Murder at the Gallery: A Northwest Cozy Mystery (Northwest Cozy Mystery Series Book 6)

by Dianne Harman

  Dressed in a beige trench coat, cashmere sweater, and tailored pants, her lithe, tall frame had no need for high heels. Her signature shoes of choice were Roger Vivier Gommette patent leather ballerinas, and her walk-in closet at home had several rows of them in different colors. She pulled up the collar of her coat when she felt the first drops of rain, and hurried to her car, her head bowed. It was only when she was inside the car with doors locked that she found herself able to relax again.

  If her eyes were the windows to her soul, the pair staring back at her in the rear-view mirror revealed a sad and lifeless existence. It wasn’t that Simone didn’t know she created a stir everywhere she went. She was well aware of it, but she didn’t deliberately try to attract attention. If her husband had his way, he’d show her off at every opportunity that came along, just like his paintings. Simone was lonely, but being alone was preferable to being appraised like a piece of art, or treated like just another one of her husband’s acquisitions. More times than she cared to count she’d wished she hadn’t been so naive and desperate to get out of Saint-Victor-la-Coste when, as a teen-ager, she’d met Philippe.

  He’d swept her off her feet fifteen years earlier during a visit back to his home village. “Marry me,” he’d said, after a romance spanning just three weeks. Simone had accepted his proposal in a heartbeat, seizing on her chance to escape the small village where she’d grown up. Nineteen years old with no what are called life experiences, she longed to travel, see the world, and spread her wings. Her parents had refused to even let her go as far as Paris to study at one of the universities. They wanted her to stay close to them, but in the end, they had agreed to the marriage because the Germain family and hers had been close friends for years.

  “Please, madam,” Simone had begged her mother. “I have loved Philippe my whole life. You know he came back for me, just like he said he would. You must not keep us apart.”

  In truth, Simone had no recollection of Philippe. She had been a young girl when he’d left for the United States. When he returned, a successful businessman, the stories he told about life in America turned her head. Although she liked Philippe, and he certainly seemed enamored with her, love was never part of the equation. He did all the right things, showering her with gifts and declarations of love. For a young woman with nothing to compare it to, Simone thought what Philippe was offering her was as good as she was going to get.

  After a few months of living in Seattle as a newlywed, the allure of her new life had quickly worn off. At least Philippe had been honest about his business success, and she was grateful for that. Their home was comfortable, and as the years passed and the business grew, she wanted for nothing material. However, she suspected Philippe had been less than truthful when it came to his feelings for her. She did not find his constant physical demands pleasurable, and had enjoyed both of her pregnancies for the reason that Philippe didn’t find her changing body attractive when she was heavy with child. As a result, he had hardly touched her for the duration of both pregnancies, which was fine with her.

  Simone closed her eyes, wishing there was some way out of the fake life in which she found herself trapped. At thirty-four, she was young enough to start a new life, but there were other considerations. She’d been over it time and again, enough that it gave her a migraine every time she tried to come up with a solution. As far as she could see, there was no way out of the prison-like marriage she’d entered into of her own free, and foolish, will.

  Her cell phone rang, and the name on the screen sent a thrill of excitement coursing through her. It was Marc Germain, her husband’s nephew, calling from France. “Marc, mon chéri,” she scolded him, but her voice was sultry and unconvincing. “I’ve told you never to call me. We agreed a long time ago I would always call you. There must be an emergency, oui?”

  “I consider it to be so,” Marc said. “I am coming to Washington tomorrow. There are two situations I must take care of. The first is our…problem. Have you thought any more about what we discussed the last time we talked? Please, tell me you have reconsidered.”

  Simone let out a soft sigh. “Mon chéri, I have thought of nothing else. To feel your arms around me, to wake up by your side every morning, that is all I want.”

  Simone and Marc had grown up together, and she had never once considered him in any romantic way when they were neighbors in Saint-Victor-la Coste. It was only when he visited his uncle in Seattle as a twenty-seven-year-old artist, that a fire of lust had been ignited between Simone and him. Nine years later, it was still burning. They didn’t see each other often, apart from Simone’s annual trips to visit her parents in France and Marc’s occasional business trips to the United States

  “You say that, but you don’t act on it.” Marc’s tone was impatient. “The time has come to prove your love for me. I cannot live like this, knowing he is there with you, constantly touching you, when you are mine. Tell him, like you promised me you would, or I will.”

  Simone watched a woman walking across the parking lot who she recognized from her daughters’ school. She waved at the woman and turned her attention back to Marc. “You know I’ve lived a lie for the last fifteen years, the whole time I’ve been married to Philippe, but I cannot divorce him. I come from a strong Catholic family. They and everyone else in Saint-Victor-la-Coste would never speak to me again if I divorced him. And if I were to be with you as your wife? The same would happen to you. Your family is as strong in their faith as mine.”

  “Simone, we are both adults,” Marc said. “Our families are of no consequence. They cannot, and should not, keep us apart.”

