02_Coyote in Provence (22 page)

“Elena,” Jordan said in a loud voice. “Come out here. I want you to hear this conversation with Pierre.”

In seconds, Elena was out the door and standing by his side.

With shaking hands, the intruder pressed numbers on his cell phone. When a voice on the other end answered, Jordan told the intruder to put his phone on speaker and hand it over to him. He took several steps away from the intruder, keeping his gun pointed at him, and motioned for Elena to step back as well.

Jordan spoke into the phone, “
Monsieur
Yount, my name is Detective Jordan Kramer. I am a policeman with the Art Theft Division of the Los Angeles Police Department.  I know about the theft of the paintings from the gallery in Laguna Beach. I also know that you have sold some of those paintings to galleries in the Provence area and did it to help the Afghan girls your parents are harboring in their barn. I even know about your employer, the Afghan woman responsible for illegally taking the children from Afghanistan to France, and then on to the United States.”

Pierre replied in a strained voice, “My father told me that
Mademoiselle
Johnson had gone into the barn and seen the young girls. He knows nothing about the paintings I have sold. He doesn’t even know that the one in his house is stolen or that it’s quite valuable.”

“I want you to make a solemn promise you will never have anyone come to
Mademoiselle
Johnson’s cottage again or try in any way to contact her. If I find out that you have violated your promise, I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth, and I won’t rest until you are sent to prison. Your parents will die an agonizing death because they’ll receive no financial help from you, and there will be no place for the girls to go. I still haven’t decided what to do about all of this, but I do know that whatever my decision is,
Mademoiselle
Johnson is not to be contacted by you, in the near future, or ever. Do you understand me?”

There was a long silence on the line, and then Pierre began to speak, “How did you find out about the paintings?  I really thought they would go unnoticed in the out-of-the-way galleries I sold them to.”

“Pierre, the discovery of the paintings was a fluke. Clients of mine happened to see the Alfred Mitchell painting when they were vacationing in Provence.”

“I see. And yes, I promise that I won’t contact
Mademoiselle
Johnson in the future. My parents said you brought food to them and left them some money. For that I thank you. But how did you…”

Pierre became silent. He seemed to be holding his breath.

Jordan said, pacing back and forth. “I have several questions to ask you. In exchange, I may not turn your parents in to the authorities. I want them fully and truthfully answered. Don’t lie to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Pierre whispered.

“Did you have an accomplice at the gallery? How did you get the paintings past customs? Who else is working with you here in France? Why is your employer doing this for these children?”

“Money eases the way for many things,” Pierre replied. “It eased the way at the gallery. The young art student who worked there was very happy to have the chance to make, what for him, was a large amount of money for simply cutting a hole in the glass door after gallery hours, opening it, and disabling the alarm system.  That allowed me to enter the gallery, put the paintings in a mesh bag, and leave with no trace that I’d ever been there.”

So it was a type of inside job. The investigating officer’s instinct had been right
, Jordan thought to himself.

“As to your other questions, again, money eases the way for many things. My employer gives a lot of money to immigration authorities, both in Afghanistan and France. Bringing the paintings into France was easy and helped to pay for the children’s expenses.

“She lands her private jet at a small airport in Marseille and the children and I are met by friends of my parents who take us to my parents’ home. She’s visited my parents, and is just happy to have a safe place where the children can stay. French Immigration and Customs authorities at the small executive airport in Marseille where she lands have been paid handsomely to ignore the children on the plane, so when I went through customs with the paintings in my bag, I wasn’t even searched or questioned.”

“Go on. Tell me about your accomplice here.” He covered the phone with his hand and whispered to Elena, “Can you hear what he’s saying?”

She nodded, indicating that she could hear what was being said.

“You’re probably looking at him,” Pierre said. “He’s an old friend of mine, a chef. We used to work together and have stayed in touch all these years. He knows my family well. I was afraid that the gallery owners might start talking to one another. My father was a famous hunting guide in the area, and my family and I are well-known. I’ve had my chef’s knife tattoo for many years, long before it was popular. Many people remember it. My friend was happy to help because the money would go to help my parents and the little girls.”

