“He remembered the man who sold it to him because he asked if my father could recommend a good authentic Lyon restaurant. He had been to Brasserie George for lunch and wanted to eat dinner in a restaurant of that caliber. Does that help you?”
“You’ve been very helpful. Thank you. Let me think about it. Do you have a card?”
“Oui. If we can help, please call us. The painting really is spectacular. I think it’s better than most California art I have studied. I understand that the artist is very well known in the United States and that his work is highly regarded, as well as being very desirable.”
Jordan’s mind was spinning as he left the gallery. He was certain he was going to find the other paintings, but then what? He didn’t know how he was going to determine the identity of the thief. So far all he knew was that stolen paintings from a Laguna Beach gallery had made their way to two small galleries in Provence, and that they had been sold to the galleries by a man who liked to dine in fine restaurants. That wasn’t much to go on. Jordan walked to the parking structure where he had left his car and slowly drove from there to Route 7.
CHAPTER 9
Jordan spent the short time on the drive to Vienne fantasizing about Elena. There was a sense of mystery about her that only added to her allure. He could easily visualize Elena in the nude. He could feel her soft skin as he caressed her. Jordan wanted her. And when it came to women, Jordan usually got what he wanted.
The small village of Vienne was located on the west bank of the Rhone River. He parked the car near the Restaurant de la Pyramide which was located in a hotel. He understood why architects considered this small town to be nirvana. The Roman influence was still evident in the temple ruins, churches and an incredible statue of Saint Peter. The remains of the majestic Gothic cathedral of St. Maurice rose from a terrace overhanging the river. The sense of history in the village was almost palpable and he found himself enchanted.
Jordan walked into the hotel where the restaurant was located and soon was seated at a table loaded with fresh flowers and a gleaming white tablecloth. Everywhere he looked, bouquets of flowers, looking and smelling freshly picked, filled the room. He glanced at the menu and decided to order the market lunch. It was a simple but elegant meal, consisting of a cheese platter with three cheeses: a buttery brie, a bold Etorki, and a classic blue Roquefort. Freshly baked bread, crunchy nuts, sweet pears, and cantaloupe were served with the cheese plate. The food was everything he’d come to expect in Provence.
He looked at his watch - time to get back to work. The art gallery he wanted to see in Vienne was only a short walk away. The narrow cobblestoned streets were smooth and worn after centuries of use by people, carts, and horses. Floral containers hung from every window with brightly colored geraniums in lavender, red, and white spilling out of them. The gallery was located in the middle of the block and Jordan could see that the door was open. As he got closer to the gallery, he saw a Granville Redmond painting prominently displayed in the window. Bingo.
Jordan walked through the open door and was immediately greeted by the young man behind the desk. “Bon jour, Monsieur, I am Gabriel, how may I help you?” he asked.
“I’m an art dealer from California, and I have a client who collects Granville Redmond paintings. May I see the one in the window?”
“Oui,” he said, taking the painting from the easel which had been supporting it. “It’s quite colorful. I have not been to the United States, but the man who sold the painting to the gallery owner said this painting showed the hills of Laguna Beach in spring.”
Jordan had been to Laguna Beach many times and the young man was right. The painting clearly reflected springtime, when the hills above the city are carpeted in blue and orange flowers.
“Can you tell me something about the person who sold it to the gallery?” Jordan asked. “I’m curious as to why someone would sell a piece of this type of art to a French gallery rather than put it up for auction where Californians would be more apt to see it and buy it.”
“I don’t know much about him, but he was very interesting-looking. There was something …” Gabriel seemed to be embarrassed.
“Yes?” prompted Jordan.
“Well…I am an art student. Drawing is my area of interest. I wanted to take a picture of him to use for a study later. Not surprisingly, he said absolutely no when I asked him, but I took one anyway using the gallery’s old Polaroid camera when he wasn’t looking.”
