“Darren? Brady Saunders here.” He listened politely while Darren launched into a monologue about what he’d been doing since they last saw each other, before interrupting him. “Listen up, buddy. I’ve got an authentic Edgar Payne here. Going for a song. Ask no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies, if you know what I mean.”
He nodded at Darren’s response, his foot tapping the floor at the same time, trying to wrap up the conversation. “I’d love to shoot the breeze, man, but I’ve got to run. Let’s catch up soon. I’ll ship it to you, and when you sell it, you can wire me the money, less your cut. I’m leaving town, so I’ll let you know my new address. You’re welcome,” he said with a grin, ending the call.
Brady looked at the clock. The next two days would be busy. He needed to empty his bank account and buy euros for the trip. He also needed to make their flight reservations online using his credit card, and then present them to Renee as a fait accompli. Since he had no intention of coming back, he wouldn’t need to pay the credit card bill or leave a forwarding address.
CHAPTER 14
“Tell me about Scott Bayliss, your friend we’re meeting,” DeeDee asked Jake as they drove from the ferry terminal to the Art Department at the University of Washington. “How do you know him?”
“My ex-wife, Laura, is friends with his wife, Stacey. We used to see Scott and Stacey a lot when we were married. Unfortunately, they stayed friends with Laura rather than me. You know how it goes. I don’t see much of Scott anymore. We used to go take in a Seahawks game together, or play golf now and then. As time’s gone on, it’s been less and less.”
DeeDee smiled. “I know exactly how it goes. It’s a shame people feel they have to take sides when a couple break up. Friends who I knew through my ex-husband, Lyle, suddenly dropped me like a brick after he left me. For a while I was paranoid, thinking I’d done something to offend them, or that maybe they never liked me in the first place. Then I realized it was nothing personal. In a divorce situation, people’s loyalties generally lie with the person they knew first.”
They parked in the parking lot, and made their way on foot on the wide pathway through the middle of the grassy Quad which was surrounded by old red brick university buildings. Inside the Quad, they were enveloped in a riot of pink, caused by the iconic eighty-year-old cherry blossom trees in full bloom.
“I forgot how amazing this place is at this time of year,” DeeDee said, delighting in the picturesque scene. Students milled around on the zig-zagging pathways, and many sat on the grass. Some were reading, others chatting or simply lazing in the sunshine. “Oh, to be a student again,” she said, tucking her arm through Jake’s.
He smiled. “Yes. With no worries except for the cute person you have a crush on and where to go for Spring Break.”
“I liked our version of Spring Break better,” DeeDee said, her head filling with memories of Provence. “The lunches at Henri’s Boulangerie and ice cream by the Mediterranean are hard to beat.”
“I agree,” Jake said, stopping to look around. “I think it’s this one.” He pointed at the building on their left. They made their way inside and followed the signs to the Art Department on the second floor.
“It’s Jake Rogers and DeeDee Wilson. We’re here to see Scott Bayliss.” Jake said as he smiled at the secretary working in the small, cramped office. “We have an appointment to see him.”
The secretary nodded. “He’s expecting you. Please, take a seat in the hallway, and I’ll let him know you’re here.
“Thanks, Pauline,” DeeDee said, reading the woman’s name badge. They waited for a few minutes on an uncomfortable wooden bench.
“This reminds me of being outside the principal’s office, waiting to be disciplined for something,” Jake said, folding his arms.
“I wouldn’t know,” DeeDee retorted.
“You were always a good girl?” Jake said with a smirk.
“Maybe not,” DeeDee replied, “but I just never got caught.”
They were interrupted by a friendly man in his fifties wearing black jeans with a white shirt and sweater. He greeted Jake with a handshake and a slap on the back, before turning to shake DeeDee’s hand. “I’m Scott,” he said, “and you must be DeeDee. How you ended up with this guy, I’ll never know. All I can say is, he’s the lucky one in your relationship, that’s for sure.”
