Persimmon Crown

by R J Fournier

  There was no estimate of its value but on the internet Delyth discovered a similar painting by Champaigne that was half its size had sold for a half-million euros. The crucifixion could bring in a million or more in open auction. Even on the black market, it would be worth a lot. That would be motive enough for murder.

  But why leave the painting behind? Helen had seen it two days after the murder. Even if the killer didn’t have a chance right away because Helen had interrupted him, he could have easily gone back later. If André had managed to get in the house, so could the killer. That’s assuming, of course, that the painting was real. DuQuenne had replaced the gems in the frame with fakes; she could have done the same with the painting. The question was, why would she?

  That triggered the memory of André’s story about Cécile wanting to return the champagne to the convent. An easy mistake to hear “the champagne” instead of “de Champaigne.” And Port-Royal des Champs had been a convent. Perhaps the old woman’s crazy request to André had nothing to do with alcohol and nuns. Instead, it was a no-less crazy attempt to make amends for her brother’s crime by returning the best she had, a facsimile of the real thing. But if DuQuenne’s painting was a forgery, where was the real one?

  She stopped herself. Her mind could race in endless circles of speculation. And with each revolution, one thought kept recurring like a stone caught in a tire: she should call Josh.

  She told herself to save the information for her big story. Josh would know when everyone else did.

  But running the story would clue Cheyne into the fact that his secrets were out. If he were the killer, he’d run.

  Josh could arrest Cheyne as soon as she’d gotten the glory for breaking the story. What better way to prove her credentials as a reporter?

  But it would be another public humiliation for Josh. Is that what she wanted?

  She played out the scene of her telling Josh what she’d learned. He’d be amazed. Amazed and grateful. Amazed, grateful and apologetic.

  She called.

  He answered after two rings this time.

  “Is sitting around waiting for the phone to ring all you have to do?” she asked. She immediately wished she hadn’t.

  “Not many people know my direct number.” His tone made it clear he wished he hadn’t given it to her. “What can I do for you?” At least he wasn’t as brusque as last time.

  “Did you know Etienne Cheyne was sent to prison for stealing paintings from a museum?”

  “Why, yes I did. But that was over forty years ago. He’s been clean ever since.”

  “Did you know one of the paintings he stole is sitting in Cécile DuQuenne’s bedroom? Or at least it was.”

  “That I didn’t know.” His tone had changed.

  She could almost see him sit up in his chair, perhaps cradle the phone on his shoulder, his fingers hovering over his laptop waiting to take notes.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “How do you know?”

  “I haven’t seen it, but Helen Terfel took a picture.”

  “Shit,” he muttered. “The photo she went on about when she called?”

  “Yeah.” She told him all the paintings had been recovered except the one. She told him how, according to Sophie, Etienne had never forgiven his sister for taking it. She told him that Etienne said he’d only found out where Cécile lived when the French embassy contacted him, yet Sophie knew it two months earlier. She told him André’s story about Cécile sending her brother a letter asking him to help return champagne to the convent. Except André had gotten it wrong. Cécile wanted to return the Philippe de Champaigne to a museum that had once been a convent. “He had motive,” she concluded. “Did he have opportunity? Have you found out if he was here the day of the murder?”

  A long silence at the other end.

  “Come on,” Delyth said. “This can be background. I won’t report it until you tell me on the record.”

  “I’m sorry. You know I can’t say anything without passing it by the public affairs officer. But I appreciate the information.” It came out as if half swallowed. He cleared his throat. “I really mean it. It’s given me lots to think about.”

  When they hung up, Delyth should have been elated. She showed up Josh to the one person who mattered. Nothing stopped her from writing about Cheyne’s arrest for art theft and the Philippe de Champaigne painting being found right here in Sullyton; it was all a matter of public record and Helen Terfel’s phone. But Josh’s croak of a thank you revealed that his daunting self-confidence and indefatigable good spirits were a front. The glimpse of the man behind the mask made her feel embarrassed and relieved. She liked him better for it.

  It was late. She was tired. She decided to go home and write the article in the morning.

  SIXTEEN

  Helen and Frank had promised to take care of their two grandsons while the parents enjoyed the Martin Luther King weekend at a bed-and-breakfast along the coast. For three days the boys were shimmering bundles of scattered energy ricocheting through the house.

  When they were gone, Frank lamented, “I’ll miss them, but I’m too old for this. I don’t know how you do it.”

  He meant, Helen knew, how she managed her fourth graders. “They’re the ideal age,” she answered. “Old enough to contain some of that exuberance, but they haven’t hit puberty yet.”

  Her students weren’t the problem. But teaching for over thirty years was long enough for it to become routine. It was like being married that long. She loved Frank more than ever, but she wouldn’t call it passion.

  Her involvement in the DuQuenne murder case was the first thing she’d been passionate about in years. She was self-conscious referring to it that way, even to herself. She was no more involved than happenstance and curiosity had made her. It might be the police’s case, but it wasn’t her case. It was at best a slightly grandiose fantasy justified by concern for Mikey and now for André.