“Pierre, every time a case comes across my desk that involves an art gallery theft, I’m going to wonder if the items went out of the country, and if you’re the one who committed the crime. I’m not going to ask you about other crimes you may have committed. From what you’ve told me and from what I’ve seen, I don’t believe you or your friend did this for personal gain. Goodbye for now. I’ll get your telephone number from your friend and I’ll call you when I’ve made a decision about what to do with you.”

He ended the call and walked over to where the intruder was standing, visibly trembling. “Here’s your phone. I’m letting you go under one condition. You must never come back here. As you know, I spoke to Pierre, and he will probably tell you the same thing. Neither you nor Pierre is to ever come anywhere near this cottage again.  Am I making myself clear?”

“
Oui, Monsieur
. I will never come back. May I go now?”

“Yes, but first I want you to write down both yours and Pierre’s telephone numbers and your name. I know that you were the one who helped Pierre sell the paintings, but I’m not going to do anything about that right now. Did you come by car?”

“
Oui.
  It is parked just outside the village. Thank you for not calling the police.”  He wrote down the numbers, turned and hurried down the lane.

Jordan walked over to where Elena was waiting for him.  “It’s okay, sweetheart. You won’t be bothered again. Let’s go inside,” he said, holding out his hand to her. She clasped it so hard he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

As they walked inside, she stopped and looked at him. “You know, Jordan, I think you’d like Pierre if you met him. Who knows? If things had been different, maybe you could have met at a restaurant and shared a meal.”

CHAPTER 34

Jordan woke up to the smell of coffee and sizzling bacon. He pulled on a T-shirt and shorts and walked into the small kitchen where Elena was squeezing orange juice.  Freshly picked flowers were in a large glass vase on the end of the kitchen counter.

What’s not to like about this
? He thought.

He walked up behind her, put his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her neck. “Good morning, beautiful!  What’s for breakfast besides you?” He undid the sash on her robe and let it drop to the floor. “My God, you’re incredible. Turn the burner off; you can always reheat the bacon.”  He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

As he set her on the bed, Elena said, “Jordan, I’ll say it now, but I promise no more. The last few days have been the best of my life. I want you to stay here with me forever, but I know that’s impossible. I told you I can’t go back to California.  I just hope that on your next vacation you’ll return to Provence and more importantly, to me.  Jordan, I can’t concentrate when you do that. No, don’t stop. Oh, yes, Jordan, oh God, yes!”

Later, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms.  Today was to be their special day, a day to spend however they wanted.

“Stay here. I’ll call you when breakfast is on the table.”  Elena walked back into the kitchen and retrieved her robe from the floor. The bacon was only partially cooked. She turned the burner back on while she mixed the eggs, getting ham, cheese and scallions from the refrigerator for the omelets. She sliced fresh bread and began to toast it, putting butter and apricot jam on the table.

“Jord…” she started to call out, but he was already in the kitchen, drawn by the smell of bacon. Just the sight of him filled her with conflicting emotions; happy being with him, and sad thinking about him leaving the day after tomorrow.

“Elena, this is fantastic. Maybe you should have taken a job at some high-end restaurant in Paris. This may be the best breakfast I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t think so. As I recall, you told me you loved the chocolate croissants, and I don’t have any. I was going to make them this morning, but it seems someone had other plans for me. Not that I’m complaining. Far be it from me to complain about the last hour. Seriously, you’re a wonderful lover. How about I cook, you make love? Will that work for you?” she said laughing.

Soon they were on their way to St. Remy. They spent the morning exploring the old 12
^th
century monastery which had been turned into the Saint-Paul Asylum.

“Elena, look at the view from this window. It’s exactly like the fields Van Gogh painted when he convalesced here. Can you imagine what it must look like in the summer when the sunflowers and lavender are in full bloom?”

