A Portrait of Murder

By Beth Pratt

Ex-cat burglar, Véronique Berri ruins her dreams of an ordinary life when she decides to pull off one last heist by stealing what she suspects is a fake Édouard Manet portrait from the Musée d’Orsay. When stealing the painting she discovers the corpse of Impressionist curator Colette Laroche positioned and dressed like the model in Manet’s infamous “Olympia”. As the body count piles up and the list of motives and suspects increase, Veronique is compelled to solve the murder. With the theft she’s left a huge red herring and become a possible suspect herself. But when the twists and turns increase and Véronique gets closer and closer to the truth she also gets closer to becoming the next corpse found dressed like a Manet Model.
A Portrait of Murder, a 78,000 word soft-boiled fictional murder mystery that take place in Paris, France combines an eccentric cast of characters, murder, romance and an undercurrent of humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beth Pratt
• Release date: Jun 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9780992040109

Beth Pratt

My name is Beth Pratt and I was born and raised in St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada. I've lived in Ontario, New York City and have spent a good deal of time traveling in Europe. My background is in art history and education. Currently I live in St. John's with my spouse and my two dogs.

Book preview

A Portrait of Murder

Beth Pratt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Beth Pratt

All Rights Reserved.

Olympia is lying on her bed, having borrowed from art no ornament but a rose which she has put in her tow like hair. This redhead is of perfect ugliness. Her face is stupid, her skin cadaverous. She does not have a human form; Monsieur Manet has so pulled her out of joint that she could not possibly move her arms or legs. By her side one sees a Negress who brings in a bouquet and at her feet a cat who wakes and has a good stretch, a cat with hair on end, out of a witches' Sabbath by Callot.

—Félix Deriège, Le Siècle, 2 June 1865

Chapter One

I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life, but this topped them all. I knew it, but I was going to do it anyway. Not only was I about to steal a piece of art, but I was about to steal it from one of the most celebrated museums in the world, one with the largest collection of priceless pieces of 19th century art: the Musée d’Orsay.

Near closing, the crowd began to thin. I could feel my stomach turn and twist, knowing that once I started, there was no turning back. I let the tension slip away, consciously relaxing my abdomen, until my nerves calmed. I ran my hands through my long hair, twisting it into a ponytail. Slinging my rucksack over my shoulder, I slipped into the women’s washroom. I crawled under the door of a locked stall with a posted out of order sign, stood on the seat and waited. It was Bastille Day, France’s biggest national holiday. My breaking-and-entering days had been over for more than six months, until tonight. Tonight I was falling off the wagon big time.

My body tensed at every slight movement or tiny sound. About thirty minutes later, a guard came by, walked in, and passed right by the stall. I held my breath, standing as still as possible on the toilet seat. The guard turned and walked back the length of the stalls, banging each one with a flashlight she held. I clenched my hands into tight balls, and with every heavy footstep, my long nails dug deeper into the palms of my hands. She stopped directly in front of my stall, and it seemed as though she stood there forever. I could picture her, ear against the door, gritting her teeth. I thought for sure I was caught. Excuses for why I was here raced through my mind. She rapped the stall door once more with her flashlight and then left, flicking off the lights on her way out. I opened my mouth, expelled the breath I was holding, anxiety dissipated.

I sat down on the toilet seat, massaged my cramped legs and rubbed at the crescent-shaped marks my nails had left on my hands. I had promised myself that I’d never steal again; that I’d lead a normal life—a straight life—the life I’d planned in my early college days before my brother’s troubles forced my hand. The people he owed took pleasure in extracting payment in both currency and pain from delinquent debtors like Tommy. With his life on the line, I’d learned quickly how to exploit my knowledge of art and contacts in the field for that one job. Yeah, right. I became a professional cat burglar, stealing art the world over all throughout the rest of my university career and the subsequent years. No one who hadn’t felt the rush, who hadn’t tasted the lucrative fruits of this thrill, could understand. Recently I’d suspected…but no, I shook my head at the thought. No, I wasn’t addicted. Not on your life.

While I waited for the holiday fireworks to start, I went over the steps I’d devised to pull off my heist. I decided to steal a work of art this particular day because the opportunity was irresistible. For most of the summer, Paris had been dealing with power outages that wreaked havoc on the museum’s security camera systems. They had been off-line for days, yet the museum’s service company was too busy to restart them.

Compared to the estates and homes I’ve robbed, the Musée d’Orsay was relatively easy to break into, because I didn’t actually break in: the museum let me in with the rest of the public; and I knew certain essentials about this museum. I never pulled off a heist blind. Tonight, the night guard was Willie Bauer. He was a sweet old man everyone at the museum loved, and although he was a little blind and tended to walk with a slight limp, no one could bear to fire him. I also knew that Willie never did his walk-about check of the museum until after ten at night. Too many good television shows before then to watch in the security booth. Robert Lesalle worked with him, but he was lazy and slept most of the night away. His job was in jeopardy; museum security wouldn’t be the worse without him.

