by Betsy Draine
The days went by until it was nearly the end of July. Vincent was painting in a field just beyond the walls of the chateau on the outskirts of town, and I was sitting under a tree, daydreaming as usual. He seemed in better spirits that day. Late in the afternoon he called me over. Wear your red jacket tomorrow, Maurice, and I’ll put you there. He pointed to the middle of his canvas. That’s where I need a splash of color. He was pointing to the right of several yellow haystacks in the distance. Farther to the left was a house. The top of the painting was blue sky. On the bottom were rectangles of green and yellow for the fields.
We met the next morning as arranged. He showed me where to stand and told me to pretend that I was digging. Then he walked back across the plain to his easel. After an hour, he was finished. Now there was a little red figure in the distance, digging with a hoe next to a haystack. What do you think of it? he asked. I complained that nobody could tell it was me. Well, then, let’s do another. He turned his easel around and asked me to lean against the tree, which I did, with my hands in my pockets and my red jacket unbuttoned. This time he stood only a few meters from me. He fixed a clean canvas to the stretcher. Now take your hat off, he said. And that’s how he came to paint my portrait.
9
WHEN WE REACHED HIM, Curry was sprawled on the pavement, moaning, his left leg twisted at a brutal angle. “Hang on,” Toby told him. “We’ll get help.”
My cell phone was in my handbag back at the restaurant, but Ray had his. He dialed 112, the emergency number in France, and got an ambulance on its way. While we waited for it, I knelt by Curry, put my hand to his cheek, and talked to him, thinking this might help him stay conscious.
Ray moved closer to Toby to talk confidentially, but in the midnight silence his words sounded clearly. “I don’t know what happened, but it looks like Curry pushed your wife over the wall. It’s lucky I arrived when I did.”
“What?” Toby turned around and reached for me.
He held me so tightly that I gasped as I explained, “Somebody ran into me from behind and I was pushed. I lost my balance. I couldn’t swear it was Curry, but it must have been. Ray pulled me up. He saved me.”
“Oh, my God!” said Toby. “Thank you. Thank you, Ray.” He clasped me even harder. “This was my dumb idea. I’m an idiot. I thought it would be fun to come up here at night.”
“The trouble is,” said Ray, “you weren’t alone. Curry came after you. He said you’d made a fool of him and he wanted to even the score. On the ramparts if need be.”
“But why attack Nora? He has issues with me, not her.”
“All I know,” said Ray, “is that he was in a rage when he left the bar.”
“It might have been an accident if he was rushing to get by me.” I had other thoughts but kept them to discuss with Toby later, in private. Curry wasn’t the only one who could have pushed me. Ben Bennett had been on the ramparts too, and now he was gone. I recalled his hostile reaction when Angie revealed that the lieutenant had asked for my help. And what about Daniel Didier? He watched me running out of the restaurant after the others. He could have followed me onto the ramparts too.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Toby asked.
“Basically. I’m banged up and my shoulder hurts, but I’ll be okay.” He held me close until flashing lights announced the arrival of an ambulance. In less than five minutes, the medics had picked up Curry and were headed to the hospital in Cagnes-sur-Mer, one of the best in the region and the closest. As the ambulance pulled away, sounding that awful ump-ah that they use in Europe, we started back to the restaurant to break the news to Jane. Montoni said he would take Jane to the hospital to be with her husband.
“Don’t say anything to her about what happened to me,” I cautioned. “She has enough to worry about.”
Back in our hotel room, I gave Toby a fuller account of my mishap. “So yes, it could have been Curry, but it’s also possible it was someone else.”
“Someone who doesn’t want you nosing around.” Toby looked grim. “If that’s the case, you’re in danger.”
I slept badly that night, disturbed by a recurring dream. In the dream I was falling, not from the ramparts, but from a bridge over a railroad track into the path of an oncoming train. Just before I hit the track, I’d wake up. By five o’clock I was done for the night and lay in bed with an aching shoulder, waiting for dawn.