Gabriel looked guilty. “Please don’t tell anyone. I took it when the owner went to the back room to get his checkbook to pay for the painting. He would not be happy with me if he knew about it.”
“May I see it?”
“Of course,” he said, reaching into a far corner in the back of the desk drawer. “Here, this is the photograph of the man who sold the painting to the gallery.”
“Thank you. Is there anything else you remember about him?”
“He is French and I believe he said he has family in the area. He talked a lot about food and asked me to tell him which restaurants in the area were really good. He was quite portly. I remember thinking he looked like a chef. In fact, he had a number of scars on his arms along with a tattoo of a French chef’s knife. My uncle is a chef and has a similar tattoo on his arm. Many French chefs have it tattooed on their arms.”
The back doorbell rang and Gabriel excused himself, disappearing through the curtain that hid the back door. Jordan immediately got out his cell phone and took several close-up shots of the Polaroid photo. He could hardly believe his luck.
He put his phone away and examined the painting. He noticed that the same type of frame that had been used on the other two paintings had been used on this painting as well. The seller must have smuggled the stolen paintings into France unframed, which made sense. They wouldn’t take up as much space and would be easier to smuggle.
A thief and also a fellow gourmand. Well, isn’t that interesting. I wonder if it would be worthwhile to show his picture to employees at high-end restaurants in the area. Maybe they can tell me something. I wonder if he could have eaten at Henri’s Bakery when he was in St. Victor la Coste.
He made a mental note to show the photos he’d taken to Elena that night at dinner. If the seller was as interested in food as he seemed to be, he probably would have eaten at Henri’s, and Elena might remember him.
“What is the price of the Redmond piece?” he asked Gabriel when he returned. “I will need to take that into consideration when I advise my client.”
“Certainement, Monsieur. Let me look at the ledger.” He took a large leather book out of the bottom drawer of the old roll-top desk. Jordan was amused at the quaintness of the gesture, thinking of the highly computerized galleries in California. “I see that the owner of the gallery would like to have 152,000 euros, but I think he would take less. I would be happy to ask him. I could call you tomorrow.”
“Yes, thank you. I would like to know so I can discuss it with my client. I’m sure you don’t mind if I take a few pictures of the painting for him. I was just walking down the sidewalk when I saw it. You’ve been very helpful. Let me give you my business card.”
Many years ago Jordan had business cards printed with the phony name of a gallery, no address and his cell phone number on it. He took one from his wallet and gave it to Gabriel. “Again, thank you. I’ll look forward to your call.” He walked out the door and down the cobblestone street to where his car was parked.
On his drive back to Chateau Pascal he made a mental list of what he needed to do. As soon as he returned to his room, he needed to email the chief and tell him about Gabriel’s thoughts on the seller being a chef and French.
The photo was a superb piece of luck. He could send it to the chief and have him search through the database of passport photographs maintained by the U.S. Immigration authorities to see if there were any possible matches. Jordan couldn’t access the high-security system himself in Provence, but the chief could.
If they cou
ld find out the name of the man in the photograph, Jordan might be able to locate the seller’s family and get more information about the suspected thief.
He parked his car at the far end of the driveway and walked up the curved staircase to his room, pausing for a few moments to look at the art on the walls.
There must be a fortune in art, just on the walls of the staircase. I wonder if this is even the good stuff, or if they have that in their private area of the chalet?
When he got to his room he wasted no time, emailing Chief Lewis a brief report of what he had seen and discovered, concluding with the photographs he had taken. He attached the photos and report to an email, and sent them to the chief, feeling a sense of relief.
Good job. Now I’m off to dinner with a woman I would like to get to know in several ways. Ahh - great art, wine, food, and a deliciously tantalizing woman. This is definitely not a bad gig!
CHAPTER 10
On one of the rare occasions Elena opened the closet in the second bedroom of the cottage, the one she’d made into a den, the first thing she spotted was a laptop computer in its case. She’d opened the closet, looking for a fresh tablecloth for dinner that evening with Jordan.
