by Betsy Draine
I said, “We know everything, and so do the police. They’re on the way.” Shelley took a step back, glaring at me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” huffed Ray, struggling to his feet. His heavy frame loomed large in this confined space, but Toby was fearless. He inched forward again.
“Don’t deny it,” I said. “We’ve got Maurice La Font’s letter. We know all about the painting.” Shelley clenched her fist more tightly around the rolled canvas. There was no way to hide it.
While I stared at Shelley, unable to believe her brazenness, Toby continued to advance. “You got rid of Isabelle so you could steal the painting,” he said to Montoni. “You poisoned her. It was cold-blooded murder.”
The word struck Montoni like a bludgeon, and in an instant, whatever defiance he was prepared to mount deserted him. His knees sagged, and he reached for a low-lying beam, to support himself. “No,” he mumbled, “you’ve got it wrong.”
“I don’t think so, Ray,” I said. “It was you who pushed me off the ramparts, wasn’t it? When you found out I was helping the investigation. But you couldn’t go through with it, so you pulled me up. That’s the part I don’t understand.”
“I’m not a killer, that’s why. Oh, God!” He made a sound like a howl. “It was her idea. It was Shelley. Everything was her idea. She dragged me into it.”
“Shut up, you idiot,” snapped Shelley.
“She poisoned Isabelle, not me.”
“Shut up. You’re lying!” Shelley shouted.
“Is he?” I looked at her coldly. “You’re quite a hand at poisoning. First Isabelle with the foxglove, which you stole from Curry, and then that trick with monkshood at the perfume factory. That was supposed to get me out of the way after Ray lost his nerve on the ramparts. But you dosed yourself with foxglove first. Then you sprayed yourself with the perfume you poisoned to make it look like you were the victim. Jane gave you that idea when she told us digitalis was an antidote for monks-hood poisoning. I was there, remember? And it would have worked too, if the bottle hadn’t broken. Those poor dogs paid the price.”
“That’s a story you made up,” said Shelley. “It’s a fantasy. You don’t have any evidence for that.”
“Oh, no? How do you explain the digitalis in your blood along with the aconitine? The toxicology report is fact.”
Shelley started at that news. Montoni moaned, “I told you it would never work. You thought you knew everything. I told you.”
“Shut your mouth, you fat-assed idiot. Don’t say another word.”
“It’s a little late for that,” said Toby. “Now hand me that painting and then we’re all going to walk downstairs and wait for the police. You can tell your story to them.” Toby had been blocking the way to the stairs. Now he stepped aside and motioned to Ray and Shelley to start down. Ray, his spirit broken, began shuffling toward the steps. Shelley hung back, grasping the rolled painting.
Ray had just reached the first step when Shelley lunged forward and shoved him hard in the small of the back. He plunged headfirst down the stairs, tumbling heavily and crying out in pain. Before he hit the bottom, Shelley turned and started running toward the far end of the attic, where I now saw there was a second door. She had the painting and was ducking to avoid the beams. At the bottom of the stairwell Montoni was stirring as if trying to flee. “I’ve got Montoni,” Toby shouted, hustling down the stairs. “Go after Shelley. Don’t let her get away!”
13
I CROSSED THE ROOM at a sprint and reached the door, which Shelley had thrown open. Dim light revealed another section of attic, at the end of which was another door. I rushed toward it, slowing at the end, anticipating a flight of stairs. They were dark and steep, but I took them as fast as I could, always on the lookout for Shelley. At the bottom, I found myself in an alcove that led into a hall with doors on either side. Which way to go? I tried the first door, on the left. It opened into the refectory, with its long dining tables. I glanced at the paneling and frescoed walls and saw there was no exit, except through two large windows. I checked that the windows were secure. Through their panes, I saw a wide expanse of terraced grapevines. No one was in sight. Shelley must have taken the other door.
I pivoted, ran back to the hall, and pulled opened the second door. It gave onto the cloister. There I found Sister Glenda, leaning against the well and trying to catch her breath. One hand was pressed to her breast. The other, extended at arm’s length, held the rolled painting.
