Portrait Excerpt | bethprattwrites

A Portrait of Murder

Beth Pratt

Olympia is lying on her bed, having borrowed from art no ornament but a rose which she has put in her tow like hair. This redhead is of perfect ugliness. Her face is stupid, her skin cadaverous. She does not have a human form; Monsieur Manet has so pulled her out of joint that she could not possibly move her arms or legs. By her side one sees a Negress who brings in a bouquet and at her feet a cat who wakes and has a good stretch, a cat with hair on end, out of a witches' Sabbath by Callot.

-Félix Deriège, Le Siècle, 2 June 1865

Chapter One

   I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life, but this topped them all. I knew it, but I was going to do it anyway. Not only was I about to steal a piece of art, but I was about to steal it from one of the most celebrated museums in the world, one with the largest collection of priceless pieces of 19th century art: the Musée d’Orsay.
Near closing, the crowd began to thin. I could feel my stomach turn and twist, knowing that once I started, there was no turning back. I let the tension slip away, consciously relaxing my abdomen, until my nerves calmed. I ran my hands through my long hair, twisting it into a ponytail. Slinging my rucksack over my shoulder, I slipped into the women’s washroom. I crawled under the door of a locked stall with a posted “out of order” sign, stood on the seat and waited. It was Bastille Day, France’s biggest national holiday. My breaking-and-entering days had been over for more than six months, until tonight. Tonight I was falling off the wagon big time.
My body tensed at every slight movement or tiny sound. About thirty minutes later, a guard came by, walked in, and passed right by the stall. I held my breath, standing as still as possible on the toilet seat. The guard turned and walked back the length of the stalls, banging each one with a flashlight she held. I clenched my hands into tight balls, and with every heavy footstep, my long nails dug deeper into the palms of my hands. She stopped directly in front of my stall, and it seemed as though she stood there forever. I could picture her, ear against the door, gritting her teeth. I thought for sure I was caught. Excuses for why I was here raced through my mind. She rapped the stall door once more with her flashlight and then left, flicking off the lights on her way out. I opened my mouth, expelled the breath I was holding, anxiety dissipated.
   I sat down on the toilet seat, massaged my cramped legs and rubbed at the crescent-shaped marks my nails had left on my hands. I had promised myself that I’d never steal again; that I’d lead a normal life—a straight life--the life I’d planned in my early college days before my brother’s troubles forced my hand. The people he owed took pleasure in extracting payment in both currency and pain from delinquent debtors like Tommy. With his life on the line, I’d learned quickly how to exploit my knowledge of art and contacts in the field for “that one job”. Yeah, right. I became a professional cat burglar, stealing art the world over all throughout the rest of my university career and the subsequent years. No one who hadn’t felt the rush, who hadn’t tasted the lucrative fruits of this thrill, could understand. Recently I’d suspected…but no, I shook my head at the thought. No, I wasn’t addicted. Not on your life.
While I waited for the holiday fireworks to start, I went over the steps I’d devised to pull off my heist. I decided to steal a work of art this particular day because the opportunity was irresistible. For most of the summer, Paris had been dealing with power outages that wreaked havoc on the museum’s security camera systems. They had been off-line for days, yet the museum’s service company was too busy to restart them.
   Compared to the estates and homes I’ve robbed, the Musée d’Orsay was relatively easy to break into, because I didn’t actually break in: the museum let me in with the rest of the public; and I knew certain essentials about this museum. I never pulled off a heist blind. Tonight, the night guard was Willie Bauer. He was a sweet old man everyone at the museum loved, and although he was a little blind and tended to walk with a slight limp, no one could bear to fire him. I also knew that Willie never did his walk-about check of the museum until after ten at night. Too many good television shows before then to watch in the security booth. Robert Lesalle worked with him, but he was lazy and slept most of the night away. His job was in jeopardy; museum security wouldn’t be the worse without him.
I also knew where all the motion detectors were located, so earlier, during my museum tour, I casually smeared Vaseline over them, disabling them. Though the painting I was about to steal had not been publicly displayed, I knew its location. Room 14: Manet before 1870. I knew its dimensions, and I had seen it before. Most people enter the room to view Manet’s most famous paintings, like the infamous Olympia with its reclining nude. Personally, I preferred the portraits done of Berthe Morisot. She was An Impressionist painter and Manet’s sister-in-law. Although there were many women painters at the time, history has thrown most of them into obscurity, with the exceptions of Morisot and Mary Cassat. But they are probably only known to the public because of their affluence and their connections with Manet and Degas. Unfortunately at the time, the public and—let’s face it, men—didn’t believe that women had the genius required to be “real” painters.
