02_Coyote in Provence (8 page)

My God,
Elena thought
.  What have I done? I’ve never had a sexual experience like what just happened. I don’t want it to end. But a detective, and one from Southern California? Thank God he’s leaving soon. I’m just going to enjoy the next few days and then he’ll be on his way and my world will be back to normal. I’ll never see him again, and that’s probably for the best.

“Up, beautiful lady. I’m starving. I’ll get dressed and light the barbecue. See you outside.”

They dined on baked potatoes, steak, salad and fresh bread. The chocolate mousse Elena had made earlier for dessert stayed in the refrigerator as they eagerly returned to her bedroom after dinner.

“Jordan, please spend the night.”

“You have no idea how much I want to,” he said as he kissed her, “but I need to get back to the chateau and see if Chief Lewis has sent me anything. You do remember that this is a business trip?”

“What kind of business?” she whispered as she gently unzipped his pants and slipped her hand inside the opening.

Much later he left her and drove to the chateau. After he left, she stood in front of the mirror, searching for wrinkles.

Could it be? Could I have found the formulas that keep people from aging and feeling depressed? I wouldn’t have to age and I’d never have to be depressed again. But now what? I’ll need a chemist and the ingredients. I’ll think about it tomorrow, when I’m not so tired.

CHAPTER 12

Jordan rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. It was 8:00 a.m., which was extremely late for him.
Well
,
I can justify this one. I didn’t get back to my room until well after 2:00 a.m.

He smiled as he thought back to the previous night.
  That is one hell of a woman
.
I can’t remember ever spending a night like that.
They’d made love before dinner and twice after dinner.

Jordan walked over to the desk and retrieved his cell phone. Chief Lewis had emailed him a memo.

Thanks for the photographs and doing such a good job. I’m shopping the man’s photo around, trying to find someone who can identify him. I’ve contacted a friend of mine who works for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. I’m hoping he can get the photo put into their new machine which matches submitted photos with passport photos. I want you to continue what you’re doing and get back to me when you have more information to report.

It was 9:00 a.m. by the time he showered and dressed. He was having dinner at Elena’s house that night, but he planned on spending the day in the Tain-l’Hermitage and Valence area.

He decided to dress like a businessman who was visiting galleries between appointments. He put on a lightweight blue pin-striped suit, a white shirt and a muted striped tie.  He added glasses and a false mustache. Jordan looked in the mirror, satisfied  with his  reflection.  Although  he didn’t  think he’d aroused suspicion yesterday, he wanted to play it safe with the disguise. At the last minute he put a photo of the purported chef and possible thief, in his sling bag, planning to show it to chefs working in nearby restaurants in hopes they might recognize the man in the photo.

The drive was charming. Rolling hills with old stone cottages dotted the landscape. Large chateaus were on top of many of the hills, with sprawling vineyards and olive groves leading up to them. Along the road weathered men in berets prodded animals with sticks that had been sharpened with knives. It was a step back in time.

Two hours later he walked into Le Routier 7, a beige building which had a bright blue door and blue window coverings. The parking lot was full of trucks. It looked like the articles he’d read about the restaurant had been right - it seemed to be a trucker’s paradise. Jordan ordered scrambled eggs and a croissant as the attentive waiter filled his coffee cup. He took the photo from his sling bag.

“
Monsieur
,” Jordan said to the waiter, “do you know who the man is in this photograph? I believe he is a chef.”

 “
Non,
but I have not been working here very long.  Let me send our chef out. He might know him.” Several minutes later a tall, thin, grey-haired man with an apron tied at his waist appeared next to his table.

“David tells me that you have a question regarding a man in a photograph.  How may I help you?” the gracious chef asked.

“
Monsieur,
do you recognize this man?  I understand he is a chef, and I would like to talk to him about a restaurant some clients of mine are opening in California. Do you know anything about him?”

