The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne by M. L. Longworth

myself—have a favor to ask. It has something to do with a case he’s working on—”
    â€œMurder? Need a doc’s opinion?”
    â€œI’ll fill you in later,” Marine said. “But I can tell you it has something to do with Cézanne. That’s why Antoine needs you to come to the Palais de Justice.”
    â€œI’m intrigued.”
    â€œI thought you would be. Can you meet us there in an hour? At three p.m.?”
    â€œDoes Antoine need a theologian, too?” her father asked.
    â€œNo, but thank you,” Marine answered. Florence Bonnet and Antoine Verlaque weren’t the best of friends, but Marine found it touching that her father would want her mother to come along. The Bonnets were inseparable.
    Marine said good-bye and hung up the phone, thinking of her quick conversation a half hour earlier with Verlaque. He had immediately said that he was with Bruno Paulik, a hint that he couldn’t speak intimately to Marine, but he did say, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” before telling her about a supposed Cézanne portrait that he and Bruno were taking back to Verlaque’s office. He had also suggested that she come for dinner that evening, promising to light a fire in his fireplace and cook his winter specialty,
choucroute
, which he picked up from an Alsatian deli around the corner from his apartment. She had agreed, intrigued by the Cézanne story and caught off guard by the call; but she was looking forward to the meal. Sauerkraut, sausage, and boiled red potatoes—accompanied by one of the stellar Rieslings that Antoine had in his cellar—were one of her big loves. She had become, despite her upbringing,
une gourmande
. “I’m also a pushover,” Marine mumbled to herself as she made herself a coffee. She realized that she had overreacted on Friday evening, but she still had things she wanted to discuss with Antoine. It was time.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    â€œWell, one thing I’m sure about,” Anatole Bonnet said, looking down at the portrait and rubbing his chin, “it’s not Hortense, Mme Cézanne.”
    â€œIs it even a Cézanne?” Verlaque asked, pacing back and forth in his office.
    â€œI’d need to look at it longer, and have my books next to me,” Dr. Bonnet said. “But I think so, yes.”
    â€œI have chicken skin,” Paulik said, rubbing his muscular forearms. He adjusted the wool scarf that was twisted around his neck.
    â€œIt’s not that cold in here,” Verlaque said.
    â€œSpeak for yourself,” Paulik replied. “The heat works every other day in this building.”
    â€œI’m freezing,” Marine agreed. “Mme Cézanne always frowned, didn’t she, Papa?”
    â€œAlmost without exception,” Dr. Bonnet replied. “And this doesn’t look like her. Mme Cézanne had straight brown hair—always tied back—a long, fine nose; a small mouth; and almond-shaped eyes. Hands clasped, like this.” Dr. Bonnet nervously folded his hands together and Marine smiled, charmed by her father. His hands had more age spots than she remembered.
    â€œThere’s a portrait of Mme Cézanne at the d’Orsay where she looks like she’s ready to kill her husband,” Dr. Bonnet said. “And it was painted the year of their marriage—1886. That always struck me as odd.”
    Marine felt Verlaque staring at her. She looked down at the portrait and said, “This woman, whoever she is, is radiant.”
    â€œYes, she’s having a good time,” Verlaque said. “Which means that the painter was having a good time, too,
non
?”
    â€œOne would think that the two are related, yes,” Dr. Bonnet answered.
    â€œWhat makes you think that it’s a real Cézanne?” Paulik asked.
    â€œThe colors, for one,” Dr. Bonnet said. “It’s full of color, even her