“You were missing for more than forty-eight hours.”
“Are you scolding me?” She was teasing. “I see they called the cavalry in. Tell me, does France not have police officers?”
“Apparently not ones who accept the idea of a Devil’s Circus.” Ben looked out in the street. “Those two were terrified.” He took her hand. “I was terrified… and angry… I was very angry with them and you.”
“You’re still angry with me.” She held his hand tightly. “It seemed like I was gone two hours at the most.” She took a sip of water and gazed out at the street. “It looks so different.”
“What does?”
“Montparnasse.”
Ben was confused. “Different from two days ago?”
She didn’t respond, tilting her body as the waiter reached over her shoulder, placing their salads with fresh burrata, tomatoes, and basil in front of them.
“So, did you get the answers you were looking for?” He stared down at his plate, trying not to let her know that the mere mention of Todd’s name earlier had his heart pounding in his chest. That she’d done all of this, put herself in harm’s way, all for answers—answers that he’d failed to give her. He’d failed, just as his father had done with Peter Beaumont.
She picked up her glass, holding it heavily in her hand like she might drop it. “He’s dead.”
“How do you—?”
“I’d like to just digest that information a bit if you don’t mind.” She gave him a sharp look that told him not to ask. She drifted away, like she was floating out to sea on a rhythmic current. “I said goodbye. There’s no point in looking for him anymore. Peter Beaumont, too.”
“What about Desmond Bennett?” He took a sip of wine and placed it back on the table. He hadn’t told her that he had a third case.
She leaned in and met his eyes. “What do you know about Desmond Bennett?” Then a knowing smile on appeared on her face. “Did you get some help from a Ouija board?”
“How did you—?” said Ben. “I was at Feed and Supply when the old Ouija board spelled out DEZ. I went and pulled the files from 1944 and guess what I found.”
“Desmond Bennett went missing in 1944. He was in love with my grandmother Margot. She’s the one who gave you that clue. Oh and yes, she’s dead and she exists in the circus.” She broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in olive oil. “But you can explain everything; there’s nothing magical going on at all.”
“I’ll admit,” he said, “I’ve seen things recently that I can’t explain.” He listened to the cars accelerate down the street, heard people laughing as they walked their dogs, caught the sound of cutlery as forks and spoons hit the table, and thought about Picasso working just a few doors down. It really did feel like a magical place here in Paris. It made him realize that he and Marla should have traveled more.
“I never subscribed to the occult version of Todd’s disappearance; you know that, but have you ever wondered why our town has zero crime?”
“I think you know that I wonder about it every day.”
“Since Margot,” said Lara, “my family has had to cast a protection spell each year—October ninth. It works except for once every thirty years, when it seems to fall apart for a night. You read the journals, right?”
“I did. My head is still spinning,” said Ben. “What a tale.”
“I know you’re a skeptic, but everything in those journals was true. It’s Esmé’s doing, so now we have to find her painting. I need to see what she looks like.”
“Now?”
“We’re not on a flight until tomorrow at eleven. We’ve got twelve hours. We need to find her before she finds us.”
“Lara, she’s like a hundred years old,” said Ben, puzzled. “Do you mean we need to find her grave?”
“No,” said Lara. “She is very much alive. It was Esmé who chased me in the Père Lachaise Cemetery.”
“Lara, let me repeat: She’d be a hundred years old.”
“She doesn’t look a hundred. She can run, too.” Lara had flagged the waiter and pointed to the tiramisu. “You have a choice. Either I’m crazy and you can explain everything or I’m sane and there is some really strange shit going on. I know the truth and I want answers. You’re either going with me or not, but I don’t want your help if you don’t believe me. I’ll get Barrow to go with me. It’s up to you.”
He sat back in his chair. There was a change in her since he’d last seen her on her front porch after the gala. Gone was the unsure girl who masked her grief for everyone. This Lara was confident. He’d never seen her so sure of anything, but in the year he’d known her, he’d always thought she was grounded. She deserved his trust now. Suddenly Ben became suspicious of the people around them. “Tell me everything, from the beginning.”
She smiled and spun her fork, leaning back in the chair. “You’d better order some strong coffee. You’re going to need it.”
In the morning, Lara and Audrey met Ben, Barrow, and Gaston for breakfast. When she got down to the hotel lobby, they were all waiting for her eagerly.
“Bad news,” said Gaston. “Our flight has been delayed. They rebooked us for tomorrow morning.”
“So now we have more time to hear the story,” said Barrow.
Over croissants and pains au chocolat, she recounted the story for them.
“We need to find Esmé’s painting,” said Lara, pushing her porcelain cup away.
“I’ve been looking for that painting for twenty years now,” said Barrow, ruffled.
“And Lara has discovered two of them in a matter of weeks.” Gaston sipped his espresso. “My bet is on her to find the remaining one.”
Barrow conceded.
