Paint Me Gone (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 3)

by Molly Greene

  Gen pulled on a long peasant skirt and tucked in a shirt with a round Peter Pan collar. Then she shrugged into a heavy cardigan someone had hand-knitted, probably for a gift that the receiver discarded soon after the giver had gone.

  She buttoned the top button and added sturdy rubber-soled shoes, then pulled back the front and sides of her hair and fastened it with a barrette. Oliver handed her a pair of old-fashioned eyeglasses, the kind with large frames that had gone out of style decades before. They stood side-by-side and stared at her in the mirror.

  “My work is done,” Oliver said.

  “Not even my mother would recognize me,” Gen agreed. “And if she did, she’d pretend not to.”

  Oliver tipped his head to one side, thinking, then spun around and plucked up a wad of thick scarves that were displayed beside the handbags. “Lift up your shirt.”

  Gen leaned over to rummage in her purse and slipped something in her mouth. When he approached, she straightened and complied, and he wound the scarves around her middle and secured them with a safety pin. Gen re-tucked the shirt and drew the sweater back over it all.

  Instant twenty pounds of gut.

  “Padding,” Oliver said. “Works like a charm. Whoever you follow in this getup won’t give you a second glance. Of course, you’ll never get a man to look at you, either.”

  A young woman trying on a jacket got a load of the ensemble and gave Gen a double-take. “I’m not sure that outfit does you justice,” she said.

  Everybody’s a critic.

  Gen smiled at them both in the mirror. The small square of black paper she’d stuck under her top lip made it look as though her two front teeth were missing. Oliver got an eyeful of her gap-toothed grin and doubled over, clutching his stomach and laughing hysterically.

  The girl grinned. “Trick or treat.”

  Livvie ran for their handbags and snatched up his iPhone, snapped a shot of Gen, then had to walk away to recover. “Take that thing out of your mouth before I wet myself,” he begged.

  But no one was laughing when Genevieve donned the black cocktail dress. She drew an admiring crowd; one twenty-something boy trying on ladies shoes asked her what size she wore, then brought over a pair of black pointy-toe slingbacks that capped off the dress like a brandy after a perfect evening.

  They had to throw in the towel after that. Famished and giggling, they hung on each other for support while the dread-headed clerk checked them out.

  Gen bought at least ten pieces.

  The bill came to sixty dollars and change.

  Chapter Twelve

  “How much evening stuff should I pack?” Oliver was hunched over an overnight case, tucking a tube of sunscreen into the interior pocket. Two open suitcases and a garment bag were slung across the bed. “If we go out for dinner twice I want to be prepared. Carmel is classy, you know, we need to bring our best game.”

  “Sure, let’s go someplace decent both nights.” Gen was leaning against his bedroom doorjamb. “You’re driving. You can fill the whole back of the Range Rover with clothes if you want.”

  “I have to save room for my down pillows.”

  “How many?”

  “All four. I can’t sleep unless I have my pillows.”

  “What do you do when you go to Europe?”

  “I pack them.”

  “You must pay a lot in baggage check fees.”

  Oliver ignored her and resumed his task. “I have to have my beauty sleep.”

  The room had leaped past untidy and was heading for chaos. Oliver’s method was to drag every piece of clothing he owned out of the drawers and closet and try it all on before he made a choice. He ran through his routine – although not this badly – prior to every evening out. And he’d put the place back together again before he left.

  The process no longer amazed her.

  She couldn’t say that about his bedroom, though, she found it more stunning each time she saw it. The king-sized bed’s headboard stopped about a foot shy of the twelve-foot ceiling. The wood was carved and gilded and swirled to a crest in the center. Shams and pillows were stacked against it, and the thick spread was a royal blue and butterscotch print on a fawn background. A deep, floor-length fringe covered the linen skirt around the bottom.

  All this could hardly be seen, of course, due to the jumble of garments Livvie had tossed across the mattress.

