by Molly Greene
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Paint Me Gone
I dream my painting and I paint my dream.
~ Vincent van Gogh
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Paint Me Gone
© 2014 Molly Greene
Visit www.molly-greene.com for more information
COPYRIGHT NOTICE - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The content of this book is protected under Federal and International Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be electronically or mechanically reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or retention in any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from Molly Greene.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, locations, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
e-book ISBN: 978-0-9855112-3-4
Titles by Molly Greene: Mark of the Loon, The Last Fairytale, Paint Me Gone, A Thousand Tombs (excerpt at the end!), and Swindle Town. Visit my Amazon Author page to see them all. For freebies, giveaways, deleted chapters, and periodic news about new releases, join my Reader’s Club.
Chapter One
Waiting was a challenge for Genevieve Delacourt, and it always had been. Standing in lines, expecting a sign, anticipating when the other shoe would drop. It didn’t matter. Killing time had never been her forte.
Today she was hanging around hoping for a phone call from Oliver Weston, who owed her a favor and had agreed to tail a husband who, according to his wife, was acting like a dedicated foodie at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Apparently his favorite entree was big-busted babes. And since Livvie – Gen’s nickname for Oliver – wasn’t in drag today, he could pretend he was just as male as the cad with the wandering eye.
Gen was pondering the fine line between patience and cooling your heels when she heard the outer door open and close. “Back here,” she called, then strolled down the hall that connected her office to the lobby out front.
A woman was standing by the receptionist’s desk. Her hair hung around her shoulders, thick and dirty blonde. She held a brown paper parcel snug against her chest with both arms, like it was a baby. Her clothing was smart; a light flowery dress appropriate for the warm mid-June day, topped with a thin cardigan closed at the top button. All designer labels, if Gen wasn’t mistaken.
The stranger appeared to be close to forty or a little beyond. Her eyes were tired, like she’d been through the mill and was having trouble forgetting. She was fit and pretty and jaded and worldly. Gen had seen lawyers and hookers with the same look, but she wasn’t going to jump to conclusions.
“Are you the private detective?”
“I like to think so,” Gen replied. “But investigators are supposed to ooze patience, and I’ve just been thinking I got skipped over when that virtue was handed out.”
The woman bobbed her head as though she understood. “You must have strengths that make up for it,” she replied. “Grit. Tenacity. Something must bring you back around when life goes sideways.”
Gen gave the woman a closer look. “I’m Gen Delacourt. Sounds like you know the feeling, Miss–”
“Sophie. I’m Sophie Keene.” She released the package long enough to shake Gen’s hand, then clutched it even tighter, as if she needed to protect the contents at all costs and wasn’t going to shirk her job. “Martin Richie at the food bank suggested your name.”
Gen smiled. “Follow me.” She led the way back to her office, indicated a chair, and took up residence behind the desk. “Have a seat. What can I do for you, Miss Keene?”
“I need your help.”
“Tell me about it,” Gen replied.
Sophie peeled the tape off one side of the package and slid an oil painting out of the wrappings. It was a landscape of some kind, about two feet square and fairly well done; at least it appeared to be from where Gen sat. She didn’t know much about art, but it seemed the painter knew the subject. Gen moved her laptop aside and Sophie placed it face up on the desk.
The painting depicted a cliff high above the sea. A woman stood near the edge, as if she intended to jump, or fly. But she was looking back over her shoulder toward the artist. Someone had called her from her thoughts, or her dreams. Gen wondered what she’d been thinking and who had drawn her attention from it.
“My sister.” Sophie’s voice was sad and hopeful all at the same time. “Her name was Shannon.”
“Was.”
“She disappeared twenty years ago. From the East Coast. That’s where we grew up.”
“Disappeared, as in without a trace?”
Sophie’s eyes skittered away. “She left a note. Said she was going to end it all, but her body was never found.”
Gen examined the canvas. The painter’s signature was missing, but a date had been scrawled in the bottom right corner. “This was done eight years ago,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“And you think your sister is alive somewhere and ended up as the subject of the artist’s drawing?”
“Yes. The minute I saw this I knew.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Someone who buys for me picked it up in a thrift shop in the Castro District.”
“And you took it to the cops, and they said they couldn’t help.”
Sophie picked at a fold of her skirt. “No. I haven’t spoken with the police.”
“It would be a smart move. They might help you track her down, if you convince them it’s her. They have access to resources I do not.”
Sophie kept her head bent for two beats, then raised her eyes and held Gen’s gaze. “I don’t want the authorities involved.”
“You’re going to have to tell me why.”
“Because back in New York they think she killed someone before she went missing.”
Gen took in some air and pushed away from the desk, then arranged her expression and gave the woman compassion. “Miss Keene.” She shook her head and started again.
