The Vanishing Museum on the Rue Mistral (A Provençal Mystery, Band 9) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

M. L. Longworth has lived in Aix-en-Provence since 1997. She has written about the region for The Washington Post, The Times (London), The Independent (London), and Bon Appétit. She is the author of a bilingual collection of essays, Une Américaine en Provence, published by La Martinière in 2004. She is married and has one daughter.

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Chapter One

Friday, April 20

Lea Paulik wished that the little man leading them around the museum had permitted them to leave their backpacks in the front hall. Her back was killing her, the heaviness of her textbook a constant reminder of the Spanish homework she still had to do quickly during her lunch break. It was her own fault, she knew. She had stayed up too late scrolling through Instagram and texting Alexandra until she heard her father pound out of her parents' bedroom and into the living room to unplug the router. How had he known? She looked across the room and winked at Alexandra, who was intermittently yawning and chewing gum.

Lea shifted, trying to balance the weight on her back. She turned to look at the painting that the little man was going on and on about. The painter's last name, Olive, was easy to remember. That would come in handy, as Mme Forbin was going to quiz them on Tuesday about this visit. Lea didn't mind because she always paid attention. She knew how lucky she was to get these kinds of outings at the College Mignet, her junior high school in Aix's posh Quartier Mazarin. Many of her classmates were posh themselves, and she looked around at them now. They were either yawning like Alexandra, looking down at the floor, or whispering to a friend. She looked back at the painting, and this time she heard the painter's full name: Jean-Baptiste Olive.

"This charming tableau was painted in the late nineteenth century," the little man said. "I'm sure it's obvious to you all that it's of the entrance to the port of Marseille. Olive did many paintings of this exact same scene, but this one has always been my favorite. Its bright light on the water-"

"Oh! I recognize that spot!" yelled Zo‘, probably the richest girl in the whole school. "We go sailing by there all the time!"

At least ten of their classmates groaned, and Lea smirked, but Zo‘ didn't seem to notice.

"I love the smoke," Mme Forbin said, taking off her glasses and leaning in closer. "Students, look at the bright blue sea and clear sky at the entrance to the port. But if we look up into the old town, the sky is almost black." She pointed to the streets and buildings that surrounded Marseille's port and LŽa tried to get closer to see. Sure enough, several chimneys emitted a thick gray smoke. Marseille's sky was always a brilliant blue whenever she visited it with her parents. "Why do French towns no longer have that kind of smoke?" Mme Forbin asked the class.

"Because it's from coal," Lea said.

Mme Forbin smiled and nodded. "Exactly."

The little man seemed to be getting edgy; he didn't know that Mme Forbin, when you got her on an interesting subject, could go off track until the bell rang. Those were always Lea's favorite times at school. "Come along and look at the porcelain," he said.

"Oh, goody!" cried Eddy Peyrot, rubbing his hands together in mock glee.

Lea laughed despite herself-she didn't like Edouard Peyrot, even though her friend Alexandra adored him. She looked over at Mme Forbin, who was covering her grin with the palm of her hand. "Oui, M Formentin," she said, pulling her hand away from her mouth. "By all means, the students would love to see the porcelain."

Eddy slid up beside Lea and said, "That painting must be worth a fortune, eh?"

Lea shrugged. "Not as much as a Manet."

Eddy frowned. "You mean Monet."

"No. I mean Manet. Fdouard Manet."

Grinning, Lea went to stand next to Mme Forbin, who had again taken off her glasses to look more closely at the porcelain. A few of the students were leaning on the plexiglass case, and M Formentin asked them to step back. He took out a clean white cotton cloth from his jacket pocket and began wiping the case as he spoke. "These porcelain dessert plates are one of the pride and joys of mine . . . of the museum. Mme Quentin-Savary used this service right up until her death in 1900. They were made at the porcelain factory in Sevres, just south of the capital."

Lea nodded. She had been to that museum with Marine Bonnet and her mother. She looked down at the dozen or so plates, each one with a hand-painted fruit in its center: wild strawberries, fat purple plums, walnuts in their fuzzy green shells, and almost-translucent purple grapes. Some of the other students were pointing and muttering names of fruits, and it quickly became a competition to see who could identify each fruit the fastest. M Formentin stepped back a tiny bit, his arms folded across his chest and a satisfied grin on his flushed face. He reminded her of a television character from a show her parents watched: a short, fastidious Belgian who walked with tiny footsteps, like a penguin.

"Et maintenant," M Formentin announced with a dramatic flourish of his right hand, "les bustes des personnages illustres d'Aix . . . notre chere ville." He pointed toward the far corner of the room and began walking there as the students slowly followed.

Lea couldn't see that far, as she was stuck at the back of the group. Was it a bust of Cezanne? She hoped so. Or Zola? LŽa was proud that she had gotten into the music program at Mignet, a school that boasted such illustrious alumni as the famous painter and his best friend the writer, although in their day Mignet had been a high school. Her parents, too, were over the moon when she was admitted after an agonizing choral audition.

Lea looked to her left and there was Alexandra, looking down at the dessert plates. Lea lifted up her cell phone and quickly took a photo. Lea looked at Alexandra and whispered, "Isn't this a cool museum?"

"Totally," Alexandra replied.

Lea giggled and gave her a thumbs-up. Alexandra smiled, happy to have a friend at last, even if Lea was the other geek in the class. Lea Paulik looked young for her age, but her intelligence and musical talents set her apart. "Lea's on a different planet," one of their fellow students once remarked. But if Lea Paulik was on a different planet, that only made her even more interesting. She was smart and didn't hide it, and Alexandra admired that. Plus, Lea's father was a police commissioner, which was just about the coolest job on the planet.

"Et voilˆ!" M Formentin said, barely containing his excitement about the first bust.

Lea's face fell in disappointment. It was neither Cezanne nor Zola, both of which she could have picked out.

Alexandra raised her arm in the air.

"And who is it, Alexandra?" Mme Forbin asked.

"Mirabeau!" Alexandra answered, almost breathless with excitement.

Lea smiled and looked at the bust; the man's fat head, his pockmarked skin. He was wearing one of those big wigs with rolls of sausage curls and a fancy frilly shirt under a vest with three big buttons. But despite the bad skin and stupid wig, he looked scary in a way. Formidable.

"C'est exacte!" M Formentin replied.

"It's in terra-cotta," Mme Forbin said. "Not marble."

"Ah, oui," M Formentin said, sighing with a slight air of apology. "The marble version is in the Louvre."

"In the nation's capital!" Eddy said.

Again, Lea laughed despite herself. Referring to Paris as "the capital" was old-fashioned. Her parents didn't like that expression, "As if there are no other cities in France!" her father would complain. "As if all life revolves around Paris," her mother would add.

"Ah, oui," M Formentin said again with...