Page 46 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“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.
