1. A short walk from La Parroquia de San Miguel Arcangel,

I discovered the body of my grandfather, murdered in the museum. His museum. I came from Mexico City, but despite arriving early, the building is unlocked and the door ajar. This was a surprise, as my watch said 5:20 a.m. My grandfather lived on the third floor, and one must enter the museum to reach his residence. My first thought is he had not closed the door with enough force. In a distracted state, he forgot to lock up and set the alarm. The entry is oak and as a tall and wide as the original tree must have been and weighed at least two hundred pounds. If the hinges are not well oiled, the door is a struggle to close. Today, despite the weight, it opens with little effort. Perhaps the wind is to blame. Grandfather is a night owl and might be out. He often forgets about the alarm, having complete trust in the community. This trust is not unfounded, and he is respected here. Besides, all understood the futile nature of stealing from this museum. Once inside, I called out. “Hello?” None of the lights are on except for nightlights in the hall preventing one from stumbling in darkness.

I walked a short distance before turning right into a large, open room containing art and the stairs leading to my grandfather’s rooms. Next to the stairs is an elevator my grandfather uses due to his age. As I enter, something catches my eye. To my left, I spot a large object on the floor. Moving closer, I realize I am seeing a body, my grandfather’s body. He is splayed at an unnatural angle that instantly informed me of what happened. No living person can contort so. My grandfather was old, so one might expect him to take a tumble or have a heart attack. Anyone looking at him now saw neither happened. In the instant I glimpsed his body, I knew. Searching for a pulse, I find none. There is a stone bench near and wonder if he slipped and hit his head. Until I spot the empty place where a picture should hang. Had he encountered a thief and events turned violent? Yet no one need murder him as he was too old to put up a fight. Depending on the day, his age varied, but most days he claimed to be 100.

His death. His painting stolen, The Mona Lisa. But not that Mona Lisa. Everyone knows that painting does not reside in Mexico. This is an imitation in a museum of imitations. Why kill someone for a copy? One might question this verdict of murder, but how else to explain? And why steal from this place? Doing so is pointless.

I take out my phone and turn on the flashlight. That is when I observe blood on the floor and notice his head. Rolling him over, there is blood on the back of his skull. I study the wound and wonder if this injury happened in a fall. What if he slipped, fell backward, and hit his head? I look over at the stone beach. The distance is about right. The wound on the back of his head suggests a different story, as the gash is too large to be caused by the accidental collision with the bench. There is also the question of the painting. Where is it? What about murder? Such an idea shocks me. When I discovered the body, I felt shock and surprise. Why kill my grandfather? I look down, unsure of what to do. I lean over and again, search for a pulse, as if his condition might change. Still, there is none. The skin is not warm. I am no expert, but my guess is this happened in the middle of the night. But why? What happened? Later, the police ask how I had such composure.

I remain calm because this did not seem real. When I was little, we often played hide and seek. At first, I was not good and needed forever to find others. Once, after a long search, I found my grandfather lying on his back asleep. I gently shook him, and he woke. This seemed like a similar situation. I would nudge him, and he would open his eyes. I tried this and in a child’s voice said, “Grandpa, it’s time to wake up. Please wake up.”

After this failed, I studied the wall barren of the painting. Where is it? I glanced around, but it has disappeared. After I call the police, I start my search. Had my grandfather moved the picture and slipped as he returned? Falling in the same place as where the picture hung is an odd coincidence. Did he put the piece in storage? At that moment, there was a knock at the door. The police. I let them in, showed them my grandfather’s body, and pointed out what was missing. Later, an officer asked me questions.

“Please tell me what happened.”

“After flying into Mexico City, I took a flight to Querétaro, rented a car, and drove here. When I arrived, the front door was open. As I was passing through, something caught my eye. That is when I found his body.”

“Rather, a late night.”

“Yes. I considered staying in Mexico City and coming up tomorrow, but I was at the airport and figured I would save time.”

“How was the flight?”

“The flight to Querétaro was good. Grandfather told me this was a new service that was more business class than puddle jumper. He took one of the first flights and recommended it. ‘Sure beats driving,’ he said.”

“When did you arrive?”

“I arrived here at 5:20. This is the exact time because when I spotted the front door ajar, I looked at my watch. My grandfather stayed out late, but not this late. At first I assumed the wind must have blown the door open.”

“Why did you enter the museum?”

“To reach his living quarters on the third floor, I must pass through the museum.”

“Was there anything else unusual when you entered?”

“Nothing aside from the front door being ajar and the building not being alarmed. My grandfather kept door locked and alarmed until the museum opened.”

