’t know—nothing I could shed any light on.

Of course there was my talent as a fakebuster. By physical sensations and reactions such as dizziness, blurred vision and headaches I could look at a painting and tell if it was a fake. I didn’t like the public knowing of this particular talent, not only because many people were skeptics, but also I didn’t want people to seek out my advice. However, I couldn’t keep it under wraps. The police in Paris had even requested my skill at detecting forgeries only a few months ago. Still, Franck wouldn’t have needed this either. His niece was a conservationist and the best of the best scientists, restorers and conservationists were here at the Restoration and Conservation conference, right now.

“I have no idea,” I told the Inspecteur. My thoughts then flashed to McFadden’s suggestion about my involvement in solving a couple of murder cases. Did Franck know he was in danger? I shook off the thought. No, that couldn’t be the reason.

Dubois turned to McFadden. “And you are?”

“McFadden. Andrew McFadden.” There was a definitive hint of defiance in his voice.

“And your relationship to M. Roux?”

“I don’t have a relationship with Roux. I do have a relationship with Ronnie.” His put a hand on my shoulder. “She’s my girlfriend.”

It was the first time I’d ever heard him call me his girlfriend. I knew I was, but he was making the fact abundantly clear to Dubois, and staking his claim on me. I have to admit, I liked it.

“When did you arrive at the Roux estate?” the Inspecteur asked.

“They were inside when we arrived about twenty minutes ago. I sent them the keys and the security code.” Mme. Pavel replied, a little too quickly.

“And how long were you both waiting?”

I shrugged. “Not long, maybe a couple of minutes.”

“Did you notice anything unusual?”

“The gate,” McFadden said. “It was open. Closed, but unlocked.”

As Dubois nodded a mournful howl resounded through the door.

“Pinkerton,” I said. I’d forgotten all about my poor dog, still locked in the car. I went out the front door and opened the rear door of the Land Rover. Pinkerton bounded out and immediately began sniffing the grounds. His large body wiggled around excitedly as he first greeted McFadden, then Mme. Pavel. He sniffed Dubois as the Inspecteur and his men were on they’re way to see the gate. Pinkerton regarded him hesitantly but ultimately decided he was worthy of a lick on the hand. Dubois smiled and scratched him behind the ears. Points in the Inspecteur’s favor. A dog lover.

While Dubois and his men looked for clues, McFadden, Mme. Pavel and I took Pinkerton for a walk around the extensive grounds. The exterior lights of the house had been turned on, but it was still too dark to see much.

“Who lives there?” McFadden asked, pointing to a small guest house matching the main house.

“The gardener. A young man. I believe his name is Gilles,” Mme. Pavel said. “Gilles Leroy I think. He’s quite a genius with flowers. You should both go and see his garden tomorrow. It’s quite impressive.”

“Did Franck have any other staff members?” I asked.

“Only Julie, the maid. She’s comes in every morning and brings breakfast and cleans the house.”

When Mme. Pavel went back inside, I turned to McFadden. “Whoever broke in, it was an outside job, wasn’t it? The wires on the alarm contact were cut.”

“If you’re wondering if you should tell your Inspecteur about it, don’t bother. First, it’ll be hard to explain how we discovered it, and if he’s any good, he’ll find it anyway. Just because the wires are cut doesn’t mean it was an outside job. As soon as the wires are cut, the alarm goes off. The system was probably off when the wires were cut making it easy for the thief to come back at a later time.”

“How were you going to disable it?”

“I’m good, Ronnie. Really good.”

Bad was more like it. Really bad. “What about the gate?”

“That makes it look like an outside job. It doesn’t mean it was. Smash a window, break down a gate, make it look clumsy, amateurish, or—”

“Like an outside job.”

When we went back inside the villa, Pinkerton in tow, Dubois and his men were about to leave. Both Anastasie and Mme. Pavel had been questioned for the second time that night. Dubois was also working Franck’s murder and everyone at the party had been interviewed earlier.

