Paint Me Gone (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 3)

by Molly Greene

  They hadn’t planned it, so Gen was surprised when they both emerged wearing long shorts and fashionable t-shirts and trainers. Livvie looked decidedly masculine. After all that messing about and going through every feminine item of clothing he owned, he hadn’t donned even one piece of it. She figured he was on vacation, so he must have decided to discard the responsibility of keeping up appearances.

  He noticed her inspection. “What?” he asked.

  “Just surprised to see you wearing tourist clothes.”

  “I found out it’s against the law to wear high heels in Carmel,” he replied. “Did you know that?”

  She raised her palms toward the sky, trying to decide what the joke was.

  “No, really,” he continued. “There’s an old law that women can’t wear heels on the street. A brochure in my room said they enacted it in the 1920’s to avoid lawsuits from trip-and-falls. Because of all the tree roots that make the sidewalks so crooked here.”

  “You’re not a woman.”

  Oliver rolled his eyes.

  “So do they throw people in jail for donning outlawed footwear?”

  “They don’t enforce it,” he replied. “It’s an interesting little factoid I thought I’d share.”

  Out on the streets the crowds were manageable. It was mid-week and early in the season. They didn’t have to dodge a lot of gawkers and made good time, moving from one store window to the next.

  They popped in and out of several art merchants, studying the wares. The number of galleries was rivaled only by high-end tourist traps that sold shells and mugs and shirts emblazoned with the name of the town in a hundred different incarnations.

  Gen and Liv kept their money in their pockets until they passed a pastry shop that proved impossible to resist. They bought bottles of water and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, then found a shaded bench on a tranquil side street and indulged.

  When the last crumb was gone, Gen pointed across the road. “I recognize the name of that gallery, it’s on my list. Let’s go in.” They tossed their wadded napkins in a trash can and ambled over.

  The establishment’s entry opened into a large high-ceilinged room. Five-foot partitions had been added all around to create cubicles that increased the display space, and each one was dedicated to a different client.

  Before she came, Gen would have thought it difficult to differentiate between the works of so many painters, but in reality it was not. The variations were subtle, but they were there. Many were landscapes and of those, some painted in a vague, dreamy style, while others rendered a distinctive, precise interpretation of the subject.

  “Good afternoon.”

  Gen and Liv swung around and replied, “Good afternoon,” in sync. The young man who’d approached them smiled.

  “We practice that. I’m Gen Delacourt, and this is Oliver Weston.”

  “Justin Allenby. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Just window shopping. Actually, we’re trying to track down a specific artist whose name we don’t know.”

  “That might be a challenge. Thousands of artists sell their work in Carmel.” Justin inclined his head and contemplated Gen. “Do you think it’s a client of ours?”

  “Not necessarily. I have a painting that was purchased in Carmel years ago. It’s an unsigned piece, and I don’t know which gallery sold it. It was in a show at the time, but I don’t even know if it was outside or in a shop.”

  Justin blinked and tried his best not to disappoint her. “The owner would be the one to talk to, but Mr. Jacovich is out. Perhaps you could bring the painting in tomorrow so he could have a look? He’s always here about ten o’clock.”

  “That would be great. I’ll come around about ten.”

  Justin went to a desk in the foyer and scrawled a note, then returned holding a business card. “I’ve left a message for Mr. Jacovich that you’ll be in early tomorrow. Here’s my card in case you need to call the gallery.”

  His eyes flicked to Oliver, then back.

  “Thanks,” Gen said. “I suppose it was too much to ask that we’d just cruise around and recognize the artist by something else he’d done.”

  “You never know,” Justin replied. “I didn’t mean to discourage you from looking. Please, take your time.”

  His eyes cut back to Oliver, and he smiled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Francie Stoddard was tall and lean and imposing and had aged beautifully to some unidentifiable point in her late sixties. Her gray hair was short and mannish, but the style suited her.

  Not one wrinkle marked her face. Gen was sure of two things: she’d had some excellent work done, and she must have been a model herself once. It was the way she moved, ramrod straight but smooth as liquid silver. Effortless, without a jerky step or abrupt turn of the head. She’d either learned it on a runway or at an expensive finishing school.

  Or her mother had more luck than Gen’s.

  She and Oliver had gotten up early and gone for a walk along the ocean. What a luxury to stand so close to the waves on a deserted horseshoe beach, with the sun peeking out from the coastal fog.

  The morning promised to be dazzling, and Oliver decided to part company with her and do some serious shopping. He’d seen a few noteworthy things the previous day, and he wanted another crack at them.

  So Gen was alone as she clutched the frame inside the brown paper parcel with one hand and pushed open the door of The Stoddard Gallery with the other. It was barely nine-thirty. Carmel was just unrolling the sidewalks, and there were no customers in evidence.

  Francie’s low heels clacked across the wood plank floors as she came forward. “Francie Stoddard. You must be Genevieve. Thanks for coming in.”

  “The pleasure is mine. I appreciate your time.”

  “I hope something good comes of it, for your sake. Let’s have a peek at what’s inside that package.”

  Gen trailed her to the back where a wooden easel lit by a task light was positioned near the wall. Francie stopped and crooked a finger. Gen pulled the painting out and settled it on the stand.

