Blame it on Paris (Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 7)

by Lise McClendon

  Yet it was obvious. Whatever schoolgirl crush she’d felt revived by his appearance along the Seine was ridiculous. There was no there there. No us. She felt like a fool. But in a way it would make things easier. They were just acquaintances, people who once knew each other but no longer did.

  Vera Prescott was gabbing to the person on the other side of her, a well-preserved British lady of a certain age. They were discussing the weather and flowers. “Everything seems awfully late this year, doesn’t it?” the lady said in a posh accent.

  “Have the pink trees bloomed?” Francie said, aware of her intrusion into their conversation but not caring. “The ones on the islands in the Seine? I thought I saw some but then I never found them.”

  Vera and the British woman looked at her with the strangeness she deserved. “The plum trees?” Vera asked. “They bloomed two weeks ago. And the magnolias too.”

  “Ah. So I’m late, not the trees,” Francie said nonsensically.

  “Are you staying long in Paris,” the British woman asked. “I’m Millie, by the way.”

  “Hello, Millie. No, not long. I’ve been helping an American student who got himself into some trouble here. But I’ve found him a good lawyer so I’m done, more or less.”

  “Oh, you should stay on,” Vera said. “The gardens are only going to get prettier. April is usually in full bloom by now.”

  Francie smiled and ate her soup. It was creamy asparagus and delicious. She concentrated on it with a fervor. This dinner party was going to drag on for hours. She ran a litany of excuses through her head: stomach cramps, early flight, food allergies, fainting spells. All seemed ridiculous.

  Dylan cleared his throat. “So, the lawyer worked out?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. Monsieur Caillaud was very helpful.”

  “I’m glad.” She looked up and his eyes smiled at her. That was confusing.

  “The only problem is getting him out before trial.” Legal discussion was safe. Strictly professional, that was the way to play it. “No bail or whatever for him, it appears.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “If you saw that prison—“ She shuddered. “But he’s a foreigner. They think he’ll skip, I guess.”

  “Did you visit him in prison?” Dylan asked as the soup bowls were taken away by a young man.

  Francie nodded. “Fresnes. Have you been there?”

  “No. Is it as bad as they say?”

  “It’s pretty horrible.” She looked around the table at the happy diners. “I can’t describe it at dinner.”

  “And Yvon Caillaud. He said no pre-trial release?”

  “No chance. And it may take a year until trial.”

  Vera Prescott was listening in. “What are his charges, dear?”

  “Drug trafficking,” Francie said. The older ladies looked shocked. “He says he’s being set up.”

  “What do you think?” Dylan asked.

  “It’s possible, I guess.”

  The next course was set in front of them, a large bowl of cassoulet, rich with duck sausage, confit, and beans. Francie complemented Vera and hoped silently that she didn’t have to eat it all. The creamy soup had made her full.

  Dylan was pouring red wine into her glass. She moved to stop him then dropped her hand to her lap. He poured himself an equal amount and passed the bottle down the table.

  “What does the Embassy say, if I may ask?” Dylan said.

  “I don’t know really. I never found anyone interested in his case.”

  “Because, drugs,” Vera said, nodding knowingly.

  “Have you spoken to the legal attaché?” Dylan again.

  “I don’t think so. What’s his name?”

  “Walker Crum. He’s only been here a year or so but he’s been around Europe. He can help you if anyone can.”

  Francie felt a rush of gratitude. He still was helping her. Did that mean anything besides he was a good person? “Can you—?”

  Dylan looked up. “Put you in contact? Of course.” He picked up his wine glass. “We forgot to toast.” He waited expectantly until she got the message, picked up her wine glass, and clinked it on his. “Santé.”

  She repeated the toast to good health and took a small sip of the wine. It coated her tongue with blackberries and smoke. Delicious.

  Dylan nodded appreciatively to Mrs. Prescott. “Très buvable, madame.”

  The rest of dinner flew by in a blur of chit-chat about American and British topics— politics, soccer, books, movies, and gardens. Francie kept her peace, concentrating on not drinking enough wine that someone would refill her glass, and feeling the odd sensation of Dylan next to her.

  Just when it seemed the dinner would never end it suddenly did. Brant Prescott rose at the far end of the table and clapped his hands. “That’s all, folks,” he said cheerfully. The guests chuckled, amused by his abruptness but all sated with French deliciousness. The chocolate cake that Merle bought was very much enjoyed. Even Francie had a sliver.

  They all pushed in their chairs, then split off to find coats and venture out into the night. Francie found Merle and Pascal.

  “That was lovely. I should go tell Brant thank you.”

  The host was surrounded by guests. “It’s all right. I told him for you,” Merle said. “Are you eager to go?”

  “Let’s walk this off.”

  The coats were on a bed down the hall. The guests crammed the hall, trying to get in. Pascal elbowed his way in for them. When he reappeared with his and Merle’s coats he was smiling. “I couldn’t find your coat, Francie.”

  Then, behind him, there was Dylan Hardy, holding her red raincoat.

  “Is this yours?” he asked her.

  “It is.” She turned and let him ease her into it. “Thanks, Dylan. It was good to see you tonight. And I’ll be looking for that attaché’s information from you.”

