02_Coyote in Provence (6 page)

He usually wasn’t a fan of large restaurants, but the Belle Epoque setting of the Brasserie George Restaurant and the Michelin star were too tempting to pass up.
He thought it must be good if it had survived for nearly two hundred years.

The maître d’ led him to his table where a grey-haired waiter in a black bolero jacket and bow tie delicately opened a snow-white napkin and placed it in his lap.

“
Monsieur
, here is some bottled water for you. May I get you something else to drink while you look at the menu, maybe some fresh-squeezed orange juice?”

 “
Oui
, though I am in a bit of a hurry. Orange juice, some coffee and two pains au chocolate
. Merci beaucoup
.”

He eagerly anticipated the chocolate croissants, a deviation from his usual healthy breakfast. In spite of a deep love of food, and studying at the Cordon Bleu, Jordan had never mastered the art of gourmet cooking. He’d tried, but between working long hours, and being extremely impatient, he’d decided long ago that croissants and everything else tasted much better prepared by someone else.

While he was eating the best croissants he’d ever had, he looked at the map of Lyon he’d stuck in his pocket before he left the chateau. The three galleries he wanted to visit weren’t that far apart, and were actually quite close to the restaurant. He paid his bill, tipping generously, and headed back to work.

Jordan walked down the street looking at the shopkeepers as they gaily greeted one another. They watered the profusion of bright flowers in containers outside their doors and swept the entryways to their shops as they prepared to open them. He spotted a red awning with the words in white, “Galerie Bernard” and right below them, “Beaux-Arts.”

The gallery was much larger than the gallery in St. Victor la Coste. White walls highlighted the paintings of the Provence area with landscape scenes depicting fields of lavender, sunflowers, vineyards and olive groves. The vibrant colors of the countryside were captured by the paintings in gilt brushed frames, but there were no works by any California artists on display.

When he was back on the sidewalk, he took the city map out of his pocket, looked at it, and walked the short distance to the second gallery, Galerie Denis, with white lettering on its colorful blue awning indicating its name.

Although it wasn’t as large as Galerie Bernard, it, too, was roomier than the one he’d been in yesterday. The softly toned flesh colored walls were a perfect backdrop to a huge variety of paintings, ranging from chateaus to pheasants to bottles of wine. Again, there was no artwork by a California Impressionist.

Two doors away, he spotted the green and white awning of the last of the galleries. It was much smaller than the other two and there, prominently displayed in the window, was a painting by Edgar Payne. He stopped for a moment, his heart pounding.

My God
,
the chief’s hypothesis was right. The thief may have brought all of the paintings to the Provence area and sold them to small galleries where they’d be much less likely to be identified as stolen.

He walked into the Galerie Lebeau and was greeted by a beautiful young woman. “
Bon jour Monsieur
, my name is Colette. How may I help you?”

When he was a student at the Cordon Bleu, Jordan had found French women to be utterly charming. Colette was no exception. Short black hair in a pixie cut, leggings with a long tunic, and a casual scarf thrown around her shoulders added to the chicness that French women always seemed to possess. Jordan wondered how they managed to pull off their casual sense of elegance so nonchalantly.

“I was just walking by and I’m curious about the painting you have in the window, the one by the California artist.  I’m homesick for California. How much is it and how did it happen to come here? May I take a closer look at it?”

“You are welcome to look at it.  As to your other questions,
Monsieur,
I don’t know the answers. My father owns the gallery. When I came home on a school break from university, it was here. Let me call him for you.”

“I would appreciate it. Thank you.”

He watched her dial the number. She began to speak very rapidly in French, faster than he could follow. While she was talking, he examined the painting.

The frame was similar to the one he’d seen on the Mitchell at Galerie Reynaud. The frames on both were much newer than the paintings and were clearly not the originals. They were more ornate, more of a European style than American. Colette listened on the phone for what seemed like a long time, hung up and turned to Jordan.