  Which reminded her she’d still not followed through on her promise to André. It’d been a difficult week. Her principal had taken time off to deal with her husband, whose Alzheimer’s was advancing faster than anticipated. In her absence, Helen was the Teacher In Charge. She was the one who had to explain to district heads why her school wasn’t going to implement the misguided demands sent down from their ivory tower. She was the one who met with helicopter parents who came in to complain about how a teacher was stifling their child. She was the one who had to fill out all the mind-numbing bureaucratic paperwork. When she got home, she was too tired to even consider knocking on Etienne Cheyne’s door. But telling herself that sweet-talking him into signing the release for Cécile’s ashes would be easy work in comparison, she decided to do it that afternoon.

  “I think I’ll try again to talk with moan-sewer Cheyne,” she told Frank. She mispronounced the French to make light of Frank’s worry about her entering the den of a mysterious Frenchman. It didn’t work.

  “I wish you wouldn’t go,” he said. “At least not without me.”

  “No, you stay. You didn’t get a chance to work all weekend. I’ll be okay. I’ll bring Coco and Mollie for protection.”

  She’d barely set out when she saw a sheriff’s car leaving the Vitkus’ drive. “What do you think that’s about?” she asked the dogs and hurried to find out.

  Just as Helen was going to knock, Marija opened the door. Helen was surprised to see her dressed in dark slacks and a loose sweatshirt. A triangle of plain white cloth, tied behind her neck, covered her head. She slouched slightly as if weighed down by the pail she carried that was filled with spray bottles and rags. She was facing inside as she pulled the door closed behind her and didn’t notice Helen standing there. Turning she exclaimed, “Oh! I didn’t know anyone was here.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just going to knock.”

  “Of course.” Marija visibly gathered herself, straightening to her full elegance despite her unusually casual getup.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

 
“I don’t think I have good times anymore. But I’m pleased to see you. You must come in.”

  Helen held up the dogs’ leashes. “I was just taking the girls for a walk and saw the police leaving.” She lingered on the last word, trying to imply concern rather than curiosity.

  “Yes. People can be so vile. It makes me question…” Marija paused as if weighing how much of her thoughts she was willing to share. “Well, I question life.”

  “What happened?”

  “Come. I’ll show you.” Still carrying the pail of cleaning supplies, Marija led the way down the drive then into the stand of trees that concealed Mikey’s truck.

  Clothes, shoes, books strewn on the ground as if everything Mikey owned had been tossed out the back of the camper. The word “KILLER” was spray-painted in red across the windshield, hood and sides. As she got closer, Helen could see that the seats had been slashed and the padding pulled out.

  “Who would have done something like this?” Helen asked.

  “The police said it was probably kids looking for an excuse to vandalize something. Mykolas was an easy target.” Indicating the pail in her hand, Marija added, “I thought I’d get rid of those hateful words. No one can see them from the road, but…” Her whole body trembled. “I’m sorry. It’s such a small thing, considering what Mykolas’ facing.” Her face collapsed. “It’s just…why do people hate my boy?”

  For the first time, Helen thought Marija was going to fall apart. She wanted to hug her, to tell her everything would be all right, but the dogs got in the way. “You shouldn’t deal with this yourself. I’ll tie up the dogs and help.“

  “Oh, no, please.” Marija gained control of her countenance. “I don’t want to interfere with your day. Enjoy your walk.”

  “It’s not exactly a pleasure outing. I’m hoping to find Etienne Cheyne at home. I thought I’d kill two birds and bring the dogs along.”

  “DuQuenne’s brother? Why on earth would you want to see him?”

  “Her nephew showed up. I talked with him.”

  Marija looked away from the vandalized truck to scrutinize Helen’s face. “Did the police question him further?” Hope brightened her voice. “It seemed they’d discounted a connection to the murder too quickly. What did he have to say for himself?”

  Helen told her about the argument between André and Cheyne and André’s arrest. “I don’t know if they asked him more about the murder when they had him in custody. I’d guess not since they already have… I mean, since they believe they already have the case solved.” To cover her gaffe, Helen added, “I don’t know how I’ll communicate with Monsieur Cheyne. He speaks no English, or very little, and I speak even less French.”

  “Then I will come with you. I can be your translator.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea? I mean, it could be uncomfortable if he were to recognize you.”

  “Why would he? We’ve never met and my photo hasn’t appeared on television or in the newspapers.” Marija put down her pail. “I’ll keep on my charwoman’s outfit. Frenchmen never look at servants, especially if they’re over a certain age.”

  Helen had to admire the woman’s resilience; a moment before she seemed poised for a breakdown, now she was game to confront the brother of the woman her son was accused of killing. Perhaps it would do her good to leave all this behind for a while. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  As they walked the short distance to Cécile DuQuenne’s house—Helen didn’t yet think of it as Etienne Cheyne’s house—Marija said, “You’re the kindest woman I know. Your concern for Mykolas and me. Now going out of your way to help a man you barely know.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Helen replied, almost ducking her head to avoid the compliment.

  When they reached the porch and Helen was about to knock, Cheyne opened the door as if he’d been watching them approach. “Oui?” he asked.

