MURDER AT THE GALLERY
By
Dianne Harman
(A Northwest Cozy Mystery - Book 6)
Copyright © 2018 Dianne Harman
www.dianneharman.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1985300453
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A few months ago, my husband and I were in an art gallery in Laguna Beach, California, that specializes in California Plein Air Art, a movement that became popular in the early 20th century. Paintings in this genre were created primarily by artists who painted outdoors, thus the name. We collect and enjoy this type of art. The owner of the gallery, Ray Redfern, who is an extremely knowledgeable art dealer, was talking to us about unscrupulous people who try to pass off fake paintings as originals. The seed for the book you are about to read, Murder at the Gallery, came from that conversation.
My thanks to Ray for answering my numerous questions about how something like producing and selling a fake painting could be accomplished. I knew this practice existed, but I didn’t know how it was done. Now I do.
If you appreciate fine art or if you find yourself in the Laguna Beach area, you’ll not do better than to visit Redfern Gallery, 1540 South Coast Highway, Laguna Beach. Ask for Ray and tell him I said hi!
And to the three people who make my books look so good, Vivek, Connie, and Tom – my thanks to each of you for all you do for me.
And to all of you who ever wondered how fraudulent art scams work, enjoy the book. I learned so much when I wrote it. Hope you learn as much when you read it!
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
EPILOGUE
RECIPES
ABOUT DIANNE
SURPRISE!
PROLOGUE
“Will you be home for dinner this evening, darling? I can cook your favorite meal, lamb tagine.”
Philippe Germain looked up from his morning newspaper at his wife, Simone, and frowned. “I think you meant to say you would have our long-suffering housekeeper, Dolores, cook it, right? It doesn’t matter. Whatever’s easiest for you to reheat later and pretend you made yourself, is fine with me.” He reached for the roll of crusty French bread in the center of the table and tore off a chunk, smearing it with peanut butter. “Do you think I’m a complete idiot?” He chuckled to himself as several bread crumbs fell from the corner of his mouth. “It’s just as well you have other talents, Simone, or I would have traded you in for a younger model long ago.”
He leered at his wife’s slender frame and generous cleavage which were accentuated by the tight-fitting plain black workout gear she was wearing. Reaching under the table, he ran his hand along her thigh, his eyes feasting on her perfect milky complexion. She wore her dark hair in a knot at the back of her head, and her flawless skin was free of any trace of makeup. Sparkling diamond studs in her ears were her only adornment. He’d never regretted his decision fifteen years earlier to bring her to America from France as his bride when she was only nineteen years old. “I’m just kidding, chérie, you know that, don’t you?”
Simone’s expression hardened as she pushed her chair out and stood up, avoiding his touch. “I hardly need to remind you I’m twenty years your junior, Philippe. How much younger were you thinking of?” The cold tone of her voice warned Philippe she was in one of her moods. It didn’t bother him, because he knew from experience his wife wasn’t a morning person. Simone was a lot friendlier in the evenings after a glass or two of wine and their two daughters were tucked away in bed.
He pretended not to notice her ill-temper. “Are you going to the gym this morning? You seem to be spending a lot of time there these days. Not that I’m complaining. You’ve never looked better.”
Simone began to clear the breakfast dishes from the table. “What else do you expect me to do? You’re away at the gallery all day, every day, and most of my friends have jobs. Now that the girls are old enough to take the bus to school, there’s not much for me to do until they get home at four in the afternoon.”
Philippe gave an exasperated sigh. “Let’s not have this conversation again. It’s getting old. I told you when we got married that I didn’t want you to work. Your place is in the home, looking after me and our daughters.” He paused. “And I might add, which you do very well, despite my jokes about your cooking.”
Simone was leaning down to open the dishwasher, and she rolled her eyes when she looked up at Philippe, shaking her head. “Maybe if you were home more often we could be more like a proper family. You don’t seem to even care that in a few more years Ava will be leaving for college. And Cecile can’t wait to join the United States Air Force as soon as she turns eighteen.” Simone made a sign of the cross with her right hand and mumbled a line of a prayer in French. “I wish you would have a word with her. Wherever she got the urge to become a helicopter pilot, I will never know.”
Philippe took a large sip of his coffee. “I disagree. I like her spirit, and I think our daughter will do very well in the Air Force. She obviously wants to serve this great adopted country of ours. If you’ve got too much time on your hands, you should follow her example.”
Simone straightened up and glared at her husband. “You want me to sign up for the military? I’d be surprised if you even noticed I was gone, considering how little attention you pay to me.” She started wiping the white quartz countertop vigorously with a dish rag.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You wouldn’t last ten minutes without your designer shoes and Chanel purse. No, I meant you should do something useful with your spare time. It’s a shame you’re not eligible to join the Daughters of the American Revolution. The Cascade Chapter is very active here in Bellevue. They do great work.” Philippe stared at the clock above the stove and jumped up. It was almost 8:00 a.m. His earlier walk with Aslan, their Newfoundland dog, had been farther than usual and thrown off his schedule. “I can’t believe it’s that late. With all this talking, I’m running behind.” He drank the last of his coffee and stood up, striding into the hallway where he stopped in front of a giant gilded mirror and looked admiringly at himself.