  “Dylan is staying in the First. He can walk back with us?” Pascal said with fake innocence. “Okay, ladies?”

  Francie shot Merle a look. Her older sister just smiled. What could anyone do when confronted with the romantic intrigue of a Frenchman?

  “Of course.” She smiled at Dylan. He was stone-faced with politeness. He wasn’t telegraphing his feelings at this point, but he’d agreed to walk back with them. She sighed, unable to read men after all these years.

  They walked down the stairs with a clattering crowd of diners, some of whom Francie never got around to meeting. They all appeared tipsy and happy, expounding on the dishes and the company. At the sidewalk they split off into groups, some walking north, some south, some to cars, some to the Métro. The Bennett sisters and the two men headed south along the canal. The still water reflected the streetlights and the neon of storefronts, sparkling in the evening mist.

  They walked four abreast for a block then Merle and Pascal picked up their pace, linking arms and skipping ahead. Francie sent her sister a silent curse and smiled at Dylan. He didn’t look up, watching his shoes with hands deep in his coat pockets. Merle and Pascal increased their lead to nearly a block. She could hear them scheming and giggling.

  Finally, unable to handle the silence anymore, she said, “So, you live in the First Arrondissement?”

  Dylan startled then smiled. “No. Just staying at a colleague’s flat while he’s in New York. The firm does that sometimes, when it works out.”

  “Oh, like a house swap?”

  “Only he’s not staying at my place. It’s too far out of the city.”

  “Where are you these days? I’ve completely lost track.” God, she sounded like an airhead.

  “White Plains. You?”

  “Greenwich. I don’t live right in the town though. Too pricey.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  A thought popped into her head. Merle thought he was single but she had to know for sure. “You’re married, right? I seem to remember hearing… her name’s Rebecca, right?”

  He paused. “Divorced. We have a d
aughter, Phoebe.”

  “Oh, lovely. How old?” This was like a college reunion, every bit as painful. As fun as going to the dentist. But at least he wasn’t married.

  “Eight. You have kids?”

  “Nope.”

  “Husband?”

  “Divorced like you.” Just a couple of lonely rejects, wandering around Paris.

  He nodded to himself, then looked up at her, making her slow her pace. “Actually I knew all that about you. I, you know, keep up.”

  She smiled at his confession. “Dylan Hardy, have you been stalking me?”

  He grinned. “More or less.”

  They started walking again but everything seemed different. His grin, for one thing. It sent chills.

  “Since we ran into each other here, or before?” she thought to ask.

  “Oh, both. Well, since my divorce. Just four years, that’s all.”

  “Just four years? Not a full-fledged stalker then?”

  A block of silent walking. Then he said, “Your sister and that French guy seem happy together.”

  “Oh, yeah. Pascal. He’s a cop here. He’s pretty amazing. Can you tell he almost died about six months ago? This nut-case locked him up in a museum and he almost starved to death.”

  “Wait— I heard about that. Was it in the papers? Down in the south somewhere?”

  “Right. And my sister found him and saved him. They have, like, this magical bond. She led the police to him.”

  “Wow.” He looked ahead wistfully into the mist, at Merle and Pascal.

  “I know,” Francie said softly. “Wow.”

  “Magical bond,” Dylan repeated softly. “I like that.”

  They crossed busy streets and ventured into the Marais. Francie forgot to ask him where his apartment was exactly. They floated, each unwilling to break the spell. Then, as they reached her block, she had to break the silence.

  “If you knew I was divorced, Dylan, why didn’t you call?”

  He stopped and faced her. “Should I have?”

  Francie opened her mouth to say something frothy and silly— always her go-to stance when she might be embarrassed— but stopped when she saw his face. The golden light of an old streetlamp shone against his cheek. His jaw muscle twitched, betraying the flint in his eyes. All was not forgiven. And why should it be? She had dumped him. Years ago, sure, but she dumped him.

  His eyebrows were lowered, giving his face deep shadows. He looked menacing, or at least angry. Francie lowered her chin, trying to think of what to say, how to make up for her actions. How many years had it been? Fifteen? Seventeen? That obviously made no difference to Dylan.

  He made no move, no turning away. So she squared her shoulders and pushed back a strand of loose hair.

  “I’m an idiot, Dylan. Still. But I was really an idiot back in law school.”

  She looked up at him, hoping her words were some solace. She had hurt him, more than she knew. When he continued staring at her, she whispered, “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

  He broke the stare then, looking down the sidewalk where Merle and Pascal had disappeared. He closed his eyes for a long moment and said, “I never got over you. I think I married Rebecca because she had red hair, like you. You were always there, in my marriage, that’s what she said.”

  She wanted to touch his arm, his cheek, but held herself back. It wasn’t fair to him after all she’d done. Instead she told him, “My ex-husband looked a lot like you too.”

  “What’s he like, your ex?”

  “Well, he’s dead. Did you find that out?” He shook his head. “He died in a car accident last year. He drank— a lot. He was a pilot. We took lots of trips, all over the world. That was fun, but he wasn’t much fun. Not when he drank.”