What I found most odd about the break-in, aside from the fact it had occurred on the same night Franck was murdered, was nothing had been stolen. The thieves were looking for something, but it wasn’t a painting or jewelry. According to Anastasie, nothing was missing.

“We should go.” I said. “We’re staying at Hotel Cap Eden Roc in case you need us.”

The hotel, also situated on the Cap d’Antibes was the most exclusive in the South. Almost every celebrity you could image had stayed on the twenty-five acre estate at some point, including Picasso. It was a landmark hotel on the Riviera, not accepting credit cards to keep the general public out.

“No, no. You must stay here,” Anastasie said. “We have plenty of room.” She stared right at McFadden. “Please, you must.”

“Thank you for your offer, but we couldn’t impose…” I began.

McFadden placed a hand on my arm. “Since we’re already here, and if you insist…”

“It’s settled then.” Mme. Pavel clapped her hands. “It’s wonderful to have you both here.”

I narrowed my eyes and stared at McFadden. It wasn’t like him to cancel reservations at the Eden Roc. If anyone liked to be pampered, it was McFadden, and if there was any place that would pamper you, it was the Eden Roc. And he never gave up the opportunity to glimpse the jewels of the rich and famous.

“What?” McFadden asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing.” The sting of jealousy made my skin prickle. It must be the opportunity to glimpse Anastasie that made him accept her offer. I tried to refuse again, but was outvoted. Normally my stubbornness and wounded pride would make me stomp off to Eden Roc on my own, but there was no way I intended to leave McFadden alone in the clutches of Anastasie, who I neither liked, nor trusted.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

The sun had just begun to rise above the Mediterranean when I awoke the next day. Pinkerton had wedged himself tightly between me and McFadden. Both slept soundly. I lay in the king-sized bed under the blue and white meltassé coverlet often sold in the Provencal markets. The large wall of floor to ceiling windows allowed me to view the sky turning from a deep purple streaked with yellow and pink to the azure blue that gave this coast of France its name.

I glanced at McFadden, his arm thrown over Pinkerton and watched the rise and fall of his bare chest. The jealousy I felt last night seemed petty and unsubstantiated in the light of day. I wasn’t really that insecure, was I?

McFadden and I had a rocky past. We had literally run into each other during a heist in Scotland. He was stealing jewelry, and I was stealing a painting. Later we had toasted our success and in an inebriated state each gotten tattoos. Now we had permanent reminders etched on our shoulders. McFadden’s was a Celtic symbol of the dog, supposed to represent loyalty, protection and mystical healing powers. Mine, Steinlen’s cat wasn’t anything so deep. The image seemed apropos, for a cat burglar.

Since then our relationship had been on again/off again filled with times of heated passion countered with times of heated tempers. I loved McFadden, and I knew he loved me. I trusted him with my secrets above anyone else, but there was still a part of me that wondered if we could make it in a real relationship. Part of me wanted a normal life, something I’d struggled with recently, and part of me loved the thrill and adventure that McFadden threw into the mix, and I didn’t think I could, or wanted, to give that up.

Although the côte between Cannes and Menton has a moderate winter, protected by the Estérel from the mistral winds that slice through Fréjus and St. Raphaël, it still didn’t get much warmer than 65 degrees this late in November. Warmer than Paris, I reminded myself. I rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a fleece and roused Pinkerton from his slumber. The house was silent as we made our way out the front doors, past the gate and down the pine clad path. The breeze, much warmer than I expected, rolled over me as we moved onto the boulevard Garoupe and continued down the road that skirted the coastline until we ended in Vieil Antibes.

The Chateau Grimaldi, a yellow stone medieval castle rose high over the water on a Roman foundation next to the ramparts that scalloped in and out over the waves. It was an impressive structure guarding the ports, jutting out over the turquoise water. The Grimaldi family had lived in the vast Chateau until the Revolution, and it was no more than a monument after that, until 1946 when the curator offered its rooms to Picasso during one of his times of intense creativity. Although Picasso didn’t like to swim, he loved the ocean and spent much of his time on the Mediterranean, resulting in paintings, ceramics and lithographs inspired by the sea and Greek mythology.