I fancied myself to be a bit like Morisot. I, too, was an affluent painter, although painting was a hobby for me. My favorite portrait was Manet’s Berthe Morisot with a Bunch of Violets. I don’t think I’m quite as pretty as Morisot, but I have her dark wavy hair, small, straight nose, and full lips. Although I believe my eyes are the same size and shape as hers, mine are a dark violet color whereas hers were chocolate brown. We may share certain physical similarities, but my resemblance to her is striking in this particular portrait because of the air of mystery she exhibits. Like me, she seems to be hiding a secret.
After an hour or so, I was bored (I have a short attention span) so I left the safety of the toilet stall and clicked on my penlight. I kept reviewing what I was about to do. Then I got this weird feeling I couldn’t really explain. A bone chilling cold crept up my body. My blood cooled. Suddenly my stomach flipped, and a wave of nausea swept over me. This had never happened before. The tension, the stomach cramps, yes; but not this chill, this sense of foreboding. I desperately wished I had a way out, but I didn’t. I was locked in, alone, in this dark cavernous museum. I shook my head, focused, pushed dark images to the back of my mind. After a few moments, the chill subsided.
I glanced at my watch. Time to go. I pulled off my Levis, stuffed them into my rucksack, clipped a pair of fabric covers over my shoes, and shoved my hands into latex surgical gloves. The cool sensation of the sexy black spandex cat suit and the tight belt of polished tools at my waist flipped a switch in my brain. Nervous hot fits of moments ago transformed into steeled nerves, taut, cold, ready. I was in the zone. I had one purpose, one focal point, my mind shut off from everything else.
Silently, I slipped out the bathroom door, hugged the wall and listened. Silence greeted me. Using my penlight as a guide, I ran on my crepe-soled shoes, like a slip of a shadow through the marble and bronze sculptures strategically placed along the museum’s nave. Wooden boxes filled with paintings and sculptures lay strewn across my path. The museum would be closed tomorrow, and in the hour after the museum had closed, the staff had been busy preparing for the new exhibit scheduled to open in two days. Weaving in and out through the maze of half-opened cartons I arrived, again, outside one of the many rooms that lined either side of the nave, room 14. The Manet painting I wanted leaned against the nave’s wall, not yet hung.
   My heart beat in a staccato rhythm. I could see things more sharply, hear every tiny sound, my senses heightened by the adrenaline pumping through me. I slid a small knife out of my sack and deftly cut the canvas from its gaudy gold fame. Swiftly, I rolled it, slipped it into a plastic tube, and added it to my rucksack.
   I turned toward the windows to execute my exit plan when I got the unnerving feeling that someone was watching me. Quickly, I surveyed the nave, but no guards lurked in the shadows. I should’ve taken my prize and run, but I have this annoying inability to leave well enough alone. I stepped into the Manet room, and turned to the blood red wall that held Manet’s Olympia, his most famous and scandalous painting of model Victorine Meurent.
   I couldn’t move my eyes. Not from the painting but from the dead woman lying below it--Colette Laroche, head curator of Impressionism. I inhaled a sharp breath, and stepped back, my whole body tightening. Goose bumps prickled along my arms and hair raised on the back of my neck. Colette was naked. She was propped upon two large white pillows, lying on a silk flowered shawl: a pink orchid tucked behind her left ear, a black ribbon holding a small pearl tied around her neck, a gold bangle with a gold charm on her left arm, and a pair of delicate heeled slippers on her feet. I glanced from her body to the image of Olympia. Exactly the same pose--except for the pool of red blood that stained the pillows beneath Colette’s head and her dead cold eyes.
   I took a step forward, repulsed by the horror of the sight before me. I had to force my hand to reach her white neck. My fingers touched her cool skin. I pressed gently at her pulse point, then harder. Nothing. Her brown eyes stared at me, inviting me to participate in her death, as Olympia had invited those 19th century men to pay for her company.
   I snatched my hand away from the skin as adrenaline once again pumped through my body. The sound of my heart thrummed in my ears. My chest constricted as the cold hand of fear gripped my heart. Was the murderer still here? Was he watching me? Would I be the next victim? Slowly I turned in a circle, panic stealing my control, searching, looking for a sign of the murderer.
Run! Run! My mind screamed. Get out of here! I ran towards the long row of windows, my eyes focused on that point of exit, my stealth stolen by each ragged breath. I ran through the obstacle course of marble and bronze, smashed through the window, tumbled onto wet grass, deflecting shards of glass with my arm. The alarm set off by the broken window screamed. I got to my feet and flattened myself against the building’s wall. I stuffed my fabric shoe covers and gloves into the rucksack while hiding in the shadows on the ground outside the Orsay. I yanked my Levi’s over my black cat suit and, staying as calm as possible, casually walked down the Quai Voltaire and across the Seine via the Pont du Carrousel. Someone was following me. I could feel it. I looked over my shoulder, but all I saw were throngs of Bastille Day celebrants drinking and laughing.
