Paint Me Gone (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 3)

by Molly Greene

  “Damian. You’re a talented, fascinating man. Can’t we be pals without any involvement with sheets?”

  He cracked a smile. “Of course. There are so many other ways–”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He shook his head and gave her sad. “I’m afraid it’s not in my nature.”

  “Why is that? Think of all you’re missing.”

  “Think what you are missing,” he countered. “But enough of that. I believe you must have more questions. My best guess would be it involves the painting you showed me.”

  Gen had made Fleur for having a one-track mind. Clearly she was wrong again. He was a multi-tasker, seeking sex while still able to intuit what the target in his sights might be after. After all, everyone wanted something.

  Maybe he’d acquired the skill to determine what his victim would be willing to exchange. Some women wanted to be told they were loved; some that they were beautiful; some that they were needed.

  It was genius, really.

  “You’re right,” she replied. “But having a chat with me won’t make me take my clothes off in gratitude.”

  “I can see that. I’m resigned to having an amusing meal with a lovely woman. Fire away.”

  “I’m curious about your world. For instance, plein air. I’ve read that advocates say painting outside provides artists with a better opportunity to capture light. What do you think?”

  He shrugged. “Working in a studio is just as good. Think of it this way. Most artists do not set out to create photographic images of their subjects on the canvas. They interpret what they see and render it according to their own intrinsic style. Light and shadow are here.” He tapped his head, then his chest, where his heart should be.

  Gen wasn’t sure he had one.

  “So a good artist could draw from a photograph,” she said.

  “A good artist can create from nothing. From memory, from fantasy, from a nightmare. Vincent van Gogh said it best, ‘I dream my painting, and I paint my dream.’ It’s about skill and talent and education. As I told my class, one must practice one’s medium to master it.”

  “You’ve certainly done that,” Gen conceded.

  “Thank you. That’s the first sincere compliment you’ve offered.”

  “I beg your pardon. I just said you were talented and fascinating.”

  “Empty flattery.”

  Gen pretended to be wounded. The waitress arrived and saved her from trying to figure out what had made him petulant. The truth was, she didn’t really care. She cared even less when Fleur had the balls to order dinner for them both, but she kept her mouth shut.

  When the waitress left she resumed the conversation, bypassing the flattery jibe as if it hadn’t occurred. “Do you know a painter named Gregory Prentiss?”

  His eyes flicked up from the slice of artisan bread he was buttering. He was interested. “I do know Gregory, yes. Why do you ask?”

  “I saw some of his work down in Carmel.”

  “Ah, you were in Jacovich’s lair.”

  That was an odd way to describe it. “Do you know him?” she asked.

  “Everybody knows Jack.”

  “So I’ve heard. Anyway, Prentiss’s canvases caught my eye, especially a landscape with a cliff scene similar to my painting. The one I showed you.”

  “And?”

  “And so I’d like to find Prentiss and ask about that stretch of ocean.”

  “Why in the world do you want to do that?”

  “Maybe he could tell me if he saw my artist there.”

  “That’s naïve. You can’t be sure Prentiss himself was ever actually in that spot.”

  “You mean he could have reproduced the scene from a photograph.”

  Fleur gave her a look that said she was more naïve than he thought.

  “Are you trying to tell me he might not have painted the cliff scene with his signature on it?”

  Damian tapped his nose.

  If she’d known they were playing Charades, she would have gotten into the spirit of the game sooner. “What makes you think that?” Gen asked.

  “Greg is getting long in the tooth,” Fleur replied. “He’s almost a recluse now. He doesn’t give interviews or make appearances. That leads me to believe he doesn’t want anyone to see what kind of shape he’s in.”

  “Do you think he has someone painting for him?”

  “To encourage that line of thinking would be perpetrating idle gossip,” Damian parried. He popped a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed.

  “Does that ever happen?” Gen continued the thread on her own. “I’ve heard some big-name authors hire ghostwriters to write novels and then publish them under their own names. And they don’t always let their readers in on the old switcheroo. So I guess it wouldn’t be out of the question for an artist to consider it.”

