02_Coyote in Provence Read online

  “Maybe he has an accomplice in France,” the chief went on to say, “Discretion is crucial. We don’t want one of the gallery owners blowing the whistle on you and making a potential suspect head for the hills. I know I don’t need to tell you to be careful, Jordan, and to watch your back side. These pieces were stolen. Someone broke into the gallery. That same person does not want to be caught and you might be in danger. I assume you got the gun I arranged for delivery to you by the Marseille Police Department. Good luck!”

  “Yes, Chief, I got the gun and I have it on me at all times. I agree. Violence is usually not far behind greed. I’ll be very careful.”

  The last few days had been a whirlwind. Jordan thought back to the phone call that had started it all.

  SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

  CHAPTER 5

  Jordan’s phone rang in police headquarters in downtown Los Angeles. “Art Theft Division. This is Detective Kramer.”

  “Hello Detective, I’m Chief Lewis. I run the Laguna Beach Police Department. Detective, do you remember the theft of several California Impressionist paintings that occurred at a gallery here in Laguna Beach a few months ago?”

  “Sure. Everyone in the Southern California art world knows about that one. As I recall, there was a Payne, a Mitchell, a Rose, a Redmond, a Schuster and a Wendt, plus one other one. I think there were seven in all. Some of the best works from the California Impressionist period were stolen in that burglary.”

  “Yes, obviously you do remember.”

  Jordan continued, “The detective who initially investigated the case thought it might have been an inside job. I remember hearing that the thief used a glass cutter to cut a hole in the glass door next to the lock. The detective thought it must have been a woman, or a very small man, because the hole was so little, just large enough for someone with a very small hand to reach in and unlock the door. The alarm was connected to the door, but the thief was able to disarm it. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, we’ve received a tip there’s a Mitchell painting for sale in a small village located in the Provence region of France called St. Victor la Coste, about three hours north of Marseille,” Chief Lewis said. “A couple from Laguna Beach was on vacation in Provence. After lunch they were walking through the village when they happened on an art gallery, and much to their surprise, they saw an Alfred Mitchell oil painting prominently displayed in the window.”

  “That would be very unusual. Paintings by Mitchell are almost exclusively sold in the United States and mostly in California.”

  “Yes, they couldn’t believe there would be an original Mitchell in the small village, but then they remembered there had been a burglary because it was in all the papers.”

  “Is this something I can help you with?” Jordan asked.

  “Detective, I’d like you to go to France and help us investigate this lead. If you’re agreeable, I’ll call your captain and see if he’ll loan you to our department for a few days. Yeah, I know, it’s a tough gig, but someone has to do it. Actually, depending on what you find out, you might spend a few days there and look around the area to see if any of the other stolen paintings surface. What do you think?”

  Are you kidding me? Provence is Mecca for a foodie like me and to have the police department pay for my trip? This just might be my lucky day!

  “I think it would be fantastic. By the way, Chief, what’s the name of the couple who saw the painting in Provence?”

  “I think it’s Martin or Mastin. I remember it started with an M. Why do you ask?”

  “I have a side business advising art collectors on everything from authenticity to purchasing. Lydia and Sam Martin are California Impressionist art collectors who live in Laguna Beach. If it’s them, you can be pretty sure that the Mitchell in the village is authentic. They’re very sophisticated collectors.”

  “I checked the file while you were talking and yes, it was the Martins.”

  “Chief, when do you want me to go? Should I make my own reservations and turn them in for reimbursement, or will your department make them for me?”

  “I want you to get there as soon as possible. I’m afraid someone else will recognize that piece and buy it. I understand that the gallery’s asking price is much lower than what Mitchell’s paintings command here in the United States. I’ll have my administrative assistant make your flight arrangements and other travel details. I’d also feel better about this assignment if you were armed. I’ll make sure the Marseille Police Department provides you with a gun.”

  “I’ll start getting ready right now. Please give me your email address and your telephone number so I can get in touch with you as soon as I have any information.”

