Sixty Mortal Sins

By Raine Baushke

“I almost had a Caravaggio.” The raspy words Grand-père uttered as he died were extraordinary. Who almost owns a priceless painting?

From Paris through the vineyards and villages of the Loire Valley, Parisian art crime attorney André Gensonné finds himself searching for Saint Sebastian, a Caravaggi

• Language: English
• Publisher: 23 Leaves Presss
• Release date: Sep 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9780997783827

Raine Baushke

Raine Baushke grew up in Fountain, Michigan and lives and writes in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Besides writing, her interests include gardening, cooking, quilt making and traveling the world with her husband. Contact her at www.rainebaushke.com.

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SIXTY

MORTAL

SINS

SIXTY

MORTAL

SINS

Raine Baushke

23 Leaves Press

Kentucky

SIXTY MORTAL SINS Copyright ©2017

by Lorraine E. Baushke

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by 23 Leaves Press,

a sole proprietorship in Bowling Green, Kentucky

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter without written permission except in the case of brief quotations

in articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or deceased

are coincidental.

Please contact me at rainebaushke.com

ISBN: 978-0-9977838-3-4

First edition August 2017

10 9 8 7 6

Cover Design by Joseph Brancik

To my husband, Kenny

You are my world.

Gensonné Family

André Gensonné

Vincent Gensonné, father to André

Jean-Baptiste Gensonné, grandfather to André

Samuel Gensonné, the great-grandfather who founded the

four-generation law firm in Paris, France

Forestier Family

Guillaume Forestier 1986-present, tenth-generation owner

of Forestier Furniture Company of Doué-la-Fontaine, France

Mathieu Forestier 1958 – 2013

Thomas Forestier 1936 – 1996

Marc Forestier 1900 – 1965

Mathieu Forestier 1875 – 1934

Chapter I André

Saturday, July 27, 2013

P

ARISIAN ATTORNEY ANDRÉ Gensonné had battled his conscience for the past week, sorrow and anger competing with duty.

As his family assembled to celebrate Jean-Baptiste Gensonné’s funeral Mass, he regrettably succumbed. Heat warmed his body, gluing his shirt to his chest Anger—an emotion he despised—edged sorrow.

If hell existed . . . But André didn’t believe in hell. Or heaven. The funeral Mass celebrating his grandfather’s life would be another media spectacle, but it wasn’t the most challenging task imposed by Grand-père. He had left André a quagmire of problems relating to illegal activity, anathema to André’s moral code.

THE STRETCH LIMOUSINE conveying the Gensonné family stealthily approached Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris and inside, quiet conversation faltered. Mayhem had overtaken the historic square. Grand-maman pressed closer to André, her body quivering beneath her dark suit.

A herd of camera-laden paparazzi jostled for position on the steaming sidewalk, snapping dozens of photos even before the family exited.

A somber group of formally-dressed friends and colleagues waited in front of the cathedral, dwarfed by the 800-year-old Gothic façade weathered by time and marred by ideology. Scantily clad tourists speckled the plaza, their heads swiveling from the black limo with its police escort to the scrambling newshounds.

Are we ready? André patted his grandmother’s hand. Six other serious faces watched him, waiting for their cue. He had become their protector during the last few days. However, shielding them from relentless scrutiny wasn’t possible.

I’ll accompany Grand-maman. André opened his door and stood in one movement, assailed by intense sunlight and humidity. He waved. A cacophony of shouts, cackles, and hoots accompanied the staccato clicking of cameras. He snatched his sunglasses from his pocket, bent to assist Grand-maman, and faced the crowd from behind his Chevalier shades. His grandmother clasped his forearm.

Other doors opened, and his parents and siblings exited and were intensely photographed as the three couples calmly walked toward the massive doors, dividing the newshounds into two camps. All had remembered their sunglasses.

André! He turned toward the voice, sheltering Grand-maman against his side. A sweating man hefting a professional camera with an enormous lens snapped a close-up. André had twice hurried past the same man ensconced outside his grandparents’ home since news of Grand-père’s death rippled throughout Paris. The camera clicked a dozen times before police shoved the man away from his family.

Someone seized André’s arm from behind and pressed an envelope into his palm. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a brief glimpse of a balding man wearing a black suit. He disappeared among the people.

André pocketed the weighty envelope.

ALWAYS ATTEND THE FUNERAL, Grand-père had said. Your presence matters more than your convenience. André envisioned his austere face and courtly manner. They will never forget you came. Prophetic words. Mourners filled the pews of the main sanctuary of Notre Dame.