The fireworks that still exploded overhead threw colored light onto the cobbled streets below, reflecting in the river Seine, and causing the faces of thousands of people to turn into gruesome masks. I tried to blend into the crowd, making twists and turns amongst the masses to lose whoever was following me. I pushed my way through the crowd lingering underneath the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, marking the entranceway to the courtyard of the Musée du Louvre. I rushed past the infamous glass pyramid, through an archway of the Sully Wing, into the Cour Carrée. I fought the urge to run directly to my apartment in the Palais Royal on the Rue Montpensier. Instead, I looked up periodically to the fireworks flashing across the black sky, as if I were merely one more of the night’s celebrants. Yet my vision continued to pounce on any sudden or suspicious movement. I couldn’t suppress the fear that coiled in my stomach. I slinked through a passageway that led to the Jardins du Palais Royal and cut through to Rue de Montpensier and the entrance to my building.
Using the sensor on my key chain to open the door, I fell into the foyer of the stone structure, breathing heavily. Controlling the anxiety that tore through me, I told myself I was paranoid. No one was following me; no one had seen me. It was the after-effects of the adrenaline rush, the potential of being caught…the dead woman. I straightened my shoulders and opened the door to the tiny elevator. As the doors clanged shut, my mind flashed back to Colette Laroche, her glassy eyes looking less alive than those of her mirror image in Manet’s Olympia. Who could have killed her, and why was she posed like Olympia? Unanswered questions swarmed through my brain. I pushed the door of the elevator open and walked up the last flight of stairs to my penthouse. My legs grew heavy, and suddenly exhaustion took over as I came down from the adrenaline high. All I wanted to do was fall into bed.
I unlocked the door, prepared to be greeted by my Harlequin Great Dane, Pinkerton, but he was nowhere in sight. I looked around my pristine two-storey apartment. Something was wrong. Then I heard it. A rush of water came from the direction of my bedroom and en suite bath. My eyes locked onto a half-full beer bottle on my counter. I didn’t drink beer. There was someone in my home. Someone in my bathroom. The water stopped. The lights flickered and went out—another power outage.
Oh God, I hadn’t been paranoid! The murderer was in my house! He knew who I was, knew where I lived. My first instinct was to call the police. I picked up the phone, and put it back down again when I remembered the painting. I couldn’t call the police. And say what? That while I was stealing a painting at the museum, I found a murderer and he’d followed me home? I had to defend myself. At least I had the advantage of knowing my way around in the dark.
I took out the plastic tube that held the painting and placed it carefully inside a large drawer in the kitchen island. Navigating my way through my dining room, I grabbed the first thing my hand landed on--a Giacometti bronze sculpture of a man walking his dog. It wasn’t particularly heavy, but it would do. As quietly as possible I crept towards my bedroom. Where was Pinkerton? My heart sank. What had this murderer done to my dog? My fingers wrapped around the statue tighter. If anyone had hurt him…my whole body tensed as I entered the bedroom. I could pick out the silhouette, someone tall--big, near the bathroom door. I ran towards the figure, my arm pulled back ready to strike.

Chapter Two

A low buzzing sound filtered through the room and the lights came back on. It took a couple of seconds for my eyes to register. The tall, well-built dark-haired man in front of me began to laugh. I looked from him, shirtless with one of my towels wrapped around his hips to my huge black-and-white Dane who lay on the bed, thumping his tail.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I said.
“Could you put the statue down, Véronique, or are you still intending to smack me with it? You’re making me a wee bit nervous.”
I relaxed slightly. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“At least let me put some clothes on.”
It took me a minute to reply. Andrew McFadden was the last person I wanted to see right now. I hadn’t seen him in two years and I’d hoped I’d never see him again. The faster he covered up the better it would be; I didn’t need the distraction.
“Be my guest.”
He flashed me his most beguiling smile and returned to the bathroom.
I put the sculpture down on the night table and stood outside the door waiting for him to explain why he had suddenly appeared in my apartment. He looked as good as ever, and his slight Scottish brogue turned me on as much as it had the first time I ran into him. He came out a few minutes later in tight blue jeans that hugged the best parts of him, and a plain white t-shirt. He used my towel to dry off his dark curls.
He looked up at me. His bright green eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with you? You look white as a ghost. You’re not going to faint on me are you?”
Seeing McFadden instead of a murderer ready to kill me filled me with relief, but with the immediate fight-or-flight stress eliminated, the verge of a meltdown loomed. The shock of seeing my first dead body overwhelmed me. “It’s—murder. The head curator of Impressionism—she was dead.”
“What? You’re not making any sense. What are you talking about?”
I tried to prevent my voice from cracking. “I was at the Musée d’Orsay. Colette Laroche. She was lying there, dead.She was murdered, set up in front of Manet’s Olympia, in the same position wearing the same jewels as the woman in the painting.”
“How did you know it was murder?”
I raised my eyebrow. “Why else would she be positioned that way? She looked exactly like Olympia. It was deliberate. And there was blood…”
“Come on.” I followed him as he left my bedroom and sat me down in the huge chair facing the fireplace. He took a seat on the leather couch and pulled a thin silver flask from the pocket of his jeans. “Drink this.” He unscrewed the cap and passed it to me.