Sophie cut her off.
“She didn’t do it. I know in my heart the police wouldn’t have been able to prove she did it. But when they couldn’t find her, when they thought she committed suicide, it was a convenient resolution. I never believed it.”
“Look,” Gen said. “There’s no easy way to say this. Family never wants to think their own blood is capable of doing bad things. If they didn’t find her body or any sign she was hiding out somewhere, she may very well have done the deed. Both of them.”
“I know she’s alive.” Sophie rummaged in her purse, then handed over a black-and-white photograph of a girl who looked remarkably like the depiction in oil. “This is Shannon.”
The still was a studio shot, and the girl was a natural. The resemblance to the woman sitting before her was unmistakable, but the subject of the picture was still a kid, posing with messy hair and a confident half smile. A lot of skin. Sexy but not over the top.
“Was she a model?”
“When she wasn’t distracted.”
“Ah,” Gen replied. “What was her diversion of choice?”
Sophie was looking at Gen, but her eyes were focused on something outside the room. The past, probably.
“Hers was Mr. Right Now,” Sophie said. “Mine was alcohol.”
Chapter Two
Gen was watching Sophie Keene, curious about the backstory, when the street door opened and closed again. Oliver was talking as he made his way through the foyer, but h
e stopped the moment he caught sight of the visitor.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
It was always a shock to see Liv in men’s wear and without make-up. Gen thought the most startling thing was that he looked comfortable. In fact, he looked like the boy next door, with his cropped brown hair and toned bod.
He’d been hitting the gym all spring and it had turned him back into the captain of the track team, the guy he’d been in high school. The macho son his father cherished but had willingly let go of because he loved his child so deeply.
He had more women’s clothes in his closet than Gen and all her friends combined, but today he wore dress slacks and a striped button-down shirt. And a tie. Gen didn’t know he even owned a tie.
Surprise.
“Sophie Keene, this is my friend and associate, Oliver Weston.”
“My friends call me Liv more often than not,” Oliver said. He smiled, then advanced far enough to shake Sophie’s outstretched palm. “It’s a pleasure.” He cut his eyes to Gen and looked at the ceiling with an unspoken question.
“No, stay, Livvie. You know about art. If it’s all right with Miss Keene, I’d like to hear your thoughts.”
“Right now I’m thinking I’ve interrupted a private conversation.” He even talked like a straight man when his clothes were gender-appropriate.
“Not at all.” Sophie regarded Oliver. “Please, call me Sophie, both of you. Oliver, maybe you can help me convince your friend I’m not a complete basket case.”
Liv grinned at that. “First you’d have to convince her that I’m not.”
Sophie’s mouth curved. “You look normal enough. Don’t tell me you’re concealing something quirky under that boy-next-door exterior.”
Gen and Livvie both laughed.
“I usually dress in more feminine attire,” Liv added.
“Ah,” Sophie said. “Well, it’s San Francisco. You can be whoever you want to be here.”
“My theory is that everyone hides a secret or two,” Gen said. “No matter where we live.”
Gen offered Liv the photo, then indicated the canvas on her desk. He glanced at the image in his hand, then moved around to Gen’s side and stared at the girl in the painting.
Finally, he looked up at Sophie. “Looks like the same person. A relative of yours, judging by the resemblance.”
“My younger sister.”
“Striking. Who painted her?”
“I have no idea.”
“She found this in a thrift shop in the Castro,” Gen explained.
Liv smiled. “My favorite neighborhood.”
“I operate a nonprofit,” Sophie said. “We decorate rooms in halfway houses and provide clothing for women who’ve successfully completed a rehab program and are trying to start over. A few helpers and I scour the resale shops almost every day looking for things to repurpose, things that will make people feel good again, make their transitional housing feel more like home. One of my people found that two days ago. She brought it to me because of the girl. She thought it looked like me.”
Gen and Oliver shared a glance.
“So what am I missing?” he asked.
“Sophie’s sister, Shannon, disappeared two decades ago and they assumed she committed suicide. Her body was never found. But this picture was painted more recently, according to the date.”
Understanding washed across Livvie’s face. “I get it,” he said. “And everyone thinks you’re nuts because you believe this could be her.”
“So far only Gen thinks I’m nuts. I haven’t told anyone else.”
“Oh,” Liv replied. “I thought you went to the police and they referred you to Genny.”
“Sophie’s sister was accused of murder,” Gen said. “She doesn’t want the cops involved.”
Oliver’s brows went up, and he slid his eyes to Gen.
Gen looked at Sophie. “It’s a challenging situation.”
“So,” Sophie replied. “You only take on easy cases. Is that how it works?”
Gen felt her cheeks blaze. Not true, of course, but the woman had a point. “Let’s recap,” she said.