DeeDee and Jake followed Scott into his office, where art books, magazines, and papers were piled everywhere. DeeDee stood awkwardly, wondering where they were going to sit. Every available square inch of surface space in the room was covered with paperwork of some sort. The wooden bench in the hallway was beginning to look like a better option.
As if reading her mind, Scott cleared a space on a small couch by lifting a pile of books and moving them onto the floor. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, indicating for them to sit on the couch, before scratching his head and pulling over a chair for himself. “I’d offer you some coffee, but I can’t find any cups.” He chuckled softly. “They’re buried underneath here somewhere, and Pauline has her own mug that no one else is allowed to use. I’ve resorted to Starbucks three times a day. As much money as I spend there, I should probably buy some stock in that company.”
DeeDee liked this man, with his sunny disposition and self-deprecating humor. She could see why Jake would get along so well with him, and felt saddened that Jake had lost touch with him as a result of his divorce.
“How can I help you guys?” Scott asked, which was their cue to tell him about the paintings in Provence, the ones that Cassie and Colin had bought from the Germain Plein Air Art Gallery, and that DeeDee had been the one who discovered Philippe’s body the previous day.
“That’s quite a story,” Scott said when they were finished. “I heard about Philippe’s death, because he was very well known in the Seattle art community. He wasn’t the most popular guy on the local art scene, but he commanded a certain amount of respect because of how successful his business was.”
“What do you mean, he wasn’t popular?” DeeDee asked. “Why do you think that was the case?”
Scott thought for a moment. “His gallery was elitist in that he didn’t support up-and-coming artists. Most gallery owners recognize the need to encourage the next generation coming up through the ranks. It’s the only way to keep the art culture alive and at the same time appeal to a younger profile of buyers, so it helps everyone. Art should be inclusive, not exclusive. Philippe disregarded that philosophy in the name of profit.”
“I see,” DeeDee said. “That puts everything in perspective. The reason we’re here is, I think the paintings we saw in Provence, and the ones at the homes of my friend Cassie and client Colin, are somehow related to Philippe’s death.”
“I think I know where you’re going with this,” Scott said with a sigh. “But I don’t want to put words in your mouth. Can you tell me a little bit more about why you think that?”
“I’ve talked to a dealer in Laguna Beach who thinks there’s something off with the paintings,” DeeDee said. “He’s seen both sets of photos, but he was very clear about not being able make a firm judgment unless he personally examined the paintings.”
“That’s what I would expect from an ethical dealer,” Scott said.
Jake leaned forward and interrupted. “Ever since DeeDee told me about this, I’ve been thinking about it all night. Scott, by any chance do you know of anyone who would be talented enough to do that? Paint a fake that’s good enough to be mistaken for the real thing?”
Scott looked away, obviously thinking about the question. Eventually he spoke up. “I have an idea. All of our students who are enrolled in the Master’s of Fine Arts program have to do an internship with an art restorer at the Seattle Art Museum. He’s superb. Let me call him and see if he has any thoughts about it. I’ll see if I can get him on the line now.”
Scott stood up and went over to his desk, where the telephone was barely visible because of the accumulation of books and papers su
rrounding it. He put the phone on speakerphone and dialed a number. DeeDee waited with anticipation while the phone rang.
“Hello. This is Archie,” a hoarse voice said.
“Archie, it’s Scott Bayliss. I’ve got you on speakerphone, because there’s a couple of people with me who are trying to find out whether some paintings owned by people they know might be fakes. Tell me, Archie, have you ever had any students who were talented enough to create a completely fake painting based on an original?”
“Maybe,” Archie said, before clearing his throat with a hacking cough. There was a long pause, and DeeDee exchanged a look with Jake, while they waited for Archie to continue.
