Page 31 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
Adaline stands, looking remarkably poised and confident, considering the acquisition of Woman Wandering in the Irises might be the pinnacle of her career so far and this man is questioning it.
“Mr. Broussard,” she says, “the museum has researched this painting’s ownership thoroughly, but we treat provenance claims quite seriously. I will certainly look into this and be in touch after I confer with the board.”
Opening the door, she flicks her gaze toward me, and I see a bit of “holy shit” when our eyes meet. It doesn’t come through in her voice though. “Julien, can you show Mr. Broussard out?”
“Of course, Adaline,” I say with the same formality—stiff upper lip and all that.
I guide Max upstairs, out to the gallery floor, and then to the main exit. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” he prattles, not sounding sorry at all. He leans closer and speaks in a low voice, the cloying rose perfume thick on his breath. “But some women can just be trouble, and they shouldn’t be let out.”
As he clips the ends of those last words, it’s as if some force has vacuumed up all the sound, so there’s only Max and me. He’s not just here for the painting. He knows about the woman in the irises. But how? I suspect he’s been watching me, but how could he spy on Clio as anything other than a painted figure in a frame?
I’m stuck with that thought as Max leaves. But once he’s out the door, I step outside and watch him walk away from the museum. After he heads across the street, I follow him. He settles back into the green-slatted chair in front of his easel where he usually is, where he paints his bloody caricatures, then pushes up the cuffs of his sleeves.
When I see his hands, I nearly stumble. His fingers are curled inward, the nails scratching his palms, bent up and seized.
Like Renoir’s.
Then, he cracks his knuckles and turns his TEN EUROS sign around, and his hands are back to normal. Young, flexible Max’s hands.
Clio’s words about the ghosts of great artists come back to me. Though you’d think they might visit museums too.
What if she wasn’t joking? Could the ghost of Renoir be inhabiting Max the street artist?
I walk over to Max as he reaches for his pencils. Grabbing the other green chair, the one his customers sit in while he does their caricatures, I plunk myself down.
“You seriously want your picture drawn?” He laughs a little, sounding like Max again, the street artist drawing exaggerated sketches of tourists.
“What was the deal with that back there?” I ask.
He frowns, and it looks genuine. “What back where?”
“Hello?” I gesture across the street. “In the museum?”
The side-eye looks authentic too. “I’ve been here the whole time. What are you talking about?”
“You were just on my tour,” I press him, less because I think he’s lying and more because I suspect he’s not. “You had all those documents for the painting.”
Max laughs. The dour guy he was a few minutes ago has vanished. “I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, but can I have some of it?”
I stand and run a hand through my hair. I excuse myself then walk across the bridge, trying to make sense of this newest wrinkle. Just when I’ve settled into the idea of living art, I learn that ghosts might be real too. The rose perfume smell, the hands—are those signs of ghostly possession?
No clue.
No bloody clue at all.
Who would know?
The only person I can think to ask is Remy. If there’s anyone in Paris who might have something useful to say about ghosts, I’m betting it’s him.
As I walk along the river, I ring him and launch into everything about Max.
“Interesting,” he says pensively, and that’s interesting too, since Remy is usually buoyant and bursting with words.
"Why is that interesting?” I press as a riverboat cruises by in the water below.
“My sister and I have been doing a little digging into forgers. We’ve gotten word that someone is back in business.”
“Someone?” I ask, tension in my voice.
“Julien, let me call you in a bit.”
“But . . .” I sputter, feeling desperate, needing to know what I can do to keep the Woman Wandering in the Irises safe.
“Good things come to those who wait,” he says, and that’s the Remy I know.
He hangs up, and I heave the most massive sigh as I stare at the screen.
With nothing to do but my final tour for the day, I return to the museum, chat up another group about Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet, and more, and shortly after they disperse, Remy’s name lights up my screen again. I duck into a stairwell.
“Can you get to the Marais in twenty minutes?”
“Sure. What part?”
He gives me an address. “Sophie has been casing a shop that may be a new forgery operation. And we think that’s where that guy doctored up those papers your friend brought you today.”