I also knew where all the motion detectors were located, so earlier, during my museum tour, I casually smeared Vaseline over them, disabling them. Though the painting I was about to steal had not been publicly displayed, I knew its location. Room 14: Manet before 1870. I knew its dimensions, and I had seen it before. Most people enter the room to view Manet’s most famous paintings, like the infamous Olympia with its reclining nude. Personally, I preferred the portraits done of Berthe Morisot. She was An Impressionist painter and Manet’s sister-in-law. Although there were many women painters at the time, history has thrown most of them into obscurity, with the exceptions of Morisot and Mary Cassat. But they are probably only known to the public because of their affluence and their connections with Manet and Degas. Unfortunately at the time, the public and—let’s face it, men—didn’t believe that women had the genius required to be real painters.

I fancied myself to be a bit like Morisot. I, too, was an affluent painter, although painting was a hobby for me. My favorite portrait was Manet’s Berthe Morisot with a Bunch of Violets. I don’t think I’m quite as pretty as Morisot, but I have her dark wavy hair, small, straight nose, and full lips. Although I believe my eyes are the same size and shape as hers, mine are a dark violet color whereas hers were chocolate brown. We may share certain physical similarities, but my resemblance to her is striking in this particular portrait because of the air of mystery she exhibits. Like me, she seems to be hiding a secret.

After an hour or so, I was bored (I have a short attention span) so I left the safety of the toilet stall and clicked on my penlight. I kept reviewing what I was about to do. Then I got this weird feeling I couldn’t really explain. A bone chilling cold crept up my body. My blood cooled. Suddenly my stomach flipped, and a wave of nausea swept over me. This had never happened before. The tension, the stomach cramps, yes; but not this chill, this sense of foreboding. I desperately wished I had a way out, but I didn’t. I was locked in, alone, in this dark cavernous museum. I shook my head, focused, pushed dark images to the back of my mind. After a few moments, the chill subsided.

I glanced at my watch. Time to go. I pulled off my Levis, stuffed them into my rucksack, clipped a pair of fabric covers over my shoes, and shoved my hands into latex surgical gloves. The cool sensation of the sexy black spandex cat suit and the tight belt of polished tools at my waist flipped a switch in my brain. Nervous hot fits of moments ago transformed into steeled nerves, taut, cold, ready. I was in the zone. I had one purpose, one focal point, my mind shut off from everything else.

Silently, I slipped out the bathroom door, hugged the wall and listened. Silence greeted me. Using my penlight as a guide, I ran on my crepe-soled shoes, like a slip of a shadow through the marble and bronze sculptures strategically placed along the museum’s nave. Wooden boxes filled with paintings and sculptures lay strewn across my path. The museum would be closed tomorrow, and in the hour after the museum had closed, the staff had been busy preparing for the new exhibit scheduled to open in two days. Weaving in and out through the maze of half-opened cartons I arrived, again, outside one of the many rooms that lined either side of the nave, room 14. The Manet painting I wanted leaned against the nave’s wall, not yet hung.

My heart beat in a staccato rhythm. I could see things more sharply, hear every tiny sound, my senses heightened by the adrenaline pumping through me. I slid a small knife out of my sack and deftly cut the canvas from its gaudy gold fame. Swiftly, I rolled it, slipped it into a plastic tube, and added it to my rucksack.

I turned toward the windows to execute my exit plan when I got the unnerving feeling that someone was watching me. Quickly, I surveyed the nave, but no guards lurked in the shadows. I should’ve taken my prize and run, but I have this annoying inability to leave well enough alone. I stepped into the Manet room, and turned to the blood red wall that held Manet’s Olympia, his most famous and scandalous painting of model Victorine Meurent.

I couldn’t move my eyes. Not from the painting but from the dead woman lying below it—Colette Laroche, head curator of Impressionism. I inhaled a sharp breath, and stepped back, my whole body tightening. Goose bumps prickled along my arms and hair raised on the back of my neck. Colette was naked. She was propped upon two large white pillows, lying on a silk flowered shawl: a pink orchid tucked behind her left ear, a black ribbon holding a small pearl tied around her neck, a gold bangle with a gold charm on her left arm, and a pair of delicate heeled slippers on her feet. I glanced from her body to the image of Olympia. Exactly the same pose—except for the pool of red blood that stained the pillows beneath Colette’s head and her dead cold eyes.

I took a step forward, repulsed by the horror of the sight before me. I had to force my hand to reach her white neck. My fingers touched her cool skin. I pressed gently at her pulse point, then harder. Nothing. Her brown eyes stared at me, inviting me to participate in her death, as Olympia had invited those 19th century men to pay for her company.

