Moon over Tangier (The Francis Bacon Mysteries Book 3) by Law Janice

Author:Law, Janice [Law, Janice]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2014-08-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

I worked dutifully the rest of the morning, mixing my colors as close to those in the reproduction as I could. This proved a tricky business. Photo reproductions of paintings are never exact, and matching colors with different brands of oil paints is difficult. However, I persisted. The great man is supposed to have knocked off masterpieces in a single day’s work, and I had the advantage of having the complete design before me. By lunchtime, I had blocked in plausible colors for one of Picasso’s weeping, and hysterical­ women.

Poor Dora Maar; despite the many paintings she inspired, her affair with the great man does not seem to have been a happy one. I can’t say I cared for the results, but maybe it was just a case of material hitting too close to home, unhappy loves, and bad, obsessive behavior being much on my mind at the time.

Close to one o’clock, Elena appeared to tell me lunch was listo. She asked whether she should keep the food caliente.

I held up my hand for five minutes and started to clean my brushes. Was I wrong or had she taken a good look at the painting? Watch the paranoia, Francis. Downstairs, I had grilled sardines and a salad with red onions and oranges. Barring the coffee, Elena was an excellent cook, and I told her so in both French and English.

She smiled and nodded, the very model of the modern domestic—complete with a spy camera or a listening device in her capacious black purse? I did notice that she was never without it. When she went into the garden to get some rosemary, I got up from the table and sidled over to have a look. No camera. No mysterious recording device. What I saw instead was a small but heavy handgun. Right.

I got back to my seat and tried to look unconcerned, but when, a few minutes later, she bid me adios, I hurried up to the roof. I watched her wheel her bicycle out of the yard and set off down the road toward the port. She turned at the second cross street, where the tall trees in the neighboring gardens blocked my view. Dinner being late in the Spanish style, she wouldn’t be back for hours. As for the gardener, I had not seen him yet, and a glance into the yard below told me that he was not on the premises. Just as well; I never fancy being under observation, especially when I’m eager to fly the coop, literally or metaphorically.

But first, I dutifully checked the paint on the newest “Picasso” and convinced myself that it was too damp to add the details. That was good, because I had a serious need for diversion. Despite my new and pious name, the monastic life is not for me, and while cafes and restaurants were out of the question, life is full of possibilities if you have savoir faire. I decided that Jerome Hume had plenty.

He only

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