Simone followed him, still holding the dish rag. Her face was flushed. “You know perfectly well why I can’t join the Daughters of the American Revolution. I’m French, with no connections to anyone who fought for American independence. The only reason you want me to do some type of patriotic work is for your own gain. You just want to sell more of your overpriced paintings to rich old ladies who bake cookies
for soldiers’ care packages.”
Philippe pulled on a black pea coat and reached for a slim gray cashmere scarf, which he twisted around his neck and tucked under his collar in a cravat style. “Whatever you say, my dear.” He knew better than to argue with Simone once she started on one of her rants. Selecting a black beret from the coat rack, he tilted it on his head with both hands as he moved it around to find just the right angle.
Simone narrowed her eyes and looked at Philippe. “Why do you insist on wearing a stupid beret everywhere you go? And a scarf, carefully color coordinated to go with the rest of your outfit. Ha! You act so American, but you still like to look French, non?”
In response to Simone’s comment about his attire, Philippe looked down with approval at his shiny, pointed black leather shoes, dark gray skinny pants, and cobalt blue sweater. A gold cross on a chain was visible around his neck, a gift from his mother on the day he’d left his home town of Saint-Victor-la-Coste, France, to seek his fortune in America. He’d taken only a small bag of belongings with him, a modest amount of cash which was an inheritance from his grandfather, and the cross signifying his family’s blessing. He’d never removed the cross and chain from around his neck since that day.
Stealing one last look at his reflection in the mirror, Philippe turned around and smiled at his wife. “I’m very happy with my signature style, my darling. I’m just giving my clients what they want. They like dealing with an authentic Frenchman who looks the part. It’s called branding.” Seeing that Simone had opened her mouth and was about ready to start speaking again, he hurriedly reached for his briefcase and headed for the door. “I do value your opinion, my love, but I’m running late. I’ll try to be back for dinner. Au revoir.”
Simone’s parting insults were lost as the door closed behind him, and he hurriedly walked across the narrow, brick paved driveway to where two shiny, white, late model Mercedes were parked. The compact GLA SUV was Simone’s, while Philippe preferred the sleek lines of his E-Class coupe. Jumping in, he quickly drove through the gates and away from his Bellevue residence, heading for his art gallery located in downtown Seattle.
It was a whistling Philippe, who a short time later, unlocked the heavy front doors to The Germain Plein Air Art Gallery in Pioneer Square. When he originally founded the gallery, he primarily featured Washington plein air artists. They were artists who worked outdoors and painted landscapes. After he’d acquired several Southern California plein air paintings from the early 20th century and had put them up for sale in his gallery, he discovered his clients preferred the ocean scenes and landscapes of a warmer, less rainy, climate.
That genre proved to be the most popular among his clients, and those paintings provided a vivid and colorful display in the gallery. As a result, he found himself spending a lot of time searching for Southern California plein air paintings listed for sale by auction houses or by individuals in Southern California.
Philippe’s footsteps echoed on the fake brick flooring as he strode into the wide-open gallery display area. He’d had the brick installed to give the impression of an old French cobbled street, something for which Simone had mocked him over the years. The main part of the gallery space was minimalistic with plain white walls, which drew a customer’s eye to the artworks hung in gold frames on the wall. Simone may have scoffed at the French feel of the gallery, but Philippe’s formula had worked very well. Business had never been better, and the gallery could barely keep up with demand.
He’d developed a reputation for finding paintings that were of an extremely high quality, and his competitors had accused him of ruining the market by overpaying for his acquisitions. Either that, they said, or his profit margins must be wafer-thin. But Philippe didn’t seem to have any money problems, as his large gated house in an affluent area of Bellevue proved. He left his competitors scratching their heads while his customer waiting list grew longer each month.
On this particular morning, he carried out his usual routine of walking around the gallery, turning on the lights and straightening the paintings. Promptly at 9:30 a.m. a young woman entered the gallery. She greeted Philippe with a smile and the French custom of a kiss on both cheeks.
“Good morning, Renee,” Philippe said. His part-time assistant, Renee LaPlume, was a student at the University of Washington. She worked at the gallery on the days when she wasn’t attending her History of Art classes. “I’d like you to dust the frames of the paintings. I’m going to do some work in my office.”
He sauntered off to the back of the gallery. The office, restroom, and storage area were located behind a blue fabric drape dotted with yellow flowers and stripes, hung from a rod. Philippe loved the nod to the Provence, France, style of his upbringing. It was something else he and Simone disagreed upon. She thought the French style of the gallery was a bit over the top, and she rarely made an appearance there.
