See You In My Dreams

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  He needed answers before he saw Nikki, again. Otherwise, she'd never listen.

  ~ * ~

  Max sped along the twisting, curving road, the vibration of the powerful motorcycle engine energizing him. Florimel Dombasle and her husband Pierre had retired for the summer to their country house less than an hour from his farm. What if Madame Dombasle had no answer for him? What if he came away with more questions?

  He rounded a sharp curve and eased up on the gas, slowing the old Harley. If he remembered correctly, the entrance to Belle Rêves was near.

  Ah. He recognized the stone entrance. Tuning into the narrow lane which lead to the house, he couldn't help but admire the old farmhouse.

  Farmhouse, indeed ... Much closer to a mansion than a farmhouse, Belle Rêves, rambled about the golden summer landscape. From his perspective, he identified three wings, each with three stories. The flowers in the informal country garden were at their height of beauty and fragrance, their effect heady, reminding him of the summers he'd spent in Provençe as a child.

  That was then, he told himself sternly. This is now.

  He brought the Harley to a stop and parked it. Two Border Collies announced his presence, barking and circling him. Reaching down, he extended the back of his hand toward them, allowing them the opportunity to become acquainted. Apparently he passed muster. The two energetic hounds bounded away in search of more interesting prey.

  Everywhere he looked, time seemed to have stood still. In a nearby field, he spied a donkey pulling a dog cart carrying two children. A grizzled, stooped man walked beside them, encouraging the donkey forward.

  Max removed his helmet and dark glasses, shading his eyes with his hand. “Monsieur Dombasle?” he yelled.

  “Oui. Young Maxim?"

  “Oui. Bonjour.” Max walked toward them. “Are they your grandchildren, M'sieur?"

  “Non, Maxim, they are my great-grandchildren."

  “Bonjour, Maxim,” Florimel Dombasle called from the great stone dwelling.

  Max greeted his hostess. “Bonjour Madame, comment allez vous? You appear younger every time I see you."

  A pleased smile spread across her elegant features.” I am wonderful and so delighted you are here. Please come in from the hot sun.” She turned and yelled at her husband, “Bring the children in and take that animal to the barn."

  M. Dambasle smiled broadly and shook his head. “We're fine out here, Madame."

  She smiled and turned back to Max. “Pierre—he is so crazy about his donkey. He pretends he is a peasant now he's retired. Just imagine, once he was the president of a large bank, and now he plays with the donkey."

  He smiled, thinking Pierre's choice didn't seem like too bad a way to spend his retirement. “I am certain he finds farming relaxing after the stress of his old career."

  “I'm sure he does too, but sometimes ... well, that donkey does make that sound.” Madame Dombasle laughed. “They are quite sweet animals, but—"

  “They do make that sound,” Max finished for her.

  “Oui. Now let us go inside. You must tell me what has you so upset?"

  He followed her into the house, grateful for the thick stone walls that kept the hot Provençal sun at bay. The comfortable furnishings, not elegant, but well-cared for, welcomed visitors. The tension started to melt from his shoulder muscles.

  “I must say that I would never have known you in your biker costume. The last time I saw you, you wore a tuxedo. I'm not sure which way I prefer you,” she giggled, then touched her hair, patting it into place.

  Max chuckled, glancing down at his black leather jacket and pants. “I'm afraid the tuxedo would be out of place on my old Harley. I had no idea it would still run, but Raynaud has kept it well-maintained."

  “Well, no matter, you are look so dashing in all that leather.” She gave him a mischievous grin before adding, “And very dangerous too."

  “Merci madame, but I don't feel dangerous.” Max waited until his hostess seated herself on the sofa, before relaxing into a well-stuffed wing-back chair. He stretched his legs out before him, the tension easing.

  Two cats—one black, the other white—sprang to the back of her sofa and prowled from one end to the other, their long tails curling and swishing.

  “Ah, my companions Yin and Yang have come to meet you."

  “I think they do not accept my presence as easily as your dogs, Madame."