  Francie moved in close, adjusted the light, and examined every inch of the painting, top to bottom. She squinted when she got to the date, then went to a desk and returned with a magnifying glass. She held the glass over the writing and studied it. “I wonder if there was ever a signature.”

  “Interesting thought,” Gen replied. “How could we find out?”

  “Art authenticators have tools that might reveal it, if one was ever there,” Francie said. “Unfortunately, I can’t identify the technique as belonging to anyone I’m familiar with. But my word isn’t final in Carmel. I’ve only been around a decade or so. I moved here not too long before this was painted.”

  Francie straightened and stood back to contemplate the scene, then cut her eyes to Gen. “It’s good, you know.” She gestured at the tripod. “A little primitive, but extremely good. The expression is well-captured, the light and shadow quite pleasing. The artist would no doubt have improved even more since this was done. I’d like to see where his skill has taken him.”

  “I don’t know anything about art,” Gen replied. “Is this a particular style?”

  “It has the look of plein air. That means ‘open air.’ Once paint became available in portable tubes, the Impressionists made it popular to ply their trade outside. Plein air aficionados forego the comforts of the workshop and dispense with intricate detail in an effort to capture the light and shadow and ambience of the moment. They believe they can do this outdoors more effectively than in a studio setting.”

  “We met Laura Ingburg yesterday. We stopped just before we came into town and she was working out on the cliffs. She told us painters who work outside seldom have detailed images of people in them, just because of the nature of the work.”

  “And Laura is right, of course.” Francie smiled. “Did you show this to her?”

  “No, we didn’t want to bother her more than we had.”

&n
bsp; “Too bad. She’s lived and painted in Carmel forever, and she can remember what she ate for breakfast five years ago on a Sunday in May. If we can’t find anything, she just might have a thought about who’s composition this might be.”

  “If we can’t find anything, I’ll stop and see her again on the way out of town. I’m also going to talk with a dealer named Jacovich to get his take.”

  Francie’s eyebrows went up.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Everybody knows Jack,” she replied. “That makes him a good chap to ask.”

  Gen wondered about the backstory there. Before she could inquire, a phone rang and Francie headed over to the desk. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t rush,” Gen said. “I’ll look around.”

  When Francie hung up, Gen thanked her again for her time and was on her way.

  * * *

  Herman Jacovich was a very dark guy. Not in skin color, but in every other element of his persona. His thick black hair had been treated to a good dye job and was worn a little long. His heavy brows probably needed to be trimmed regularly to hold the Einstein look at bay. He sported an intense gaze and an attitude to match.

  Gen couldn’t guess his age, but she made him for something close to Francie and, maybe, a relationship with the same cosmetic surgeon. Word must get around. That’s all he and Francie had in common, though. Jacovich moved like a mime doing an impression of a Nazi battalion goose-stepping in a full-dress parade.

  He marched her into his spacious office and closed the door, then held out his hand. “May I?” He wasn’t offering to shake.

  Gen unwrapped the oil and turned it around so he could see it. She swore a flutter of something crossed his face and was quickly gone, but she couldn’t be sure what it was. Recognition? Surprise? Or she might just be living in hope, and what she saw was simply disappointment.

  Disappointment about what?

  “Average quality,” he said. “Ordinary. The artist is borderline unskilled. Either untrained, or at the beginning of a mediocre career. This is definitely not worth much. What else did you want to know?”

  “Francie Stoddard thought it was good.”

  He blew out a quick, sharp breath. Not quite a laugh, but Gen got the idea. Jack and Francie weren’t best pals, or the other gallery owner had said something he wished she hadn’t.

  “Do you recognize anything about it?” she asked.

  “No.” He went behind the desk and pulled out a book, then opened it on the desk top and beckoned to her. “Let’s compare the work of another artist to yours. This canvas depicts a similar setting. Do you see the difference in the brush strokes? Do you have enough of an eye to feel the variations in the shadowing? See here.” He indicated the ocean. “The colors, the depth. This artist has mastered the concepts inherent in plein air. Yours is still trying to grasp them.”

  Gen tapped her foot, thinking. The scene was indeed similar to the one in Sophie’s painting, and the style was not vastly different. “I do see what you mean. Do you recognize the woman in my painting, by any chance?”

  Jacovich shook his head.

  She indicated the painting. “Is this artist your client?”

  “Of course. I work with the best.”

  Gen read the name. “Gregory Prentiss. His work is plein air?”

  “That’s what I just told you.”

  “Where is the location of his painting? Physically, I mean.”

  Jacovich swung his eyes to her, then away. He snapped the book closed. “I have no idea.”

  “Is any of his work on display out on the floor? I’m interested in seeing more.”

  “Come with me.” Jacovich stalked back out into the gallery proper and shooed her into a small room tastefully hung with framed oils.

  Gen felt woozy when she saw the price tags. Yikes, that was a lot of zeros. One small canvas cost as much as a mortgage payment. She could admire all she wanted, but she wouldn’t be taking a Prentiss home.

  Jacovich returned to his office.