  “There’s a traveling exhibit making the rounds right now,” Damian said. “Freda Kahlo’s entire body of work, every single one a flawless reproduction. None of them are original. None were painted by Miss Kahlo.”

  “But it sounds like that’s been disclosed. The people who come to see the exhibit know she didn’t paint them, they just want to see what her work looks like.”

  “Exactly,” Fleur replied.

  “But is it ethical to sell a painting with Prentiss’s signature if he didn’t paint it? Even if it’s done with his blessing?”

  Damian shrugged again. “I’m not saying that’s what’s happening.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  He shook his head.

  “If he was, why would he do it?”

  Fleur laughed. “Hypothetically? For the same reason a famous author would. Money and ego.”

  “But wouldn’t people know he wasn’t the artist?”

  “You’re assuming anyone would question the authenticity. The signature would be his, the final touches, the provenance would be above reproach.”

  Gen studied Fleur as he was about to pop a mushroom into his mouth. “Why are you telling me this?”

  He held the mushroom back. “I haven’t told you anything,” he replied. “I can only assume that Greg Prentiss has locked himself into his Carmel compound and is painting like a demon, set on amassing a library of unsold work at incredible speed so his heirs will inherit a vast fortune upon his unfortunate death.”

  The vegetable went in. Gen followed his lead and helped herself to a baby carrot, munching and wondering if Fleur indeed had suspicions about Prentiss and was now trying to be coy about his insinuations.

  But why would he? And as soon as she’d asked herself the question, she knew the answer. Because everyone had secrets.

  “Would an expert be able to tell if Prentiss did a painting himself?”

  “I assume it’s possible.”

  “And does Gregory Prentiss have any direct heirs?” Gen asked.

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Couldn’t say and didn’t know are two different things. She’d decided not to point that out when Fleur continued.

  “He’s had two wives, I believe. Chances are one of them whelped.”

  Gen waited to see if he would add anything to that statement. He didn’t. She wondered if he was leading her down the primrose path as retribution for not begging him to do her right here in the restaurant. She decided to dispense with the bull.

  “Have you ever been married?” she asked.

  He leaned back in his chair and raised his hands as if the idea needed to be batted away. “I am not commitment material.”

  No kidding. She was dying to say that aloud but denied herself the pleasure.

  “Don’t you think you’ll ever want to stop catting around and settle down, maybe even have a family?”

  Fleur gave her a glimpse of him being thoughtful, then swung his expression into a wolfish grin. “No,” he replied. “I’ll never again be a one-woman man. It’s an unmendable character flaw, but I can live with it.”

  He considered her with apparent pity. “Were you ho
ping I was something other than what I am?”

  Gen shook her head. “I save my hopes for things I think are possible.”

  He raised his goblet and she followed suit, tapping his wine glass with her own. He stared and sipped as she took a long pull of the sauvignon and swallowed, then poured herself some more.

  Chapter Twenty

  A pair of Nikes, loose-fitting elastic-waist shorts and pants, t-shirts, and a special belt that held car keys, cell phone, a little cash, and a water bottle. This comprised the gear that changed Gen’s life.

  She’d tried to follow Bree’s example and swim laps in their rooftop pool, but she didn’t take to it. Standard exercise methods didn’t blow her skirt up. Swimming was a bore. Cycling was downright dangerous. Working out in a gym was a horror, and jogging was a pain.

  Nothing had stuck, not until that first day she laced up her athletic shoes and went out to pound the pavement. It turned out pumping arms and tramping the city streets was literally more her speed. Excitement burned through her every time she parked the car and hit the sidewalk. Walking was her thing. Who knew?

  Today she was raring to go with Oliver at her side. They hit the avenue and swung into a brisk gait, zipping through the fashionable neighborhood of Hayes Valley, not far from the theater district and between the Tenderloin and the Haight.