She and Jeffrey had used the laptop to keep track of the motel finances. She’d grabbed it and brought it with her to Provence when she hurriedly left the Blue Coyote Motel after Jeffrey’s death. When she rented the cottage in Provence, she’d put it against the back wall of the closet and forgotten about it.
I wish I’d never brought the damn thing with me. It just reminds me of the hours Jeffrey spent in front of it, doing whatever it was he was doing. I thought I might need it, but so far I haven’t. Maybe I should just get rid of it. There’s a little computer store in the village. I wonder if they’d want to buy it. I probably better make sure that Jeffrey wasn’t looking at child porn on it when he used it. I know in California if a technician finds child porn on a computer, he has to report it. Maybe there’s a law like that here in France, and I don’t want to spend time in a French jail.
She took it out of the closet, put it on the desk and plugged it in. It had been several months since she’d used it and it took a while to get it up and running. In a few minutes she saw the familiar grey apple on the screen as it booted up. She sat down at the small desk in the den, trying to remember what password she’d used to gain access. Finally it came to her and she typed in “MARJEF.” She remembered Jeffrey once saying that even though he was the one who would use it most of the time, she’d need an easy to remember password and what could be easier than a combination of their names, Maria and Jeffrey. She smiled, thinking about the man Jeffrey was before he went mad. It was just like him to want to make life easy for her. Just as he had with the two drugs he’d provided for her, the anti-aging hormone and Freedom, the “feel-good” drug.
I wonder if I’m starting to show my age. I see myself in the mirror every day, so I don’t know if there’s a big difference from what I looked like before and what I look like now. I’d give anything to take the pills Jeffrey formulated for the motel guests – the combination of anti-aging and Freedom. I’d have the best of both worlds, feeling good all the time and I wouldn’t age. He really was a genius.
This is weird. I haven’t used this thing for months. I think the last time I used it was to do the bookkeeping for the motel about a month before I left and I probably researched some recipes. Well, I don’t need the bookkeeping program anymore, so I’ll just delete it.
She looked at the screen as the familiar icons appeared on the desktop home page. There were very few. Jeffrey used it to search out certain plants and things he wanted to use in his experiments. Other than that the standard icons that came with the laptop were the only things showing on the screen. Suddenly her attention was caught by a file she’d never seen before. It was simply labeled “Jeffrey.”
That’s odd. I sure don’t remember that being there. I wonder if he added something I don’t know about. She clicked on the file. There were three items in it. Her heart began to speed up and she could feel herself perspiring. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The first sheet was labeled “Hormone,” the second sheet “Freedom,” and the third sheet, “Guest Pill.”
She clicked on the “Hormone” sheet. There were six rows with numbers along with what looked like plant names. “Freedom” had eight rows of numbers and plant names. “Guest Pill” had fourteen rows of numbers and plant names.
Oh my God. Am I imagining this? Could Jeffrey have been worried he was losing his mind and put his secret formulas on the laptop? Could these pages be his formulas?
She got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to put both of them around the glass to get it to her lips. She went back to the computer and sat down. Elena pinched herself to see if this was a dream. She wondered if you wanted something badly enough, if your mind could play tricks and tell you that you’d found it. She looked again. The three formulas were right in front of her on the screen.
I don’t have a printer so I better make a note of these before the computer breaks down and I lose them.
She opened the desk drawer and pulled out a notepad. She began to carefully transcribe all three of the formulas, checking and double checking to make sure what she had written down was an exact replica of what was shown on the computer. Elena turned the laptop off, grabbed her iPad and went out on the patio. She opened it up and began researching the names of the plants Jeffrey had listed in the formulas. All of them were from South America and after an hour of research, she determined that only drug companies could bring them into the United States from Mexico, where they were distilled. The drug companies were a powerful lobby and they’d been able to get a Trade Agreement in place because the plants were essential in many of the drugs that they formulated.