“Anything else?”

“I walked in, saw him, and the missing painting.”

The officer looked at the spot on the wall.

“Someone might have been stealing the picture when your grandfather walked in on him.”

“Yes, that is the idea I had. I looked around for the painting but have not found it. Once we finish, I will go to the basement and search for it there. It might be there, but he normally brings up a picture first before he puts the other in storage.”

“What if he took it down first? It is odd to do so in the middle of the night, but it’s possible.”

“Sometimes he can’t sleep, and gets out of bed and works,” I said.

“We will be here awhile, so tell me if you find anything. Aside from theft, this might be a deliberate homicide. Is there anyone who would want to murder your grandfather?”

I considered this question for a moment. “I’m not aware of any reason, but his past is a mystery to me. He lived in Europe during World War II, but people from that time would most likely be dead. Amazingly, my grandfather turned one hundred this year but looks much younger.”

This is the moment I broke. I used the present tense when talking of him, when his life was now relegated to the past. The tears flowed as the police officer awkwardly watched me and wonder how to be sympathetic. When I recovered, I apologized.

“Sorry, let me go check storage.”

The officer nodded his head in agreement, and I began walking. I cannot believe someone might have murdered my grandfather. Why? Was what happened an accident or planned by an enemy? What about the painting? Today, art often sells for staggering sums, but stolen objects are worth a fraction of the normal value. Despite this, many pieces are still worth stealing. Unless what they take is fake, like in this case. Everyone knows this. The name of this museum is The Museum of Fakes. My grandfather said, “Why not have a place with fake paintings that are replicas of the originals?” There is only one Girl with a Pearl Earring. To view this piece, you must travel to the Netherlands and visit the Mauritshuis Museum. Most great Western art is in Europe or the Eastern United States, which limits who experiences such beauty. If a copy closely resembles the original, does it matter if you are looking at a fake?

 This museum allows people to enjoy “art” that they might otherwise never view. So who would steal a fake and, in the process, kill my grandfather? Did the person imagine selling this as the original? This is a copy of the most famous painting in the world, the Mona Lisa. How could you sell it? “Trust me, the one in that museum in France is a fake. This is the real deal.”

But why else take it? Was this a ploy to throw the police off the scent? Make them believe the theft was the purpose of this visit, and the murder accidental? Or was this an accident? Maybe grandfather moved the picture, slipped and fell. I reached the staircase to the basement and paused. At this point, I could still pretend what happened was of his doing. But once I walked downstairs, I would discover the truth. Despite not wanted to know, I could not ignore the situation. If the painting is not here, murder must be the answer.

After taking a deep breath, I ascended the stairs and inserted my key into the lock. Once the door clicks open, I turn on the light and step inside. This storage area is climate controlled and maintained as if storing real art. In fact, he managed the whole museum as if containing masterpieces despite the exorbitant cost. He always locked the storage area, and I feel as if I am in the bowels of the Louvre as my great-grandfather did when working there long ago. Is this why the museum is run this way? Once inside, I close the door. Are any paintings out? Perhaps he put the piece down, forgot something, and returned upstairs. Walking around, I spot nothing out of place. Once I finish, I find the container marked Mona Lisa and sure enough, nothing is inside. It is not here or in the gallery. So someone stole it.

There are five hundred copies plus two hundred and fifty portraits painted by my grandfather and great-father on display. In addition, there are five hundred works in storage. My great-grandfather painted this copy of the Mona Lisa while working at the Louvre sometime between 1910 and 1914. He started working there a year before the theft of the Mona Lisa and left shortly after World War I started. Grandfather said the main reason his father worked there was to study the art. At least that was the story. This museum rotates pictures, but not the Mona Lisa, as everyone wants to see it. The art is not large 77cm x 53cm (30 in x 21in) so might it be somewhere else? Over the next ten minutes, I searched the room but uncovered nothing. There is no sign anyone had been here except my grandfather. I know because he had a system. There are two places to turn off the lights, and he made sure the switches were always in the same position. When he left, both faced down. Overall, there are a dozen different signs he uses, so he knows if others have been here. I always found this odd because there are only two of us aside from my grandfather that have keys. Besides, all the paintings are fake. After locking this room’s door and the storage area, I walk upstairs. The police officer that questioned me is making notes. As I approached, he motioned me over.

“Did you find anything?”

“No,” I said. “The painting is not downstairs, so someone must have stolen it.”

“But why?”

“That is the mystery. Everyone knows these paintings are fake.”

“Might an object be hidden in or on the frame?”

