Chapter 17
17
Simon is clearly James Bond. He’s found where Max Broussard lives.
“You’re 007,” I say with an appreciative smile as we walk down a narrow stretch of sidewalk in Pigalle, an up-and-coming neighborhood, that’s still quite ramshackle.
He blows on his fingernails. “My talent is boundless. And so is my affection for Lucy. Speaking of, she keeps asking me about Emilie.”
Seeing where this is going, I try to deflect. “She’s trying to set you up with her friend now?”
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. Lucy wants us all to do something. The four of us. As two couples.”
“Maybe she just doesn’t want to hang out with you alone.”
Simon reverses direction on the sidewalk. “On second thought, I don’t have time to show you where Broussard lives.”
“Kidding.” I grab his arm and turn him back around, and we keep walking. Other than giving him a hard time, there’s no reason to be cagey with Simon, so I test out the truth. “Thing is . . . there’s kind of someone else I’m into.”
“Really?” Simon raises an eyebrow as we cross an unevenly cobbled patch of street and turn onto an even narrower one. The dilapidated buildings around us tilt inward the slightest bit.
“Well?” Simon presses. “What’s the story?”
My phone buzzes with a text—a quick look tells me it’s from Sophie, who has been dogging Cass Middleton since we saw her a few days ago.
Sophie: Cass is up to something, going in and out of a church near her shop in the afternoons. Will stake her out tomorrow at this time and alert you, okay?
I tap back with a thumbs-up and tuck my phone into my pocket while I tell Simon, “It’s complicated.”
“Oh, well, don’t tell me because my little pea brain can’t handle it.”
“It’s just that it’s still early.”
“So how do you know her?” he asks.
“She hangs out at the museum.”
“Have you talked to her? Asked her out?”
“Not exactly out .”
“Do you need me to come by and do it for you?”
I can’t decide whether to laugh or panic. “Ha. Hardly.”
Finally, we reach our destination -- Max Broussard’s home. The quiet side street squeezes between a graffiti-covered brick building on one side and what looks like a shabby sort of studio space on the other. Through the dirty windows of the building, I see the place is a mess, stacked with smocks and pottery wheels, kilns and sculptor’s tools, sketch pads and pencils. “This is where he lives?”
“Nope. He lives there. In a connecting flat. Place can’t be more than ten square meters. A total dive. Inherited it from his grandparents. His parents are gone too—died in a car crash. No family estate in Normandy to keep his priceless art in either.” Simon points through the window at an easel holding a sketch pad with a drawing of a dog with floppy ears. “That’s where he draws. This guy defines starving artist—living hand-to-mouth, barely making ends meet. No way does that bloke own a secret Renoir.”
The big question, though, is why did Renoir choose this young artist to inhabit when Max isn’t even a painter?
“And check this out.” Simon unfolds a piece of paper from his back pocket and shows me a caricature of Lucy. It’s cute—her green streaks look like wings in her hair. “Lucy makes a bang-up secret agent. She had him do her caricature across from the museum this morning so she could get him talking.”
Across from the museum. Of course .
Location, location, location.
Renoir must have picked Max for his proximity to the Musée d’Orsay. Before Clio came, I’d never seen Max look like anyone but Max. Supposedly, Renoir was in love with the model for Woman Wandering in the Irises . Is this a messed-up stalking situation?
I peer through the window at the clutter in the studio, hunting for something, anything. On the floor by the easel are papers, sketches, comic book drawings of cats and dogs with oversize heads and snouts. But at the bottom of one of the pages, I can see a number and nearly illegible letters, as if written by an unsteady hand—19 Rue de . . . something. I make out the first three letters of the street name and realize it’s the address for the shop with the Jack Russell in the window.
Zola and Celeste’s gallery. The same one that verified Clio’s painting for us before it came to our museum.
Chills race down my spine as we take off.
* * *
Simon and I race up the Metro steps and then make for the gallery. Inside, Zola is talking to a customer who’s considering a pink painted canvas with a miniature metal skateboard sticking out of it. Gotta love modern art.
Zola smiles at us and holds up one finger to indicate she’ll be done soon, and Simon and I walk around as she finishes.
A few seconds later, the bell over the door gives a cheery ding as Zola shows the customer out and waves goodbye.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” she asks, sweeping over to first give me a kiss on each cheek, then Simon. “And from double-the-trouble gents, no less.”