  “No, as a rule they are quite arrogant.” She leaned forward and asked, “Now what is wrong, Maxim? You have been on my mind ever since the party two weeks ago."

  “I—uh,” he stuttered, bargaining for time. “Merde. I have had some, dreams. He hesitated again. “Dreams I can't explain."

  “Dreams?"

  “Yes, the first occurred right after I met Nikki."

  “Oh yes. One of your loveliest models, I always thought. Go on."

  He proceeded, haltingly at first, but finally got it all out, not omitting anything, including his terrible behavior after making love to Nikki.

  The elegant woman listened to his rambling tale attentively, then leaned back. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. After making love to the woman you have desired for what—ten years—you have a dream, and on the basis of that dream, reject her in order to protect her?"

  His heart sank, realizing for the twentieth time just how ludicrous his story sounded. He nodded. “Basically that's it, madame."

  “Then it must have been a very powerful dream ... and you were wise not to ignore it."

  Stunned by her response, Max asked, “You are agreeing with me? I should never have been so stupid. She will never trust me again."

  Mme. Dombasle eyes grew sad and she gave him a wry smile. “From what you've told me about her, she may not."

  “How can I fix this? How and why does the mask seem to be mixed up in everything?"

  “Consider the possibilities, Maxim. Perhaps, you and Nikki have been together in the past. It is possible that you've had contact with the mask before. From what you told me, it caught your eye and you felt compelled to buy it."

  “Past lives? I'm not sure about all this. In spite of the dreams, could they just be dreams?"

  “Do you have the mask?” she asked, her expression brightening. “If I could but hold it, I could possibly tell you more."

  “No, I gave it to Nikki—as a gift. She collects them.” Puzzled, he asked, “Why would you want to hold the mask? What would that tell you, Madame?"

  “I have a certain gift to sense things through physical contact with inanimate objects. It's called psychometry. I have assisted the authorities myself, once or twice."

  “I had no idea, Madame."

  “No, I don't advertise my ability. People tend to look at me differently when they know that I'm psychic."

  “I-I wish I had the mask. I suppose I could ask Nikki to send it to me. No doubt she'd throw it at me, given the chance."

  “Do you have anything of hers, anything at all that she's touched?"

  The memory of Nikki's hands playing across his body made him smile. “Only myself, Madame."

  “La, la,” she trilled. “I am not sure if my ability extends to warm bodies, Maxim."

  “Will you try, Madame?"

  “Give me your hands."

  Max extended his hands toward his mother's old friend. He felt a shock as soon as she touched him ... and warmth. Energy seemed to flow from her to him and back again.

  He eyed her closely. Her eyes closed; her breathing slowed. His hands grew warmer, then actually hot between her slender ones.

  After several long minutes, Florimel's eyes opened. “You must go back. Your Nikki is in danger. It surrounds her. It is your mission to protect her. It always has been. You failed before. You must not fail, again."

  “Danger? Tell me."

  “I cannot. I simply know that it is ever-present. You must guard her well. She is your destiny."

  Max shook his head. “I find this difficult, Madame. I—"

&nb
sp; Madame Dombasle straightened her back and jutted her chin at him. “I am not asking you to swallow anything. I am telling you what I sense."

  “Yes, but—"

  “Heed my warning, Maxim. You met her by chance, but you felt something right away, did you not?"

  “Yes, but—"

  “She did as well?"

  “I don't know what Nikki felt."

  “You are fooling yourself."

  He bit back another denial. Yin, the black cat, jumped into Max's lap, stared at him with unblinking green eyes, and yowled, before curling up into a purring ball of ebony fur.

  “It seems the female has found you worthy after all, my old friend."

  “That bodes well for my future?"

  “I would say it does, indeed."

  Max gently dislodged the cat, stroking its silken fur. Yin promptly stuck her nose and tail in the air and walked away. “I offended her?"

  “No, but Yin would allow you to think so."

  Max stood up. “If what you say is true, I'll leave for the States as soon as I can get a flight out. Merci, madame."