In his mind, the consecrated space mocked their family’s presence. Only his twin brother Pierre rightly belonged, and he had bailed by dying. The rest sat in the front pew as if a nun from their childhoods had dictated the order: Grand-maman, his parents Vincent and Sophia Gensonné, he was next, Isabelle and Dominic, Celeste and Christophe.

Pregnant with countless worshippers of firm faith, the ancient cathedral swelled to welcome them. Because Grand-père had given generously to the Church, he merited an extravagant funeral.

The congregation stood for the gospel. André wriggled his shirt free from sticky shoulder blades encased in gray Cifonelli. Hades couldn’t be hotter—with unstable weather and virulent thunderstorms predicted for nightfall. The congregation murmured as they settled into their pews for the homily. He had missed the gospel reading.

The priest paused to command each person's attention in their pew, his eyes narrowing on André. He resisted the urge to shrug. Did he know what André knew? Was he Grand-père’s confessor?

The Seal of Confession endowed the priest with an absolute duty not to divulge information, leaving André burdened with Grand-père’s Mortal sins. Those sins threatened the integrity of the four-generation law firm and the prominent family’s social standing.

André focused on the priest’s words. Death is like the grape harvest. Good and evil are as evident as the ripe berries are from immature fruit and debris. It isn’t the money or possessions a person has accumulated which matters. Like the waste in the vineyard, one leaves those behind.

Majestically clothed in ornate white vestments customary for funerals, the priest paused. What remains is the good a person has done. The good a person has done. André momentarily lost track of time. The priest looked at them again and then turned, his chasuble flaring out from his shoulders. What had he missed? The upright pews were uncomfortably close for his long frame. When would the congregation stand? His cramped legs were protesting, and he’d hoped for a glimpse of Anne.

She had arrived with the U.S. Ambassador to France and sat dozens of rows behind him. Family duties had kept them apart. He had not been with Anne since Grand-père died.

Except for a brief encounter in Paris and fifteen minutes of a disastrous date, that sad day was the only time they’d spent a few hours together, although he had thought of her for half of his thirty-five years.

His empathetic mother touched his arm. Anne is here for you, she said.

THAT EVENING ANDRÉ hung his jacket in a modest row of conservative suits. It listed toward him provoking a memory of a well-dressed man. He withdrew an envelope from the jacket pocket.

A vegetative scent lingered as if one had stepped on moss in a shady forest. In the kitchen, he pulled open a drawer and rummaged for silicon gloves. He slit the seal removing a single weighty sheet.

More substantial than writing paper, this stationery appeared handmade with flecks of plant material embedded in multiple layers and emitting a pungent green odor.

The haunting message was written in the calligraphy of the 18th century and read:

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is

oft interred with their bones.

–William Shakespeare

Your Grandfather Ordered the Caravaggio. Payment Is Due.

André swallowed past his dry throat. He had been Jean-Baptiste Gensonné’s only grandson and law partner. Now he was an unwilling accomplice in Grand-père’s criminal activity. The letter complicated his position. It suggested a third party knew of his grandfather’s misdeeds.

The shock had dissipated during the last two weeks, but Grand-père’s revelations seemed unreal even after his death. A lifelong passion for paintings had become obsessive, resulting in possession of both illegally obtained pieces and legitimately owned paintings. But a Caravaggio?

Had the writer been at the funeral? The Shakespearean quote contained mysterious echoes of the priest’s vineyard homily. Another signal Grand-père had lived a complicated life hidden from those he loved, another rock on a growing heap of disappointments.

The art world recognized one missing Caravaggio—last seen in France 300 years ago—although others might exist in attics or were originals that historians thought were copies.

André encased the letter inside a plastic bag and tossed it on the table. The letter writer hadn’t provided information on how to proceed with payment.

He dropped into his favorite chair and let the supple leather embrace him as he lost himself in an authentic Monet garden. He was standing on the bridge at Giverny. His paintings soothed him and had been his primary connection with Grand-père. An abundance of oils and watercolors decorated the two-story salon's buff walls, one a costly painting from his grandfather. Grand-père had manipulated their bond in the closing weeks of his long life.

Weariness shuttered his eyes, and uneasy images of the funeral flickered behind his eyelids. A postage-stamp-sized painting of his grandfather spoke to him, demanding secrecy. André erased the miniature portrait and slept.

André awoke disoriented in the darkened room. His last few days had been a hectic mix of planning and consoling, remembering and regretting. Now the enormity of Grand-père’s absence numbed his body. Diagnosis to death had been quick.