  Simone laughed hollowly. “Philippe can keep me away from my children, you can be sure of that. Ava and Cecile are the only good things to have come from my marriage. My husband will fight me for custody, I’m sure of it, even if it’s just to get back at me. Philippe places a lot of emphasis on appearances, and if this comes out, he won’t look good. I know him. He will find a way for revenge.”

  “Then we will fight him in the courts,” Marc pleaded. “That’s what lawyers are for.”

  “Non, mon chéri, it is not to be. You know my heart belongs to you, and I know yours to me, but that will have to be enough for us. We’re doomed to be star-crossed lovers.”

  “No.” Marc said. “That may be sufficient for you, but it will not do for me. I know you can’t stand my uncle. But now he’s done something else, something that makes it imperative I take action.” He paused. “And my action will result in our being able to finally be together.”

  Simone’s heart was racing. She didn’t like Marc’s tone. He had a fiery temper, which made him a passionate lover, but also led to him acting without considering the consequences. “What is this something you speak of, Marc? Philippe has told me nothing.”

  Outside, the rain turned heavier and pelted against the car. A feeling of dread washed over Simone.

  “Philippe sends me paintings that I sell in the gallery,” Marc continued. “His prices have always been very fair, and I do well with those paintings.”

  “I know,” Simone said. “You rely on Philippe for a large part of your income.”

  “Let me finish,” Marc said, his voice rising. “A few days ago, he emailed me and told me I must send him seventy-five percent of the amount I receive for selling one of the paintings. When the arrangement started, we agreed I would send him only twenty-five percent of the proceeds from a sale. Those plein air paintings from Philippe take up a lot of space in my gallery, and I have many customers who want them. As you say, without his cooperation, I cannot make a living.”

  “Even for Philippe, that’s low,” Simone said. “Have you tried to reason with him? Perhaps he would agree to a lesser amount.”

  “What do you take me for? Stupid? Of course I have, but he’s being his usual obstinate self. He told me if I don’t send him the seventy-five percent, he will no longer send me any paintings to sell. End of story.”

  Simone stared out at the bleak rai
n, wishing she could see a way out of her miserable existence. She’d thought about it many times, and there was only one way that occurred to her that could permanently fix it. A life without Philippe was only going to happen if he wasn’t around. As in six feet under. She shuddered, wondering how she’d become the type of woman who fantasized about murdering her husband. Is there a type? she thought to herself. On the true crime shows she watched on television, regular housewives killed their husbands all the time.

  “What do you intend to do?” she asked, dully.

  “Something I should have done a long time ago. It’s better if I don’t share the details with you. Just trust me. He will not have both the woman I love as well as the paintings. I may no longer be able to have the artworks, but I will have the woman I love.”

  There was a click at the other end of the line, and then silence. “Marc?” Simone looked at her phone. Marc had ended the call.

  CHAPTER 8

  When Brady Saunders had finished his Master of Fine Arts in Painting degree at The University of Washington, he had dreams of becoming a famous artist. He knew he was good, and in a graduating class of six, his professors had named him the ‘One to Watch.’ He found himself now, four years later, churning out masterpieces just like he’d hoped he would. The irony was that the only person who had any interest in his work was Philippe Germain, who commissioned them. Brady could hardly publicize the fact that he spent his days making forgeries of expensive artworks. Even his girlfriend, Renee LaPlume, thought Brady’s work was the painstaking restoration of paintings, which explained why the originals were in his studio.

  He stood back and gazed at the piece he’d just finished. The original, by the renowned early 20th century California Impressionist artist, Edgar Payne, was resting on an easel next to it, and even though he’d painted the copy, he thought his version would easily pass as the original. In some ways, he thought his was better, not that it mattered. Brady often changed a brushstroke here and there, not that anyone would notice. It was his way of rebellion, making his mark on the pieces that Philippe was selling at a huge profit, while he paid Brady a much smaller share.

  Brady sighed. He’d first realized he had an ability to recreate a painting when he’d taken an internship with a man called Archie Cartwright as part of his Master’s degree studies. Archie’s leathery face was lined with deep crevices, the result of years of painting outdoor landscapes in Europe and California. Archie had later settled in the Northwest after getting what he called a ‘real job’ restoring paintings for the Seattle Art Museum.

  Brady remembered the day Archie had given him a stern warning. His words were still clear in Brady’s mind.

  “You have a great talent,” Archie said, his voice hoarse from thirty years of smoking twenty Marlboro cigarettes a day. “Don’t be impatient. If fame is your ambition, it may not be fulfilled for years, if at all. Remember always to paint for love, not money. Be careful, Brady, that’s my advice.”

  Upon hearing this admonition from his trusted mentor, Brady had a confused look on his face. “I’m not sure what you mean, Archie. I know I may not be able to sell my work until I become established, but I should be able to earn good money in restorations, thanks to your training.”

  Archie nodded solemnly. “Brady, you say that now, but with a gift like yours, temptation may cross your path sooner rather than later. Youth and idealism are all very well now, but when times are lean and you have bills that need to be paid, some people go to the dark side. Don’t be one of those people, Brady.”

  “The dark side?”