“We have a girl who was allegedly involved in a murder twenty years ago on the opposite side of the country. She left a suicide note, but her body was never found. She worked as a model at the time, so there’s a possibility her face could be out in the world to this day for any aspiring Picasso to take a fancy to and reproduce.
“And now, her likeness seems to be the subject of a picture painted in an unrecognizable location by an unknown artist. And against all odds, someone who knows you just happened to come across this painting.”
“That sums it up,” Sophie said. “Will you help me?”
Gen laced her fingers behind her head, then leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. She considered the options. On one hand, she’d be unwise not to listen to her instincts screaming that something about this incredible coincidence might not be on the up and up.
The likelihood of a missing woman’s sister finding a painted picture of her in a thrift shop – so many years later and so far from the location she’d last been seen – seemed almost impossible. Combine that with a twenty-year old cold case and she’d be idiotic not to have doubts.
On the other hand, stranger things happened in the world all the time. Documented instances of kismet even more bizarre than this weird fluke. And if it was her own sister, Gabi, who’d gone missing, she wouldn’t hesitate to use every resource to find her, and she wouldn’t stop. Combine that with the challenge the case represented, and there was only one answer.
She was in.
Gen sat up and thumped a palm on the desktop. “Why not? I can’t promise much, but I’ll give it my best shot, and I’ll see it through for as long as you’re willing to pay expenses.”
“Deal,” Sophie said. “How do we start?”
“I need the name of the resale store, your sister’s full name, date of birth, and social security number, all the information you can provide about friends and acquaintances around the time of your sister’s disappearance, and a retainer.”
Sophie Keene opened her purse and took out her checkbook.
Chapter Three
Gen’s living room was bright from the light slanting through the west-side windows. She shucked her jacket and lay down on the couch where the rays warmed the cushions. It was one of her favorite things, propped against the pillows and lazing in the late afternoon sun like this, eyes closed, listening to the quiet and feeling the comfort of home eddy around her.
She glanced at the clock on the wall, a big, round antique reproduction Oliver found in a flea market. Perfect, it was wine-thirty. She rose and popped the cork on a bottle of merlot, then carried a full glass back to the couch and resumed her prone position, only lifting her head now and again to take a sip.
Life is good.
No sooner had that thought enhanced the vibe around her than Oliver sashayed in with a wave, went to the kitchen, then returned with his own goblet topped off with red wine.
“Help yourself, Liv.”
He laughed and raised his glass in a toast, then put it down and went to flip back the drapes so even more rays fell on the well-placed seating. Then he joined her again and reclined with a contented sigh in the deep armchair she’d purchased as a replacement after Ryan’s La-Z-Boy moved out with him nearly four months before.
Liv had found that for her, as well.
“How come it is,” she asked, “that your gay-man’s vocal inflections vanish when you take off your heels?”
He chuckled. “It’s like being in Paris. When in France, I practice my French. When in boxers, I practice my dude.”
“I need a disguise like that. You have this whole other persona you can slip in and out of at will.”
“I can lend you a wig and some different clothes. Maybe something in size seductress?”
“I can do slutty from my own closet, thank you very much. But I do think I’m going to take you up on
the wig part sometime. So what did you find out today? Is he a cheater?”
“The husband’s a rogue, but not in the way you think. His apparent attraction to boobs is a farce. I watched while he hit on a guy and completely ignored the strippers.”
“What?” Gen sat up. That news was unexpected. “Two huge surprises there. He’s such a burly rugby player type I didn’t see that coming, and you went to a strip joint wearing dress slacks and a tie.” She swallowed a mouthful of wine and dropped back against the pillows.
“It’s my least homosexual look.”
“Did you get pictures?”
“They’re on my phone. I’ll send them to you. And I like the way you called me your associate today.”
“Better than ‘my gay neighbor friend.’”
When the silence went on past five beats, Gen tipped her head back so she could see Liv. His expression reeked of disappointment. She didn’t have to wait long to discover the reason.
“Why would you feel the need to describe me as gay at all? Do you introduce your African American friends as ‘my black friend?’ Are women defined as female? Come on.”
She skooched around far enough to regard him fully. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way. I apologize.”
“Hunh,” he said. “That’s my stab at LGBT activism for today.”
She shifted back into a more comfortable position. “I introduced you as my associate because you help me a lot, for which I am eternally grateful.”
“I like doing it.”
“Why is that, do you suppose?”
Oliver tapped the arm of the chair while he thought. “Observing human behavior is a kick. Watching people try to pull the wool over someone else’s eyes holds a certain allure, and there’s a sense of accomplishment when you can figure out what’s going on without being told.”
“Wow.” Gen took another pull at her wine. “That’s so highbrow. I like my job because I get to snoop into other peoples’ business and be right and feel superior.”