At breakfast, the air crackled with whispers, as people divulged to each other what they’d learned about Curry’s fall. We seated ourselves with Maggie and Jane. “Bruce says he slipped,” Jane was saying, her features tense with distress. “It’s a good thing he fell to the street side.” She touched a tissue to her eye. “He broke a hip, and his leg has two fractures. They’ll operate this afternoon. He would have died if he’d fallen over the other side.”
“He was lucky in that,” said Maggie.
“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise,” Jane continued. “Now that he’s in the hospital, they’ll run tests to see what else is wrong with him.” She looked up at Toby. “These character changes, the lack of control. I asked them to look for a cause. At least in the hospital he’s safe.”
Maggie put her hand on Jane’s and suggested she get some sleep before returning to the hospital. Leaving the room, Jane looked unsteady. Maggie was at her side, ready to give aid.
Shelley came down and took the chair that Jane had left. Noticing that she had no place setting, since Jane had used it, she took a cup and spoon from a nearby table. She poured coffee from our carafe, left it black, and sipped it.
“Isn’t it awful?” she said. Ben’s just sick about it. He wishes he could have been more help.”
I recalled that when we returned to the Colombe d’Or last night, Ben was sitting with Shelley in the bar. He said he became dizzy after he followed Ray up onto the wall, so he climbed down as soon as he saw a stairway. Was he telling the truth?
And then there was Didier. This morning he sat grim-faced, alone at a window table, nursing an oversized cup of café au lait. Shelley saw me peering at him. “He’s a snotty one, isn’t he? What was he up to last night when he walked out on us? That’s what I’d like to know.” Silently I echoed her thought.
We waited for Ben, but he didn’t appear for breakfast. “I guess he’s sleeping in,” Shelley said eventually. “He wasn’t feeling well this morning.” She finished her coffee and followed the others out.
We skipped the morning session at which Montoni and Hans de Groot were giving papers; it wasn’t exactly collegial of me, but I could read them later. Instead we drove to Vence to report the events of last night to Lieutenant Auclair. Angie insisted on coming with us. I knew why: she was hoping to run into Sergeant Navré at the gendarmerie. Sure enough, he was at his desk behind the counter in the waiting room. Navré beamed when he saw her. However, he put on an official air as he ushered Toby and me into the lieutenant’s office.
Auclair, who was reading a file, stood up to greet us and startled us with the news that they had just arrested Yves La Font. “We found Isabelle’s handbag in a garbage bin behind his house. He tried to burn it.” She sat back down and swiveled her chair to face us.
“Does that mean you think he’s the killer?” I asked.
“He admits stealing the bag but denies having harmed her. He claims that when he left the restaurant that night he was angry with his sister, so he walked around outside to cool off. When he returned, he found her slumped over the fountain, dead.”
She pulled a page from the file, which apparently contained his statement, and summarized. “He swears he thought she died from a heart attack. Then, he says, he saw her bag and thought her paper about their grandfather might be in it, so he took it before anyone else could find it. But there was no paper in it. At least that’s what he claims. For now he’s been charged with theft, and we’re holding him on suspicion of murder.”
She rocked back slightly in her chair, folded her hands on her lap, and looked at me. “We need more pr
oof. What more can you tell me about this fight he had the other night with Daniel Didier?”
“You still think Professor Didier is mixed up in this?” asked Toby.
“That’s what I’d like to find out, monsieur.” She switched her gaze back to me. “Of course I want to know exactly what happened to you last night, but first tell me once more about the fight you witnessed in Villefranche. Could you go over it again, please?”
I related what I recalled, beginning with spotting Yves and Didier together in the café. Toby filled in details about the scuffle. “Didier told us it started when Yves accused him of killing his sister,” said Toby. “In return, he accused Yves.”
I added what Didier had told us about his previous clashes with Yves over Isabelle, including the incident in which Yves reported him to the police for domestic violence. “Her injury was an accident, he said.”