I took a swig and immediately began coughing and choking as the strong whiskey cut burning slivers into my throat.
“There. Now there’s a bit of color back in your cheeks.”
“Right. From the flames in my throat.” It had burned initially but the heat was actually soothing.
“Aye, it’s a little strong. Now tell me again, what happened?”
“I saw Colette Laroche, just like I said, in front of Olympia, looking just like Olympia, except she was dead. There was blood everywhere, all over the pillows.” My voice rose in pitch, almost shrill. My hands began to tremble as I saw Colette in my mind again. “I touched her, to make sure she was dead, you know…but her skin…it was already starting to get cold.” I didn’t want to cry, especially not in front of McFadden, but tears welled up behind my lids.
McFadden came over and put his arm around me. He smelled of soap and my herbal shampoo. I wanted to lean into him, fall into his embrace; but I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to keep the tears at bay. My body stiffened and he removed his arm.
After an awkward silence he asked, “Do you know this woman?”
“Not well, just enough to know who she is. And I know her daughter, Zoé.” Oh my God, Zoé. This was going to devastate her.
“Who else was there? What did they do?”
I shook my head. “No one else. Just me.”
He grabbed my shoulders. “Wait a minute. What the hell were you doing alone in the Orsay at this time of night…oh, I see.” He leaned back a smirk on his rugged face. “What did you rob tonight?”
I glared at him. The shock of the murder began to wear off. Now instead of frightened, I was angry. “I didn’t rob anything. I’m reformed. I’ve stopped—”
“Your wicked ways? Don’t lie. It doesn’t become you.”
“I’m not lying. I don’t steal anymore.”
“Aye.” He nodded. “You carry around surgical gloves every night in the middle of summer do you?”
Heat rose to my face as I noticed him looking directly at the rucksack peeking out from behind the kitchen counter. The gloves I had worn earlier poked out, exposing my evening escapade.
I lifted my chin and stared at him defiantly. “It was a one-time thing. I had a good reason.”
McFadden nodded, rubbing his face with his hand. “Another evil collector’s stolen painting? You stole it from him to return it to its rightful owner, or perhaps sold it to that dealer of yours to sell to a museum or gallery?”
He knew me too well. He was the only one who knew me at all, at least the only one who knew I had been a cat burglar—but with a difference. I had stolen paintings from sleazy collectors and dealers…only sleazy collectors and dealers, not people who really valued their art.
“Don’t you think it’s much better for a wonderful painting, a masterpiece to be on display for all the public to see than in some stuffy old collector’s vault where only he can enjoy it? He’ll never lend it to a retrospective or a gallery. Even his friends can’t see it because he stole it in the first place or bought it illegally from some Nazi who had access to Goering’s stash.” Really, I was doing a public service—a profitable public service, true, but a service nonetheless. I had this great dealer of my own. Of course he didn’t know who I was, but he knew to deposit my share of the money in a numbered Swiss bank account, and that I wanted the stolen paintings sold only to museums or reputable collectors.
“Oh please, I’ve heard it all before. I know you need to justify stealing to ease your guilty conscience, but I don’t buy it. I never did. You steal illegally obtained art because it’s low risk. No police will be involved, no insurance companies. The collector or dealer can’t even claim it was theirs because it was never theirs in the first place.”
I shook my head. “I don’t really care what you think, McFadden. Your opinion means nothing to me. Besides, like I said, I don’t steal anymore.”
“Except tonight. Once a thief…”
I could feel the heat rush to my face and my fists clench. McFadden must have seen the fire in my eyes.
He raised both his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. You’re not a thief. You’re a cat burglar. My mistake.”
I hate being called a thief. It sounds so sinister, so criminal. Okay, so “cat burglar” is the same thing, it just sounds better. Sexy, exciting.
“I’m neither. I’ve retired.”
“What did you steal, Ronnie? I’ll find out.”
“Don’t call me Ronnie.”
“Just tell me what you took? A Cézanne? A Picasso? What this time?”
I sighed. He’d continue to pester me until I told him. I got up, walked into the kitchen opened the drawer and tossed him the plastic tube.
I watched him unroll it. “A Manet,” he said.
I shrugged. “It’s a fake Manet.” It wasn’t a real theft at all. Well, the theft of a fake, I guess. But it wasn’t the same as the theft of an authentic Manet.
“Are you daft, girl? How’d you manage that?”
“You think I couldn’t? You think you’re the only one who can break into museums?”
“Calm yourself. I didn’t say that now.” He examined the painting closely. “Looks real to me.”
I have this ability to detect forgeries. If people knew of my “talent” they’d call me a fakebuster. A fakebuster can tell by physical reactions whether or not they are in the presence of a forgery—the same reactions I felt every time I looked at the painting I’d just stolen.
