by Betsy Draine
Praise for Mur der in Las caux, the first Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler Mystery:
“If you like a murder mystery you can get your teeth into, give this one a try. Bon appétit!”—Mystery Scene
“This . . . marvelously detailed excursion through the Dordogne will leave you dreaming of castles, chateaus, and caves. . . . This multifaceted read will hold great appeal for art, food, travel, and oh yes, mystery readers.”—Library Journal (starred review, Mystery Debut of the Month)
“A whodunit that nicely balances a breezily light travelogue with urgency and suspense. . . . The first of a series.”—Publishers Weekly
“That the book feels like the seamless work of a single author is no coincidence; readers of Draine and Hinden’s first mystery will be both entertained and educated by what is clearly a shared passion for the Dordogne and its considerable charms.”—Capital Times
“A strong first mystery that tells a traditional amateur detective story in a fascinating setting.”—Chicago Tribune
“Some fascinating French history—and prehistory—is layered into the plot. . . . The cooking classes evoke the delicious tastes and aromas of the Dordogne—magret de canard, foie gras, and walnut cake, to say nothing of the wines. . . . Skillfully blends travelogue with an intriguing mystery.”—France Today
“Into the intricate plot the authors were able to weave Cro-Magnon art, a medieval religious sect, and Nazi intrigue, not to mention cooking lessons.”—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
Praise for The Body in Bodega Bay, the second Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler Mystery:
“If you’re a fan of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, you will thoroughly enjoy this murder mystery.”—Mystery Scene
“The Body in Bodega Bay is set on the northern California coast and involves a mysterious death, Alfred Hitchcock artifacts, angels, and a husband-and-wife team set on solving the crime.”—Madison Magazine
“[This] writing duo have now done for California’s North Coast what their earlier Murder in Lascaux did for France’s Perigord: brought it wonderfully—and eerily—to life. A winner.”—Aaron Elkins, Edgar-winning author of the Gideon Oliver mysteries
“This crime’s solution takes us into the world of Russian icons, the Russian past in Sonoma County, and even into the realm of communications from guardian angels. This novel delivers. Grab it and enjoy.” —Richard Schwartz, author of The Last Voice You Hear
“Nails the vibe and history of . . . the Sonoma County coast. Antiques dealer Toby Sandler teams with his art historian wife, Nora Barnes, to help solve a murder and art theft.”—Sacramento Bee
“Betsy Draine and Michael Hinden must be having a wonderful time researching and writing their mystery series. It certainly is a lot of fun reading their books.”—Capital Times
Death on a Starry Night
A Nora Barnes
and Toby San dler Mys tery
Betsy Draine and Michael Hinden
The University of Wisconsin Press
The University of Wisconsin Press
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Copyright © 2016
The Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System
All rights reserved. Except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any format or by any means— digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—or conveyed via the Internet or a website without written permission of the University of Wisconsin Press. Rights inquiries should be directed to [email protected].
Printed in the United States of America
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Draine, Betsy, 1945– author. | Hinden, Michael, author.
Title: Death on a starry night / Betsy Draine and Michael Hinden.
Description: Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, [2016] | ©2016 | Series: A Nora Barnes and Toby
Sandler mystery | Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015036321 | ISBN 9780299307301 (cloth: alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Gogh, Vincent van, 1853–1890—Fiction. |
Murder—France—Saint-Paul (Alpes-Maritimes)—Fiction. | Saint-Paul
(Alpes-Maritimes, France)—Fiction. | Art teachers—Fiction. |
Americans—France—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.R343 D43 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015036321
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.
For the cousins
Death on a Starry Night
I didn’t mean to shoot him. I can still see him clutching his side and looking at me like a wounded animal. He kicked over his easel and stumbled to his knees. The painting he was working on fell to the ground. Later they said he shot himself, but that isn’t true. I did it. I wanted to help him but instead I killed him, and I’ve been sorry for it all my life.
1
A STARRY NIGHT—it seemed made to order for the opening of a Van Gogh conference. And what location could be more idyllic? Not far from the beaches of the French Riviera, the village of Saint-Paul-de-Vence is stacked upon a dramatic hilltop, its stone houses encircled by medieval walls. In summer, the town is a beehive swarming with tourists. Tonight, in mid-December, all was quiet as we climbed the steep cobblestone street into the village. It was the dinner hour, clear and cold. I could see my breath. The shops that lined the pedestrian street looked closed for the season, and many of the houses were shuttered.
We reached the crest of the hill and stopped to admire an old stone fountain shaped like a Grecian urn. Spigots dripped water into a basin with a rim high enough to sit on. Toward the top of the urn a decorative fringe suggested a laurel wreath. I think of it now as a funeral urn, for an image of death clings to that lovely stonework fountain. But that evening all was serene.
Behind the fountain, two arches housed low pools, which in the old days must have been used for washing clothes. These same arches served as supports for the terrace of a restaurant overlooking the square. That was our destination. We circled the fountain and climbed another cobbled street toward the restaurant’s entrance. Overhead, stars sparkled against the black sky.