Lieutenant Auclair arched an eyebrow. “It didn’t happen that way,” she replied. “I’ve seen the reports. There were several complaints made against Monsieur Didier over a period of time. And they were filed by Isabelle La Font, not her brother.”
Toby gave a low whistle. “That changes things, doesn’t it?”
“We shall see. He’s been summoned for further questioning.” Lieutenant Auclair closed the file and looked at me for a moment. “Now, what in the world were you doing on the ramparts of Saint-Paul last night?”
“It was my fault,” Toby started to explain.
I interrupted and took over, recounting Curry’s gripe with Toby, the pursuit on the ramparts, and my harrowing experience of being pushed and rescued. I told the lieutenant about finding Curry at the foot of the wall, and I described his injuries. “I never actually saw the person who jostled me. I think it was Curry, but I don’t know.”
“Who else was on the ramparts besides your husband and Monsieur Montoni, the one who saved you?”
I explained about Bennett.
“And Professor Didier? Do you know where he was at the time?”
“When I left the Colombe d’Or, he was standing in the doorway of the café across the street. He saw me run into the village through the main gate.”
“He could have followed her,” said Toby.
“It’s more likely that Professor Curry knocked me over by accident.”
“But if it wasn’t Curry,” Toby persisted, “it was no accident. My wife could be in danger. People at the conference know that you asked her to watch what was going on and report to you.”
Lieutenant Auclair put down her pad and pencil and sat up in consternation. “I very much regret if I’ve put you at risk. I’ll look into this immediately.” She picked up the desk phone and spoke rapidly into it. I gathered she was sending someone out to interview Curry at the hospital. When the call was finished, she replaced the phone in its cradle, took up her pencil, and tapped its eraser on her desk. After a pause, she said, “I was going to ask you to perform another service for us, Madame Barnes, but under the circumstances, perhaps it would be best if I didn’t.”
“Yes, you mentioned there was something, when we spoke on the phone.”
“Whatever it is, you shouldn’t be involved,” Toby said to me, switching to English.
The lieutenant understood. “Perhaps your husband is right.”
“Please, Toby. I can speak for myself. What were you going to ask?”
She looked at us both, tapping the pencil again. “If you feel at all uncomfortable, I will understand perfectly.”
“Go ahead, lieutenant.” I placed my hand over Toby’s.
“Very well,” she said. “On Sunday your group is planning to visit Saint-Paul-de-Mausole in Saint-Rémy. Is that correct?”
“That’s right,” I replied. “It’s the asylum where Vincent van Gogh was sent.”
“Are you aware that Saint-Paul-de-Mausole still functions as a mental institution?”
“Yes, so I understand.” I’d read in my guidebook that the ancient monastery, which was converted to a psychiatric hospital in the nineteenth century, still treats patients today. They accept only female patients, and they live in a modern building next to the old asylum. The patients follow a course of art therapy intended to help them cope with their emotions—a program inspired by the hospital’s most famous inmate.
“Well, then,” continued Auclair, “it may interest you to learn that Isabelle La Font’s sister, Juliette, is a patient there. She’s been in and out of the clinic over the years. I’m not sure of the reason, perhaps depression. But according to the director, she’s doing well at the moment, and he encourages visitors. If I can arrange it, would you be willing to talk to her?”
It took me a moment to grasp what she was saying. Isabelle La Font’s sister was being treated at the asylum that once housed Vincent van Gogh. Extraordinary.
“We needed to locate Juliette La Font in order to notify her of her sister’s death. That’s when we discovered where she was. But she refused to talk to my colleague from Saint-Rémy who delivered the news. She seems to have a phobia about police.”
“But why would she talk to me?”
“You’re not a police officer. You’re a professor of art history—and art is her passion. I’m told it’s all she wants to talk about. According to the director, Saint-Paul-de-Mausole is the only facility of its kind she agreed to go to, thanks to its artistic program and its connection to Van Gogh. It seems she feels a bond with him.”
“Because of her family history? Does she know anything about her grandfather and Van Gogh?”