It looked real to everyone. I seemed to be the only one who knew it was fake. When I stared at the portrait of the red-haired woman my vision blurred and my head pounded. I knew without a doubt that Manet had never touched a brush to that canvas. It was a fake, a forgery. It was no Manet.
“And you’re the expert?” I said.
“C’mon now, Ronnie. Tell me how you did it.”
I was dying to tell someone, and in reality, he was the only one I could tell. I tucked my feet underneath me and began my story.
“The director of the museum is this pompous ass, Thibault Pomeroy. He found the painting underneath some amateur 19th century sketch he picked up somewhere in the south…maybe Toulouse. He sold it to the museum for a decent price—decent if it were real.”
“You think he knew it was a fake then?”
“Maybe not at the beginning but he certainly didn’t want the restoration people to get their hands on it. Claimed they might damage it. Ridiculous! Every time I saw this major ‘discovery’ of his, it made me cringe.”
“Aye, but you know most museums have forgeries all over the walls. Why steal this one? You can’t be thinking of stealing all the fakes you see?”
It was true. Almost every museum or gallery I’d ever been in had several notable forgeries on the wall. Not one curator or acquisitions department wanted to let it be known that they’d been duped, so the forgeries remained on the walls. “I didn’t want Pomeroy to claim accolades for something that was clearly a fake.”
McFadden studied me for a couple of seconds. The way he looked at me with those green eyes of his was unnerving. I always got the impression he could see right through me. He probably could.
“You didn’t steal it for that reason. You stole it because you can’t stop stealing.”
“I can stop. I haven’t taken anything for six months.” I hated that he was right.
“How did you get in?”
I shrugged. “Wasn’t that hard. These power outages Paris has been having all summer have put the security systems out of commission. The cameras have been down for several days. I stayed after closing, hid in the bathroom, snuck out, and took the painting.”
“What about motion detectors?”
“I masked the lenses with Vaseline earlier in the day.”
McFadden nodded. I learned that trick from him. Worked every time.
“Before I broke the window to get out, I had planned to plug the listening hole on
the glass-break detectors with chewing gum, but it wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind at that moment.” I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I was long gone by the time the guards responded to the alarm. A piece of cake.”
McFadden clapped his hands. “Well done.” He looked back at the painting. “So who’s the painting of?”
“Victorine Meurent, Manet’s courtesan model.”
“Wait a minute. The same Victorine Meurent Manet used as his model in Olympia?”
I nodded.
“This is bad, Véronique. The police will think whoever stole the painting killed this Colette woman. You stole a Manet depicting Victorine, and this dead woman was positioned under a Manet, posed as Manet had posed Victorine. You’ll have to lay low for a while. And certainly stay away from that museum.”
“I can’t. I work there.”

Chapter Three

McFadden looked at me, incredulous. “You what?”
“I work there. I’m a docent.”
“A what?”
“A docent. You know, a tour guide.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why do you need to work?”
It was a valid question. Over the years, my profession—if you can call cat burglary a profession—had made me quite a bit of money. Enough to live in my three-bedroom apartment and enjoy the finer things in life without the annoyance of a regular nine-to-five job. Still, I liked to have something to do with my time, so three times a week I was the English tour guide at the Orsay. “I like being around famous art work. If I can’t steal it, I might as well enjoy looking at it.”
He put his face in his hands and shook his head before staring me down. I knew what was coming.
“How could you be so stupid? Are you crazy? You stole from a museum where you work!” He took a deep breath. “Aye, a museum, I can understand. You wanted a challenge, especially since you took such a long break from…burglary.”
“It wasn’t a break. I’m finished. Done. Over.”
“Whatever. There are so many museums in Paris. Why not the Pompidou Centre, the Rodin, the Picasso, or go down south and steal something from there. Better yet, another country. You could go in and out with the rest of the tourists and never be implicated. Now you’re a suspect.”
He was right. “I know it was stupid. But—”
McFadden cut me off. “You complain about me taking risks because the people I steal from call the police. You think the police won’t be called in for this? Not only are you a suspect in a theft, now it’s a murder too.”
I didn’t need this. Not now, not from him. “Look McFadden,” I pushed myself up from my chair. “I don’t need a lecture from you. I’m well aware of the risk I took. I don’t need you to explain the trouble I’m in. I’ve gotten out of other tight spots before, I’ll get out of this too. No one will suspect me. I have nothing to do with Colette Laroche, and as far as anyone knows, I have nothing to do with a missing Manet.”
“You’ll still be questioned.”
I shrugged. “So? What really are they going to ask me? I’m only a tour guide.”
He just looked at me with his annoying intense stare. “I can’t deal with you right now. I’m going to bed.” He got up from the sofa and headed toward my bedroom.
“Hold it right there.” With my own ordeal the focus of the evening, I’d forgotten all about why McFadden was here. “I have a couple of questions for you. First, why are you here, and second, how did you get into my apartment?”