“
Monsieur
, my father said that a man brought it in a few months ago. It is a bit different from what we usually carry, but my father looked it up and realized it was by a well-known California artist. He hoped to sell it to an American tourist, but the season is almost over and he has had no buyers. He wanted 17,000 euros, but he told me he would now take 15,000.

“He remembered the man who sold it to him because he asked if my father could recommend a good authentic Lyon restaurant. He had been to Brasserie George for lunch and wanted to eat dinner in a restaurant of that caliber. Does that help you?”

“You’ve been very helpful. Thank you. Let me think about it. Do you have a card?”

“
Oui
. If we can help, please call us. The painting really is spectacular. I think it’s better than most California art I have studied. I understand that the artist is very well known in the United States and that his work is highly regarded, as well as being very desirable.”

Jordan’s mind was spinning as he left the gallery.  He was certain he was going to find the other paintings, but then what? He didn’t know how he was going to determine the identity of the thief.  So far all he knew was that stolen paintings from a Laguna Beach gallery had made their way to two small galleries in Provence, and that they had been sold to the galleries by a man who liked to dine in fine restaurants. That wasn’t much to go on. Jordan walked to the parking structure where he had left his car and slowly drove from there to Route 7.

CHAPTER 9

Jordan spent the short time on the drive to Vienne fantasizing about Elena. There was a sense of mystery about her that only added to her allure. He could easily visualize Elena in the nude. He could feel her soft skin as he caressed her. Jordan wanted her. And when it came to women, Jordan usually got what he wanted.

The small village of Vienne was located on the west bank of the Rhone River. He parked the car near the Restaurant de la Pyramide which was located in a hotel.  He understood why architects considered this small town to be nirvana. The Roman influence was still evident in the temple ruins, churches and an incredible statue of Saint Peter. The remains of the majestic Gothic cathedral of St. Maurice rose from a terrace overhanging the river. The sense of history in the village was almost palpable and he found himself enchanted.

Jordan walked into the hotel where the restaurant was located and soon was seated at a table loaded with fresh flowers and a gleaming white tablecloth. Everywhere he looked, bouquets of flowers, looking and smelling freshly picked, filled the room. He glanced at the menu and decided to order the market lunch. It was a simple but elegant meal, consisting of a cheese platter with three cheeses: a buttery brie, a bold Etorki, and a classic blue Roquefort. Freshly baked bread, crunchy nuts, sweet pears, and cantaloupe were served with the cheese plate. The food was everything he’d come to expect in Provence.

He looked at his watch - time to get back to work.  The art gallery he wanted to see in Vienne was only a short walk away. The narrow cobblestoned streets were smooth and worn after centuries of use by people, carts, and horses.  Floral containers hung from every window with brightly colored geraniums in lavender, red, and white spilling out of them. The gallery was located in the middle of the block and Jordan could see that the door was open. As he got closer to the gallery, he saw a Granville Redmond painting prominently displayed in the window.
Bingo.

Jordan walked through the open door and was immediately greeted by the young man behind the desk.  “
Bon jour, Monsieur
, I am Gabriel, how may I help you?” he asked.

“I’m an art dealer from California, and I have a client who collects Granville Redmond paintings. May I see the one in the window?”

“
Oui
,” he said, taking the painting from the easel which had been supporting it. “It’s quite colorful.  I have not been to the United States, but the man who sold the painting to the gallery owner said this painting showed the hills of Laguna Beach in spring.”

Jordan had been to Laguna Beach many times and the young man was right. The painting clearly reflected springtime, when the hills above the city are carpeted in blue and orange flowers.

“Can you tell me something about the person who sold it to the gallery?” Jordan asked. “I’m curious as to why someone would sell a piece of this type of art to a French gallery rather than put it up for auction where Californians would be more apt to see it and buy it.”

“I don’t know much about him, but he was very interesting-looking. There was something …” Gabriel seemed to be embarrassed.

“Yes?” prompted Jordan.