I continued into the old town and ran along the Port Vauban Harbour where some of the largest yachts in the world were tied up at their berths. I marveled at the gorgeous ships being scrubbed by crews of thirty or more waiting for the arrival of their millionaire owners. At Porte Marine, an arched gateway to the rampart walls, I turned around and headed the mile run back to the Roux estate on Cap d’Antibes.

When I arrived, workers were busy fixing the security gate. They let me through easily enough when Inspecteur Dubois joined them.

“Véronique,” he said. “I’m glad I caught up with you.”

A slight sense of unease snaked through me, but it was quickly erased by the Inspecteur’s charming smile. “What can I do for you, Inspecteur?” I asked.

“Mathieu, please.”

I returned his smile and couldn’t help but notice the snug fit of his jeans and the sweater that hugged his muscular torso.

“I had some thoughts on why M. Roux invited you to Antibes. I wondered if I could have a moment of your time?”

Intrigued I followed him over to a small marble table at the side of the lawn and sat down on a wrought-iron chair opposite him. “You’ve found out something?”

He shuffled through some papers. “You’re an art historian working on your doctoral thesis at the Sorbonne, right?”

I nodded.

“And you’re a fakebuster?”

Knots in my stomach formed and my whole body tensed. “Well, not really. Not officially.”

“But the police have called you in on investigations before?”

“Yes, but more because of timing. They needed a quick opinion…and that’s all it is, you know, an opinion.”

“But you did help solve a couple of murders earlier this year. You were involved…”

“I suppose. I may have helped out. Pointed them in the right direction.” Okay maybe I more than helped out. Maybe I’d been almost killed, twice. “It’s obvious you’ve done your research, Mathieu, but I don’t know what this has to do with Franck Roux or why he wanted to see me.”

“It seems you’re a bit of an amateur sleuth, Véronique.”

I shrugged, not liking where this conversation was heading. I felt as if I were being interrogated. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“Look, I’m sure you have access to all the information on those cases. If you don’t, you can talk to Anton Théodoric, Inspecteur Principal de la Police Judicaire, 3ème Division.” Théodoric and I had an odd relationship. I had helped him out in a couple of homicide investigations, and although I didn’t trust him, and he certainly didn’t trust me, we did have a mutual respect for one another.

“Oh, I have talked to Inspecteur Théodoric. He told me you’ve always been very helpful and cooperative.”

“Okay. And this has to do with Franck…how?”

Mathieu straightened his papers and looked at me. I stared right back at him. I wasn’t one to back down. “You know that Roux was writing a catalogue raisonné?”

“Of course. One on Picasso.”

“Did you know he was also receiving death threats because of this work?”

“Death threats…no I didn’t…wait. You can’t think he called me down to investigate death threats? That’s what the police…that’s your job.”

Mathieu shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t think we were taking it seriously.”

“But you were, right?”

“Of course. We take all death threats seriously, but some of us wondered why exactly someone would be receiving death threats about a book on Picasso. Hundreds have been written, and to my knowledge, no one has been killed over one.”

“It’s not just a book,” I said. “It’s a catalogue raisonné. Do you know what that means?”

“I guess not. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

I sighed. “It’s a book of all the works of an individual artist, usually written by a leading expert, like Franck Roux. There are photographs of every work, lists of literature where all the work has been discussed, with size, condition reports, examples of signatures, non-autographed works, and indexes of works by the city/museum which holds them, previous collections and scholars who commented on them. Not to mention provenance.”

“Provenance?”

This guy might have a pretty face but he didn’t know much about art. “Where the work has been. Who’s owned it, where it came from. If they bought the Picasso from Rosenberg, Kahnweiler, Wildenstein or the artist himself. Was it purchased from a private collection, was it verified by a reputable historian or the artist or member of the artist’s family. Things like that.”