“A couple of years ago, I had an intern who was one of the most gifted students I’ve ever come across,” Archie said. “He was good enough that several times I let him do the restoration that was needed by the museum while I oversaw it. I’ve never allowed a student to do that before or since, but this young man had something special. It was like a sort of sixth sense about restoration and everything that went with it. He was intuitive about recreating whatever was necessary from a former time. Freaky, if you ask me. As if he’d been there before.”
DeeDee could see Scott’s face flicker with interest.
“Archie,” Scott said. “Do you think the person you’re referring to would be capable of copying a painting from one hundred years ago and making it look exactly like the original?”
“Sure,” Archie said. “He could pretty much do that without any problem. If both paintings were closely examined side by side, the fake might be able to be spotted. Even then, in my opinion this guy was good enough to make that difficult.”
Scott lifted a pen from his desk and poised it, ready to write. “Can you tell us this person’s name, Archie, and where we might find him?”
“Brady Saunders,” Archie said. “Last I heard, Brady was doing restoration work for galleries in the Seattle area.”
Scott wrote the name on a scrap of paper. “By any chance, do you know if the Germain Plein Air Art Gallery was one of them?” he added as an afterthought.
“It’s possible,” Archie said. “Terrible news about Philippe, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Scott said. “Hopefully, soon someone will be able to make some sense of what happened.”
With that, Scott ended the call and walked across the room to where DeeDee was sitting, and handed her the piece of paper with the name Brady Saunders written on it.
CHAPTER 15
DeeDee climbed back into the car. “Do we have time to visit Simone Germain?” she asked, as she secured her seatbelt with a click. Jake had mentioned that his assistant, Rob, had texted him the Germain family’s address that morning after DeeDee had asked if he could get it for her. The previous evening she’d spent some time online researching Philippe, and had uncovered some interesting information.
“Sure,” Jake said, driving out of the university campus and heading in the direction of Bellevue. “Rob and I are working on a couple of cases and I need to meet up with him later, but we have the rest of the afternoon. We might as well make a day of it.”
In Bellevue, they easily found the Germain home which was in the Beaux Arts Village located on the shores of Lake Washington. As Jake drove slowly past the house, DeeDee craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the picture-perfect two-story home with a double garage. The gates were open, and the residence was tucked away just out of view from the street, down a winding brick driveway surrounded by a wooded garden. There was space for a couple of cars out front, and there was a circular driveway in the front of the house.
“Wow,” Jake said, as they passed one beautiful home after another, all on the shores of the lake. “Just wow. I’ve never been to this area before. It’s hard to believe somewhere this close to Seattle has its own private beach in a wooded enclave.”
“I know,” DeeDee said. “It’s a little world of its own. Who wouldn’t love to live in an exclusive community with a small town feel, right on the edge of the city?”
Jake parked on a tree-lined street a few houses up from the lake. They made their way back to the Germain home on foot, not passing any other pedestrians along the way, although several cars went by, all luxury models.
At the Germain house there was a silver Toyota Prius that appeared to be a rental car parked in the driveway along with a shiny white Mercedes SUV. They walked up a pathway leading to the house and climbed the steps that led to a wraparound porch and the front door.
Before DeeDee could ring the doorbell, Jake motioned to stop her. The sound of raised voices was coming from inside the house, a dialogue of rapid-fire French.
DeeDee strained to hear, but could only make out a few words.
“Can you understand what’s being said?” Jake asked in a low voice.
DeeDee shrugged, then pointed to an open window a few steps away from the door. They quietly stepped next to the window, where the heated exchange came through loud and clear.
Jake looked at DeeDee questioningly, and raised his hands for some indication about what the people inside were talking about, but she just cocked her ear and concentrated on trying to translate. Most of the words she could understand, and she was able to piece together the parts she didn’t by the context of the rest of the conversation.
After listening for several minutes, DeeDee was startled by the front door being flung open. She watched Marc Germain storm out of the house, muttering under his breath. He did not look in the direction of where they were standing on the porch which was several steps away from the door, and strode down the steps to the rental car.