Despite the chilly evening, I was thinking how lucky I was to be here, on what my sister called a paid vacation. I called it “professional development.” As a professor in the art history department of a small liberal arts college, I’m eligible to apply for support to present a paper at an international conference once every five years. This one was sponsored by the Society for Vincent van Gogh Studies and was hosted by the Maeght Foundation, a mecca for modern art located just outside the ramparts of Saint-Paul. Off-season rates pared the cost of travel and accommodations, and because the dates overlapped with my winter break, I didn’t have to miss a class. I’m not an expert on Van Gogh, but I do teach a course on nineteenth-century painting, and I was counting on learning a lot at the conference.
You might not associate the Riviera with art, but artists have been coming here for a long time. The trend began with the Impressionists. Once painters started working outdoors, it was inevitable that they would migrate south, following the footsteps of Van Gogh, to take advan
tage of the climate and the light. Many stayed. Picasso settled in Vallauris, Bonnard near Cannes, Matisse in Nice, Renoir in Cagnes-sur-Mer, and Chagall right here; he’s buried in the little cemetery behind the village. That’s why the Maeght was an inspired choice for the conference site. With morning sessions devoted to papers, the afternoons would be free for excursions. Our program for the week included side trips to Vence to see a chapel decorated by Matisse, to Cagnes-sur-Mer to visit Renoir’s studio, and to Saint-Rémy-de-Provence to tour the asylum where Van Gogh spent almost a year.
It didn’t take much to convince Toby to join me. We’d been to France before and can manage the language well enough to keep up our end in a conversation. Our last trip, to the Dordogne, found us embroiled in a murder investigation, which gave our French a needed workout but upended our vacation. This time, I hoped, we were set for a carefree visit. That wasn’t to be.
Another reason I’d been looking forward to this trip was that my sister, Angie, was coming with us. Angie is six feet tall, but I still think of her as my little sister. We’re close, but I hadn’t seen her for several months, during which time she’d gone into a convent. Her decision came as a shock, and I was having trouble accepting it. Angie’s not your typical postulant. Young and restless, sexy and fun-loving, she nonetheless has a searching soul. Frankly, I had my doubts that she would stay to take her vows. She was wise enough to realize that her spiritual longings might not translate into a lifelong commitment, so she signed up for a trial run as a “sojourner” at Grace Quarry, near Rockport, Massachusetts, where we both were raised.
Angie’s traveling companion and chaperone was Sister Glenda, who was an invited speaker at the conference. Sister Glenda is an authority on “The Spirit of Art through the Ages.” That’s the name of her textbook, used in introductory art history courses in a number of universities and colleges, especially those with religious affiliations. “The Spirit of Art” is also the name of her weekly show on public television. Rockport’s “art nun” is syndicated in thirty-five states and Canada. When I learned that Glenda and Angie were coming to the conference, I immediately sat down and wrote my proposal.
I was still getting used to Sister Glenda. She bears a passing resemblance to Julia Child, not physically perhaps, but in manner. Julia was tall and straight-backed. Sister Glenda is short and rubbery, but she has Julia’s gobbling voice. It goes up and down in a reedy register, yet carries the mark of conviction. Her order permits the wearing of street clothes, and today she had on a baggy wool sweater over wash-and-wear slacks. The only nunlike element in her outfit was a bare cross on a necklace made of cheap cord. But for her TV appearances, she dons a habit and wimple. It’s what her audience expects. “It’s a costume,” she once explained. “Just like Stephen Colbert. He wears a suit on TV. At home I bet he doesn’t.” From under her wimple she likes to squint at the camera as though she’s lost her wire-rimmed glasses, even when she has them on. Her baffled look belies the fact that when it comes to art she absolutely knows her stuff.
One reason for Sister Glenda’s popularity is her cavalier attitude toward convention. As we reached the restaurant, she flashed a gaptoothed smile and said, “I hope they have a sit-down bathroom and not another hole in the floor like the place we stopped at for lunch. I need to pee.” She often did, I soon discovered. Sister Glenda likes her liquids. Once inside, Angie and I hustled Glenda to les toilettes up two flights of stairs. She would be the first to discover whether “the little corner,” as the French call it, provided a hole flanked by footrests or a modern convenience. Angie volunteered to wait for Glenda while she was using the facilities, such as they were.
My colleagues were milling around the bar. This was to be a small conference, with only eleven speakers. The sessions were open to the public, but the audience was expected to be mainly the scholars and their guests. Ray Montoni, the organizer, had dubbed the event “Van Gogh: Enduring Mysteries.” The title was meant to draw the interest of granting agencies and private funders, and it did. Although modest in number, our group was international. Montoni was American, as were two other speakers besides me: Sister Glenda and Benjamin Bennett. There were three participants from France, one from the Netherlands, one from England, and another from Ireland. A late addition was a French woman whom none of us had met but whose inclusion had excited tremendous interest. Her name was Isabelle La Font. The word was that as a boy, her grandfather had known Van Gogh around the time of his suicide. It was said that Madame La Font had startling information to reveal about the circumstances of Vincent’s death.