I snatched my hand away from the skin as adrenaline once again pumped through my body. The sound of my heart thrummed in my ears. My chest constricted as the cold hand of fear gripped my heart. Was the murderer still here? Was he watching me? Would I be the next victim? Slowly I turned in a circle, panic stealing my control, searching, looking for a sign of the murderer.

Run! Run! My mind screamed. Get out of here! I ran towards the long row of windows, my eyes focused on that point of exit, my stealth stolen by each ragged breath. I ran through the obstacle course of marble and bronze, smashed through the window, tumbled onto wet grass, deflecting shards of glass with my arm. The alarm set off by the broken window screamed. I got to my feet and flattened myself against the building’s wall. I stuffed my fabric shoe covers and gloves into the rucksack while hiding in the shadows on the ground outside the Orsay. I yanked my Levi’s over my black cat suit and, staying as calm as possible, casually walked down the Quai Voltaire and across the Seine via the Pont du Carrousel. Someone was following me. I could feel it. I looked over my shoulder, but all I saw were throngs of Bastille Day celebrants drinking and laughing.

The fireworks that still exploded overhead threw colored light onto the cobbled streets below, reflecting in the river Seine, and causing the faces of thousands of people to turn into gruesome masks. I tried to blend into the crowd, making twists and turns amongst the masses to lose whoever was following me. I pushed my way through the crowd lingering underneath the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, marking the entranceway to the courtyard of the Musée du Louvre. I rushed past the infamous glass pyramid, through an archway of the Sully Wing, into the Cour Carrée. I fought the urge to run directly to my apartment in the Palais Royal on the Rue Montpensier. Instead, I looked up periodically to the fireworks flashing across the black sky, as if I were merely one more of the night’s celebrants. Yet my vision continued to pounce on any sudden or suspicious movement. I couldn’t suppress the fear that coiled in my stomach. I slinked through a passageway that led to the Jardins du Palais Royal and cut through to Rue de Montpensier and the entrance to my building.

Using the sensor on my key chain to open the door, I fell into the foyer of the stone structure, breathing heavily. Controlling the anxiety that tore through me, I told myself I was paranoid. No one was following me; no one had seen me. It was the after-effects of the adrenaline rush, the potential of being caught…the dead woman. I straightened my shoulders and opened the door to the tiny elevator. As the doors clanged shut, my mind flashed back to Colette Laroche, her glassy eyes looking less alive than those of her mirror image in Manet’s Olympia. Who could have killed her, and why was she posed like Olympia? Unanswered questions swarmed through my brain. I pushed the door of the elevator open and walked up the last flight of stairs to my penthouse. My legs grew heavy, and suddenly exhaustion took over as I came down from the adrenaline high. All I wanted to do was fall into bed.

I unlocked the door, prepared to be greeted by my Harlequin Great Dane, Pinkerton, but he was nowhere in sight. I looked around my pristine two-storey apartment. Something was wrong. Then I heard it. A rush of water came from the direction of my bedroom and en suite bath. My eyes locked onto a half-full beer bottle on my counter. I didn’t drink beer. There was someone in my home. Someone in my bathroom. The water stopped. The lights flickered and went out—another power outage.

Oh God, I hadn’t been paranoid! The murderer was in my house! He knew who I was, knew where I lived. My first instinct was to call the police. I picked up the phone, and put it back down again when I remembered the painting. I couldn’t call the police. And say what? That while I was stealing a painting at the museum, I found a murderer and he’d followed me home? I had to defend myself. At least I had the advantage of knowing my way around in the dark.

I took out the plastic tube that held the painting and placed it carefully inside a large drawer in the kitchen island. Navigating my way through my dining room, I grabbed the first thing my hand landed on—a Giacometti bronze sculpture of a man walking his dog. It wasn’t particularly heavy, but it would do. As quietly as possible I crept towards my bedroom. Where was Pinkerton? My heart sank. What had this murderer done to my dog? My fingers wrapped around the statue tighter. If anyone had hurt him…my whole body tensed as I entered the bedroom. I could pick out the silhouette, someone tall—big, near the bathroom door. I ran towards the figure, my arm pulled back ready to strike.

Chapter Two

A low buzzing sound filtered through the room and the lights came back on. It took a couple of seconds for my eyes to register. The tall, well-built dark-haired man in front of me began to laugh. I looked from him, shirtless with one of my towels wrapped around his hips to my huge black-and-white Dane who lay on the bed, thumping his tail.

What the hell are you doing here? I said.

Could you put the statue down, Véronique, or are you still intending to smack me with it? You’re making me a wee bit nervous.

I relaxed slightly. I haven’t decided yet.

At least let me put some clothes on.

