Sight Shot (Imogene Museum Mystery #3) (12 page)

“
Good idea.” Rupert moved down the row and examined an oil painting. He rolled over a spotlight we use for lighting documentation photos and clicked it on. He held the painting under the light beam.

I joined him.
“What’s their history?”

Frankie sidled up, intent upon the painting.

Rupert sighed and shook his head. “The more I look at these, the more I’m sure the artist was at least partially colorblind.”

Frankie gasped loudly. I jumped, and both Rupert and I stared at her.

“Whoo.” Frankie laughed nervously and flushed. She fanned her face with her hand. “Just a little warm.”

I wrinkled my nose. Hot flashes don
’t make women gasp. Frankie had something fishy going on.

Rupert cleared his throat.
“Artist’s name is Baruch or Benoit Astruc.”

“
You’re not sure about his first name, or he had two first names?” I asked.

“
He used both. That I’m sure about. These paintings are from the late ‘20s through the early ‘40s. The later paintings are where the name Benoit appears. The names are related, but Baruch is historically a Jewish name, while Benoit sounds French. I’m guessing Mr. Astruc was Jewish but felt the need to mask his ethnicity as the Nazis advanced across Europe.”

Frankie scurried to a metal folding chair and sat down hard, still fanning herself.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded with a faint smile.

Rupert set the painting down and scanned the rest, picking out the only painting with a human figure — a café scene. “I haven’t been able to find any paintings from 1942 or later. I’m guessing he was arrested and sent to an internment camp by the French as part of their efforts to appease their German occupation administrators. Look at this.” He indicated the face of the woman seated at a small table under the café’s awning. “See the detail? Her expression? I don’t know why he wasted time on landscapes when he was this good at portraiture.”

“
But,” Rupert grinned at me, “I know how much you like a mystery.”

“
Yep. Now that I have his name.” I rubbed my hands together.

“
Carry on.” Rupert ambled back to the elevator.

I waited until Rupert was out of earshot then turned to Frankie.
“How are you? Do you have a medical condition I should to know about?”

“
Oh, no.” Frankie waved off my concern. “Nothing serious. It’s just
that
time, you know—”

“
Yeah, well, not yet. But I appreciate any pointers you might have.”

Frankie giggled.
“I wish I had someone to give
me
pointers. It’s the unexpectedness that sets me back.” She stood. “I’ll get a handle on it. So, now what?” She gestured toward the transit carts.

“
When Greg gets here, we’ll take pictures of each item and assign ID numbers, enter them in our database. Then I’ll start digging into their history, writing descriptions and figuring out how best to display them — and where. I try to stay on top of all the new acquisitions, and if I have spare time, I work on the backlog. It’s like climbing an ever-growing Everest.”

CHAPTER
13

I got Frankie settled in the gift shop then climbed the stairs to my office. The room had a chilly, neglected feel. I shivered and fired up my laptop.

Where to start? I was almost finished with the marionettes, but I wanted to save them to show Edna if she decided to take me up on my offer.  I moved them to an empty shelf and cleared a space on my desk. I pulled over a legal notepad and decided to find out what the Internet had to say about Baruch Astruc.

From the brief information Rupert had shared, I was expecting tragedy. I found Astruc’s name — as Benoit — on a list of inmates at the Drancy internment/transit camp in August 1942. The population of the camp, located in a northeastern suburb of Paris, swelled after the mass arrest spree that July. He would have been packed into the high-rise apartment buildings with thousands of other Jews in unspeakably inhumane conditions.

Much of
Paris’s cultural life continued as normal during occupation. The Germans encouraged artistic expression, as long as it was not subversive, to keep up the residents’ morale and goodwill toward their occupiers. But if an artist was Jewish? That was a different story.

I found Astruc
’s name — this time as Baruch — on a list of Auschwitz arrivals in November 1942. He was not on the list of Auschwitz survivors under either first name. Astruc had been eliminated with assembly-line efficiency, leaving behind the proof of his short life in paintings. I wondered if there were any more paintings and if their current owners knew their history.

Rupert
’s office is on the second floor, directly below mine. It had been a guest suite at one time, with a bedroom, sitting room and small bathroom. The water to the bathroom has been shut off to prevent leaks since all the fixtures are in their ancient original condition. Rupert’s towering stacks of papers, books and his private collections stuff all three rooms. I don’t know how he breathes in there.

I knocked on the open door and nudged a box of brass candlesticks out of the way with my toe.
“Rupert?”

“
Back here.”

I tiptoed along the cluttered path toward the smaller rear chamber that had been the bedroom. Rupert was sitting on a stack of small wood crates sorting through a pile of manila folders on his lap.