“I figure that Émile told Cecile that he threw Esmé’s painting away out of shame, but I doubt that he actually destroyed it,” said Lara. She could feel the ache of Cecile inside her, the burden of carrying another being. There were pangs of melancholy at hearing Giroux’s name batted around among the group. Lara realized these emotions were Cecile’s, yet they were now hers as well.
“I agree,” said Barrow. “No artist destroys his work, especially if it is a great one. He had to know the three paintings were something special.”
“Fragonard said his father found Cecile Cabot Takes Flight in the trash,” said Gaston.
“Art was traded around in that neighborhood quite a bit, back then,” said Barrow. “Giroux’s apartment would be a good first place to look, but frankly, it’s a long shot.”
“This entire thing has been a long shot,” said Ben. “Lara and I will try his old apartment building.”
“I’ll check the records for other art that was bought and sold around that time in Montparnasse,” said Barrow, placing his sunglasses on his head as he rose from the table. It was another hot, humid day in Paris, yet Barrow’s white jeans and black T-shirt looked refreshingly cool. “It might have been added to a sale if they thought there was little value to it at the time.”
Lara thought her mother looked tired. “You should go back and rest. We’ve all been here longer and we’re over the jet lag.”
“I just need you to be careful,” said Audrey, touching Lara’s arm.
“Let’s actually try to do a little sightseeing.” Gaston took Audrey’s hand. “Let me show you my hometown.”
“I’ll take care of her, Audrey,” said Ben.
“You can join me,” said Lara, placing her messenger bag across her body. “I can take care of myself.”
Ben and Lara took a cab back to Émile Giroux’s old apartment in Montparnasse, just blocks away from where they’d dined last night. Lara didn’t need to consult a map for the street. Cecile knew the way to Rue Delambre. As they opened the foyer door, she could feel Cecile’s ache inside her, especially as she gazed up at the stairs to the second floor and his door. To be back in his house.
“Are you okay?” Lara was shocked to hear herself, forgetting she wasn’t alone.
“Huh?” Ben looked perplexed.
“I’m fine.”
“Of course you are,” said Lara, composing herself. Cecile did not respond and Lara felt a tug of pity for her.
The building was not in great condition, and Lara thought that the rickety staircase had not been fixed since Giroux lived here. While the old wood was still beautiful, it was battered from neglect. The black-and-white-checkered floor was new but cheap. Everything about this apartment building felt just as transactional as it did from the days Giroux lived here.
Ben knocked on the door of the first-floor apartment.
After some time, an older woman answered the door. Her hair was a red, almost purple color, but her white roots were visible and she wore a black Adidas tracksuit.
“Bonjour,” said Lara. She let Cecile speak for her, in perfect French: “Are you the owner?”
“Oui,” said the lady. She folded her arms defensively. Her red nails were lacquered.
“Do you know who owned this house before you?” Lara looked beyond the woman into her apartment. It was cluttered, and Lara could see the walls were littered with artwork from all different periods and styles. The pastels of the Impressionists seemed to get their own wall above a pink velvet sofa.
“My father,” said the woman, pulling the door shut a hair to block Lara’s curiosity. “And my grandmother before him. We’ve owned this house for more than eighty years. What’s this about?” The woman looked from Ben to Lara suspiciously.
“I’m looking for a very old painting of a circus. It would be an unusual painting of a lion tamer—a woman. The artist who painted it lived here at one time. We thought there might be a chance that the painting was left here.”
“Are you saying we stole it?” The woman’s voice rose as she leaned her arm on the doorjamb defiantly.
“No, nothing like that,” said Lara. “The painter died. We think it might have just passed down to either the landlady at the time or one of the neighbors.”
“Is it valuable?” The woman was all business.
“Oui,” said Lara. “Quite valuable. Would you have a basement or an attic?”
“Ask her if the Germans took anything during the war,” Ben mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking from foot to foot.
The woman understood the term and shook her head. “They never bothered with us. I have not seen anything.” She began to shut the door on them, but Lara was quick.
“It’s very valuable,” said Lara, handing her Barrow’s card. “He is with the Sorbonne and can help you. We’re merely trying to find it. They would pay you for it.”
The woman eyed them warily and shut the door. As they made their way back out the door and onto the street, Ben put his sunglasses on. “She’s lying.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s my business.” He stepped over to the curb and studied the house. “She thinks we’re trying to steal something from her, so she’s not telling us what she knows.”
“It’s exactly what I would think,” said Lara. “If someone came to my house claiming to be looking for a painting, I’d have immediately called you.”
Ben pointed to a café across the street. “If my hunch is correct, she’ll make a move. Let’s just hang over there out of sight and see what happens.”
“Really?” Lara looked at the closed door.
“Really,” said Ben.
After a few minutes, they found a table outside and ordered two café au laits and water.
Ben settled in his chair and turned it to face the house. “I think I could get used to this,” he said, tapping on the table and tilting his face to the sun. He wore a crisp white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and cargo shorts. Immediately, he turned the sleeves another roll.