I stopped abruptly. “That’s the Van Gogh!” I cried. “How did you get it?”
“Left hook,” gasped Glenda. She was gulping for air. “Mine isn’t as good as Toby’s. She got up.”
“Shelley ran into us. She knocked me down,” Angie complained. She was slowly getting to her feet, rubbing her knee. “That’s when Sister Glenda clobbered her.”
“Which way did she go?” I asked.
“Through the ticket office.” Angie pointed.
“Hang on to that painting. I’m going after her.”
I dashed through the office, out the door, and across the wet grass. With my arms out like wings, I held my balance while making the sharp right turn onto the descending path. Momentum sent me sliding on slippery cobblestones. I grabbed for the wall on the inside of the path. My palms shredded as my body kept moving, but I slowed myself by throwing a shoulder against the wall. My jacket took the scraping instead of my skin, and I was able to right myself. For a second I stopped, stuck against the wall, and looked down to spot Shelley. She was ahead of me by half a football field, scrambling headlong down the path.
I resolved to ignore pain and flout caution. Down I went, jogging and slipping, using the wall until it disappeared. The occasional stair-step sent me teetering and tripping, but I never fell. My whole being, body and mind, was focused on staying upright and getting to Shelley.
I let out a grunt of frustration as I saw Shelley heading for the white Renault. I picked up my pace and reached her car just after she had backed up, getting ready to turn the car around. If I’d been in my right mind, I would have stood back; instead, I charged the passenger-side window, as if I could snatch her through the glass. The lurching car threw me back. Without thought, I reached in my jacket pocket and ran to our car. The car key was in my hand, punching the lock open. The next thing I recall is turning the first “shoelace” of the mountain. I had never in my life made car wheels squeal, but I did now.
All my attention went to controlling the car. I had to focus on the road, but I could sense a moving blur of white in the distance. Rounding the third hairpin turn, I heard the crunch of metal. Did it come from above, from below? I didn’t know, but I stepped on the brake—then, feeling a skid, I switched to pumping it. My car came under control, but it was still going too fast when I saw the smashup ahead. The white car heading down the hill and a red car coming up had collided on the narrow road, and the red car was wedged sideways, entirely blocking Shelley’s escape. I stamped on the brake, forgetting all rules about driving in wet weather.
The result was predictable—a 180 degree spin, halted by the force of inertia and a log fence at the ravine’s edge. Later I realized that I’d knocked down part of the fence. At the time, my only concern was that I still had enough road under me to get out of the car. I eased the door open and slid out. Immediately I jumped back, seeing the right side of the car sink a foot. I had stopped at the very edge.
I looked around for Shelley. Angry shouts were coming from the red car. A man leaped out of the driver’s side. A woman rolled down her passenger window and yelled toward Shelley, who was already trying to maneuver her car to get away. But she couldn’t. The red car was occupying her lane, and the only way forward was into the ravine.
Foiled and furious, Shelley sprang from her car and ran right at me. I ducked behind my car to evade her attack. But she wasn’t coming after me. She was headed for the break in the fence that I had created. She was going to try to escape on foot, via the ravine.
Shelley was through the break in a flash. The hillside dropped off sharply. With the agility of a high-wire dancer, she scrambled through the brush alongside the fence until the ground flattened out for a couple of yards. She got up speed and then leaped back over the fence and started running up the road, retracing the way to the monastery. Where she expected to hide, I don’t know, but I counted the possibilities—behind one of the houses that hung to the cliff, or inside one if she could break in; in the woods above the path, if she could find a low section of the wall and climb it; or behind the monastery—she could cross through the vineyards and go over the hill, to who knows where. I was going to be right behind her, however reckless her flight.
“Shelley!” I cried. “Stop!”
She kept running up the road. She had a head start, but I ran cross-country in high school. I hoped that muscle memory would propel me forward, and it did. After an uphill spurt, I grabbed her by the waist just as we reached the parking lot, and she fell to the ground, taking me with her. Fear of losing my grip shot through me, but my arms tightened around her and I took resolve when I heard the raucous siren of a French police car—never more welcome than at this moment.