She glanced idly at the brochure she’d picked up from the display rack at the tourist center.  “This village is charming. It’s got to be an art lover’s paradise.”

“Sweetheart, wherever and whenever I’m with you it’s like being in paradise.”

“Oh brother. I think I liked you better when you weren’t so full of bullshit, but then again, it’s kind of nice to hear. Thanks!”

“Don’t move. I want to take your picture. I want to capture this moment forever. When I get back to California, I’ll have this photo of you. In fact, I think I’ll make it into the wallpaper background on my phone.” He snapped a photo of her with his phone.

“I wish you hadn’t done that. I’d rather be in your memories than displayed on your phone. My hair’s a mess and I really wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

He looked at his phone and grinned. “Sorry, you’re on here for posterity!  And I might add that you look beautiful.” It was a poignant moment, both of them aware there might never be another moment when they would be together thinking of nothing more important than a photograph on a cell phone.

Shortly before noon they left for Arles, only ten minutes away. It was the city where Van Gogh also painted and eventually died. Tourists were always at the Roman ruins and the open air market, which was just beginning to close. They wandered through the market which had everything from fresh produce to antique furniture. Vibrant colors, smells and sounds overpowered their senses.

“Elena, I want to eat at the L’Atelier de Lean-Luc Rebanel, if it’s okay with you. It’s a Michelin rated restaurant noted for featuring local food of the seasons.”

A few minutes later they were seated at a table at the restaurant. “What looks good to you?” Jordan said. “We had a large breakfast. Want to split a salad?”

“That sounds great. I noticed when I was looking at your Michelin guide that it’s known for its bistro salad. It has several kinds of greens and bacon mixed with a light dressing, and topped with a poached egg. That’s what I think we should have. You can choose the rest. No. Wait a minute. Did you see the raspberry tart on the menu? Let’s have that for dessert and some bread and wine. I guess you’re not going to be able to choose the rest. I just did!”

They were quiet as they simply enjoyed the meal and each other.

“I hope you liked that as much as I did,” Jordan said. “There’s got to be a master chef at work in the kitchen. That was fabulous, but now I need to move around.”

They walked off their lunch, visiting the ruins and going in and out of shops before leaving the city. Arles was the gateway to the Camargue, an area of salt plains, shallow lagoons, rice paddies and bright pink flamingos. They drove south to the commune of Les Sainte Maries de la Mer on the Mediterranean Sea. At the entrance to the Notre Dame de la Mer Church, they were panhandled by a number of gypsies. Elena reminded Jordan that their patron saint, Sarah, the Black Madonna, had a crypt in the nave of the church.

“What’s the story of the Black Madonna?” Jordan asked, trying to adjust to the darkness inside the church. “I’ve never heard of her.”

“Well, according to this brochure, she was the black assistant who accompanied Mary Magdalene, Mary Salome, and Mary Jacobe to France when they fled the Holy Land after the crucifixion. Supposedly, they were in a small boat and she’s said to have helped them land safely.  That’s probably why there are so many gypsies here. I wonder if the legend is true, and if there really was a Black Madonna,” Elena said.

“Who knows?” Jordan said, “But what a story!”

“Can you imagine what this must be like in May when thousands of gypsies come here on a pilgrimage to honor her? According to the tourist information I read,” Elena said, “they arrive up to a week before the scheduled church ceremony to socialize, arrange marriages, and celebrate baptisms. I’d love to be here and see it!”

“Come on, Elena, I want to walk down to the beach and see if I can get a sense of the large procession the city expects when they have the blessing of the sea next month.”

Like every other tourist area, even though it was small, the commune had its fair share of T-shirts, postcards, and other mementos for sale. Jordan couldn’t stop himself from buying two jars of the Camargue salt.

“I know it’s touristy,” he said, “but I’ve always heard it’s the best salt in the world, and the gourmet shops in the United States charge a king’s ransom for it. Did you know there are gourmet food shops that have special tastings of salt and even olive oil?”