“Okay, enough. I get it, but why death threats?”

“A catalogue raisonné authenticates a piece of work. Sotheby’s and Christie’s use it as a guide. If a work is in the definitive catalogue, they’ll sell it; if not, they won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.”

Mathieu still looked at me as if I spoke another language.

“Okay, let’s say you have a Picasso. You bring it to Franck and you say ‘this is my Picasso; I want you to include it in your catalogue’, and he examines it and says he thinks it’s a fake and won’t include it. What does that mean?”

“That means my Picasso is worthless.”

“Exactly. Now its authenticity is in doubt. The last Picasso auctioned off sold for over eighty million dollars. That’s a lot of money.”

“And I’d be pretty pissed off if my Picasso went from eighty million to zero because of Franck Roux.”

“Right again. There has never been an art work sold by a major auction house that hasn’t been included in a catalogue raisonné. I’ve heard of people bribing the expert’s parents, harassing their assistants, threatening law suits. Art can be a dangerous business, especially when you’re dealing with millions of dollars. I’ve heard of art historians going to court in armored cars when acting as witness in cases involving fakes. Death threats are nothing new, and they should be taken seriously. After all, Franck was murdered last night.”

“And you think it’s because of this catalogue?”

I shrugged. “Why not?”

Mathieu laid his hands on the table, close to my own. He leaned towards me, lowering his voice. “I’m going to be honest with you, Véronique. I need your help. It’s clear you know a lot about art, a lot more than I do. Plus you have unlimited access to the people who were around him the night he died.”

I could feel beads of sweat beginning to form on my forehead again. Pinkerton whined next to me. I had been a criminal. All my life I had been avoiding the police, and now they were asking for my help. The last two murder investigations I had been involved in didn’t have happy endings. I had been in danger, and worse, my friends had been in danger. “I don’t know, Mathieu. I’m an art historian, not a detective.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous. Just let me know if you learn anything interesting.”

“You’re asking me to spy?”

“No, of course not. I’m just asking you to be my art expert, my connection. The way you’ve already helped me out today with your explanations.”

My resolve began to melt under the intensity of his gaze, the curve of his lips, the dimples that appeared when he smiled. What could it hurt? “Okay, I guess I can try to answer any questions you have.”

“Great!” He leaned back stretching his arms behind him. “I’ve got a few more people to talk to, but I’ll see you later.” He got up from the table and walked toward the villa.

When I looked down, Pinkerton no longer rested at my feet. I couldn’t see him at all. “Pinkerton!” I called out. I wandered around the western side of the villa towards the guest house. “Pinkerton?”

“Are you looking for your dog?”

I whirled around and came face to face with a handsome young man. He didn’t look much older than twenty. He swiped a lock of dark hair away from his large brown eyes. “Your dog?” He pointed toward Pinkerton who lay under the shade of an olive tree.

“Yes, sorry. That’s my dog. “Come on, Pinkerton.” He lifted his head, looked right at me and lolled back in the cool grass, eyes closing. “Pinkerton!” Regarding me with disgust, he finally lumbered up and loped back to my side.

The young man patted his head. “Great Dane, right?”

I nodded. “This is Pinkerton and I’m Véronique Berri.”

“Oh, right. You’re from Paris.”

“Franck mentioned me?” Maybe this man knew why I was asked here.

“No, no. Sorry, Madmoiselle. I’m just the gardener, Gilles. Julie the housekeeper told me you were coming.

“Did she say why? Why Franck invited me?”

Gilles shook his head again. “No. Perhaps Mlle. Roux would know. She was very close to M. Roux.”

I knew Anastasie didn’t know more than anyone else, but perhaps something had been said to Julie. It was worth asking her. “I heard you’re quite good with flowers.”

Gilles blushed. He shrugged. “I guess so. M. Roux was very good to me. He let me stay in this little house and let me design the gardens. I don’t know what I’ll do now…now that he’s…gone.”