“Well…I am an art student. Drawing is my area of interest. I wanted to take a picture of him to use for a study later. Not surprisingly, he said absolutely no when I asked him, but I took one anyway using the gallery’s old Polaroid camera when he wasn’t looking.”

Gabriel looked guilty. “Please don’t tell anyone. I took it when the owner went to the back room to get his checkbook to pay for the painting. He would not be happy with me if he knew about it.”

“May I see it?”

“Of course,” he said, reaching into a far corner in the back of the desk drawer. “Here, this is the photograph of the man who sold the painting to the gallery.”

“Thank you. Is there anything else you remember about him?”

“He is French and I believe he said he has family in the area. He talked a lot about food and asked me to tell him which restaurants in the area were really good. He was quite portly. I remember thinking he looked like a chef. In fact, he had a number of scars on his arms along with a tattoo of a French chef’s knife. My uncle is a chef and has a similar tattoo on his arm. Many French chefs have it tattooed on their arms.”

The back doorbell rang and Gabriel excused himself, disappearing through the curtain that hid the back door. Jordan immediately got out his cell phone and took several close-up shots of the Polaroid photo. He could hardly believe his luck.

He put his phone away and examined the painting. He noticed that the same type of frame that had been used on the other two paintings had been used on this painting as well. The seller must have smuggled the stolen paintings into France unframed, which made sense. They wouldn’t take up as much space and would be easier to smuggle.

A thief and also a fellow gourmand. Well, isn’t that interesting
.
I wonder if it would be worthwhile to show his picture to employees at high-end restaurants in the area.  Maybe they can tell me something. I wonder if he could have eaten at Henri’s Bakery when he was in St. Victor la Coste.

He made a mental note to show the photos he’d taken to Elena that night at dinner. If the seller was as interested in food as he seemed to be, he probably would have eaten at Henri’s, and Elena might remember him.

“What is the price of the Redmond piece?” he asked Gabriel when he returned. “I will need to take that into consideration when I advise my client.”

“
Certainement
,
Monsieur.
Let me look at the ledger.” He took a large leather book out of the bottom drawer of the old roll-top desk. Jordan was amused at the quaintness of the gesture, thinking of the highly computerized galleries in California.  “I see that the owner of the gallery would like to have 152,000 euros, but I think he would take less. I would be happy to ask him. I could call you tomorrow.”

“Yes, thank you. I would like to know so I can discuss it with my client. I’m sure you don’t mind if I take a few pictures of the painting for him. I was just walking down the sidewalk when I saw it. You’ve been very helpful.  Let me give you my business card.”

Many years ago Jordan had business cards printed with the phony name of a gallery, no address and his cell phone number on it. He took one from his wallet and gave it to Gabriel. “Again, thank you. I’ll look forward to your call.” He walked out the door and down the cobblestone street to where his car was parked.

On his drive back to Chateau Pascal he made a mental list of what he needed to do. As soon as he returned to his room, he needed to email the chief and tell him about Gabriel’s thoughts on the seller being a chef and French.

The photo was a superb piece of luck. He could send it to the chief and have him search through the database of passport photographs maintained by the U.S. Immigration authorities to see if there were any possible matches. Jordan couldn’t access the high-security system himself in Provence, but the chief could.

If they could find out the name of the man in the photograph, Jordan might be able to locate the seller’s family and get more information about the suspected thief.

He parked his car at the far end of the driveway and walked up the curved staircase to his room, pausing for a few moments to look at the art on the walls.

There must be a fortune in art, just on the walls of the staircase. I wonder if this is even the good stuff, or if they have that in their private area of the chalet?

When he got to his room he wasted no time, emailing Chief Lewis a brief report of what he had seen and discovered, concluding with the photographs he had taken. He attached the photos and report to an email, and sent them to the chief, feeling a sense of relief.

Good job. Now I’m off to dinner with a woman I would like to get to know in several ways. Ahh - great art, wine, food, and a deliciously tantalizing woman. This is definitely not a bad gig!