Lieutenant Auclair shrugged. “What interests me is what Juliette can tell us about her sister’s relationship with Yves La Font. That’s why I ask if you would you be willing to talk to her.”
I turned to Toby and nodded so slightly that the lieutenant couldn’t see it. But Toby did.
“We also hope,” she added, “that Mademoiselle La Font will want to meet you because you were with her sister on the night she died. The director thinks such a visit might be therapeutic for her. Why don’t you talk it over with your husband before you decide and let me know.”
I agreed to think about a meeting. The truth is, I’d made up my mind to accept the assignment. I couldn’t see how talking with Juliette La Font would put me at greater risk. The person who might object was Yves La Font, and he was in custody. Besides, my curiosity was aroused. What if Juliette knew the story about their grandfather that her sister was prevented from disclosing? Would she be willing to reveal to me the secret that had died with Isabelle?
Back in the waiting room, Angie and Sergeant Robert Navré gave me something else to think about. They were having an intimate tête-àtête. He leaned on his side of the counter and she leaned on hers, facing him. They seemed drawn toward each other like a pair of magnetized paper clips. You can tell when a man and a woman are cooking up an assignation, and these two had something going. An old woman sitting with her purse on her lap was watching them with a benevolent smile. She might have been observing a pair of birds in the forest pecking on a limb. Or building a nest.
After lunch at a café, we drove a short distance to the Matisse chapel, where we planned to meet our group on their afternoon excursion. Matisse, known for his bold colors and appetite for life, surprised his contemporaries by taking on a religious project late in his career. After centuries of dark cathedral art, the Impressionists wanted fresh air. They went outdoors to paint a world filled with sunshine, showing ordinary people having a good time. Then along comes Matisse in his old age and decides to take modern art back to church.
My reveries came to a halt when the lady in the GPS said, “You have arrived at your destination.”
“She must be wrong,” said Angie. “This is a residential area. There’s no chapel here.”
“I think that’s it.” I pointed to a boxlike stucco building.
Toby tilted his head so he could see from the driver’s seat. “Can’t be. It’s got to be that one with the tower.”
“Let’s park
and see,” I suggested. Toby pulled up in front, and we saw a tiny sign for La Chapelle du Rosaire. “Let’s get in fast,” I said, “before the group arrives. I’d like to get a feel for the space when it’s empty.”
The soft-spoken woman who answered the door conducted us to the lower level. She knocked on a wooden door and opened it slowly, to reveal a marble floor lit by color spilling from stained glass windows. The entire left wall of the chapel glowed with generous masses of blue, green, and yellow light. By contrast, the rest of the chapel was stark. The walls were covered with gigantic black line drawings on white tile. Color was reserved for the stained glass windows.
“Giant tulips!” Angie whispered.
“Palm fronds,” a voice behind us whispered back. An aged lady sat in a wooden chair just inside the door. The large wooden cross on her cord necklace signaled that she was one of the nuns. She invited us to look around the chapel, and she offered to answer questions. We roamed in silence until the arrival of our conference friends filled the room with chatter.
The sister never rose from her chair, but she commanded attention, and quiet descended on the visitors as she explained Matisse’s intentions and interpreted his iconography. She gave her performance twice, first in French, then in English. When she called for questions from our group, Shelley asked, “Why would the nuns hire a man who was known for painting nudes?”
The elderly nun pursed her lips but then spoke gently. “We did not seek out Monsieur Matisse. He came to us. I was young then, a novice, but I met him.”
“What brought him here?” Shelley asked.
“He lived across the street from us. Some years earlier, when he was in Nice recuperating from a cancer operation, he placed an ad in the newspaper. It said: ‘Artist seeks young, pretty nurse for daily care.’ A girl fresh out of nursing school answered the ad. She changed his bandages, took art lessons from him, and became, as they say, his chaste model. He was shocked when she announced that she was going to enter the convent. He tried to talk her out of it, but she was sure.” The nun seemed proud of that.