  “Well,” Gen said, “I just came down to check your progress. I’m packed and ready and my suitcase is waiting. Just give the word and I’ll haul it down to the garage.”

  “Suitcase? As in singular.”

  “Yeah, just the one. Plus the painting. I sure hope we have room for that.” Gen pointed to the clock. “We said we’d leave by ten o’clock this morning, so you’ve got half an hour if we’re going to stick to the schedule.”

  “Hassling me won’t help, Genevieve. You know how I get under pressure. It’s not pretty.”

  “Fine. I’m going downstairs to the office. Call my cell when you’re ready to head out.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  Gen took the staircase. She hadn’t gotten a walk in that morning but she’d dressed for road trip comfort, so her tennis shoes and stretchy denim leggings and long t-shirt were the perfect gear for racing down the steps.

  On a whim, she turned and double-timed back up the seven flights and down again. She reveled in the energy she’d gained from her city walks, and she’d packed her trainers so she could get some exercise while they were in Carmel.

  The trip, of course, was all about talking to gallery owners. Every one she’d emailed pictures to had replied, all in the negative. They did not recognize the style or the painting itself, but they would be happy to show her pieces with a similar design. So that’s exactly what they would do, check out the work of comparable artists.

  Maybe the competition held the key.

  She paced through the lobby and out the front door, then turned right and trudged toward her office. Someone was peering in the window. When she turned to leave, Gen recognized the woman who’d hired her to trail the wayward husband.

  Gen had finally made the call and told the wife what Liv had learned and she had verified. She was, surprisingly, not amazed at the revelation. That wasn’t shocking. Obviously, she knew something was wrong. A lot of women understood that their relationships were teetering on the edge before they actually had proof.

  She had wracked her brain for weeks after Ryan left, but still swore she hadn’t missed any cues. Gen had apparently been at the end of the bench when women’s intuition was dispensed. Go figure. What kind of detective did that make her? One who couldn’t perceive what was going down in her own household, she assumed.

  “Good morning.”

  The woman pivoted slowly, then held out her palm. Gen took it in both of hers. “You all right?”

  “Sure. I was in the neighborhood and thought maybe I could catch you in person. I wanted to say thanks. I mean, officially.”

  Gen released her hand and unlocked the door. “Come on in.”

  They sat in the lobby chairs.

  “What did you decide?” Gen asked.

  “I have to let him go.” The wife concentrated on her lap. “Somewhere inside I knew the truth. There were signs.” She turned her left hand this way and that, squinting at her wedding ring. “Don’t we usually get what’s happening on some level?”

  Gen already knew what she thought about that.

  “I’m not so sure we always do,” she replied. “Maybe love is blind. When we adore them, we don’t look too close. And even when we do, some people wear armor. We don’t come equipped with built-in metal-piercing perception. Come to think of it, that’s a super power I could use.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I can’t advise you. I’m as clueless as the next person. I used to think I had all the answers, but the older I get, the more I see that I don’t have any insight when it comes to love. Why did you come to me if you knew?”

  “You�
��re a woman. I heard you were honest and straightforward. I suppose I needed someone to tell me the truth, but deliver it with kid gloves. You did that. I’m grateful.”

  Gen patted her shoulder. “It seems like a huge obstacle right now. You think you’ll never be able to climb the mountain of bullshit and get beyond the hurt. But you will. And you’ll be better for it.”

  “Sounds like you’ve climbed that mountain.”

  “I wish I could say I was over the other side.”

  “We’ll both get there eventually.” The woman stood. “The truth is that I don’t want to be a cheater’s wife.”

  “Then you know what you have to do.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “I wish I could have told you something different,” Gen said.

  “You told me exactly what I needed to know.”

  “Well then, goodbye and good luck.”

  The woman walked out the door just as Gen’s cell pinged with a text from Livvie.