The chef took the photo and walked over to the window where the light was streaming in. He looked at it for several minutes and returned to Jordan’s table. “I am not sure, but it looks very much like Pierre Yount. We met through mutual friends when he studied at the Cordon Bleu, but I have not seen him for many years. I believe his family is from the Avignon area. That’s all I know. I hope it helps,” he said.

You have no idea
. “
Merci beaucoup
. Yes, it definitely helps. Thank you for your time and the information.”

He finished his breakfast, anxious to visit the galleries. The village was quite small. There was one large street with several outdoor cafes. At the far end of the street was the daily farmer’s market. Lanes led off the main street, and he could see old houses and stone cottages separated by trees that looked as if they’d been there for centuries.

Jordan was surprised that a village this small could support two galleries. Both of them primarily featured the artwork of the owners, but at the second one, hanging on the back wall, was a painting by another California Impressionist artist, Guy Rose. It was a magnificent piece depicting the cliffs of Laguna Beach in various shades of tans set against the deep blue of the ocean. The shallow water at the base of the cliffs was green where the waves lapped against the smooth rocks.

“
Monsieur,”
a distinguished looking man said as he hurried over to Jordan, “I am Blaise Thiers, the owner of the gallery. I’m sorry for not greeting you when you walked in, but I wanted to finish up with
Madame
Lesalle. Thank you for being so patient.”

“That’s fine. I was just admiring this painting. Can you tell me something about it?”

 “Yes. It’s by Guy Rose, a California artist. The galleries in this area specialize in landscape paintings, and although this is not one of our traditional landscapes, I thought the cliffs and the ocean were beautiful. I bought it several months ago. You see, many Parisian galleries send representatives to this area to buy art. I borrowed heavily to buy the painting and hoped that one of them would be interested. I thought I could make a large profit from it. Now I wonder if that was wise.”

“How much are you asking for it?”

“In US dollars it would be about $175,000. I know that sounds like a lot of money, but when I researched it I found very few of his paintings on the market. I decided on that price because it is low for a high quality Rose painting such as this one.”

“I’d like to ask you something.” Jordan took the photograph of Pierre Yount out of his sling bag. “
Monsieur
Thiers, is this the man who sold you the painting?”

“Yes, that is him. I don’t know his name. He asked that the painting’s price be paid to an account in Avignon.  He said his family was selling some of their art because his father was in poor health.”

“Did you notice if he had a tattoo on his arm?” Jordan asked.

“Yes. It was a chef’s knife.  I was rather surprised that a man of his age would have such a tattoo. Younger men have them, but not men in their late 40’s or early 50’s.”

Bingo. I don’t even have to ask him the age of the chef. I’m having another very good day.

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. May I take your business card and would you mind if I took a photograph of the painting?  I have a client who collects California Impressionists and he may be interested.”

“Yes, here’s my card and please, take a photo of it and show it to your client. Several galleries in Paris have expressed interest, but so far none of them has made an offer.”

“Again, thank you for your help,” Jordan said after he had taken several photos of the painting. He left the gallery and walked two blocks to where his car was parked.

He drove the short distance to Valence, located three of the galleries he’d mapped out, and found his way to Pic le 7, a rare 3-star Michelin restaurant. He wasn’t disappointed. He’d eaten a light breakfast in anticipation of the meal, which was heavenly.

Jordan feasted on pan bagnat, a type of open-faced sandwich. It was beautifully arranged with tomatoes, green beans, tuna, and sliced hard-boiled eggs tossed in a light vinaigrette dressing served on a toasted split sourdough roll, and covered with lightly fried anchovies. It was a feast for the eyes and the mouth. A glass of rosé wine and a tapenade made with olives from nearby groves completed the meal.

Even though he was certain he couldn’t eat any more, he succumbed to the waiter’s dessert suggestion of a specialty of the region, gateau labully, an orange blossom scented brioche with pink pralines.

He took the photograph of
Monsieur
Yount out of his sling bag. “
Monsieur
,” he asked the waiter, do you know this man? He is a chef.”