  “One more thing, the danger to you has not passed. I fear she will cause you more grief in this life time."

  Max turned, his curiosity piqued by her words. “What?"

  She rose from the sofa in one graceful motion. “Just a lingering impression. Do you know of whom I speak?"

  Max considered, recalling one of the dreams. “Perhaps, Madame."

  “Then I wish you Bôn Voyage.” She lifted her face to Max. He inclined his head and kissed her on each cheek.

  “Merci and au revoir, Madame."

  ~ * ~

  Maxim jumped on the motorcycle, turned the key and revved the engine. Nikki needed him. She'd have to listen this time.

  Thirty-eight

  Max threw his clothes into a flight bag. He'd have to hurry in order to reach Orly in time for his flight to New York. He rushed downstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

  Before he could open the door, there was a loud pounding.

  “What now?” he muttered and flung open the door. A small dapper man stood there with a smug expression on his familiar face. Mon Dieu.

  “Inspecteur Parilland? It has been quite some time since I had the pleasure of your company.” Max picked up his flight bag, intending to brush past the dapper inspector. “I'm afraid I am unable to invite you in. I'm on my way to the airport."

  “You must make the time, M'sieur Devereaux. I am not going away,” the Inspector said with a satisfied smirk. He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Nor will those who have accompanied me."

  As if to verify the inspector's words, six gendarmes materialized from behind the poplars lining the walkway. Max shrugged. “What do you want? Aren't you a little far from your usual jurisdiction?

  “Can you not guess, M'sieur?” A crafty smile spread across the dapper inspector's face. “I am here to arrest you."

  “Absurd. I've done nothing."

  “But you are running away, again, M'sieur.” Parilland looked down at Max's flight bag.

  “Running away? No. I'm on my way to Paris. I have a flight to America—my home, now."

  “Was it not enough to kill your wife and her lover, that you have now murdered another woman?"

  “What? Just one, Inspecteur? Surely, since I am your favorite murder suspect, I could do better than just one."

  “Do not think you will escape punishment this time, M'sieur."

  Max folded his arms across his chest. “All right. I give up. Whom have I killed now, Inspecteur? Isn't Provençe out of your jurisdiction? Why are you involved, at all?"

  The Inspector ignored Max's questions. “You had a guest only last evening, M'sieur. Is your memory so faulty that you do not remember Mme. Emilie Balladur?"

  Energy drained from Max's body. A sense of déjà vu rocked him. He stumbled backward into the nearest chair. “She is dead? How—? When?” Even in death the woman plagued him.

  “I ask the questions. I have come to escort you to Paris, but I fear you will not be taking any flights to America for a very long time."

  “But I don't understand why you think I—At home—there's an emergency. I must catch my flight,” Max protested.

  “Cuff him,” Parilland ordered.

  Disbelief swept over Max. Arrested?

  Nikki. He had to warn her.

  ~ * ~

  The ride to Paris had been a nightmare. No matter how many times Max had asked for details, Parilland had refused to answer any of his questions.

  Max couldn't help but remember his first encounter with the Inspector after Solange's death. He had just identified her broken and bloodied body the Inspector entered the observation area and informed him of the other victim in her car—a man.

  Max reeled from this unexpected news; he'd been escorted home. His second encounter had been even worse. The Inspector had actually accused him of hiring someone to tamper with the brakes on his wife's car.

  In an interrogation room, lit by one bright light, Max resisted the Inspector's constant badgering.

  “For the tenth time, I ask you, how long have you known Emilie Balladur?"

  “For the tenth time, my answer is the same, Inspecteur. I met her at a party last week."

  “Surely you do not expect me to believe you met this woman and had an affair with her immediately?"

  “We did not have an affair."

  “The two of you were photographed by the paparazzi, more than once. You appeared quite familiar too familiar for a new acquaintance, n'est-ce pas?"

  “Photographs are not always what they seem. She was aggressive. I wasn't interested. I had my chauffeur take her home."