  Jordan wrote down the chief’s email and phone number.

  “Good luck and keep me posted.” The chief sat back in his black leather swivel chair, pleased that Detective Jordan Kramer had agreed to go to Provence. Jordan was a legend in the art theft world. He’d solved cases ranging from stolen Tibetan artifacts to Picassos to Disney animation art. The Los Angeles Police Department was very happy to have him as part of their Art Theft Division. The chief knew that Jordan had been on loan to a number of police departments throughout the United States helping them solve art theft cases that occurred in their jurisdiction.

  I may just get lucky with him on this case. When the City Council votes on my next pay raise, I’d like it known that I was responsible for getting this case solved. Yeah, Jordan, good luck. I could use some too.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next two days were spent in a whirlwind of preparations. The chief’s administrative assistant phoned Jordan and gave him the details about the travel arrangements she’d made for him. After getting his mail held, reserving space at the doggie hotel for his beloved black Labrador, Linus, and leaving a note for his cleaning lady, he found himself at the airport, suitcase in hand.

  Jordan’s Air France flight left on time. Luckily, it was a late afternoon flight. It would be almost twenty-four hours until he arrived in the little village of St. Victor la Coste. The flight to Paris, the layover on his way to Marseille, and the drive to the village all had to be figured into travel time. Fortunately his arrival at the chateau where he would be staying would be around dinner time, and he’d be able to go to bed immediately afterward. He planned to sleep on the plane.

  He read the art magazines he’d brought with him and began the first of two novels that had been sitting on his nightstand for months. After a few hours he fell asleep, waking to the pilot’s voice announcing that they were beginning their descent into Orly airport, just outside of Paris.

  Jordan easily maneuvered his way through French Customs and Immigration, which took much less time than he thought it would. He had about an hour before his flight left for Marseille and he was hungry. At the airport news stand he bought Le Monde, the daily French newspaper, curious to see how much French he’d retained from the time he’d spent in France attending the Cordon Bleu cooking school.

  He took the newspaper into the airport bar and ordered a glass of wine and a croquet monsieur sandwich, the classic French take on grilled ham and cheese. He leisurely ate it while looking through the newspaper.

  Well, this is encouraging. I remember more than I thought I would. I know it’s easier to read French than to speak it, but I think I’m going to be okay once English is no longer an option.

  The photos and stories reassured him as he slowly began to immerse himself back into French culture. It had been a long time since he’d spent any time in France, but looking through the paper, it felt like yesterday. His sense of well-being was abruptly broken when his attention was drawn to a gruesome photograph of a young Afghan girl whose legs had been blown off by a roadside bomb. He put the rest of his sandwich down on the plate, having lost his appetite. He read every word of the article and looked at the picture again.

  What are these animals thinking? What did that child ever do to deserve this? And what will happen to her? From what I’ve read, the
Afghan men don’t place a very high value on women anyway, and one without legs?

  He could feel bile rising in the back of his throat. The wine was excellent, but Jordan couldn’t finish it. All he could think about was the little girl, and what the future held for her. He wished he had someone he could talk to, thinking that at times like this the life he had chosen was downright lonely.

  Numerous women had been more than happy to be wined and dined by him, but he’d always felt a wife and children would interfere with his traveling and his plan to eat at every Michelin restaurant he could. Food, art, and wine had become his life.

  In about thirty minutes he heard his flight being called and walked to the gate. It was a quick, uneventful flight, and Jordan was able to sleep for most of the hour and a half it took to fly to Marseille.

  The captain’s voice coming over the intercom woke him up. He retrieved his sling bag from the overhead bin, got his suitcase off of the conveyor belt, and walked out of the airport. He was about to get on the shuttle bus for the car rental agency when he saw a young man carrying a sign with his name on it. He approached the young man and said, “Je suis Monsieur Kramer.”