André wandered to the floor-to-ceiling windows framing his hometown. He contemplated Paris spread out below like a gossamer lady’s gown sprinkled with sequins of light. A top layer of heavy clouds blocked the stars.

Located in the heart of the 7th arrondissement on the Left Bank, his apartment insulated him from city noises, including ever-present honking horns.

His high-ceilinged salon flooded with light in the daytime. Now ambient light through the windows reflected on the glass-covered watercolors, obscuring the images, and darkening his oil paintings' light-absorbent colors.

Roiled by a gusty wind, the stormy skies were threatening. André picked up the remote and closed the brown drapes, dropping into his chair in the dark.

Under French inheritance law, his vibrant grandmother would retain fifty percent of the estate, and with good planning, his grandfather’s wealth passed to the family. Papa would receive a large inheritance, although his grandfather’s criminal legacy would complicate the process.

Had he expected André to resolve his crimes under the table without telling Papa? The brain tumor must have affected his judgment.

Michel had earlier offered to spend the evening with him, but he declined; now he wanted to talk. Michel answered his mobile on the first ring.

Bonjour. Michel’s cheery greeting announced he was in high spirits. Tension eased from his shoulders as he slumped into his chair. Michel’s good nature engaged everyone.

Are you going out?

Not until later. Are you home?

I want to talk.

I’ll be there shortly. Michel la Roche worked for the Gensonné law firm and had become his closest friend. Michel grounded him, prompting him to abandon his reticence. André had a reputation for aloofness.

The remote signaled, and André unlocked the secure building’s lower door.

Michel’s exuberant knocking disrupted his scattered reflections. The man had irrepressible panache and a zest for people. Michel accumulated friends like a dog collects fleas. But he listened well. Michel could extract a hell of a lot of information in ten minutes.

André opened the door, and Michel dashed in, dark hair dancing, humidity adding curls between the curls.

Thanks for coming.

What are we talking about? Michel jabbed André.

Grand-père. André stood in the doorway.

Sad about Grand-papa? Michel brushed past.

Mixed feelings. Sad? Maybe.

Sad would be normal.

Normal? Yes, but it’s . . . complicated.

Your grandpa was eighty-five. He wouldn’t want to hang around too long. A flush crept up Michel’s neck. If he was sick, I mean.

You’ve known him? Five years?

I met him after you gave me the job. Michel sauntered to the full-length wall of brown cloth and faced André. The best thing that ever happened to me. Why are the drapes closed? You pay a lot for the view.

André shrugged. Open them.

Michel operated the remote. Better. I love Paris, especially at night. It’s black out there, though; the storm is moving in.

Do you want a drink?

I’ll have what you’re having.

André filled two Waterford glasses with Chivas Regal Scotch Whiskey and set the ornate bottle on a leather-and copper-embellished cabinet.

Here’s to the good stuff, Michel said, lifting his glass. Santé.

The best for you. André tapped Michel’s glass. Santé.

As if I’d know the difference. Michel was always honest.

André paused with his glass in midair, scrambling for words. "I found Miriam." He tipped his drink and let the smooth Scotch warm his throat.

What? When? Michel balanced his sloshing liquor. Why didn’t you call me?

Too complicated. We found it the night Grand-père died. He lowered his head. Once he revealed Grand-père’s deceit, the floodgates would open.

We’ve searched all summer. You’d better talk.

Anne and I found it in my grandparents’ home.

Where? Michel’s expressive face looked clown-worthy.

Grand-père’s private office.

What the hell? And I don’t swear often. Your grandfather had them?

André nodded and moved toward the bar. I need a refill. He avoided eye contact and splashed in a double. It was hanging behind his desk. Next to an Elisée Maclet masterpiece. Both paintings were the same size with matching frames.

Both paintings? Oh, my God. Michel moved to André. How did he get them? He turned away. Oh, my God.

He habitually purchased black market paintings. Someone got money, illegally. André swallowed half of his Scotch. Grand-père told me moments before he died.

Jean-Baptiste? An art crime attorney buying black market art?

He’s an art thief. André drained his glass and plunked it on a side table.

Moments passed, and Michel hadn’t spoken. He stood at the window staring at the city. André joined him. You’re rarely speechless.

Your family must be devastated.

They’re unaware. Grand-père asked me to make personal reparations after he died.

Michel touched André’s arm. Unbelievable.

I’ll need help.

