Page 38 of Outcast’s Return

Right now, like I said, I have a problem to solve, so I stifle the pain.

“You’re not going to stop me, Eustace.”

The man’s back straightens. He drops his fancy charade. His voice goes deep. The accent disappears.

“Fuck off, Fabien.”

“I’m here to talk to your clients,” I say coolly. “They’re here to buy that Juniper Wren from you, correct? This long-forgotten masterpiece, which she painted in her youth? The one that’s resurfaced only a few weeks ago? Somehow, you’ve come by this, and you’re hoping to become fabulously rich today, right?”

He takes a step back.

“How... how did you know?”

“I have my sources, Eustace. It takes steel to work in this industry. You’re about to scam millions of dollars from these people, and I can’t have that. Not in my city.”

He whips out his phone.

“You’ve gone too far, Fabien. I am calling the police. You will be arrested.”

I walk past him. What can he do? He can’t physically stop me.

I head straight up to the painting that the clients are admiring.

“I’m afraid you’re looking at a fake,” I announce to the group.

They all turn to look at me. They’re representatives of a corporate collection from Japan, here to purchase artwork of one of the most celebrated contemporary painters around. These men are not artists, or art lovers, but members of an investment group.

A very rich investment group.

Eustace is scrambling to their side.

“Don’t listen to this man,” he sneers. “He’s a nobody.”

I ignore the peacock. I take a step up to the painting and point at it. I have the businessmen’s attention.

“Look at these brushstrokes,” I explain. “They are not Juniper Wren’s. Hers are full of fire and impulse. These are too controlled. You could even say these brushstrokes are too fresh for an older piece.”

“Minor details,” one of the businessmen says. “That alone doesn’t prove that this is a fake.”

“Look here,” I continue, moving my hand down to the corner of the painting. “Wren always signs her work on the bottom left of her pieces, but this work has her signature on the bottom right. No way would she put her signature anywhere else. But do you want to hear what really convinces me, from this painting, that Eustace Escoffier is trying to con you?”

“Fabien Cote is a fraud,” Eustace cries out. “He’s the con man. He’s making up facts. Don’t listen to his drivel.”

“I’m listening,” another businessman says. “He’s making some good points. Please continue, Fabien Cote.”

So I do.

“Wren might be one of the greatest artists living today, but she is a recluse, living in self-exile on a remote Scottish island. Simply look at it and see what it is lacking. Her sheer emotional energy. The proof is here, in the eyes of her subject. This painting is missing her sadness.”

“How can you tell?” the first businessman asks. “How do you see this?”

I smile knowingly.

“Juniper Wren’s single mother was murdered at a pub when she was only a child, and she has woven that lifelong sadness into every piece of revolutionary art she’s created. But this painting? This isn’t Juniper Wren. This is not her work. I guarantee it. Don’t waste your money, gentlemen.”

Eustace steps in front of the painting, his eyes wild.

“He’s lying,” he splutters. “He simply wants to discredit me. He really is a nobody. He doesn’t know the first thing about art. For God’s sake, he didn’t even attend college.”