At the end of the street he saw a number of people sitting outside a building with the name “Henri’s Bakery” on it. Jordan remembered reading about this particular bakery and that his Michelin guidebook had given it two stars. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was lunch time.
Jordan walked down the street and sat down at one of the bakery’s outdoor tables. The menu was written on a black chalkboard. The daily special, written in white chalk, was shrimp bisque with a shaved fennel and apple salad. Jordan had only been seated a few minutes when a lovely dark haired young woman brought him a plate of fresh bread and butter with a ramekin of Camargue salt.
“Bon jour, Monsieur,” she said, “What may I bring you today?”
“How is the shrimp bisque? I rarely see it on a menu. I assume that the shrimp are fresh from the Marseilles area.”
“Yes they are. People are raving about it and ordering seconds and thirds. I think we’ll be out of it shortly.”
“Really! Well then, I must try it.”
“I’d be happy to get you a bowl. And may I suggest some rosé wine to go with it? It’s a little warm today and the chilled rosé will go well with the bisque.”
“Perfect. Yes, I’d like to order exactly what you suggested.”
He buttered a piece of bread and slowly ate it as he took the picture of the Mitchell painting he had brought with him from California out of his pocket. He compared it to the photos displayed on his phone. There was no doubt in his mind - this was definitely the stolen painting.
Good God, that bread and butter may be the best I’ve ever had. He patted his lips with the napkin as the smiling waitress brought him another basket of bread.
So how does one smuggle a stolen painting into France? How does one sell it to a gallery owner without questions being raised? I can understand why the thief would try and sell it here, rather than in Paris where there would be far more knowledgeable collectors and gallery owners. I wonder if the gallery owner knew it was stolen, but decided no one in this small village would recognize that it was stolen.
He looked up and saw that the waitress was walking towards his table with his soup and salad. He stuck the picture back in his pocket. “Merci bien,” he said. “I have a question. I like art and noticed a painting in the window of the art gallery down the street. Do you know anything about that particular painting?”
“Non, Monsieur. It’s been there for several weeks. I walk by the gallery every day when I come to work, but I don’t recognize the name of the artist whose work is currently on display in the window. I probably would know the name if he was from this region, since I’ve lived here all my life.”
Jordan had taken several spoonfuls of the soup while the lovely waitress answered his questions regarding the gallery. “Thank you. I have another question for you. Would it be possible to meet the person who made this bisque? It’s the best I’ve ever had. I’d like to compliment the chef.”
“Certainement. Her name is Elena and I will tell her that you would like to speak with her. I’m sure she would like to hear your comments.”
Just as Jordan was finishing his glass of rosé, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen approached his table.
“Monsieur, I am Elena, the luncheon chef. You appear to be an American. I am too, so we can speak English to one another. My French is good, but I prefer to speak English.”
She took a long look at Jordan as he stood up to greet her. He was about 6’2” and quite handsome, with a strong, physically fit appearance. His black hair was beginning to show a bit of grey at the temples, and intelligent, large brown eyes sparkled as he looked at her with appreciation.
“If you have a minute, would you sit down? I’m Jordan Kramer and your shrimp bisque is the best I’ve ever tasted. You are a master chef. I’m a gourmand, and eating is one of my hobbies. If I died today, I would die happy knowing that my last meal was your bisque.”
“Please, don’t do that. It could be very bad for business and Henri might fire me,” she said laughingly as he pulled out a chair for her. “Tell me, what brings you to this small village?”
“Well, I could counter that by asking what brings a beautiful American woman who’s a gifted chef to this small French village. How about if you tell me first, then I’ll tell you?”
“It’s no secret. I was widowed and decided to leave the United States. There were too many memories there.” She paused, and smiled again. “I’ve been very happy here, particularly now that I am working at Henri’s. I love to cook, but cooking for one is not very much fun. I much prefer hearing compliments from other people, rather than telling myself how good something tastes. Now it’s your turn.”
“I’m an art consultant. Some clients of mine asked me to come to this village and look at a painting they had seen in a local art gallery. As long as I was coming here, I decided to spend a few extra days and enjoy two of my other favorite things, food and wine. So far, I haven’t been disappointed.”
I don’t want to alarm this beautiful lady by telling her the real reason I’m here. It’s probably best to stick to my art consultant story as a cover. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve scared someone off when they found out I’m a police detective employed by the City of Los Angeles Police Department.
“That’s interesting. I really don’t know anything about art, but I like the painting in the front window of the gallery down the street. Uh-oh, I see that Henri is waving at me. I must go. Again, thank you for your compliment about my bisque,” she said as she stood up.
“Elena, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. I noticed that the restaurant isn’t open in the evening. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight? I’d love to take you to one of your favorite restaurants.”
“I wish I could help you, but since I’ve been here I’ve pretty much stayed in this village. However, if you like, you could come to my cottage this evening and I’ll serve you something traditional from the area.”
What am I thinking? I just asked some strange man to dinner. It’s like someone else was speaking through my mouth. Well, now it’s too late. I can’t take back the invitation. Anyway, it’s just for one night and after all, he is quite handsome.