  Let’s hit the road, Jack.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Carmel-by-the-sea is a nifty little seaside town about one hundred twenty miles down the coast from San Francisco. A village, really, walkable and quaint. Tourists flock there year-round to stroll along the cliffs and browse the oh-so ritzy shops and snap pictures of the towering cypress trees that dot the bluffs along this stretch of the Pacific.

  They also come to ogle the work of talented artists who exhibit in the area. The Carmel Arts Colony was unofficially established in the early 1900’s, after the devastating fires that nearly leveled the great city to the north. Artists, musicians, and playwrights fled south to regroup and set up shop beside the waves.

  Like the chic village of La Jolla outside San Diego, Carmel is also a place where aging actors come to find harmony. Clint Eastwood once reigned as Mayor. Joan Fontaine retired to a five-acre estate and passed away at 96 years of age, watching the ocean. The rich and famous can be eccentric beyond the limits of the everyday Joe; they can also afford the price of real estate in Carmel.

  The rest of the world can only visit.

  Gen had been to Carmel once before. She loved road trips, especially when she was the passenger, but in college there was no time, and when she was a lawyer even fleeting breaks in the everyday grind vanished.

  When she thought about it, she realized this chapter in her life had ushered in both problems and peace. So many changes were like that, a pastiche of opposites. She had the time and means to travel now, which was seriously sweet, but her job called for dabbling in the sour side of peoples’ lives. She needed to find balance, to hold trouble at arm’s length while pecking away at the shell that screened the answers from view.

  She’d have to stick to her values if she wanted to keep her head clear about it all: truth, honesty, clarity. And detachment. And persistence.

  Notice how patience wasn’t on the list.

  She glanced aside at Livvie. He was driving with one elbow propped on the door, guiding the car with his fingertips on the wheel. He appeared to be content, lost in his own thoughts. A jazz station played softly on the radio. The windows were open, the day was magnificent, and the June-blooming wildflowers were an orchestra of outrageous color. They reminded her of Madison and Cole.

  What more could she and Liv ask for?

  “I’m starving,” Oliver said. “All this sea air and scenery makes me want to gnosh.”

  “I was just thinking nothing could make this better, but you’re right. A snack beside the ocean would be icing on the cake. Good thing I packed sandwiches.”

  Oliver’s eyes went wide. “Don’t tease.”

  “I had to kill time this morning while you were bustling about folding your lingerie.” Gen turned around and leaned between the seats, then plucked a six-pack-sized cooler off the floor. “Chicken salad with avocado. And bottles of iced tea.”

  “My hero. I’ll find a place to stop.”

  They rounded a few more curves and a blacktop viewpoint opened on the right. Liv pulled in. Only a few vehicles were in evidence. If the fiberglass boards strapped to the roofs were any indication, they all belonged to surfers. A well-muscled pair wearing wetsuits unzipped to their waists watched the horizon.

  Livvie grinned at Gen and shot his eyebrows up and down. “Great view.”

  They climbed out and followed a path that meandered along the top of the cliff. Oliver had thrown a blanket over his shoulder, and Gen lugged the cooler. The smell of the sea was sharp and startling, so much so that Gen couldn’t stop dragging in air. Gulls wheeled overhead. Surfers bobbed out past the break line, waiting for their next big ride.

  They appeared to have the cliff to themselves once clear of the parking lot, but fifty yards and a sharp twist in the path later they happened on an artist plying her horsehair brush.

  The woman wore a wide-brimmed hat and sat close to the cliff edge. Her back was to them. An umbrella was positioned so shadow fell across her body and the canvas. A few unrestrained strands of hair blew around her shoulders in the gentle breeze. She was painting the ocean and the bluff that undulated down the coast to the left, and from twenty feet away Gen could tell she was good.

  Oliver cleared his throat.

  The woman raised a hand. “Hello.”

  “We didn’t want to startle you,” Oliver replied.