“Sure, but why?”

“The museum is the perfect place to exchange information. The man who was picking up this information was delayed and broke in at night where your grandfather confronted him.”

We both study the spot where The Mona Lisa once hung. The wall offered no clues, as it looked ordinary but with a faint outline of where the piece once was.

“What about the time of death,” I asked.

“I am not an expert, but guess between midnight and four. We will know more later.”

“Why are you visiting?”

“I needed a break and wanted to help him.”

"How long were you staying?”

“I didn’t have a plan. I lost my job two weeks ago and decided to come here. Now I have to stay.”

“Why?”

“My grandfather started this museum decades ago and showing fakes might seem silly, but this has been important to my family. He hoped to spur other such museums and help the world appreciate art more.”

“The museum is not silly. I love coming here. The community, especially artists, has benefited from what your family has done.”

“Thank you.”

I study the floor and try to imagine what happened. Did he slip, fall backward, and hit his head and somehow make that gash? He wanted people to believe they were in a famous museum in Europe, so the inside looked like those in Europe. He insisted the floor be a polished gloss, and while beautiful, they were treacherous when mixed with liquids. Many times my grandfather said, “These damn floors will be the death of me.” We both laughed when he said this; little did we expect such a prediction to come true.

Making great fakes might appear to be a challenge, but they are not. Many artists can re-create Girl with a Pearl Earring, but the original is only in one location. This means it is impossible to pass off copies of well-known paintings. For forgers, this becomes a quest of “finding” an unknown Vermeer or da Vinci. Even before doing tests, the first question is, “Does this look like a Vermeer?” Talented con artists such as Han van Meegeren fool the world by making everyone believe their story. Van Meegeren convinced the world that he “found” a new style showing how Vermeer developed as an artist. In hindsight, it seems impossible that his paintings might pass as Vermeer’s since they are so unalike. How was anyone fooled? He fooled them because people wanted to believe unknown Vermeers existed and he used techniques popular at the time. This reaffirmed society tastes as if to say, “See, even Vermeer liked this style.”

Currently, we attribute thirty-four paintings to Vermeer and they are in museums in Europe or the Eastern United States. Instead of fighting over who has what, why not make fakes everyone can enjoy? The power of art is not in an artist’s name or the cost of a piece, but how the art moves a person. Copies allow the masses to enjoy art no matter where they live.

For this reason, my grandfather picked a location without a major museum. He chose San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. When you picture a quiet colonial town where artists search for inspiration, you are picturing San Miguel de Allende. Now death has shattered this tranquility. But why take a fake? If someone liked the piece so much, why not buy a copy? One way the museum pays salaries is by selling fakes. The quality varies as an exceptional copy requires more time and money to make. The older the painting, the more costly it is to reproduce an exact copy. This is because one needs the proper paint, canvas, lacquer, and even nails. Often these pieces are sourced from paintings of the same period. Art hanging in this museum are some of the best fakes in the world, but they only sell the best to museums. There is a special coating that, although invisible to the eye, proves the piece is not the original. Museums buy these if theirs requires cleaning or is on loan. A few have bought a copy to replace stolen originals.

Whatever is going on involved more than the theft of this painting. This did not surprise me as both my great-grandfather and grandfather had secrets. My mother never had answers whenever I asked questions about my grandfather. She was the opposite of him and loved telling stories. My grandfather spoke about his life as if he heard the tale secondhand and unsure of their veracity. During my mother’s childhood, they spent a good part of the year traveling the world. Yet despite all these adventures together, they were never close. This was the nature of my grandfather. He was happy to see me but greeted me in the manner one might when seeing a friend’s child. No matter what I did, he kept me at a distance. Still, his death comes as a shock. Although not close to anyone, everyone liked him, so it seemed impossible that someone wanted him dead, especially at his age. Despite being a fake, the painting had value and might sell for several thousand dollars. To many here, that amount equals a year’s wages. Could someone have hidden a document in the frame? Perhaps a thumb drive attached to the back. A burglar broke in to retrieve the item when discovered. Then, whether on accident or on purpose, the person killed my grandfather. But why take the painting? This story is far-fetched but possible.

The police will likely never catch the killer or discover the motive. Can I? To a thief, the piece has limited value, but is important to me. It was one of the first pictures made by my great-grandfather. I would pay a good deal for its return. Still, the odds of recovery are slim and might take decades. What reason is behind the theft? Will documents lead me to an answer? Despite working here and knowing the paintings, I know about little else. Is there a hidden message in the art? Should I read The da Vinci Code for clues?