I straddled her, pinning her wrists to the ground.
She spit dirt from her lips. “Bitch!”
Boy, did I want to slap her—I raised my hand. She turned her face to the side and winced. There was a welt on her cheek from Sister Glenda’s blow. She was done. What would be the point?
I held her there until Sergeant Navré arrived with his partner, the pug-faced officer who was with him on the night of the murder. I quickly explained the situation. They pulled Shelley to her feet and handcuffed her. “My husband is holding another suspect for you at the monastery,” I told them. “Professor Montoni. He’s involved in this too.”
I followed the two gendarmes down the hill as they frog-walked Shelley to the police car, which was parked behind the red car, which still blocked the road. They dealt with the irate occupants, who calmed down now that the police were there, and then they took charge of clearing the blockage. Luckily, the banged up vehicles were drivable. Our rental car had a crumpled hood, twisted bumper, and broken headlight, but it would get us back to the hotel. With their help, I was able to turn it around and lead the police up to the parking lot. The couple in the red car headed down to a garage.
At the monastery, Toby had marched Ray into a room identified by the map as the penance room. The room had carved walnut paneling and that sweet, musty smell of old waxed wood. Ray sat disconsolately on a pew, babbling a confession. Sister Glenda sat next to Ray and held his hand in her lap as he slumped forward, head bent. Toby was sitting on Ray’s other side, keeping him close. Toby looked up as I entered with the police. “They’ve got her,” I told him. “She’s shackled in the car.” He gave me a thumbs-up.
Ray seemed unaware of our entry. His words came pouring out as if a valve had opened. He was telling Glenda that Isabelle intended to donate her grandfather’s painting to the state if they found it. She and her sister thought it would be wrong for anyone in the family to profit from it.
“But Yves had a different opinion, didn’t he?” Toby prodded.
“Yes. That’s what they were arguing about.”
“So then you got the idea to grab the painting for yourself,” said Toby.
“No. No. I knew Isabelle was right. If the painting was recovered, it belonged in a museum. It would have been enough for me to be in on the discovery. It was Shelley. I told her about Isabelle’s paper, mentioned the painting and where it was located—it was just pillow talk. But Shelley seized on it; she started to plot. She kept saying we had to stop Isabelle from giving her paper. I told her I couldn’t. The presenters knew she was on the program. But Shelley kept at it, kept pushing me to do whatever it takes. That’s what she said: ‘whatever it takes.’”
He looked up at the ceiling, then shook his head in disbelief. “I told her she was crazy. We didn’t even know if the painting was still there. But she had an answer for everything. She said if the painting had been found, the world would have heard about it. She was sure it was still at the monastery.”
“Who came up with the idea of using foxglove?” asked Toby.
“Shelley. That was her idea too.”
“But you went along with it,” Toby said, with disgust. “You let it happen.”
“No, I told her I was against it.” Ray wiped his nose. “She ignored me. When Isabelle fell sick the night of the dinner, I knew it was Shelley’s fault, but I couldn’t do anything about it. It was already too late. I sat there at the table, paralyzed. Shelley had it all worked out. As soon as the conference was over, we’d get the painting and run off together. The Cayman Islands. We’d be rich, she said. I knew it was crazy, but I thought she really cared about me. Now . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Stand up, monsieur, you’re coming with us,” Navré announced. He and his partner had been standing in the doorway, listening. Meekly, Ray allowed himself to be handcuffed.
“I’ll turn this over to you,” said Toby, holding up the rolled canvas.
“Could we see the painting first?” I asked the sergeant.
“I don’t see why not,” he said. “Go ahead. Meanwhile, I would like to say a few words in private to your sister.” Angie brightened. “Armand,” he said to his partner, “take Monsieur Montoni to the car, will you? Put him in the front seat, and don’t let him talk to the woman. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“Let’s take the painting into the refectory,” I said to Toby and Glenda. “We can unroll it on a table, and there’s good light.”