“Thank you. I’d like that very much. I’ll bring some wine and we’ll have a good American conversation. What time should I plan on being there? And where is your cottage?
“Why don’t you come at 7:00? Take the winding road on the east side of the village and go north. A few minutes after you leave the village, you’ll see a stone fence with flowers growing on it. Look up to your right and there’s a cottage with blue window frames. That’s where I live. It’s small, but it’s perfect for me.”
Elena gave him an encouraging smile and hurried back to the kitchen. A crisis was brewing. They had run out of the shrimp bisque and patrons were demanding more.
Jordan looked through the bakery window and followed her with his eyes as she hurried back to the kitchen. He definitely was looking forward to spending the evening with this beautiful woman.
CHAPTER 3
When she returned home from Henri’s, Elena stood on the patio of her small stone cottage for a few minutes, looking at the village below. The view never failed to please her with its charming simplicity. She’d been in Provence for six months now and was finally beginning to feel comfortable. The numbing fear of being arrested and extradited to the United States was finally easing. She was certain the authorities knew she’d come to Marseille, but from there she’d been very careful not to leave a trail.
Elena had used her passport with her real name, “Maria Brooks,” when she left the United States. Spending extra time in Phoenix and trying to find someone to sell her a false passport had not been an option. She’d been intent on one thing and one thing only, getting out of the country before she was detained as a suspect in the murder of her husband.
She remembered requesting a one-year residence card the day after she’d arrived in Marseille. She’d gone to the French Office
of Immigration and Integration which was located several miles from her hotel in a very old government building. The man who authorized the card for her looked like he’d been there from the time it had been built.
“Monsieur, my name is Elena Johnson. All of my personal belongings were stolen during my flight from the United States to France. S’il vous plait, I need some identification. Can you help me?”
The French bureaucrat was far more interested in trying to look down her blouse than he was in her story, so when she left his office, she was officially Elena Johnson. For all intents and purposes, Maria Brooks no longer existed.
After she rented the cottage near the small village of St. Victor la Coste, she sent for funds from the secret Cayman Islands bank account she’d opened when Jeffrey, her husband, began to slide into madness. From time to time Elena had money transferred to the village bank in order to pay for her living expenses. She didn’t want the townspeople to know how much money she had. Villagers could be nosy and talk was cheap. They didn’t need to know that she had enough money to last a lifetime, maybe several.
As she thought about what to prepare for dinner, she still couldn’t believe she’d asked a total stranger to her home. Elena promised herself she’d have one dinner with him and that would be the end of it.
CHAPTER 4
Jordan finished his wine, paid his bill, and wandered around the village until the gallery opened at 2:00 p.m. He wondered whether it would only be a matter of time until Western greed set in, and small villages like this one would no longer honor the tradition of closing for a leisurely lunch. Jordan loved being able to eat a big meal at lunchtime and then let it settle without having to immediately return to work.
When he entered Galerie Reynaud a small bell rang, letting the owner know that a customer had entered the shop. Jordan looked around and saw that the gallery had some very good art on display. Although most of it was contemporary, there was also some early 20th century art, mainly oils and a few watercolors. The landscape of the Provence area was prominent in a number of pieces, depicting rolling hills with picturesque vineyards and olive groves.
The paintings showed the seasons, and the various shades of colors created by the changing times of day. There were some still-life paintings and a few of the Marseille harbor. Most of them had Monsieur Reynaud’s name on them. Looking at them, Jordan thought he was an extremely talented artist. Jordan didn’t see any American paintings other than the one in the window.
While he was examining the art on the walls, a bearded bear of a man with a diamond stud in one ear pushed aside the draped doorway separating the gallery from his studio and walked over to Jordan.
“Bon jour, Monsieur. I am Alain Reynaud, the owner of this gallery. May I help you?”
He’d be perfect for a painting entitled “Portrait of an Artist,” Jordan thought. The bear wore an open-necked man’s renaissance shirt and jeans, covered by a paint-specked apron.
“Yes. I’m interested in the painting in the window.”
“Ahh, that is a very good piece. I bought it from an American dealer. It’s by Alfred Mitchell, a California artist. He was part of the California Impressionist movement of the early part of the 20th century. A number of American tourists have been interested in it. I am asking 4,500 euros for it.”
“May I look at it? I have some other California artists in my collection, and I am always interested in adding to it.”
“Oui. Let me get it out of the window for you.”
Jordan spent several minutes inspecting the small painting which depicted a scene from the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California. The cliffs in the background were bathed in a pink light, with large boulders in the right foreground. The brilliant blues of the lake at the foot of the cliffs seemed to jump off the painting. There, at the very bottom of the painting, was the well-known signature, “Alfred Mitchell” in red block letters. A closer inspection only verified what Jordan had thought when he first saw it. It was an original, and it was the one that had been stolen from the gallery in Laguna Beach.