Rupert shook his head. “My filing system is out of date.” He pulled a half-gnawed cigar out of his shirt pocket and plugged the gummy end into his mouth. “Yes?”

I scooted a stack of papers over and sat cross-legged on the floor. I told him about Astruc
’s demise. “Nineteen’s not really very many. What are the odds there are more paintings out there? And are you going to go after them? How important is he to you?”

Rupert thumped the manila folders on the floor and crossed his legs, settling more comfortably on the crates. He was wearing navy and orange striped socks. I scrunched my eyes closed.

“I was originally struck by his odd sense of color. You noticed?”

I bit back a smile and nodded.

“The first booth where I saw his work had five or six paintings, some early and some later, with the two different first names. That got me wondering, so I started looking for him in all the booths. Seventeen of the paintings came from three different Les Puces dealers. I was surprised at his prevalence, but even more so by the competition.”

“
Competition?” I pulled my knees up under my chin and wrapped my arms around my legs. “What do you mean?”

“
The dealers knew I was interested, so they set the paintings aside. I took a short trip to Provence and unexpectedly found two more paintings in a shop in Lourmarin. I snapped those up. In the meantime, someone else had asked to see the Astruc paintings at all three Les Puces booths and put in bids for them. I was shocked when booth after booth, the dealers told me. Very unusual, and I must say the dealers were kind in holding the paintings for my return.”

“
They like you.”

Rupert tipped his head.
“They like the trust fund. They knew I could outbid. The dealers wouldn’t say who the other collector is — they keep their cards close to their vests.”

“
Any chance the other collector is bogus, a ploy to get you to pay more?”

“
If one dealer claimed another collector, maybe. But all three? Unlikely.”

“
You always say the value of art is not necessarily correlated with its price.”

“
Which is true. I agree with myself.” Rupert worked the cigar to the other corner of his mouth. “But I’m not above a little friendly competition. It didn’t take much. My opponent folded immediately.”

“
No counterbid?”

Rupert shook his head.
“Which indicates inexperience. I suppose it’s possible the other collector owns some of Astruc’s works, but they wouldn’t have been purchased at auction or from a reputable dealer because his bid price was too low. If the other collector has any paintings, they were obtained at estate sales or inherited.”

“
Families were separated in the Drancy camp. I didn’t notice any other Astrucs on the lists Baruch was on. It could also be that members of his family were arrested at different times or maybe they escaped detection, hid by neighbors or something.”

Rupert sucked hard on the cigar.
“If we find a living relative, let’s make arrangements to transfer the paintings to them — if they want the responsibility, that is. I can’t help feeling that Astruc would have painted portraits of those he loved. I hope those paintings are being treasured by their rightful owners.”

oOo

I meandered downstairs to check on Frankie.  She was stacking coffee mugs into attractive pyramids on glass display shelves, high enough to be out of reach of smaller kids. She glanced up and smiled at me, then stood back with her hands on her hips and studied her handiwork.

“
Looks good,” I said. “Been busy?”

“
A few retired couples and one family with three boys. Is it always this slow?”

I nodded.
“Any questions?”

“
No. Everyone’s been very nice and patient. The credit card machine worked fine.” She smoothed her hair. “And — I’m sorry about earlier. I promise my personal issues won’t affect my performance.”

“
I’m glad you’re here. Are you familiar with Provence? You mentioned — was it Luberon? Where is that?”

“
Oh my.” Frankie sighed and adjusted her jewelry. “Luberon is a region of Provence, considered the heart of Provence, really. I’ve been a few times. My ex-husband had distant relatives there.”

“
Is there a town named Lour—. I’m terrible at French pronunciation. Lour—”

“
Lourmarin,” Frankie finished for me. “Yes, it’s one of the villages in the Luberon.”

“
Is it known for antiques, art dealers?”

Frankie tugged her jacket hem lower on her hips and glanced out the window.
“There are a few antiques shops, if I remember correctly. We weren’t—” She pressed her lips together. “We weren’t buying, you know. Just tourists.”

I finally realized what bothered me about her
— the fidgeting. She’d fiddled with her hair, clothing and accessories from the very beginning, even during her interview. Her nerves should have settled by now, since I’d hired her. Maybe she was just high-strung. She was clearly organized and keen on merchandising. Maybe I should give her time.

“
I’d love to visit France someday. Not for business, but just to live for a month or two,” I said.

“
Oh, yes.” Frankie clasped her hands together. “It’s marvelous. So beautiful. Both Paris and the countryside.”

I wrinkled my nose. Her responses to the Astruc paintings indicated more than just tourist interest. She knew the name of the street in one of the paintings. Something else was going on here. What did Frankie want?

I was about to ask if she was familiar with the Les Puces flea market when my phone chimed. I waved a quick goodbye and hurried out of the gift shop.