You have it, Michel said quietly. He took his half-filled glass to the bar. We know who owns the Maclet.

André questioned him with raised brows. The talented chef at Chez Philippe? He also owns a petty crime record as tall as his puffy hat.

Funny. The Maclet belongs to Maximillian Broutin.

It does. You like Broutin?

I like him and Émilie. They’re getting married, having a baby. Michel’s expression was severe. Émilie’s good for him. He’s been almost clean for a couple of years.

Almost?

Max isn’t bad, no worse than I was.

André settled into his chair, expending a whoosh of leather-scented air. Michel paced the floor. It’s been a hell of a day, André said.

You’ve dumped a hell of a lot— and I don’t swear much.

Twice in one evening, André said. It was his fault.

Tell me the rest. Michel stood over him.

His legs and arms tensed. Where should he begin? What he revealed could destroy reputations, and André knew part of the truth.

I don’t need to tell you . . . André hesitated.

It’s confidential. Michel finished his sentence. André could trust Michel.

Grand-père asked to speak to me about a month ago, wanted to go out for lunch. That was July eighth, and now he’s dead. He thought he had a few months. André combed his fingers through his hair. He was diagnosed with a brain tumor, given three months, six with aggressive treatment. André bowed his head. He lived fourteen days. Michel moved to André and rubbed his back.

He had an uncontrollable addiction, spent his lifetime accumulating paintings he coveted. Michel’s hands stilled.

"Did he covet the Miriam painting?"

Among many.

Where is the contraband? Michel’s shocked face looked like he’d felt. André had had a couple of weeks to numb his shock.

He mentioned underground storage but didn’t reveal it. He expected to live longer. André stood. When he was dying, he asked for me. You were at the hospital.

Michel nodded.

He demanded I go to his study. He paced the length of the room. Wait. André hurried to his bedroom and returned with a large linen envelope. This was in a locked drawer in his desk.

You didn’t open it? He died a week ago.

Afraid of what I’d find.

Let’s open it. Michel grabbed at the envelope. It’s a treasure hunt. André pulled away.

This could be the end of my career and the firm’s reputation. Treasure?

Laugh. You’re too serious. Michel hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and grinned.

André tossed it onto his chair. You’re incorrigible.

Why your reputation? Michel unhooked his thumbs. Your grandfather’s dastardly deeds are his.

Listen. André moved toward him. We’ve built our firm over decades by solving art thefts and litigating art cases.

Is it possible to dispose of his stash without publicity?

The paparazzi hounded us at the cathedral. They camped in front of his home for days. He threw up his hands. If they get wind of this, the Gensonné firm appears unethical.

You think—?

I live it. André whirled away from Michel. Have you read a newspaper this week? They carried stories of my brother’s drowning in the same issue as Grand-père’s obituary. Pierre died seventeen years ago.

I’m sorry. Michel hugged him. It’s been an emotional week. I’m going out with Violetta. She’s waiting at a bar with friends. André stepped back.

Come with me.

Not in the mood. Did you leave your friends to come? Had he spoiled Michel’s evening?

Michel shrugged. Open the envelope. He slapped his back. It’s all right to feel sad and angry. Michel strolled to the door. Then let it go. You look ready to explode. Michel slipped into the hallway. André hadn’t shown him the Caravaggio note.

No stars pierced the wooly clouds hunkered over the city, now appearing to smother the tops of the loftiest buildings. Even the weather suggested melancholy, grumbling in the outreaches of the big city.

He needed Anne more now than he had ever needed a woman. She shimmered in his dreams from a distance like the Virgin Mary of his youth, always out of reach. If he contacted her now, would he ruin the delicate trust so hard-earned? He had driven her away once; it had been enough she’d attended the funeral.

The grumbles rolled closer, revealing the approaching storm’s negative mindset. The atmosphere had thickened; heavy clouds obliterated the moon and stars. Thundering cracks alternated with the menacing fury of jagged bolts briefly outlining bold-standing skyscrapers. Bands tightened around André’s head like a melon in a vice and a spot behind his right eye throbbed.

Paris waited with suppressed suspense; then the clouds exploded with vicious power, dumping rain that raged along streets and overran gutters. The weather system originating in the Atlantic rumbled along the Seine as it hopped and skipped over Paris’s thirty-seven bridges before finally disappearing.

The pressure radiating inside since he awoke this morning eased through his pores and weakened his bones. He craved sleep. He stumbled to his bedroom and flopped onto the pillows without undressing. Grief finally engulfed him, dissolving the mantle of anger he had worn this week. He slept and dreamed.