Philippe spent the morning contacting customers, researching upcoming auctions, and dealing with paperwork. Renee stuck her head through the office door at noon.
“I will be going, Philippe,” she said with a shy smile. Not for the first time, Philippe wondered if the young woman had a crush on him, but he resisted the temptation to entertain any thoughts about cheating on Simone. And why would he, since Renee was certainly not as attractive as his wife. In any case, if Simone ever found out he played around while he was away from home, his life would be unbearable, not to mention the cost of a probable divorce.
Although Philippe had been tempted to stray in the past, he’d never acted on it, despite his French upbringing where mistresses were commonplace. The thought of losing half of everything he’d worked for if Simone found out and left him, was enough to keep him monogamous. Sometimes, the way his wife looked at him made him think she needed a reason to divorce him, but he had no intention of giving her one.
He made sure that the gallery was free of customers before quickly eating the lunch he’d brought from a nearby deli on the way in. At the same time, he searched for paintings listed for sale on the internet. A knock on the back door broke his concentration, and he rose from his desk to answer it. He was expecting a shipment of paintings he’d bought to be delivered that afternoon, so he wasn’t surprised when he heard the knock.
Opening the back door of the gallery was the last thing Philippe Germain ever did. With a startled look on his face, he stared at the person standing on the other side of the transom holding a large knife that glinted in the outdoor light. Without a word, the unexpected visitor plunged the shiny blade into his chest with a violent thrust.
Philippe spluttered for breath. “You,” he said, stumbling forward and falling to the ground. His glassy eyes looked up into the face of his assailant before permanently closing.. His final word was a whisper. “Why?”
A slow smile spread across the killer’s face, who then proceeded to stab Philippe two more times to make sure he was dead. A trail of blood oozed from Philippe’s body as it was dragged into the storage room by the killer, who then closed the door, cleaned up the blood in the hallway, and left the gallery by way of the back door.
CHAPTER 1
Jake Rogers pulled the SUV up to the valet stand at SeaTac Airport and exhaled a relaxing big breath. He turned to his companion and grinned. “We made it, in fact we’re early for the flight. Did you notice that every single traffic light was green? Just how I like it. Are you ready for your vacation, birthday girl?”
DeeDee Wilson, his girlfriend of over a year, returned his smile, her face lighting up. “For sure. I didn’t expect to be spending the night of my fiftieth birthday flying to an unknown destination for a week with the man of my dreams, but I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.”
Jake’s blue eyes twinkled, and he opened his car door, leaving the keys in the ignition for the valet. “In that case.” He walked around to the passenger door and opened it for DeeDee. “If you’d like to come with me, let’s get this adventure started.”
DeeDee giggled and h
eld her hand out to Jake. Smoothing the skirt of the swanky dress she’d been wearing for the friends’ party they’d attended earlier that evening, she stepped out of the car like she was some kind of a movie star, which was exactly how she felt. From start to finish, it had been a day to remember.
Breakfast in bed with champagne served on a tray with a red rose—that was a first. Jake had been apologetic that the toast was a little burnt, but that just made her adore him all the more. Cracking open the top of her boiled egg with a knife, she gasped in delight when a trickle of yellow yolk oozed out. “Ooh. That’s perfectly runny, just how I like it.” She gave Jake an impressed nod.
Jake had puffed up with pride at his culinary prowess. And when Balto, her husky dog, had jumped up on the bed carrying a gift-wrapped package tied with a pink ribbon, she opened it to find the dress she was now wearing and which she had previously admired in the display window of an upscale boutique. DeeDee choked up. “I went back to the store to get it,” she murmured, “and they told me they didn’t have any more left in my size.”
Jake beamed again. “That’s because Balto bought it,” he said. “Oh, and there’s something else. Remember how I mentioned to make sure all your laundry was done, and to cancel work for a week?”
DeeDee screwed up her face. “Hmm, about that. A client has been begging me to cater a…” Seeing Jake’s face cloud over, she burst out laughing. “Just kidding. I wouldn’t dare.” She took a bite of her toast, which was definitely on the crunchy side.
That was when Jake had instructed her to pack for a week. “We’re leaving tonight after Cassie and Al’s housewarming party. They offered to watch Balto while we’re away. Oh, and don’t forget your passport.”
DeeDee tried to contain a squeal of delight. She looked across the bed at Balto, whose ears had pricked up. “You’re looking pleased with yourself, Balto. You get to go on vacation too and hang out with your pal Al, huh? Aren’t you lucky?” Balto wagged his tail as if he understood and then wandered off.
Murder at the Gallery: A Northwest Cozy Mystery (Northwest Cozy Mystery Series Book 6) Page 1