He turned around. “I’m in Paris for a few weeks and I needed a place to stay.”
“How did you even know I was in Paris?”
He shrugged. “I’m a thief. It’s my business to know where contacts are.”
Contact? That was what he thought of me? At least I knew where I stood.
“As for getting in, I broke in. Not too hard to scale your wall and get onto your balcony. You know, you should have a dead bolt on those French doors.”
“I would’ve if I’d known you were in the city. Are you pulling a heist? Is that why you’re really here?” I asked.
“What does it matter? If you’re worried about me as risk factor, don’t. I’ll make sure you’re not involved. You’re involved enough in your own shit as it is. Come to think of it, I should be more concerned about me being at risk because of your activities. Can I go to bed now?”
My problem with McFadden was I couldn’t say no. “Fine, but that’s my room you’re headed toward. There are two perfectly fine rooms upstairs. You can choose one of those.”
“But all my things are in—”
“I don’t care where all your things are. Upstairs.”
He looked at me dejectedly, went into the room and came back out, a black duffel bag in his hand a frown on his face.
“Stop sulking. The rooms are perfectly fine. They both have en suites. You can take your pick. You’re lucky I’m letting you stay here at all.”
“Fine then. G’night, Ronnie.”
I didn’t respond. I went into the room and closed the door. There was no way I was going to sleep tonight. I had too much on my mind. I pulled off my clothes and pushed Pinkerton, still sprawled in the middle of the bed, out of the way and crawled in. I rubbed my eyes. My muscles cramped. I rubbed them coaxing out the knots. It wasn’t working. I turned over on my side, hoping I’d sleep. I knew I needed it. I couldn’t get comfortable.
Lying on my back I replayed the night in my head. I knew I was in deep trouble. Not only was a stolen Manet in my possession, but I had this sinking feeling that the police would assume whoever stole the Manet also murdered Colette. It would certainly not be thought of as a coincidence. Not considering the way Colette was murdered and in front of whose painting she was killed. Was I in danger? I never felt any anxiety after I pulled off a heist before, but I’d never run into a dead person in my travels either. I shouldn’t be thinking of myself. Colette was almost a stranger to me. Although her death was horrible, it was thoughts of Zoé that careened though my consciousness. What would I say to her? Did she know yet? How was she going to cope with the loss of her mother? I knew they weren’t close, but did that matter? Colette was still her mother. An awful thought gripped me. Was it possible that I could have caused Colette’s death? If I had not tampered with the motion detectors, would the woman still be alive? Had my compulsion to steal caused a murder? Or had the murderer got in the museum like I did? Had the opportunity to murder her existed because he didn’t have to worry about setting the detectors off? Had he known, like I did, that the cameras weren’t working, because he worked there too? A bitter taste filled my mouth. Either way, the scenario riled my stomach, realizing either I’d unknowingly set the stage for a murder by my own actions or I had been working, maybe side-by-side, with a murderer.
I checked the clock at three am. I threw my leg out from under the covers. It was too hot. Then I was too cold. I got up and went to the bathroom, filled up a glass with water and drank deeply before returning to my bed. I tossed and turned and buried my face in the pillow.
I must have drifted off at some point because when the phone rang the sun was already pooling in from the glass doors leading to my small balcony.
“Âllo?”
“Véronique?” It was my manager at the Orsay. “There’s been an incident at the museum. We need all personnel to come in as soon as possible. Be at the auditorium by nine.”
I looked over at the clock. It was eight already. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
Although the museum was closed today, it wasn’t an unexpected call considering the circumstances. I got up and looked around for Pinkerton. We’d have to skip our morning walk. My dog wasn’t in the bedroom. I showered and dressed quickly and snuck up the winding stairs.
McFadden was snoring softly in the larger bedroom above my own. I averted my eyes from his naked torso. Pinkerton was lying on the foot of the bed.
“Traitor,” I said as I walked back down to the main floor. I left a note on the fridge asking McFadden to take Pinkerton out for a walk. At least he’d be good for something.
As I was descending the stairs towards the elevator on the third floor, Mme. Simone Pavel popped out her door. “Véronique, ma chère, did you hear the news?”
“News? I don’t think so.”
“Pierre and I were just watching the news and we heard there’s been a murder at the Musée d’Orsay!” There was a gleam in the old woman’s eye as she told me.
“A murder?” I feigned shock.
“Yes, and a stolen painting.”
“What painting? Who was killed?”
“They didn’t say.” She looked to the empty space beside her. “Pierre, did they say?” She turned back to me. “They didn’t say.”
“Thank you, Mme. Pavel. They just called me in. I guess that’s why.”
“Will you still be able to make lunch?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll come by on my way back.”
She rubbed her gnarled hands together. “Oh good. Then you can tell me all the news.”
I smiled and waved as I entered the elevator.