He had been Grand-père’s favorite. Happy memories of countless museum visits, art festivals, and art lectures vied for space, spilling and sliding like stones under a glacier.

Grand-père said art was emotion. A way to connect to the past and leave something for succeeding generations to know we existed. People lived and loved and lost, and artists recorded their lives—hard times often documented in scenes of war and despair and heartbreak. No one else understood their shared passion for paintings. Grand-père had been right. Even his twin Pierre had had other interests.

They had all been young when Pierre drowned. He and André were not quite eighteen when only one twin returned from the sailing trip. He had failed to save his brother. His family had separately buried their feelings, although they had finally mourned through professional counseling.

Grand-père’s sudden death brought back memories of Pierre; his parents and siblings discussed the parallels yesterday. It was easier to accept the loss of the long-lived. Facing death, Steve Jobs said death was the natural order. The old made way for the new.

Though Grand-père was old and Pierre was young, one loss equaled the other, but the family had learned coping skills.

He must restore those paintings to their rightful owners. His sense of morality dictated it. Damage control would be more challenging.

Sometimes he envied Michel’s faith.

Chapter II André

Sunday, December 22, 2013

B

ITTER EVENING AIR nettled André’s face, numbing his exposed skin. He hitched the collar of his Burberry coat closer and tightened his plaid scarf, bracing against the icy December wind tunneling through holiday shoppers.

Intermittent gleams of tiny lights swayed among the trees lining both sides of Boulevard Haussmann, suggesting spirits in a fairy forest. Below the dancing flecks, a shop window spotlighted a cornflower blue cashmere sweater the color of Anne’s eyes; the sweater would be perfect with her dark hair. He reentered the crowded street within twenty minutes, carrying an elaborately wrapped package inside an opaque sack—a third Christmas gift for Anne.

André had browsed through the jewels in the sumptuous Cartier shop on the Champs-Élysées last week for Anne’s second gift. He had paused in front of an expansive showcase of diamonds sparkling in artificial light. His heartbeat quickened; André wanted to slip one of those exquisite rings on her finger and claim her. He folded his arms and scouted for help.

An alert saleswoman with a smooth chignon hugging the nape of her neck approached him.

Bonjour. May I assist you?

Yes.

An engagement ring?

No. Heat rose in his neck. Sapphire earrings, please. Heels clicking, she led him to another showcase, stretching manicured and bejeweled hands over the selections. Across the glass, her eyes noted his clothing, lingering on his shoes. She reconsidered.

She chose a pair of deep blue sapphires surrounded by minute diamonds. Too elaborate for Anne, he shook his head. This pair. He pointed to solitaries the periwinkle blue of a summer sky. She held one against her earlobe, and he nodded. The sweater and earrings were perfect for their first Christmas, but one present worried him. Would the elusive Anne accept his primary gift?

André keyed his code to access the high-rise office building's tall glass doors; the Gensonné family had owned this building for decades. His body had heated from walking fast, but his cold face welcomed the warmth. When he reached the firm’s office suites, he entered another code, navigating the dimly lit hallways to his office.

It had been five months since Grand-père’s death, and André had revealed nothing to his father. The ill-gotten Maclet and Miriam hung behind Jean-Baptiste Gensonné’s desk in his home office. Saddened by his empty chair, Grand-maman had closed the door and left everything untouched. Only the cleaning staff had been inside.

Vincent Gensonné had begun implementing the complex process for probating his father’s will. After consulting André, Papa decided estate planning attorneys would be advisable. But how entangled were Jean-Baptiste’s illegitimate finances with his other assets? Who else knew of his extensive art collection?

Under French law—without a will—his father (as an only child) would inherit half of the estate while Grand-maman would inherit the other half.

But what could be discovered about the art cache through decades of monetary transactions? Perhaps the new attorneys would expose Grand-père’s secrets.

André pushed his shoulders back and opened the wall safe. The vellum envelope with his name scrawled in Grand-père’s handwriting had was on the bottom. André broke the seal and slid a sheaf of papers onto his desk. The expensive stationery portrayed strength. The letter addressed him.

Dear André

Sixty Mortal Sins. The number of problematic paintings in my collection. Why do I call my precious pictures Mortal sins? The Church teaches Mortal sin requires full knowledge and complete consent. I stole those paintings or bought them illegally or cheated someone. I made a conscious choice and intensely desired each of them. I am addicted to the acquisition of beautiful paintings. My wealth sustained my desires. Thus, I have sixty