  Livvie’s iPod was idle; there was too much to take in. Much of the area had been spared devastation during the 1906 earthquake and fires, and many of the Victorians were original. Queen Annes and Edwardians mixed proudly with trendy boutiques and restaurants and public housing. Hayes is a mixed bag, and the residents like it that way.

  What they hadn’t liked was the elevated freeway constructed during the 1950’s. It brought the quarter to its knees. When the Loma Prieta earthquake damaged the road, the massive double-decker was demolished. The community was resurrected. Life in Hayes revived.

  Now, some label it the city’s best-kept secret.

  Hordes of visitors browse the hip stores, locals run their dogs at Duboce Park, and everyone pokes around Hayes Valley Farm, which is situated on city-owned lots in place of the former access ramps to Highway 101. Oliver partied in the bar at Jade, a triple-decker lounge with the best female impersonators in town – and that’s saying a lot.

  Hayes had become one of Gen’s favorite scenic haunts. Locals dubbed it “alley catting,” hiking through the back streets to admire the gardens. She came back often to cruise the alleys and see what was new or in bloom. The spectacle today did not disappoint.

  “So you had dinner with Damian,” Livvie said. “Did he get your pants off?”

  “Only in his mind.”

  “Too bad he wasn’t trying to undress me.” Oliver’s voice was tinged with gloom. “I’d have let him score.”

  The talk of nude made Gen flash to Caroline’s state of dishabille. She didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, she draped an arm over his shoulder and pulled Livvie close. “Have you offered? Maybe he’s bisexual. He’s a nymphomaniac, that’s for sure.”

  “In my dreams. He’s into breasts and vaginas and I don’t have those.”

  “His loss,” Gen replied. “How about that salesman at the Jacovich Gallery, what was his name?”

  “Justin. Oh, he’s charming, but he’s also geographically undesirable. Listen, Gen, I don’t have any trouble getting dates. You, on the other hand–”

  “Wait. Stop right there.”

  “You make all sorts of comments about my love life. Why is yours off limits?”

  “Because I don’t have one, and for now that’s how I want it.”

  “You’re nuts. I saw the expression on your face at Damian’s show when that hunky detective walked away from you.”

  “How did you see that?”

  “I was facing the front door, chatting up a friend on the edge of the crowd. I saw the damsel on his arm when he came in, too, and I can imagine what your mug looked like. Catch any flies?”

  Gen quickened her pace, hoping the increased effort would shut him up. Livvie matched her stride and kept yapping.

  “I told you months ago to snap that boy up.”

  “I wasn’t ready. It wouldn’t have been fair to either of us.”

  “What a crock.” Oliver was puffing now. “It’s probably not too late, you know. I bet he’s just sampling the secretarial pool while you make up your mind whether or not you’re in.”

  “He’s not single. He’s dating someone. And believe me, she isn’t a secretary, and that puts a cork in that bottle.”

  They hit a red light and halted at the curb, both with their hands on their hips and breathing hard.

  “He likes you, Genny. That kind of like doesn’t go away. He’s waiting for the timing to be right. Why don’t you stop ticking days off your calendar and go for it?”

  She threw up her hands and whirled away. “I don’t know,” she cried. “I just don’t know.”

  The light changed. Gen flew across the street and raced ahead, but Oliver wasn’t easy to shake. When he grasped her forearm she stopped, panting and wide-eyed, and scowled at him with her chest heaving.

  “You and Mack are going to be okay.” Oliver’s voice was thick with empathy.

  “There is no me and Mack.” She heard the pain behind her words and fought to banish it. Gen didn’t want pity, but she knew he was trying to sooth her. “You don’t have a crystal ball.”

  “I don’t,” Liv replied. “But I have a heart, and I have eyes, and when it comes to other people’s affairs my intuition is as good as any woman’s. Maybe better. For sure it’s better than yours.”

  She glared at him, then began to laugh. “God, I love you.” She hugged him, and they turned and continued up the street.