It took me a minute to reply. Andrew McFadden was the last person I wanted to see right now. I hadn’t seen him in two years and I’d hoped I’d never see him again. The faster he covered up the better it would be; I didn’t need the distraction.

Be my guest.

He flashed me his most beguiling smile and returned to the bathroom.

I put the sculpture down on the night table and stood outside the door waiting for him to explain why he had suddenly appeared in my apartment. He looked as good as ever, and his slight Scottish brogue turned me on as much as it had the first time I ran into him. He came out a few minutes later in tight blue jeans that hugged the best parts of him, and a plain white t-shirt. He used my towel to dry off his dark curls.

He looked up at me. His bright green eyes narrowed. What’s wrong with you? You look white as a ghost. You’re not going to faint on me are you?

Seeing McFadden instead of a murderer ready to kill me filled me with relief, but with the immediate fight-or-flight stress eliminated, the verge of a meltdown loomed. The shock of seeing my first dead body overwhelmed me. It’s—murder. The head curator of Impressionism—she was dead.

What? You’re not making any sense. What are you talking about?

I tried to prevent my voice from cracking. I was at the Musée d’Orsay. Colette Laroche. She was lying there, dead.She was murdered, set up in front of Manet’s Olympia, in the same position wearing the same jewels as the woman in the painting.

How did you know it was murder?

I raised my eyebrow. Why else would she be positioned that way? She looked exactly like Olympia. It was deliberate. And there was blood…

Come on. I followed him as he left my bedroom and sat me down in the huge chair facing the fireplace. He took a seat on the leather couch and pulled a thin silver flask from the pocket of his jeans. Drink this. He unscrewed the cap and passed it to me.

I took a swig and immediately began coughing and choking as the strong whiskey cut burning slivers into my throat.

There. Now there’s a bit of color back in your cheeks.

Right. From the flames in my throat. It had burned initially but the heat was actually soothing.

Aye, it’s a little strong. Now tell me again, what happened?

"I saw Colette Laroche, just like I said, in front of Olympia, looking just like Olympia, except she was dead. There was blood everywhere, all over the pillows. My voice rose in pitch, almost shrill. My hands began to tremble as I saw Colette in my mind again. I touched her, to make sure she was dead, you know…but her skin…it was already starting to get cold." I didn’t want to cry, especially not in front of McFadden, but tears welled up behind my lids.

McFadden came over and put his arm around me. He smelled of soap and my herbal shampoo. I wanted to lean into him, fall into his embrace; but I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to keep the tears at bay. My body stiffened and he removed his arm.

After an awkward silence he asked, Do you know this woman?

Not well, just enough to know who she is. And I know her daughter, Zoé. Oh my God, Zoé. This was going to devastate her.

Who else was there? What did they do?

I shook my head. No one else. Just me.

He grabbed my shoulders. Wait a minute. What the hell were you doing alone in the Orsay at this time of night…oh, I see. He leaned back a smirk on his rugged face. What did you rob tonight?

I glared at him. The shock of the murder began to wear off. Now instead of frightened, I was angry. I didn’t rob anything. I’m reformed. I’ve stopped—

Your wicked ways? Don’t lie. It doesn’t become you.

I’m not lying. I don’t steal anymore.

Aye. He nodded. You carry around surgical gloves every night in the middle of summer do you?

Heat rose to my face as I noticed him looking directly at the rucksack peeking out from behind the kitchen counter. The gloves I had worn earlier poked out, exposing my evening escapade.

I lifted my chin and stared at him defiantly. It was a one-time thing. I had a good reason.

McFadden nodded, rubbing his face with his hand. Another evil collector’s stolen painting? You stole it from him to return it to its rightful owner, or perhaps sold it to that dealer of yours to sell to a museum or gallery?

He knew me too well. He was the only one who knew me at all, at least the only one who knew I had been a cat burglar—but with a difference. I had stolen paintings from sleazy collectors and dealers…only sleazy collectors and dealers, not people who really valued their art.

Don’t you think it’s much better for a wonderful painting, a masterpiece to be on display for all the public to see than in some stuffy old collector’s vault where only he can enjoy it? He’ll never lend it to a retrospective or a gallery. Even his friends can’t see it because he stole it in the first place or bought it illegally from some Nazi who had access to Goering’s stash. Really, I was doing a public service—a profitable public service, true, but a service nonetheless. I had this great dealer of my own. Of course he didn’t know who I was, but he knew to deposit my share of the money in a numbered Swiss bank account, and that I wanted the stolen paintings sold only to museums or reputable collectors.

Oh please, I’ve heard it all before. I know you need to justify stealing to ease your guilty conscience, but I don’t buy it. I never did. You steal illegally obtained art because it’s low risk. No police will be involved, no insurance companies. The collector or dealer can’t even claim it was theirs because it was never theirs in the first place.

I shook my head. "I don’t really care what you think, McFadden. Your opinion means nothing