Mme. Pavel had been widowed several years ago. Her husband, Pierre had been a prominent surgeon. Mme. Pavel believed she had psychic powers and often talked to her dead husband as if he were still living with her. Most people thought she was crazy, and they were probably right, but she was harmless and lonely. I usually took her out to lunch at least once a week.
It was another gorgeous summer day, and like every day in July, Paris was packed with tourists on their way to the Louvre or Les Halles. You could always tell a tourist. It was the way they looked around at everything, gawking.
Red white and blue French flags hung everywhere left over from yesterday’s holiday. The city reminded me of Monet’s La Rue Montorgeuil. Fete du 30 Juin 1878 hung in the Orsay. It was the view from above of the tri-colored flags lining a Parisian street celebrating the World Fair. The colors of the flags pulsed today like they did in the painting. I began to sing Joni Mitchell’s In France they Kiss on Main Street . The line “kisses like bright flags hung on holidays” evoked the scene in front of me. The alluring smell of fresh baked bread and buttery croissants drew me to one of the boulangeries lining the Quai du Louvre. I picked out a pain au chocolat and bit into the flaky pastry as I stepped onto the stone Pont du Carrousel. I was halfway across the bridge when I saw the news trucks parked along the Quai Voltaire and Quai Anatole France
I shoved the rest of my breakfast treat into my mouth as I pushed my way through the reporters ignoring their questions and entered the museum. The Orsay is a beautiful museum. It is not as vast as the Louvre, or as in-your-face as the ultra modern Pompidou Centre, but architecturally, it is one of the most impressive museums in the world. The museum opened in 1986, forty-seven years after the closing of the mainline railway station that the building originally housed. The structure still retained most of the original architecture. Walking down a set of stairs to the main floor nave, I looked upward to the arched glass ceilings and decorative medallion coffers.
I descended another staircase to the auditorium, where guest lectures and conferences where held, on level two below the ground floor. It was a large room and everyone was sitting as close to the front as possible separated into career-defined groups. I showed my pass to two gendarmes who stood at the doorway and walked toward the front. The auditorium was packed full. Two men I didn’t recognize stood near the podium in deep conversation with Pomeroy. I took one of the few empty seats in the second row next to the other tour guides. Étienne Delaflote, a young man who did the same tours as I did but on alternate shifts whispered, “Colette Laroche is dead.”
I widened my eyes in disbelief. I tried to make myself believe it was my first time hearing the news, and I guess I did a good job. Étienne put his hand on my shoulder. “Véronique, are you okay. You look pale. You’re not going to be sick are you?” I shook my head.
From the row ahead of us, Marie Marcel, the clerk at the gift store said, “There’s Zoé. She looks awful.”
“You would too if your mother was just murdered,” Étienne responded. Marie’s face colored. She said nothing more.
Zoé’s wide chocolate coloured eyes were red from crying and dark blue smudges marred her perfect porcelain skin. Her white-blonde hair was pulled back from her face emphasizing her paleness. She looked shrunken, dwarfed by the oversized sweater she wore over tight black pants. She glanced at me briefly before sitting next to her father, Grégoire Laroche, in the first row.
I felt terrible for her. Zoé and I were close friends. She was working on her masters in art history focusing on the Nabis and like me, held a position as a docent.
Pomeroy took position behind the podium, interrupting my thoughts. “Mesdames et Monsieurs, I regret to inform you that a great tragedy occurred last night. Colette Laroche, the head curator of Impressionism was murdered last night and our latest acquisition, Manet’s head portrait of Victorine Meurent was stolen.” Pomeroy paused as sounds of shock and exclamations of horror rippled through the audience. His sleazy pompous attitude showed through, even on this occasion. “The police have been informed and they will be working jointly with Interpol’s art theft division.”
“Will the new exhibition be cancelled?” one of the curators asked.
“No, nothing will be cancelled. I know this is a shock, but the Orsay will not be shut down. Anouk Garnier will be taking Mme. Laroche’s position for now.”
The crowd of museum personnel began whispering at once. Everyone who was in the know, knew Anouk coveted Colette’s job. The two women were not friends. Colette was on the board in charge of hiring curators and when a job came up for a co-curator in Impressionism, even though Anouk was junior curator of the same period and style, she was passed over for someone with less seniority and qualifications. If I was Anouk, I’d be pissed off too.
People began shouting out questions about the murder and possible suspects.
A tall man with dark hair and a pair of round spectacles stepped up to the podium vacated by Pomeroy. “My name is Anton Théodoric, Inspecteur Principal de la Police Judicaire, 3ème Division. This is John Ainsworth from Interpol.” He motioned to a man at least a foot taller than himself, with a thick thatch of ginger hair, wearing a brown tweed jacket. “Nothing has been confirmed as of yet. We will be talking to each of you individually and your cooperation would be appreciated. We’ve set up a temporary interview room in room 68 on the middle level off the Lille terrace. I would ask that you all remain here until you are called. M. Laroche, if you would come with us first please.”