  The painter paused her brush and turned her head. In profile her nose was sharp, in contrast to her delicate, rounded cheek and high forehead. She dabbed a bit of brown onto the canvas, then put her implements aside and circled around, seat and all.

  Her paint-splattered smock sported deep front pockets and a pointed collar. She wore clogs and old jeans and a look that said she was right where she wanted to be.

  She had a few years on Gen, but not much. She must be staring at her fortieth birthday. Social Security was still decades off, but Gen thought she might pass for a Senior discount at the movies. Her face was weathered, in a good way. Not too wrinkled, but you could see the character life had etched around her eyes.

  She was smiling now, but the frown lines on her forehead and jowls suggested she hadn’t been born with a sense of humor. Gen wondered if she’d been able to pick one up along the way.

  “Comes with the territory,” the woman said. “I jump out of my skin at least half a dozen times when I’m out here.”

  “How annoying.” Oliver sounded contrite. “It must get tedious to have people interrupt you all day long.”

  “Nonsense. I needed a break, and I’ve sold a few paintings this way.” She winked and gave them a smile that could only be interpreted as resigned. “I’m Laura Ingburg. My fingers are covered with pigment, so you’ll be happier with me if we don’t shake hands.”

  “May we look?”

  “Please. Perhaps you can tell me why I can’t get the clouds right today.”

  Oliver crowded in beside Gen. “I have trouble getting eyeliner right. No way can I offer advice about painting sky.”

  Laura laughed and stood beside them, rolling her head this way and that, scrutinizing her work.

  “It’s beautiful,” Livvie said. “I don’t see a problem with anything.”

  “Do you ever paint people?” Gen asked.

  Laura kept her head tipped as she thought about it. “Sometimes. But the nature of working outside makes it difficult to add figures. They aren’t here every day. And when they are, they don’t cooperate by standing still. You’d have to bring a model. That might get expensive, and it’s a bit much to ask of family. You could paint from a photograph, though. I have a few colleagues who do that. Or from memory, if it’s good enough.”

  “From a photograph?”

  “That’s right,” Laura said. “A number of local artists do photographic studies of their settings, then work inside. You can visit a few of the open studios and see for yourself. Are you staying in Carmel or just passing through?”

  “We’ve booked two nights in the village,” Oliver said. “Do you live close?”

 
“I have a little place in town.”

  Livvie brightened. “Can you share any restaurant recommendations?”

  Laura pulled a notepad and pen from one of her smock’s bottomless pockets. “Christopher’s on Lincoln is good. It’s a little overlooked so it might not be as busy as some.” She wrote that down. “There’s the Flying Fish Grill on Mission, I think it’s between Ocean and Seventh. They serve Asian and seafood. For Italian, I love La Balena on Junipero, and that’s between Fifth and Sixth.” She finished scribbling and handed over the note. “That’ll give you a good start.”

  “How about galleries?” Gen asked.

  “To buy or just window shop?”

  “We’re trying to track down an artist. We have one of his works but there’s no signature on the canvas, so we thought we’d take it into a few places and see if anyone recognizes anything.”

  “I’d go to Francie Stoddard. I sell a few pieces through Francie so I may be biased, but she knows her stuff and she’s helpful. Some of them will only give you the time of day if your wallet is out.”

  Gen smiled. “It just so happens I have an appointment with her tomorrow morning.”

  “Good. You’ll like her.” Laura looked at her brushes and sighed. “I’d best get back to work and see if I can salvage this.”

  Oliver offered a gentlemanly bow. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Laura.”

  “And you, as well. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Thanks for your hospitality,” Gen added.

  Laura swept her arm wide, indicating the sea and beyond. “You’re welcome in my parlor anytime.”

  * * *

  The hotel granted an early check-in and adjoining rooms, and Gen and Oliver rushed to stow their gear and change clothes. The goal was to spend the rest of the afternoon walking the village and poking around the shops. Get the lay of the land, find the restaurants, stuff like that.