  Marija took over, speaking in French. When Helen heard their first names, she assumed Marija was explaining who they were. Cheyne looked at Helen and smiled. Helen noticed, however, that he looked especially long at Marija when she’d introduced herself.

  After a short exchange, Marija said, “He invited us in.”

  Helen’s cell phone rang. She shifted the dogs’ leashes to her left hand, dug out her phone and answered. “Hello?”

  “This is De…”

  “Delyth is that you? You’re breaking up.”

  “Yes, Delyth. Cheyne was…”

  “Yes, we’re at Cheyne’s right now.”

  “What? You’re at Che…”

  “The reception is really bad. I’ll call you back when we’re done.”

  She pressed End Call and followed Marija inside.

  SEVENTEEN

  Just before Delyth tried to call Helen, she was sitting in a quieter than normal office. Martin Luther King’s birthday wasn’t a day off for the newspaper, but most people had found some reason to leave early. Which only added to her surprise when a call from Alice Tully came in. It’d been a full week since Alice had told her about Cheyne’s criminal record, and Delyth was getting anxious. “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  “Alain and I went to Yosemite,” Alice explained.

  “I thought there was no snow.”

  “We didn’t go to ski. Anyway, I heard from our man in Rouen while I was gone. It took him a while to find the time to drive out to Cheyne’s village. The family name, Cheyne, is derived from the name of the village, Quesney; the family goes way back. Population just shy of three hundred.” Delyth could tell she was reading from her notes. “Main industry farming apples. That’s probably what drew DuQuenne here. It must have felt like home.”

  “Enough with the travelogue. What did he find out?”

  “Well, the neighbors were more than happy to share the dirt about both Etienne and Cécile, although most of them were too young to remember her. She was ten years older than Etienne and could make him do whatever she wanted. He was the one who went to prison, him and his buddies, but the neighbors say she must have been the brains. She disappeared a year before he got out. No forwarding address and no one has heard from her since. He returned to the village and stayed for the last thirty-five years doing odd jobs and complaining to anyone who’d listen that his sister had stolen a family heirloom, a painting. Obviously the Champaigne painting.”

  “That matches the story the so-called niece gave.”

  “Neighbors didn’t buy it; the Cheyne family barely kept a roof over their heads. They would’ve sold anything of value long ago.”

  “So someone must’ve figured out it was the missing painting from the botched heist. It could be worth millions or at least enough that there might’ve been a reward for its safe return.” Delyth caught her own excitement and lowered her voice. “Didn’t anyone call the police?”

  “He didn’t say, but I bet not. They didn’t know how much it was worth, and the French don’t like the flics much. Especially in a small village like that.”

  “But what about the police? Interpol? They must have been watching. How did she get it to the States without them tracking it?”

  “I guess that’s a secret she brought to the grave with her.”

  “Maybe.” Delyth didn’t like the answer but she didn’t have anything better to suggest. “Then what about December?” she asked. “Could he have been here?”

  “He went someplace at the beginning of the month. He didn’t tell anyone where. He returned for three weeks then tells everyone that his sister died in the States a rich lady, and he was flying here to claim her estate.”

  “So he could have been here the day Cécile was killed.”

  “Could have been but we don’t really know.”

  Damn Josh and his rules about sharing information. He knew the answer a week ago.

  She let Alice finish her report, details that would flesh out an article, but didn’t substitute for something concrete that linked Cheyne to the murder. She knew she couldn’t get away wit
h another piece based on suspicions and innuendo.

  She called Helen as soon as she’d finished with Alice.

  "Hello?"

  “This is Delyth. You’ll never believe—”

  "Delyth, is that..."

  “Yes, Delyth. Cheyne was arrested—”

  “Yes, we’re at Che…”

  “What? You’re at Cheyne’s? Who’s with you? ”

  “…really bad. I’ll call back when…”

  “Wait. Don’t go in. He could be the killer.”

  The connection went dead.

  Delyth put the phone down, not knowing what to do. She told herself she was worrying for nothing. There was no reason why Cheyne would want to harm Helen. She was there to ask about burying Cécile’s ashes. He did argue with André over it, but André was probably all up in his face, provoking things. Helen would be fine. She considered calling back but knew it would be useless. She told herself again not to worry.

  She grabbed a bottle of water from the break-room refrigerator and sat at one of the small, round tables to drink it. She couldn’t get rid of the feeling that Helen was in danger. After five more minutes of indecision, she returned to her desk and dialed Josh’s number.

  Her call rolled over to the front desk. The officer said that Josh was in the office, and didn’t want to be disturbed.

  “This is an emergency.”

  “You should hang up and call 911.”

  “Not that kind of emergency. It’s just extremely important that I talk to him. Let him know I’m on the line. He’ll want to speak with me. Tell him it involves Etienne Cheyne.” Delyth could tell that the name caught the officer’s attention.

  “If you tell me what’s going on, I can redirect you—”

  “I have to talk with Josh. With Detective Griffin. He knows the background.”

  “All right. I’ll see if he’s available now.”