“Thank you. You have some very good pieces here and I particularly like your paintings. You’re really able to transfer the beauty of the landscape of this area to the canvas. What led you to become an artist?”
“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have a paintbrush in my hand. It’s as if the brush was another finger. I planned on moving to Paris and living there after my studies at the Sorbonne, but I missed the countryside and came back here. I opened this gallery several years ago. Painting and art are my life.”
Jordan thought back to his days when he studied to get his degree in art history. He’d known even then that he lacked the “hunger in the belly feeling” that creative artists like Monsieur Reynaud had to have to make painting their life. Many years ago he’d decided he’d appreciate their efforts instead of becoming an artist.
“I understand, my friend. I like the Mitchell painting a lot, but let me think about it. I’ll be staying in the area for a few more days. Thank you for your time. I enjoyed talking to you,” he said as he opened the gallery door to the cobblestone sidewalk.
Leaving the gallery, his thoughts turned to Elena and dinner. As a police detective, he was very wary of relationships, and unusually careful about the women he dated. He’d never been married or even lived with another woman. To Jordan, women were objects to be wined and dined and then taken to bed. For over twenty years, that had been his custom. None had complained, and none had ever convinced him there could be more to a relationship than wine, food and sex.
I can’t believe I asked a woman I met on the patio of a bakery to dinner. I don’t know anything about her other than she’s beautiful and she’s a great cook. He smiled inwardly. Well, I’m in France. Maybe it’s something in the air that’s causing me to act so rashly.
He decided to buy a couple of bottles of wine for dinner from a winery he’d seen on his drive into the village that morning. Jordan drove to the winery and parked the Renault. He watched as people took what appeared to be large plastic jugs out of their cars and entered the door leading to the winery. He couldn’t figure out what they were doing as he followed them into the building, curious.
Inside a large room in the winery were numerous tubes connected to large wine casks in the back of the building. People inserted the tubes into the plastic jugs and filled them with wine. There were some wine bottles on the shelves, but nothing like what was displayed in the Napa or Sonoma wineries. There was no tasting area, no sommelier, no cheese, crackers, or water, and no one explaining the different kinds of wines to the customers. People filled up their jugs, capped them, paid what seemed like ridiculously low amounts of money, and loaded them into the trunks of their cars. Jordan had traveled to a number of places in the world, but this method of selling wine was completely new to him.
“May I help you, Monsieur?” asked a rotund man with a flushed face.
“Oui. I’d like to buy two bottles of good red wine, and two bottles of good white wine. I didn’t bring any containers with me. What do you suggest? I will be drinking the wine with an evening meal, but I don’t know what the hostess is serving.”
“Certainement, Monsieur. May I suggest a red Bandol and a white Sauvignon blanc? I think you’ll be happy with both of them. Here, try a sip of each and see if you like them.”
“Thank you,” he said as he tried each of them. A moment later, he said, “Yes, those will be fine.”
“Let me get them for you.” He went into the back of the building and returned with a wine carrier. Jordan paid what he considered to be a shockingly low price and returned to his car, shaking his head. It was a far cry from what he would have paid in Napa.
He drove back to the chateau, deep in thought. As soon as he arrived, he dialed the number for the Laguna Beach, California chief of police. When the police department’s operator answered, he said, “Chief Lewis, please. This is Detective Kramer. Yes, I’ll wait until he finishes his call.”
&
nbsp; A few minutes later the chief’s voice came on the line. “Well, Jordan, what have you found out?”
“The Mitchell is authentic and it definitely is the one that was stolen in the Laguna Beach heist. The gallery owner said he bought it from an American dealer. I don’t think he knows it’s stolen. How do you want me to proceed?”
“Since the Mitchell is there, and that area of Provence has become such a mecca for tourists, it would make sense if the man who sold it to the gallery owner sold the other stolen pieces to galleries located in the nearby area as well. That’s assuming he’s the thief.”
“Chief, that’s a large assumption. He may just be the middleman.”
“That’s true, but I think you should spend several days going to villages in the area that have art galleries, and see if any of the other stolen pieces are for sale. You have photographs of all of the pieces. Find out which villages have galleries and map out a route. Forget going to Paris. If the thief or some other person sold a painting to a gallery in a small village in the south of France, he’s probably too smart to try and peddle any of them to galleries in Paris. He’d be worried about the authorities there alerting the galleries, and I think we can assume that buyers there are far more sophisticated.”
“I can do that. How far south of Paris do you think I should start?” Jordan asked.
“I don’t think you need to go farther north than Lyon. Give me a call or email me in a couple of days and let me know what you find out. Two questions stand out in my mind. Number one, is the guy who sold the Mitchell to the gallery the thief? And number two, if he is the thief, how did he get that much stolen art into France without raising red flags when he went through French Customs? It’s not like you can put that much art in a suitcase and carry it on a plane.”
As Jordan listened, he remembered having read about several well-known restaurants in the area around Lyon. He could combine his love of food with his search for the missing paintings. France was known for food and wine and with the addition of art, it was an irresistible combination.
02_Coyote in Provence Page 2