That would be a hot topic. A new biography of Van Gogh had caused a sensation with its suggestion that, contrary to popular belief, the artist had been murdered. The claim ignited critical fireworks. If Madame La Font could settle the question of Van Gogh’s death, our conference would change art history. Her talk was slated to open the proceedings in the morning.
Scanning the room, I noticed a striking woman sitting on a barstool, smoking and talking to a man who looked about her age. His expression was sour. Professor Montoni, after checking that all his charges were accounted for, elbowed his way to the bar and inserted himself between the pair. Montoni planted kisses on the woman’s cheeks and offered his hand to her companion. It wasn’t taken. She spoke to both men, as if making introductions. After submitting to the social niceties, the frowning man shifted his weight on the barstool and turned his head. Not one to be easily affronted, Montoni took the opportunity to swoop the woman into the room. She hardly had time to put out her cigarette.
That must be Isabelle La Font, I thought. She carried herself with the grace of royalty. Her skin was lined, but its alabaster tone set off emerald eyes. The regal effect was heightened by sandy-white hair pulled back into a silver band that suggested a crown. A gray brocade jacket formalized a simple black turtleneck and slacks. One shoulder supported the chain of an enormous red leather bag.
It’s a Chanel, gasped my inner fashionista.
I guessed she was close to seventy. She may have been “of a certain age,” but she was vibrant, beautiful, and impeccably turned out. Next to her, Montoni appeared slovenly. He was a large man with too much dark hair—on his hands, neck, head, and face. He looked a bit like the aging Pavarotti, but without the bounding confidence or resounding voice. His long black cardigan covered a black T-shirt, the better to camouflage a belly.
He held his guest close with one arm and propelled her awkwardly around the room. As they reached me, she managed to shake her elbow out of his grasp. He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me toward her. “Madame La Font, permit me to present Professor Nora Barnes, our art historian from California.” Montoni’s accent in French was noticeably more polished than his social skills.
She extended her hand. In my slow and deliberate French, I said, “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, madame.”
She made a polite reply and looked inquiringly at Toby and Angie, who had come up behind me. Montoni hemmed, not having memorized the names of the speakers’ dependents. So I continued. “And may I present my husband, Toby Sandler, and my sister, Angela Barnes.”
Sister Glenda stepped forward before Montoni could retake the initiative and introduced herself in French, though it didn’t sound like it.
“Well!” Montoni said, rubbing his hands briskly. “Let me get you something from the bar.”
“I’ll take care of that,” said Toby. “You have a lot to do.” There were people behind us waiting to meet Madame La Font, so we moved out of the way. Toby turned to Glenda. “What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Scotch, thank you.”
“A glass of white wine for me,” I said.
“Just sparkling water,” said Angie.
Toby, who’s naturally more gregarious than I am, wended his way to the bar, greeting people he’d met at our hotel or on the walk up the hill. Some were waiting to order a drink. The only person sitting on a barstool was the man I had noticed earlier talking to Madame
La Font. While she was moving around the room, he remained alone, concentrating on his glass and scowling at the mirror behind the bar. He was following her with his eyes. Was he her husband? If so, Montoni had been derelict in his hosting responsibilities, but Madame La Font made no gesture to include him, either. Slouching over the rim of the bar, he looked slight, but he had a rugged face, taken up mainly by an imposing Charles de Gaulle nose. Toby stood next to him and said “Bonsoir,” to which he received a grudging reply. The man tapped his cigarette and let ashes fall to the floor. Toby ordered our drinks and returned with them.
Rather than circulate, we stood in place, sipping and chatting. It was a little tight standing in the space between the bar and the tables. The members of our group were still at the first stage of social acquaintance when conversation is stilted. I could tell by Angie’s darting eyes that she felt uncomfortable. Toby seemed amused and curious, which is often the case when he’s brought to an academic event. He was enjoying his kir, a delightful mélange of white wine and crème de cassis. That’s what I should have ordered. My white wine, the anonymous house offering, needed a little help.
A middle-aged couple standing next to us introduced themselves. Dr. Hans de Groot, a big bear of a man, taught art history at the University of Utrecht. He shook our hands vigorously and presented his business card, which was printed on one side in English and on the other side in Dutch. A gold sun surrounded by Latin lettering, the emblem of his university, was embossed next to his name. His wife’s card was equally impressive. Klara de Groot, as tall as an Amazon warrior, had a crushing grip. The card she proffered told us she was a research chemist and worked in a lab for the human genome project. Having no card of my own to present, I felt outclassed, but Toby dug out his, which advertises the antiques gallery he owns in Duncans Mills, California. We live in Bodega Bay, a few miles from there.