  “Ryan was a blip on the radar,” Liv said. “He showed up so you could see how much you can love someone, that’s all. Now you need to take a deep breath and get back out there and track down the guy who can give that kind of love back.”

  “With my luck, I’ll find a man who’ll pitch me a bunch of crap along with it.”

  “Maybe that’s what you need.” Oliver looked at her and batted his lashes. “Someone who has the balls to give back what you dish out. I think Mack’s the one.”

  Gen didn’t respond. Oliver had hit the nail on the head; she did need a partner who wasn’t afraid to call her out and show his feelings and have a good laugh while he was doing it. Whether that guy was Mack Hackett remained to be seen. She was still conflicted about whether she was ready to find out.

  “Look, enough.” Gen released Oliver and hooked a left into one of their favorite alleys. “Change the subject.”

  “What’s new with the case?”

  “A lot of loose ends that don’t add up.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sophie said Shannon had a weakness for men and got mixed up with the people she worked for. And her old agent, Edith Jelicot, thinks she was involved with an artist named Patrick Noonan. She doesn’t have hard evidence, but she thought the police should have questioned him about Shannon’s disappearance.

  “Contrary to what Sophie said, Jelicot didn’t get the impression Shannon slept around. But I’m thinking maybe Noonan was her lover. By the way, Jelicot’s opinion was that Shannon wasn’t in a place where she was considering suicide, and she doesn’t think she was capable of murder.”

  “Sounds like Sophie and the agent saw different sides, or Shannon didn’t share her real self with one of them.”

  “I’ll say. The question is, which one is right?”

  Oliver pointed to a stand of hollyhocks in full bloom. “Check that out.”

  The six-foot stalks were ringed with multi-colored blossoms, and they were thick in the back of a bed that seemed to have been planted just for passersby. Sweetpeas poured over the fence and filled their noses with a scent that was almost obscene. Again, she was reminded of Madison and Cole’s garden. Gen stopped and inhaled half a dozen times, trying to memorize the sweetness.

&nb
sp; “Have you checked out this Noonan person?”

  “Not yet,” Gen replied. “But it’s time. I had another thought, too, but it wasn’t until after I’d hung up with Edith.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She told me she’d discovered the connection between Noonan and Shannon while she was going over tax records with her accountant. I should have asked if Noonan worked with the murdered girl, too. I need to call again and see if she’ll look for a paper trail.”

  “The police should have done that a million years ago.”

  “They thought the murder-suicide was a sure thing.”

  Oliver pointed to the right and Gen’s eyes followed his hand. The yard they were passing was thick with hydrangea, their white flower heads as huge as soccer balls. The plants skirted a renovated tri-level Victorian painted a rich gray with linen trim. Lines of darker charcoal outlined the window frames and gingerbread embellishments that hung beneath the eaves. Gen pulled out her phone and snapped a picture.

  “Even so,” Oliver said, “You’d think they would have turned over every stone. They must be underfunded and overwhelmed.”

  Gen smiled. “Are we talking about the cops or ninety-five percent of the people in the world?”

  “Clearly you and I are among the minute percentage of humans on this planet who are not.”

  “Aren’t we lucky?” Gen replied. “Our lives are our own, our bills are paid, we have a little dough in the bank, neither of us has a boss we have to please or somebody else’s schedule to dance to. I need to appreciate my good fortune more often.”

  “Amen,” Oliver said. “And we’re out on a beautiful morning, looking at all this gorgeousness. We ought to be paying somebody for the pleasure.”

  “Speaking of paying,” Gen replied, “I do need to do right by my clients, so back to the case. Get this, Fleur hinted that Prentiss may have someone doing the bulk of his painting.”

  “Fleur is a gossip, isn’t he?”

  “And for that I’m thankful,” Gen replied. “So we know that Greg Prentiss is partial to scenes like Shannon’s. But even if it’s true that someone preps for him, it’s too much of a leap to think that he and the artist who did Sophie’s painting are connected. It’s a thought, but not probable. Noonan is the more likely lead.”