  “Monsieur Kramer, welcome to Marseille. I am Andre Lebeau. Chief Dubois asked me to pick you up and drive you to the chateau near the small village of St. Victor la Coste where you will be staying. He arranged for your rental car to be delivered to the chateau tomorrow morning. He thought you might enjoy a guide for your visit to Provence as the village is very small and hard to find. Even the taxi drivers have trouble finding it. I also have something in the trunk of my car that Chief Dubois said I should deliver to you.”

  “Monsieur,” he continued, “I don’t know the reason for your visit, but I am sure you will enjoy your stay in Provence. We are known for our wonderful food, wine and art.”

  Swell, Jordan thought, at least at home I can run on the beach to work off the gourmet meals. It might be more of a challenge here. I don’t want to get kicked off the police force for being overweight, and my parents’ genes and my high metabolism can only take me so far. I better watch what I eat.

  He knew that probably wasn’t going to happen, certainly not while he was in Provence.

  Andre was a charming and intelligent companion. The three hour drive through the vineyards and olive groves from the airport to the chateau went quickly. Soon they were driving up a winding road. Even though it was dusk, Jordan could make out a low stone wall next to the road and the beautiful centuries’ old chateaus scattered throughout the scenic countryside.

  They turned into a cobblestone driveway leading to a large chateau situated on a knoll overlooking the valley below. Even from a distance, the chateau was incredibly beautiful. The wall around it was divided by two tall columns connected by a gate which served as an entrance. Behind the gate he could see a blue door, similar to so many he’d seen on the drive from Marseille.

  A large covered porch stretched across the front of the chateau with white geraniums and blue lobelia spilling out of planters on either side of the blue door. He could just make out groves of trees which looked like orchards on the sides of the house with gravel pathways leading to them.

  The entire scene was simply breathtaking. Jordan easily understood why this area had become such a popular tourist destination.

  As the car passed through a gate and came to a stop in the large circular driveway, the door of the chateau opened and an imposing older woman walked out, accompanied by a younger man dressed in a traditional black and white hotel uniform.

  “Bonjour, I am Madame Jolie Pascal. You must be Monsieur Kramer. We have been expecting you. Welcome to my home. Marc will show you to your room. Wine is served in the library at 7:00 p.m. and dinner is served at 8:00. If you need anything, please call the front desk.”

  Jordan thanked Andre for driving and told him he looked forward to seeing him again, perhaps at the end of his trip. Andre took a small case out of the trunk and handed it to Jordan. It contained the gun and police permit that Chief Lewis had requested from the Marseille Police Department. Jordan followed Marc into the chateau.

  They walked up the winding staircase, and although Jordan was an art connoisseur, he was also quite knowledgeable about antiques. He knew he was looking at some very valuable ones, and he couldn’t believe the quality of the 18th and 19th century oil paintings displayed casually on the walls. Entering his room, he realized a great deal of money had been spent modernizing the chateau. Electricity, running water, a flat screen television, and a telephone had all been installed.

  The French provincial furniture in his room looked like it had been in the chateau for many years. From his art history days he recognized the chair in the corner as being authentic, with its caned seat, cabriole legs, and simple scalloped carving which was repeated on the headboard and the dresser. A period lamp was on the nightstand and a marble bust was prominently displayed on the dresser. If the furniture hadn’t been in the chateau for centuries, someone had taken a great deal of care decorating it to make sure that no period detail had been omitted.

  His room overlooked a broad valley and rolling hills. Although it was almost dark, he could make out the chateau’s vineyards and olive trees. He remembered being told that it was rude to ask how many acres of ranchland or farmland someone owned. Jordan assumed the same was true for vineyards, but he was sure that the Pascals’ acreage had to be in the many hundreds. It was stunningly beautiful. The paintings of the Provence landscapes he had studied for years were reflected in the scene that unfolded before him.

  He took a quick shower and washed away the travel grime. A few minutes later, he went downstairs. Hearing voices, he entered the library where wine was being served by Madame Pascal and a man Jordan assumed was her husband, Monsieur Pascal. He was as round and genial as his wife was ramrod thin and rigid.