“It’s nice to know your starched shirts made the journey,” said Lara, adjusting her own sunglasses. She fixed her stare on the house and added sugar to her café au lait and stirred it with a tiny spoon. Given someone was trying to kill her, she found herself looking around for versions of the ponytailed lady. Settling into her Parisian cane chair, she thought she’d try small talk. “So is this your first time in Paris?”
“Oui.” He laughed, trying out his first French word. “My starched shirts and I don’t travel much, maybe Jamaica and the Keys.”
Across the street, the door to the apartment opened and the woman emerged from the house, shifting her weight like she had a bad knee. She now was wearing sunglasses and sneakers and it appeared she’d put on lipstick.
“I’ll be damned. There she goes,” said Lara. “Are we tailing her?”
“We are.” He smiled.
“You go without me,” she said to Ben as she flagged down the waitress.
Ben looked reluctant, but she motioned him on, so he slid out of the chair and took off after the woman. Lara could see that he only made it to the end of the block. After settling the bill, Lara joined him and they ducked behind one of the trees on the wide boulevard. The woman knocked on a door a block down from her own house.
“She didn’t go far,” said Lara. “Why didn’t she just call?”
“Because she wants to see the painting.” Ben held up a map and pretended to be studying it intently.
A man wearing a Brazilian soccer T-shirt answered. After a few brief words, both he and the lady shut the door and were in the house for about twenty minutes. Then the red-haired woman emerged, folding her arms in front of her and scurrying back to Émile’s old house. Ben and Lara had to scramble ahead of her to avoid detection.
Ben wrote the address on a piece of paper. “We’ll ask Barrow to find out who lives there. My bet is that painting is one in of those two houses. They just didn’t know it was valuable.”
“But how could they not know?” Lara placed her hands on her hips and paced the street before gathering her long hair up and twisting it into a hair tie. “Montparnasse was swimming with famous painters. Surely an old painting would at least get you thinking.” It was a bit of a letdown to come away with nothing. She sighed, frustrated.
“You didn’t really think we’d just storm in there and come out with a painting, did you, Nancy Drew?” He was amused.
“No…” But her face gave her away. “Yes,” she admitted, and fanned herself from the heat with her hand.
“Leads don’t work like that. You plant the seed. Trust me, we put something into motion here.”
Lara smiled and looked up at him. “You’re kind of brilliant for a policeman with no crime to fight.”
“I know,” he said with a chuckle. “Where to next?”
It wasn’t Lara who answered; it was the voice in her head.
Can we go to the Rue Mouffetard?
“Maybe we can go to the Rue Mouffetard?” said Lara, echoing her head.
“The market?” Ben shrugged. “Sure.”
They spent the day retracing Cecile’s old steps. Lara felt like a tour guide, feeling a rush of joy as Cecile revisited every location. Lara could feel the disappointment as they visited Les Halles, the market Cecile had remembered, now gone. Despite the magical day, she kept looking over her shoulder and searching the crowd for anyone who might be Esmé.
Later the group gathered at a little restaurant, Drouant, near the Paris Opera House for a final dinner. The night was warm but a thunderstorm was threatening, so they chose a table under the beige awning and hoped for the best. Gaston ordered a bottle of Meursault and a northern Rhône Syrah to get them started.
In the span of a week, Lara had grown fond of Gaston and Barrow. She felt a profound sense of accomplishment for what they’d discovered together. Althacazur had promised her answers. He’d been true to his word, but an undeniable sadness had begun to settle in her. She’d gotten her answers. Todd was dead. After all these years, she now understood her magic, and the gravity of its origins hung heavily. She and her mother were part daemon. She would return home and either succeed in bringing Esmé back to Le Cirque Secret or die trying. In the unlikely event that she succeeded, she’d agreed, however reluctantly, to become t
he patron of Le Cirque Secret, likely located in the eighth level of Hell for eternity. She’d been the one, all right.
Looking around the table, she decided that she was going to savor everything about this evening. She’d positioned herself next to Barrow, telling him every detail of the circus. He was animated, hardly even stopping to place his order of stuffed lamb with Vadouvan herb salad.
Across the table from her sat Ben Archer. He was her biggest regret. She wanted more time with him.
Finally, Barrow held up his wineglass. “To the Ladies of the Secret Circus.” Everyone clinked their glasses.
Later, Audrey fell asleep, snoring lightly. Lara lay wide awake.
“Will he change his mind?” She asked the question softly for Cecile. “Will I have to spend eternity in the circus?”
He doesn’t change his mind, Lara. I’m sorry.
“Can you go to sleep or something? There is something I have to do.”
Of course.
Lara crept out of the room and down the hall and found room 504. She knocked on it and Ben Archer opened it. He didn’t seem surprised.
Lara held out two hotel wineglasses and a mini bottle of champagne. “This tiny bottle of champagne is fifty dollars and I’m going to drink it.”
“Didn’t anyone tell you not to drink the wine?”
“This is France, Ben,” she said in a whisper. “You do drink the wine here.”
“For someone who is in danger, you sure do run around unaccompanied a lot. Does your mother know you’re here?” He opened the door wide.
The Ladies of the Secret Circus Page 37