Everyone watched in silence as the police escorted Grégoire Laroche out of the auditorium. It was obvious he was in shock. His pudgy face turned a pasty yellow color and his dark eyes appeared vacant, looking but not seeing. He shuffled along, with an almost confused appearance. Zoé remained in her seat, watching her father leave with a pained expression.
At this point everyone got up from their seats whispering among themselves. The aroma of coffee drew me towards a table where a coffee maker stood along with a couple of trays of muffins and cookies.
I looked toward Zoé, wanting to express my condolences, but she looked as if she’d rather be alone.
“You don’t think we’re actually suspects?” asked Étienne as I returned to my docent companions armed with a hot coffee.
“Impossible,” said Claude Douay who gave tours to schoolchildren. “It had to be an outside job.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“The thief or thieves broke in through the window. If we wanted to steal something, we could just take it before closing. Tear it out of its frame and put it underneath our jackets. It had to be professionals with high tech equipment to defeat the motion detectors.”
Of course I hadn’t stolen the painting the way Claude suggested because I knew the personnel would be suspects, including docents like me. It was better that people thought it was an outside job. Even better was that everyone believed I had broken in through the window. It always amused me that people automatically assumed that when a window was broken, that’s how the burglars got in, not how they got out.
“Besides,” Étienne said, “only scum steal from museums. They take national treasures that should be available for all the public to see. Not people like us who actually appreciate the value of art.”
That made me feel about as low as a bottom feeder. Still I knew it was a fake. “Has anyone even verified that it was real?” I blurted out. It was a stupid question. No one suspected it was a fake as far as I knew but me. Still, I felt a need to defend my stealing.
“What are you talking about, Véronique? Of course it’s real. Do you really think Pomeroy would let a fake be hung in the Orsay?”
Yes, I wanted to say, but kept my mouth shut. I brushed off the question so I wouldn’t have to explain why I had even asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Lucy Gold. She was a beautiful African-American conservationist working at the Centre de Recherche et de la Restauration des Musées de France, where all the Orsay’s artworks were sent if they needed to be restored or if the authenticity needed to be verified. She stared at me. She must’ve overheard our conversation.
I milled around with the personnel for sometime waiting for my turn to be called for my interview. It would be a tedious job for the police. About five hundred and thirty people worked at the Orsay. From gossip, I learned Colette had been hit on the head with some unknown object. That fit with the blood I saw on the pillows. Like Claude, some believed the theft was an outside job. But if it was an outside job, no one could imagine why someone who didn’t know Colette would position her like Victorine Meurent. The question wasn’t if the crimes were linked, that was assumed, the question that everyone wondered was if the murder happened because of the theft, or if the theft happened because of the murder.
I was surprised the police hadn’t kept Colette’s position as Olympia a secret, but then again Willie must’ve been the one to find her. He was a terrible gossip and had probably told the media all about it.
“Véronique? Is it true?” I turned around to see Colin Trelawney, slightly rumpled as if he had just gotten out of bed. He still looked gorgeous despite his blonde hair sticking up at odd angles, his blue eyes troubled and filled with questions. He was a British professor currently working at the Sorbonne and giving lectures at the Orsay on Manet. We had been seeing each other romantically for the past three weeks. We were taking things slow, we hadn’t even consummated our relationship yet, but I felt a huge pull toward Colin, since he fit into my ideals of a “normal” life.
“Colin, when did you get here?” I asked.
“Just now. I was giving a lecture at the Sorbonne when someone told me the news. Colette Laroche is dead and the Victorine portrait, it’s been stolen?”
I nodded. “It’s true.”
He covered his face with one of his hands. “Bloody hell. I didn’t even get a good look at that painting. It could’ve been revolutionary in our understanding of Manet’s relationship with his models. The new exhibition—is it cancelled?”
The new exhibition was a retrospective of the relationship between Manet and his muses. Manet and Victorine Meurent and the discovery of the portrait was the centerpiece.
“Pomeroy said it was still going ahead. I would think Colette’s—”
“Poor Colette,” Colin interrupted. “She was a great scholar. What a huge loss for the art world.”
“Excuse me, Véronique? Could I have a word?” Lucy Gold asked.
“Sure. Colin, I’ll see you tomorrow night?” He had invited me to be his guest for the formal opening of the exhibition.
“Yes, right. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I followed Lucy to a corner of the auditorium. Her dark complexion looked unusually pale. She was wringing her hands, and lowered her voice. “I wanted to ask you about the portrait. What you were saying earlier…”
One uniformed gendarme approached. “Mlle. Véronique Berri?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“They are ready for you now.”
“Oh, okay. Lucy, I’ll talk to you later?”
“Sure.”
I went toward the elevator with the gendarme walking at my side, feeling very much like a thief instead of an ex-cat burglar.

Beth Pratt

A Portrait of Murder (Chapter 1-3)