  That was the first time the seed was sown in Brady’s mind. He knew Archie was trying to warn him to stay away from some sort of money-making scam, but Brady wanted to know exactly what it involved.

  “Yes,” Archie said, his eyes narrowing. “It would be possible to create fakes that would be very hard for people to tell from the original paintings, especially when using paints and canvases of the period. The only way an expert could tell the difference is if the painting was carbon dated, and even then it’s difficult.”

  Seeing that Archie was studying his expression, Brady was careful to keep his face serious, even though a light bulb had just gone off in his head.

  “I’d never resort to anything like that,” Brady assured him. And he’d meant it—for a while.

  But at that point in his life, Brady was tired of being poor. He was deeply in debt because of his student loans. He kept mulling over what Archie had said, shadowing him closely, and seeing how he mixed the paints for the art that had been created years ago. In fact, in some cases, it was centuries.

  Archie copied the brushwork and style of the artist. He showed Brady how to research what the paints were made from at whatever time in history the painting had originated and recreate them with the same compounds. Brady continued to watch and learn from Archie, in case the day ever came when he would need to put his back-up plan into action.

  Brady didn’t have to wait very long. He learned soon after graduating that neither talent nor hard work was any guarantee of success. He was tired of showing his work to galleries. It was fruitless, and few, if any, gallery owners were willing to take a chance on an unknown artist with no track record. There wasn’t much restoration work coming his way either, apart from a few referrals from Archie. What work he did get barely covered his rent. He wasn’t sure how he was going to make money from what he’d learned from the old man, but he knew there had to be a way.

  On the day he’d pushed open the door of the Germain Gallery two years earlier was the day Brady’s fortunes changed. He’d been engrossed by the plein air work on display, when a Frenchman walking around the gallery struck up a conversation with him.

  “It’s a magnificent painting,” the man had said, walking up to Brady, who was admiring a piece by Hanson Puthoff. The Frenchman extended his hand to Brady. “I’m Philippe Germain, the gallery owner. Are you a collector?”

  Brady suppressed a laugh. “I wish. No, just an aspiring artist. I really like this genre. There seems to have been an explosion of the plein air movement in Seattle recently. The thing is, I think I could paint as well as these artists. Maybe I could bring in some of my pieces for you to take a look at?”

  Philippe raised an eyebrow. “It’s true that art collectors are very receptive right now to the Southern California plein air movement of the last century. Unfortunately, without a famous name on the bottom of the canvas, anything you bring me is worthless.” He looked around to make sure that no one was listening, before continuing in a lower tone. “I kind of wish I could copy the pieces I have here and send them to my nephew’s gallery in Provence, because then I could sell them twice. I sent a couple of paintings like this to him recently, and they sold immediately. It’s a shame I can’t get more of them, because I could get rich pretty quick.”

  Brady thought about it for a few moments. He stared back at the painting, Archie’s warning ringing in his ears. “I can do that,” he said. At that moment, he knew he’d crossed the line to the dark side.

  Philippe had ushered him into his office, where they began to work out a deal. They spent the next few hours discussing the arrangement and what Philippe was willing to pay Brady to make duplicates of high value paintings. After negotiating a deal that both of them were happy with, Brady left, ready to finally make money doing what he was so good at.

  He found old canvases in antique stores, at auctions, and in yard sales. It was easy to scrape off the painted surface and reapply the paint he created on the age-dated canvas or board. With meticulous precision, he copied the works Philippe gave him. He baked each painting, giving it an old appearance with cracks and all. He was careful to always use the same paint for the signature that was on the original, so if a painting was examined with a black light, the signature would not bounce, since it was painted with the same paint.

  Thus began an alliance between an art dealer who was not averse to selling an original painting to a customer and telli
ng him he couldn’t have it for a week or so, because he’d promised to put it in a show or was having it cleaned prior to delivery. Philippe then gave the painting to Brady to be copied. When Brady was finished with it, and it had dried, usually within a week, Philippe let the new owner take the fake version home, which he personally bubble-wrapped. The unsuspecting buyers never questioned whether what Philippe delivered to them was the original, and it never would have occurred to them that it wasn’t. Thanks to Brady, the painting was an exact copy.

  Philippe then sent the original to his nephew Marc’s gallery in Saint-Victor-la-Coste in France. Brady knew Marc paid Philippe twenty-five percent of what Marc sold the painting for and pocketed the rest. Marc’s gallery had since developed a reputation as having excellent plein air paintings for sale at much lower prices than what one would pay for them in the United States.

  Initially, Brady was happy with his cut of Philippe’s profit. It was enough to make a dent in his student loans and take Renee out for dinner now and then. Getting an internship for his girlfriend Renee at Philippe’s gallery had been a convenient happenstance. Brady liked spending time with her there, their shared love of art giving them something in common, although he didn’t think he would have agreed for her to move in with him so quickly if he hadn’t been so desperate for a roommate to pay half the rent on his apartment.

  Staring at the Payne piece in his studio and the copy in front of him, Brady threw the paintbrush down, balling his hands into fists. There was no way he could paint right now, not when he was still fuming from his conversation with Philippe the previous day.