  Dylan’s nostrils flared. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. Not physically. Just here.” She patted her chest, over her heart.

  “I know what that’s like,” he mumbled.

  They walked slowly toward the apartment building. At the door Francie turned and said, “Why do you think we both ended up in Paris? Was it some kind of wild French coincidence? Or did you hack into my email?”

  He smiled. “Just magic.”

  “The magic of Paris? Or of second chances?”

  He moved closer to her. “Do you believe in second chances?”

  She didn’t recognize her own voice when she said, “I believe in everything.”

  Twenty-Two

  The coffee shop was a typical student hangout, near the University of American Business in the 19th Arrondissement, a place called Le Mieux, or The Best. The front faced east and the morning was sunny for a change. Francie ordered a café au lait and took it to a bench on the sidewalk. She perched on one end, trying to blend in while listening to customer chatter.

  This was the closest coffee shop to the business school. She had forgotten to ask Reece where he hung out but based on the English spoken here, she thought this was a good guess. She took out her phone and thumbed idly through photos of Paris she’d taken while she eavesdropped.

  Last night buzzed in her head. Dylan had never gotten over her: it amazed her she could have that effect on anyone. She wasn’t that sort of a woman, in her experience. She was just as likely to be rejected, to have her heart broken, like Tom had done to her. Dylan had put his arms around her and she’d laid her forehead on his shirt, his warm chest where she’d felt so safe years before. They hadn’t kissed. It seemed too early, too scary. What might happen if they fell madly in love again and hearts were broken— again.

  And yet. She’d hardly slept, a frisson in her blood. Merle had admitted that she had moved the place cards around on the Prescott’s table so that she and Dylan sat together. It was harmless, Merle cried, smiling broadly. Pascal hadn’t let Merle stay up and talk however. Francie didn’t mind. She didn’t want to discuss Dylan. She didn’t know what she’d say.

  So many years had passed. Did she even know him anymore? How could she? He couldn’t know her despite his cyberstalking. Which was a little troubling in itself. What did four years of obsession with an old girlfriend mean? Was he a little off?

  She took a deep breath and promised to keep an open mind. She would probably be going home in a few days anyway. Maybe she’d see him back in the US, maybe not.

  A group of American or Canadian students walked into the café and stood in the line just inside the door. Francie scooted closer to listen to them.

  “There’s some house music or, you know, electric swing. Let’s try to make it on Thursday, okay?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Somewhere on the other side of Paris. We’ll have to take the RER.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “I talked to Whitney. She said they would try. I think one of them has an exam on Friday.”

  “Bummer.” General laughter. “Never stopped me.”

  Francie got up and stood in line behind them. They continued to plan an outing to a musical event and talk about various friends. Finally, she tapped one on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, hi.” She flashed her smile. “Are you guys students at the American Business U? Sorry, I couldn’t help overhear.”

  They assured her they were and didn’t seem concerned with her butting into their conversation. “So do any of you know Sami Amoud? He was a student here last semester.”

  A pause while several students glanced around. A young man with a hipster beard said, “Yeah, we remember him. He’s gone though.”

  “Gone? Do you know where he went?”

  A young woman with an eyebrow piercing frowned at her. “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m a friend. Actually I’m a friend of his roommate. His old roommate.”

  The line shuffled forward and the students turned away from her. They knew who Sami’s roommate was, and what had happened, apparently. She let them order their coffees and as they stood to one side, waiting, she decided to come clean.

  “I’m trying to find friends of Reece Pugh. I�
�m working with his legal team.” She looked at each of them, pleading with her eyes. “If you know anyone who might be able to tell me anything about what happened in December, it would really help.”

  “Where is he?” another woman asked.

  “In prison. It’s nasty, I won’t lie. I’m trying to get him out on bail but we have no information about what went down here. The police aren’t very forthcoming.”

  “Pigs,” the hipster mumbled.

  “That sounds about right,” said another man.

  Francie waited for someone to crack, to open up. “Please, if you know somebody who might be able to help?”

  Their coffees came out and one by one they picked them up at the counter and went outside to sit at a table, ignoring her. The last to order was a young woman in a flowered skirt, combat boots, and a ratty shawl around her shoulders. She turned to Francie before exiting the café.

  “Look. We don’t know anything. But Jean and Victoria might. They, you know, party.”

  “He mentioned them. Do you know their last names or where they live.”

  “On Rue Défense, right on the corner.”

  “The corner of what?”

  “This street. Down there.” She gestured to the south. “Ask at that shop on the corner, the tea house.” She looked outside. “I have to go.”

  Francie left her cup on the counter and let the woman meet up with her friends before she left the café. She turned left on the sidewalk and walked to the corner. No tea house but this wasn’t Rue Défense. She kept going. On the next block she found the street, but there were apartment buildings on all four corners. Where was the tea house? She spun around until she realized it was right behind her.

  The tea house had no visible sign. A small placard in the window advertised a popular brand of tea and had a lineup of pretty porcelain cups on the sill. It was dark inside, with walls painted deep violet and gray. A few tables were occupied with more students and the counter was manned by a large, red-haired man with a goofy grin.