He was almost immediately followed outside by a woman DeeDee assumed was Simone Germain. Through various online clippings and interviews DeeDee had read on the internet the evening before, she had learned Simone was twenty years younger than her deceased husband. She had married him when he was on a trip in Provence to visit his family who lived in the small village of Saint-Victor-la-Coste, the same village where DeeDee and Jake had vacationed the previous week.
The way Philippe portrayed the story in the snippets she’d read of how he met and married his wife, made it sound terribly romantic. Simone, seemingly trapped in small village life, was desperate to get away and do something more meaningful, but her tight-knit family refused to let her leave to study in Paris. They wanted her to stay close to them, and she did, until the dashing Philippe came back to the village from the United States, and like a knight in shining armor, rescued her from her boring life in the village. Not only had he swept her off her feet, but he had swept her away from Saint-Victor-la-Coste to the United States, and given her the happily-ever-after dream she’d always wanted.
Simone was beautiful in the flesh, and DeeDee thought the online photos she’d seen of her hadn’t done her justice. Dressed in a classic beige linen sweater, cropped Armani pants, and leather ballet pumps, which DeeDee recognized as being eye-wateringly expensive, the Frenchwoman was the epitome of chic. Her presence on the porch was accompanied by a waft of floral scent that screamed sexy and sophisticated all at once. DeeDee saw that Jake was also staring at Simone, and was happy to notice that there was no sign of attraction in his gaze, just a curious fascination with this model-like creature.
DeeDee spoke up. “Mrs. Germain, may we talk to you for a moment?”
Simone was startled by the sound of DeeDee’s voice. She first looked at DeeDee and then at Jake, creases appearing on her otherwise flawless, milky forehead. Surprise and bewilderment were etched across her face, but what struck DeeDee most of all was the pain in her eyes.
Simone turned to where Marc was backing rapidly out of the driveway, tires screeching, before addressing DeeDee’s request with a weary shake of her head. “Can it wait for another time?” she asked. Her voice was soft, and a tear trickled down her cheek. “This really is not a good time for me. You see, my husband was murdered yesterday, and there are many things I must do.”
DeeDee stepped forward. “Mrs. Germai
n, I’m DeeDee Wilson, the person who discovered your husband’s body. I’ve come to express my condolences and see if you can think of any reason why your husband was murdered. I’m sorry I don’t speak French, but it’s obvious you speak English well.”
DeeDee’s cheeks flushed. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jake looking at her with a puzzled expression. She knew he’d understand later why she felt it necessary to lie about not speaking French, and hoped he’d play along. To his credit, Jake stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and stayed silent.
“In that case, please come into the house,” Simone said, leading the way.
DeeDee and Jake followed her into a home with paintings on every wall. It was clear either Philippe or Simone loved orchids, because they were everywhere, in every color, and in every size. The furniture and everything else were all in neutral shades, providing a monochromatic backdrop for the bursts of color from the paintings and the vibrant orchids.
“Please, have a seat,” Simone said, gesturing towards a large cream-colored sofa in the living room. DeeDee noticed a Hermes purse flung casually on a side table, which she noted probably cost more than DeeDee’s car parked down the street.
“Again, we’re sorry to bother you,” DeeDee said when they were seated. “This is Jake Rogers, a private investigator. I never met your husband, but Jake and I were at the Gallerie Germain in Provence last week and met your husband’s nephew, Marc. As a matter of fact, Marc was with me when I discovered Philippe’s body.” She paused, studying Simone’s body language. “I think that was him who just left?”
Simone shifted in her seat, and fidgeted with her hands. “Yes, we are trying to make arrangements regarding what to do with my husband’s body and his business. His family is still in France, but trying to transport the body for burial in another country could be problematic. As far as the gallery’s future, I don’t know.”
Murder at the Gallery: A Northwest Cozy Mystery (Northwest Cozy Mystery Series Book 6) Page 10