I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t even met Franck, but now I was staying in the dead man’s home, surrounded by the people who were close to him, and obviously fond of him. “I’d love to see your gardens sometime,” I said, not able to think of anything else.

Gilles eyes lit up and his face broke into a smile. “Really? I could show them to you now. Usually they’re all gone this time of year, but it’s been unseasonably warm. I don’t know how much longer they’ll last.”

I wanted to have a shower and change. And the thought of breakfast made me want to refuse, but he looked so hopeful. “Sure, I guess I could take a quick peek.”

“Just follow me.”

God, I hoped we didn’t have to go too far. I could almost smell the freshly baked croissants and coffee awaiting me in the villa.

A couple of minutes later Gilles led me through a small gate and into the most amazing gardens I’d ever seen. I have a knack of killing every plant imaginable, even silk flowers seem to wilt in my presence, yet I love strolling around the many gardens that can be found in Paris, but this was different. Gilles had actually used plants and flowers to recreate Picasso’s masterpieces.

“This is incredible,” I said, walking around Picasso’s Sleeping Woman done in a variety of petunias and begonias. “This must’ve taken you forever.”

Gilles’ olive skin reddened again. “Not really.” He bent down and pulled a stray weed out of the immaculately kept beds. I walked down the length of a bed portraying Femme Fleur, Picasso’s portrait of Francoise Gilot, over to a still life of a bowl of lemons. “Amazing.”

“You really like them?” Gilles asked.

“Of course. You have real talent.”

When he ran his hand through his dark hair the long sleeves of his shirt ran up his arm. I noticed a tattoo. It looked like Matisse’s signature. “Is that a tattoo on your arm? I asked.

He smiled and pushed up the sleeves of both arms. They were covered with multiple artists’ distinct signatures. Matisse, Degas, Monet, Toulouse-Lautrec. It was odd, but kind of interesting at the same time.

“How many do you have?” I asked.

He shrugged. “About ten.”

“You’re an art history buff?”

He nodded. “I’ve always loved museums. My grandfather introduced me to art.”

I pulled back the neck of my shirt to show him my tattoo. “Steinlen’s cat.”

“I love it!” he said. “You don’t look like the kind of woman who’d have a tattoo—oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t worry about it. I only have one, not ten. Come on. Let’s see the rest of your garden.”

Gilles was showing me his new creation when I caught sight of the infinity pool behind a leafy hedge. A table had been set with bowls of fruit and a basket of pastries, but it wasn’t the food that had my attention, it was McFadden sitting next to Anastasie. In a tight fitting white linensuit and body hugging pink sweater, she looked just as good as she had the night before. Their heads were bowed down in conversation and every once in awhile she’d throw back her mane of auburn hair, laugh and place her hand on McFadden’s shoulder. And he certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. He didn’t push her away.

My teeth clenched so tightly together that my jaw began to ache. My hands balled into fists. I quickly glanced down at myself. I looked awful in my work-out clothes covered in dog hairs and my sweat-drenched t-shirt. I cringed. I couldn’t let them see me like this. I ducked behind Gilles, standing next to an orange tree.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m great. Just fine. I need to get back to the house. They’ll wonder what happened to me.” Right. It didn’t look like McFadden was too worried. “Thanks for showing me the gardens. It’s really great.” I almost sprinted back to the house, Pinkerton panting behind me.

Fifteen minutes later I squished my breasts into a size-too-small push-up bra and a low-cut Calvin Klein cashmere dress. The dark purple colour accentuated my violet eyes. I combed out my hair into soft waves and swiped a bit of gloss across my lips. Slipping my feet into a new pair of Fendi heels, I strutted out to the patio.

Both Anastasie and McFadden abruptly stopped talking as I walked over and sat in a chair opposite McFadden. He hesitated a beat before smiling.

“Morning, Ronnie, how was your run?”

I shrugged and grabbed a croissant from the basket on the middle of the table. “Fine. Great view.”