  What a strange couple, he thought. Monsieur Pascal must be six inches shorter than she is and outweigh her by a hundred pounds. From the broken capillaries on his cheeks and nose, it looks like he thoroughly enjoys drinking the wines he produces in his vineyard.

  Monsieur Pascal walked over to Jordan and shook his hand while an ear-to-ear smile lit up his florid face. He had a large, droopy mustache beneath a mane of unruly white hair.

  “Please,” he said, “let me get you some wine. We’re very proud of our wines and we’re one of a growing number of organic vineyards. Would you prefer red or white? I think they’re all good, but I’ve learned people usually have a preference.”

  The red and white wines of the Provence region were known throughout the world by wine connoisseurs. Jordan couldn’t believe the array on the sideboard in front of him. Grenache, Syrah and Mourvédre reds and rosés along with Ugni Blanc and Rolle whites were all being freely poured. It was a French dream come true.

  “I prefer a red. What do you recommend?”

  “You must try the Mourvédre. I’m told it’s one of the best. Try a sip and tell me what you think.”

  Jordan swirled the wine in his glass and took a small sip. “Whoever told you that is absolutely right. It’s wonderful. I’d like to try some of the others, but I think I’ve already found my favorite. Thank you.”

  “Bring your glass and I’ll introduce you to the other guests.”

  Introductions were made, wine loosened tongues, and after some small talk, the group of ten made their way into the dining room.

  Dinner was just as fabulous as the wines. Jordan loved French food, but so often chefs felt they couldn’t leave well enough alone, adding their own touches and losing the essence of the dish. Not so at Chateau Pascal. Dinner was a simple cassoulet prepared in the classic tradition. It was peasant food at its best, enhanced by freshly baked bread and a salad that tasted as if it had been brought in directly from the garden.

  Jordan was seated next to Madame Pascal. “I don’t think I have ever tasted food that seemed this fresh. What’s your secret?”

  “What we don’t grow on our own property, we g
et at local farmers’ markets. They’re held every day in the surrounding villages. We have chickens and also raise most of our own meat. I think you’ll enjoy breakfast tomorrow morning. The fresh eggs, local bacon and fruit are usually a hit with our guests. Our cook comes in early to bake muffins and some other breakfast items. It’s too dark now, but in the morning you will be able to see the orchards, our large vegetable gardens, and at this time of year, probably some quail. If you enjoy eating, you’ll not do any better in France than here at Chateau Pascal.

  Jordan could not have agreed more. “Thank you for an enjoyable evening. This has been a wonderful beginning for my stay in Provence.”

  He stood up and walked around the table, shaking hands with the other guests and the hosts. The dinner had been a nice respite from what he knew would be taking place in the next few days. He had paintings to locate and a thief to catch.

  CHAPTER 7

  After talking with Chief Lewis on the phone, Jordan’s head was spinning as he got ready to go to dinner at Elena’s. Seven paintings had been stolen from the Laguna Beach gallery. He’d seen one this afternoon. That left six. If Chief Lewis’ suspicions were correct, that meant the other ones had possibly been bought by small galleries in villages located in the Provence area. He hoped to spend about six more days in the area, which meant he’d have to find one a day. The chances of him locating the right gallery where the other stolen paintings might be displayed were not particularly good. At a minimum, he figured he’d better plan on visiting at least three or four villages a day.

  He took his laptop out of his luggage and began making notes of villages and galleries. Within an hour, he had a clear idea which villages had galleries. He mapped a route from St. Victor la Coste north to Lyon. There were over twenty galleries in the region, with the majority being in Avignon, Aix-en-Provence, Valence, Tain-l’Hermitage, Vienne and Lyon. He also located three in very small villages located off Route 7. Jordan decided to start his search for the stolen paintings in Lyon. He smiled to himself. He knew he’d find good food there.