We crossed the cloister to the refectory. There were two long trestle tables in the room and delicate frescoes on the walls. Under other circumstances we might have admired them. Now we paid them no attention. With mounting excitement, I watched Toby place the scrolled painting on one of the long tables. While Glenda carefully held down the top corners, Toby slowly unrolled the canvas until the entire painting was exposed. “Well, there it is,” he said at last, his fingers pressed against the bottom corners.
We stared in silence. The majority of Vincent’s portraits were painted indoors and show the subject’s head and upper torso. But this one was different. Here he placed a full-length figure in the foreground of a landscape. Van Gogh’s last portrait, painted with tenderness, shows a teenaged boy in a red jacket, lounging against a tree. His hands seem to be in his pockets, although the section of the painting below the boy’s wrists is unfinished. The lad has a thatch of blond hair, a sharp nose, and blue eyes that squint against the bright sun. Vincent has given him a squiggle for a mouth; somehow, the wavering line conveys the boy’s vulnerability. In the middle distance behind the tree, fields are suggested by blocks of green and yellow. Here and there, dots of red indicate flowers. Far off, two yellow haystacks break the horizon under a band of cornflower-blue sky.
“It’s definitely a Van Gogh,” said Sister Glenda, breaking the silence. “And it’s a gem.”
On close inspection, the canvas looked to be in excellent condition except for minor flaking along a crease. A good conservator could address that problem. Given the right frame—a simple frame painted white is what Vincent would have chosen—the work would claim its rightful place in Van Gogh’s oeuvre.
We took our time gazing at the precious painting, taking in its details. Then, reluctantly, Toby rolled it up and we walked back across the cloister to the penance room. Even before we entered, I could tell something was wrong. A sallow-faced Sergeant Navré was waiting for us at the door. Angie was sitting on a pew inside. He took custody of the painting with a curt word of thanks. Where its final home would be, I didn’t know, but for now the work of art was evidence in a criminal investigation. Navré was awkward with us. He asked us to report tomorrow to Lieutenant Auclair at the gendarmerie. Then, without pleasantries, he tipped a finger to his cap and hurried outside.
“What happened?” I asked Angie. S
he looked stricken.
“He told me he has a fiancée,” she blurted. “He lied to me. I can’t believe he lied to me!”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry, Angie.”
She dragged her knuckles across her nose. “Why? Why does this always happen to me?” Tears fell, and I felt myself softening into tears in response. I moved to embrace her, but she threw me off.
“That’s it,” she said angrily. “I’ve had it with men.” She turned to Glenda. “Sister, I want to take my vows as soon as we get home.”
“Is that wise, dear?” Glenda asked, quietly.
“I hate him!” Angie sobbed. “I hate all of them!”
Glenda and I exchanged looks. “Come,” she said gently, helping Angie to her feet. We started for the door.
Toby paused at the threshold and looked back with curiosity. “That’s two confessions in one day. What is it about this room?”
It’s a cozy room, isn’t it?” said Maggie, gazing into the fireplace at Le Tilleul, the homey restaurant on Linden Square in Saint-Paul-de-Vence. “It’s comforting.”
Thierry, seated opposite me, put his hand over Maggie’s. Emmet’s death had hit her hard. I’d been hoping that a Provençal dinner would lift her spirits, but I could see that Maggie was beyond being cheered by cassoulet. Still, it was soothing to share a meal in each other’s company. We were a foursome. Angie hadn’t felt like going out, so she and Sister Glenda had remained at the hotel for dinner. I thought that was a good decision.
We gave Maggie and Thierry a thumbnail sketch of the events at Saorge and Ray’s confession. “Whatever happened to Isabelle’s paper?” Maggie wanted to know.
“Ray was holding on to it the night she was killed,” said Toby. “She gave it to him to prevent Yves from getting it. He says he destroyed it after she died.”
“The skunk,” said Maggie. But her deepest ire was reserved for Shelley, when she learned that in addition to poisoning Isabelle, Shelley had tainted the perfume that killed Emmet. Maggie cursed her when she heard the story.