  She drifted from canvas to canvas, cruising the room for any sign of the painting in Jacovich’s book. Nothing. But there were several renditions of the village itself; Carmel seemed to be one of Prentiss’ favorite subjects. He might not be hard to track down, if she wanted to find him.

  Gen went back to retrieve her painting. Jacovich was just hanging up the phone when she pushed open the door. “Thanks for your time,” she said.

  “Why do you want to find the person who painted this unimpressive piece?”

  Gen was surprised. “Excuse me?”

  He looked as if he was about to do an eye roll, but stopped himself. Instead, he spoke with clipped words, as if he was talking to someone who didn’t understand English.

  “Why are you looking for the artist who painted this?”

  She considered his question, and decided to tell a partial truth. “I’m looking on behalf of a client who wants to own another like it. She asked me to find the artist. All we know is that it was purchased in Carmel. So I’m here to make inquiries.”

  He tapped his temple and gave her a false look of confusion. “Why would anyone want to own another such mediocre piece? It’s a sacrilege.”

  Gen smiled and kept the grin on her face as she re-bound the paper. “I thought art was subjective. One’s man trash is another’s treasure and all that.”

  “I’ll take that rubbish off your hands.”

  Gen stopped fussing with the tape. “Pardon me?”

  “I’ll buy that from you.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “It’s in my best interests to get second-rate work off the market.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred. I’m feeling generous today.”

  Gen resumed her task. “That is generous. But it’s not for sale, Mr. Jacovich.”

  “Here’s my card if your client changes their mind and decides to invest in something worthwhile.”

  “And here’s mine. Give me a call if you think of anything that might help me find the artist. Thanks for your time, Jack.”

  Gen hefted the painting and left.

  * * *

  Before the morning was through, Gen had carried the image of Shannon into half the open galleries in Carmel and come out again unenlightened. Every salesperson in every shop had shown her the work of similar artists and tried to make a sale, but she wasn’t buying.

  She and Oliver met for a late lunch, this time at an open-air cafe on a shady quad with shops on three sides. She propped the package in an empty seat at the table and listened while he regaled her with tales about his latest spending spree.

  Vehicles were not allowed on the street, so all sorts of folks from all walks of life passed by, mainly tourists enjoying the promenade and the sun and the breeze off the ocean. Gen listened while she watched the parade pass by and thought about it all.

  Livvie’s take that morning was impressive, even for him. He’d snagged a delightful rendition of downtown done exquisitely in oil with the merest suggestion of Parisian overtones. In contrast, he’d also bought a simple drawing of a woman standing on the shore, looking out to sea, on the edge of a cluster of pines against a sweep of water.

  He’d also purchased t-shirts, a handmade leather messenger bag, and a little clay sculpture of an artist at an easel. He was breathless over the art and the people and the level of talent that screamed from many of the town’s store windows.

  When his excitement ran down, he dragged in a deep breath and leaned back, then drank some iced tea. “So,” he said. “Any luck?”

  Gen squinted at the oil painting he’d purchased. “This was done by Gregory Prentiss,” she said. “He’s incredibly expensive. Are you sure you shouldn’t have an armed guard with you right now?”

  “One day in town and you’re already familiar with the players.”

  “You must have been in Jacovich’s after I left. He showed me some of Prentiss’ work. I had to scrape my chin up
off the floor when I took a gander at the pricing.”

  Oliver shrugged. “I splurged.”

  “And will you look at that,” Gen said. “Laura Ingburg did the line drawing. That’s a gem, isn’t it? I love that. So simple, but it says so much.”

  “What does it say to you?” Oliver asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  He waited.

  “I guess it says that life can be gorgeous and thoughtful and full in spite of our dramas and disappointments.”

  Oliver was smiling when she looked up.

  Gen ignored him and gestured at the oil. “I wouldn’t mind tracking Prentiss down. I’d sure like to ask him where he painted a certain cliff scene Jacovich showed me. His style and the location remind me of Shannon’s artist and that stretch of ocean.”

  “I could ask Justin if he knows how to contact him.”

  “Ah,” Gen said. “Is that why you went back to Jacovich’s?”

  “What if it was? We had a pleasant chat. He told me Prentiss was a good investment, that he gets the right kind of attention and his work should retain its value, if not increase.”

  “I thought that usually didn’t happen until an artist died. How old is he?”

  Livvie smiled. “Very old.”

  “Ah.”

  “Stop saying that. So did you learn anything new, Sherlock?”

  “Not as much as I’d hoped,” Gen replied. “The only real interesting moment was when Herman Jacovich asked me why I was looking for the artist, then offered to buy Shannon.”

  “What?” Livvie’s eyebrows went up. “Why?”

  “Jacovich let on like the painting was crap and it should be destroyed. Said he wanted to take it out of circulation.”

  Oliver’s face reflected a combination of confused and disbelieving. “You said Francie Stoddard thought the artist was good.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  Gen shook her head and gave him palms up.

  “What are you going to do?”

  The waitress arrived with their food.

  “Right now I’m going to eat my lunch. After that, I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon asking Carmelites if anything about this seems familiar.” She tapped Sophie Keene’s painting. “Then we’ll see what happens.”