Elena began pacing the length of the patio. All she could think about was getting the drug. What she really needed was a chemist. Even though she had the names of the plants and the amounts, there had to be more to it than that. At the bottom of each of the pages were notations which she’d painstakingly copied, but they didn’t mean a thing to her. Maybe they would to a chemist, but how was she supposed to find a chemist in this little village? Plus, Jeffrey was one of the finest chemists in the world. It might take a very knowledgeable chemist to understand his notations.
There’s nothing I can do today, but maybe, just maybe, I can get the drug again. Now I need to get ready for Jordan. I don’t have much time and there’s no way I can tell him about the formulas without going into everything that happened on my last afternoon at the Blue Coyote Motel.
CHAPTER 11
Jordan left the chateau and walked to the parking lot, got in his car and drove the short distance to the épicier. While the butcher cut T-bone steaks from the loin of beef hanging in the back cooler, Jordan selected two large potatoes and a few other items. He couldn’t pass up the Chateuneuf-du-Pape Cotes du Rhône wine and bought two bottles.
He made his way up the winding hill, spotted the blue shutters, and saw that candles had already been lit in the house. The winding path to the door had several lighted pillar candles in tall glass hurricane holders as well. It made the appearance of the cottage seem even more warm and inviting than it had been the evening before, almost magical.
I must have passed some test. This looks promising.
Elena opened the door just as he raised his hand to knock. “Let me help you with those sacks. What did you bring? This looks like more than steak and potatoes,” she said.
She wore jeans and a simple pink and white striped blouse. She’d cut her long hair right after she landed in Marseilles, but it had grown quite a bit since then. Elena wore it pulled behind her ears, with bangs swept to the side. On her ears were big hoop earrings and gold bracelets jangled on her wrists. She looked fresh and beautiful. Jordan beamed at her.
“I couldn’t resist,” he answered. “I’m a sucker for Chateuneuf-du-Pa
pe wine, and it wouldn’t be a true baked potato without bacon and sour cream. I thought you’d probably have some chives or scallions in your garden. Why don’t you put the potatoes in the oven and I’ll open the wine?”
While he was opening the wine, he stole a glance at Elena. She really was beautiful. He couldn’t even begin to guess her age. There were no lines on her face or around her eyes. With all of the investigations Jordan had conducted over the years, he’d become pretty good at gauging a person’s age, but not in Elena’s case. None of the usual benchmarks were there.
He couldn’t remember if Elena had worn make-up the day before, but she certainly had applied some tonight and applied it well. Her hazel eyes were glowing with her long lashes darkened by mascara and soft brown eyeliner applied to the lids. Her cheeks were a little more blushed than he remembered and she wore a hint of lipstick. He wondered what it would be like to kiss those soft, inviting lips. He didn’t know how long she’d been widowed or how long it had been since she’d been with a man. When they met yesterday and during dinner last night, he’d sensed some sexual tension between them, but tonight was a different story. Sex was definitely in the air, like a thick perfume.
Elena washed the potatoes, pierced and oiled them, and put them in the oven. She felt fabulous, the best she’d felt in a long time. After she finished working at Henri’s Bakery earlier in the day, she’d headed to the village pharmacy with its vast array of make-up and skin products.
As she was getting ready for the evening, and applying make-up for the first time in months, she realized how much she’d missed being attractive. If that was vanity, so be it. Her mother’s mantra came back to haunt her: Get a good job. Find a rich man. Get out of the barrio.
Well, Madre, I did that and look what happened. I got out of the barrio and ended up in Provence with no man, just a dead husband. Maybe her mantra was wrong for me. And now look what I’ve done – invited a policeman for dinner for the second night in a row. Maybe I like to live on the edge a little more than I thought. This could really be dangerous for me, but somehow, I just don’t care. Anyway, I’m lonely and he’s very attractive.
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