An uncomfortable silence descended upon us. McFadden and Anastasie had plenty to talk about before I arrived. McFadden didn’t seem to know where to look. His gaze jumped from me to Anastasie before settling on Pinkerton who slept at his feet. His gaze should’ve been directed at my cleavage as I had intended. I swallowed back my urge to scowl.

Mathieu broke the silence as he stepped out of the French doorway and onto the patio. Clearly he appreciated my cleavage. His gaze didn’t seem to leave it.

“Did you want something, Inspecteur?” McFadden asked pointedly.

Reluctantly he looked at McFadden. “Actually, I wondered if I could have a few words with you, M. McFadden.”

McFadden shrugged. “I suppose.” He got up from the table, smiled at Anastasie and immediately stopped in front of me, bent down and kissed me hard. “I’ll see you later.” His suggestive tone made it clear what seeing me later meant.

Somehow I knew if Mathieu hadn’t been here, my goodbye would’ve been slightly different.

Anastasie rose from the table as soon as McFadden and Mathieu left. “Well, I have a lot of work to do. I guess I should go too. Enjoy your breakfast.”

“Will you be down at the Chateau,” I asked, wondering what places to steer McFadden away from.

“Oh, no. My uncle’s office. I have to get his research in order.”

“Right. Who’ll be finishing the catalogue now?” I asked.

“I will. I’ve been his assistant for over five years. I know where he was headed. I’m sure I’m the best person to finish his work.”

“But Mme. Pavel said you worked at the National Gallery in London.”

“I do. Franck and I correspond through email and we get together at least once a month.”

I noticed she still talked about him in present tense. I wondered how the Picasso Foundation that hired Franck to do the catalogue, would feel about his replacement.

Just as I poured myself a second cup of coffee, Mme. Pavel came out with her usual flair. She flopped down on the chair across from me, plucked a linen napkin from the table and smoothed it out over her orange and red polka-dotted bell bottoms. I quickly put on my sunglasses, not from the glare of the sun, but from the glare of the bright yellow shirt she wore matching her day-glo eye-shadow.

“Bon matin, Véronique. Where’s Andrew?”

“Andrew’s with Inspecteur Dubois.”

“Curious. I wonder what he wants with Andrew.”

“I don’t know.” It got me thinking. What did Mathieu want with McFadden? He didn’t even know Franck. He was only here because of me. “I never did ask you, Mme. Pavel, but how did you know Franck?”

“I’ve known Franck for a long time now. I met him through Picasso, you know.”

Mme. Pavel always insisted that she had briefly been one of Picasso’s many lovers. I had never believed her until I saw the large Picasso portrait of a sleeping woman in her apartment. Still, I thought she probably elaborated her stories about the famous artist and their time together. “Picasso introduced you?” I asked.

“No, no, ma chère. Picasso and I had ended our relationship when Franck met him. I believe he was with Jacqueline at the time. You know, his last woman.”

I nodded. Picasso’s work was often categorized by the woman he was with at the time his paintings were created. His Olga period, his Francoise period, and so on.

“During his research, Franck found a letter I had written to Picasso and he took it upon himself to find me. He was putting my Picasso in his catalogue.”

“And that’s why you’re here visiting Franck?”

Mme. Pavel shook her head of blue rinsed curls. “He had something to show me. He was going to show it to me when you arrived.”

“What was it?”

Mme. Pavel furrowed her already wrinkled brow. “He didn’t say. Something he thought I’d like to see.”

“A painting? Maybe he found another letter you’d written.”

“Je n’sais pas. It could be anything.”

Could the “something” be the reason why Franck had been killed? If that was true, then Mme. Pavel was also linked to the murder…and the murderer. I didn’t like my thought pattern. It meant the possibility existed that Mme. Pavel could be in danger.

Before I had a chance to ask Mme. Pavel anymore questions, McFadden returned. He didn’t look happy. His clear green eyes looked darker than usual and his square jaw was set rigidly.

“Ronnie, I need to talk to you…now.”