“We’re tracing the path of someone,” I say quickly, desperate for intel. “A little older than me, about this tall, dark hair, and . . .” I crunch up my hands to mimic Max’s twisted fingers as Renoir. “Like that.”
“Oh, yes. I remember him,” Zola says, a gleam in her eyes. “He was wheeling an art crate in a little shopping cart because of his hands.”
Tension winds through me. “Why was he here? What was in the crate?”
She motions for us to step closer. “He had what he claimed was a Renoir. He showed it to Celeste, swearing—we’re talking adamant—that it was the original Woman Wandering in the Irises .”
That can’t be.
“What’s hanging in the museum, then?” I ask, brow knit, worry digging into my bones.
“He had the gall to say the one at the Musée d’Orsay is a fake,” she scoffs.
My jaw clenches. “That takes some nerve. There’s no way that’s true.”
Zola leans against the counter. “Indeed. The man claimed that Renoir himself left the original to Broussard’s family and specified that the painting never be shown, never be exhibited, never even be touched by anyone.”
Never be touched . . .
There’s something so tragic about those words applied to Clio. I can’t imagine never having been able to touch her, hold her, kiss her . . .
Simon raises a hand, like he’s in class. “But what’s the point of painting something only to hide it away? And never look at it? Art is meant to be seen.”
“What did Celeste say about his painting?” I jump in, offering a prayer that Celeste’s eagle eye came through, spotted Ghost Renoir’s fake for the fake it has to be.
Zola smiles slyly, like she’s proud of her wife. “That it was a near-perfect replica, maybe one of the best she’s seen, but it lacked Renoir’s signature pigment.”
Yes!
“What’s that?” Simon asks. “Like a custom paint?”
“Renoir had a special pigment for his signature, so his own work would always be verifiable and unique,” I explain, relieved that Celeste could tell easily.
Simon nods. “Got it. So that proves Broussard’s painting is a copy?”
“Yes,” Zola answers. “But interestingly, it’s quite an old one.”
That is interesting. “How old?” I ask, an idea taking shape.
“More than a hundred and thirty-five years old.”
“As old as the original painting . . .”
My mind whirls. Remy didn’t say how his great-great-grandmother actually got the painting in the first place. But I bet Suzanne Valadon made the copy to protect Clio. I bet she copied the portrait and swapped it out a hundred and thirty-five years ago, giving Renoir the fake, and keeping the original – the cursed painting with Clio in it – safe with her family over the years.
If Renoir thought he had successfully locked Clio away in a painting for the rest of time, he wouldn’t look for her.
With a shudder I remember what Max said the first time he showed up on my tour—that some women are trouble and they shouldn’t be let out.
Renoir wants Clio to stay trapped. Whatever magic keeps her in the painting can’t be undone if she’s in someone’s attic. That’s where he wants her. Hidden away.
That’s it!
I want to fist-pump and shout, but I’m still in the gallery, and Zola and Simon are looking at me with concern, and I still have more questions because why would Renoir want to trap her? Why would he do this?
That’s the next mystery for me to solve.
I thank Zola profusely, and Simon and I exit to the street.
As soon as we step outside, he says casually, “So, want to let me in on what’s really going on?”
I turn to him. I’m not sure I could ask anyone but Simon this question, but we’ve been friends for a long time. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“ Should I believe in ghosts?” he asks as we set off walking.
I take him through my Ghost of a Great Artist Comes Back to Preserve His Legacy theory as we pass more antique shops and art galleries lining the street by the river. He nods thoughtfully as he follows along.
“And so Renoir’s taken up cohabitation in this street artist Lucy and I have been tailing?” Simon asks when I’m done.
“Yes. And a bunch of Renoir’s paintings are fading. Not just at the Musée d’Orsay, but everywhere. And somehow that’s related to the Woman Wandering in the Irises .”
Simon shakes his head and claps me on the back. “It is truly never a dull moment with you, Garnier.”
I stop walking. “Does that mean you don’t believe me, or you do?”
“Does it matter? I’m your friend, and whatever you need me to do, I’m all in. Whether I believe in ghosts or not.”
“All right. Whenever Remy figures out what’s going on with Cass Middleton, you’re coming with me then, okay?”
“As if I’d miss it.”
“I’d better get back to the museum.”
“To your complicated woman.” His grin is knowing, and my sheepish shrug is an admission. It’s not even a lie. I’m most definitely going to see my complicated, compelling Clio, who has invited me back to her place tonight.