“
Non
, but if I may borrow the photograph, I will show it to Chef Binet.”

“
Certainement
.”

A few minutes later he returned. “
Monsieur
, Chef Binet says that the man in the photograph is
Monsieur
Yount, a chef he studied with at the Cordon Bleu. He says that he hasn’t seen him in years and has no idea where he is now. He hopes that helps.”

“
Merci beaucoup
. You’ve been most helpful. Please tell the chef I thank him very much for his information.”

It was just after 2:00 p.m., the time the galleries re-opened from their lunch break. He got in his car and parked a few blocks from the next gallery he wanted to visit. He sat there for a few moments letting his lunch settle as he thought over what he’d found out about the mysterious Pierre Yount.

I know he’s a chef. I know he’s sold stolen art to galleries in Provence. I still don’t know why. I don’t know if he stole the paintings, or if someone else did and he’s just fencing them for the thief. I know he has a tattoo of a knife on his arm. I know what he looks like and people have told me his parents live in the area. I’m lucky I’ve found out that much, but it’s still not a lot to go on.

He got out of his car and leisurely walked to the gallery. When he entered a bell tinkled, but no one came out to greet him. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the muted light in the gallery. He looked around, and there in the middle of several Provence landscape scenes, was a Donna Schuster hillside landscape watercolor.

Good grief. I remember from my art history days that she was really well-known for her watercolors. I think she even earned a silver medal for one that was shown at the Los Angeles Museum of History, Science and Arts sometime around 1914. This is getting more and more interesting. All of the stolen paintings are landscape scenes which in some way fit in well with the Provence region. All of them have been reframed in similar frames. All of them have asking prices far less than what they would command at either California galleries or auction houses.

“
Monsieur
, may I trouble you for a moment?” Jordan asked the harried shopkeeper as he came into the gallery from the back room.

“
Oui
, what do you want?”

“I have two questions. Could you tell me what you are asking for the Schuster painting? And is the man in this photograph the man you bought the Schuster from?”

“The price is $2,500 in US dollars. That’s far less than what the painting is worth. Why do you want to know about the seller? I own the painting, and no, that is not the man I bought it from,” he said belligerently.

“Are you sure that the man in the photograph is not the man you bought the painting from?”

“I told you it’s not, didn’t I? I can’t help you. Excuse me. I have things I need to do,” he said, turning away from Jordan.

“Thank you. If the man who sold you the painting should return, would you call me? Here is my card.”

He left, knowing that the owner was very suspicious of him and would never call, even if the seller returned.

It looks like Pierre must have an accomplice, at least when it comes to selling the paintings. Maybe the other man stole the paintings and Pierre is selling them because he’s French. So now I’m looking for two men. I thought it was a little too cut and dried. I don’t know who stole the paintings, and I have no motive other than that someone is getting money from the gallery owners for these stolen paintings.

And why would the thief steal paintings valued from $250,000 to $2,500? That doesn’t make sense. The only thing I can think of is that he took what was easiest to grab off of the wall of the gallery and quickly get out of the gallery. I need to have the chief find out if the stolen paintings were displayed on the same wall, or if they were physically close to one another.

The next two galleries yielded no stolen paintings.  By now it was 3:00 p.m. and Jordan was tired. He had a two hour drive ahead of him. He wasn’t going to Elena’s cottage until 7:00 that evening and he could use a nap, even if it was short. If last night was any indication, he needed to regain some of his strength.

When he returned to the chateau he stretched out on the bed, and immediately fell asleep.  Fortunately, he’d set the alarm clock because it took him quite awhile to come out of his deep sleep and turn it off.  He laid there for several minutes, trying to recreate the dream he’d had of a woman who looked a lot like Elena. All he could remember was that she was dressed in a ghost-like gauzy gown and shrouded in mist. He’d tried to touch her, but whenever he got close enough, she disappeared, only to return a few feet away. He smiled, remembering the very warm Elena of last night who had eagerly responded to his touch.