  “A lovely woman, and ... what else, M'sieur? What are you hiding? Why did she come to your farm in Provençe?"

  “She had the mistaken impression I was interested in her."

  “Why did you invite her to your summer home if you were not interested in her?"

  “I didn't invite her. She showed up at my door. You may ask my servants, if you like."

  “Oh, be assured, we will. But you spent the night together?"

  “No. She became angry and left."

  “M'sieur Devereaux, I am very tired of your lies and excuses. You could save us all time and trouble if you would confess. What did you do to Emilie Balladur's Porsche?"

  “I never touched her car."

  Parilland swore in disgust. “Sergeant, take this miserable excuse for a man to his cell. I grow weary of his lying face."

  Max stood up and squared his shoulders. “You wouldn't know the truth if it smacked you in the face."

  Parilland leaned into Max's personal space. “I know a liar and a murderer when I see one, M'sieur Devereaux ... and you are both.” Turning to the sergeant again, he ordered, “Take him back to his cell.” The inspector spun on his heel and strode from the interrogation room.

  The sergeant nudged Max toward the door. “Move along."

  Hope fading fast, he tormented himself with one more question. Was Nikki safe?

  ~ * ~

  Inspector Parilland paced back and forth in his office, but could not resist congratulating himself. Arresting this particular murderer was a supreme moment in his career. He had finally brought the high and mighty Maxim Devereaux to justice. At last the wife-murderer would go to prison for his crimes. Too bad the guillotine wasn't still in use. He would have loved to see Devereaux on his knees and pleading for the mercy he had never shown his wife, her lover or Emilie Balladur.

  But his reverie was interrupted by his sergeant's rushing into the office.

  “Inspecteur, you must take a look at this. Mme. Balladur left a diary. It was concealed in the lining of her luggage. That is why we did not find it before."

  “So she left a diary.” He shrugged and waved the officer away. “I suppose we can use it as further proof of Devereaux's involvement."

  “Non."

  “What do you mean?” Parilland grabbed the slender v
olume from his sergeant.

  “Read the entry for last Monday."

  He quickly skimmed the entry. “Non, non. C'est impossible."

  ~ * ~

  For the third time Max looked at his wrist. No watch. They'd taken everything from him. Surely they could not think he would—or could—commit suicide with his watch. His friend and the attorney for his mother's estate had been called hours ago. Still Max had heard nothing. Surely Gilbèrt would either obtain his release or convince the authorities he had nothing to do with that woman's death.

  He buried his face in his hands. He should never have returned to France. He should've stayed in New York and worked out things with Nikki. Now, if Madame Dombasle were to be believed, Nikki was in danger ... and he, helpless to save her.

  The rattle of keys in his cell door snapped him out of his bout of self-pity. He looked up and met the steady gaze of the Inspector. “Ready for another round, Inspecteur? Will it be the rubber hoses this time?"

  The inspector opened the door and stepped back. “You are free to go, M'sieur Devereaux."

  Disbelief again, rocked Max. “What? Free to go?"

  Parilland nodded. “With the apologies of the Commissariat de Paris, M'sieur."

  Not waiting for the Inspector to change his mind, Max stood up and walked through the cell door. “I don't understand."

  “Mme. Balladur left a diary. It clears you of the murder of your wife and her lover. If you did not have them killed, then there is no reason to suspect you of Mme. Balladur's death."

  Max stopped. “My wife—who did kill her?"

  “The brother of Mme Balladur."

  “But why? I still don't understand."

  “Your wife supplanted Mme. Balladur in her lover's affections. The woman scorned, pure and simple."

  “But how does that clear me of Emilie Balladur's death?"

  “The accident investigator has ruled her death an accident. Excessive speed, under the influence of drugs and alcohol."

  Odd, once freed of suspicion of Solange's death, he thought he'd feel a release, but no. Responsibility for her death weighed heavier than ever. His neglect had caused Solange's death. And Emilie Balladur, poor twisted creature, had been but a tool in the hands of fate.