In the Shadows (The Outsiders Book 1)

by Susan Finlay

  In the Shadows

  In the

  Shadows

  An Outsiders Mystery

  A Novel By

  Susan Finlay

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  IN THE SHADOWS. Copyright © 2014 by Susan Finlay.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written approval of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Edition

  Cover Artwork by Samantha Finlay

  Cover Design by Susan Finlay

  Paperback ISBN-13:978-1493544639

  Published in the USA

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction, and all the characters and places and events are inventions. The troglodyte village of Reynier, France, does not exist, although some may recognize different aspects of the cave system and cave homes, since caves and troglodyte villages are not uncommon in France. I did a significant amount of research for this book and series, but I’ve never actually been to France, and therefore used author creativity to fill in the gaps. The Trizay River and the other small villages, such as Belvidere and Saint-Julien-du-Tarn are also fictitious.

  This book is dedicated to my husband Will (having provided support and patience during my good times and doubts), our children Scott and Samantha, my mother-in-law Pat, and my stepmother Linda.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Maura Barrington pulled back the curtain and stared out the second story window of her shabby hotel room in Paris’ 18th arrondissment. A young couple strolled by, pushing a pram. They stopped and the woman bent forward to check on the baby. When she straightened, the man with her reached over and tucked a loose lock of her hair behind her ear.

  Maura let the curtain fall back in place. She turned to look at the bed where her new clothes lay strewn about, waiting to be packed away in her duffel bag. Two days ago, her first day in Paris, she’d spent all her time observing people and figuring out what she needed to wear to blend in. Yesterday, she’d gone shopping.

  She picked up one outfit, a blue-and-green flowered blouse and coordinating skirt, and took it into the bathroom. After she got dressed, she copied the woman’s hair style—a classic French twist. Lastly, she stuck her feet into the stiff high heels, put away the rest of the clothes, and zipped up the bag. On impulse, she reopened her duffel bag, lifted the false bottom, and verified everything was still there. She hid the bag under the bed and left the room, locking the door carefully. Following the worn red carpet down the creaking staircase, she stopped at the next to last landing, where the musty darkness mixed with a smell she couldn’t quite identify. The hotel felt abandoned. Continuing, she reached the ground floor and was about to step into the dingy hallway when a door directly across from the stairs swung open, startling her. In the doorway a big-bellied man with greasy hair stared at her. His deep-set eyes swept over her, and he grinned widely. Maura hurried past him along the corridor, her footsteps echoing on the cracked tiles, but not loudly enough to cover up the sound of his laughter. A brown mouse darted in front of her and ran under the sofa in the lobby.

  Outside, she rushed down the worn steps, but had to stop at the street curb to wait for a string of cars to go by. A ragged-looking dog wandered up to her and sat down beside her as she waited. When the light changed, Maura lifted a foot to step off the curb, but the dog barked loudly, causing her to hesitate. In the next instant, a bus zoomed through the red light and past her, sending a gray plume of exhaust spiraling into the air. Maura swore under her breath. She whirled around toward the dog, but it was already gone.

  She crossed the street and walked two blocks, rounded the corner onto bustling Boulevard de Barbès, and continued on to Chateau Rouge train station. It was one of the poorer areas, populated by African and Arab immigrants, yet it was vibrant and alive. As Maura walked through the train station, the frequent train announcements, clatter of metal, and odor of dust and rubber brought to mind London’s underground system, a place she practically knew by heart. She stopped and closed her eyes, savoring the vision of what she would never again see for real, until someone bumped against her. Her eyes popped open. Instinctively, she wrapped protective hands around her handbag, and scanned the area.

  Maura proceeded to the platform and found her train already waiting. In the process of rushing aboard the train, something snagged one of her heels causing her to stumble. She almost fell into a man’s lap. “Pardon,” she muttered as she pulled herself together, trying to hide her embarrassment. Once seated near the rear of the train, she glanced cautiously at the people around her. Everyone was busy reading papers or typing text messages on their mobile phones. She removed her shoes and checked the heels to make sure they weren’t damaged. Thankfully the shoes were intact. High heels might be fashionable, but she despised wearing them.

  When the train eased to a stop at the Montparnasse station, she exited and climbed the stairs, emerging into the pleasant air of early evening. Ten minutes later, she stood in front of Le Bistro du Nord, an attractive restaurant occupying the ground floor of a tall brick building. On the outside patio, customers sat at silver tables shaded by the building’s dark-green awning, enjoying their dinners and drinks. Her French, though not good enough to pass as a native-speaker, was good enough for a bar job. But she was far from confident in her ability to wait tables well enough for Paris. She took a deep breath, steeled herself, slid past the tables, and entered the bistro. At the hostess station, she greeted the attendant.

  “Table for one, or are you meeting someone?”

  “Oh, I’m not a customer. I saw the advertisement for a waitress position. I’d like to apply if it’s still available.”

  The hostess, a slender blonde woman with tanned skin and shimmering lip gloss, looked her over critically. “Of course.” She bent down, and pulled out an application from a drawer at the station. “Please have a seat in the bar area and fill this out. Be sure to return it to me when you’ve finished.”

  “Merci.” With the form in hand, Maura turned, and stepped right into the path of a waiter. His quick reflexes avoided a crash, but Maura felt heat rise up her neck, instantly embarrassed. Fortunately, other than the grumbling waiter, no one else seemed to notice.

  She stood for a few moments and surveyed the dining room. Judging from the customers, it was classy enough to lure in couples wanting a romantic dinner and business men and women wanting a neutral place to meet with clients, and yet relaxed enough to bring in families with young children. A waitress breezed past her, expertly balancing a tray of several attractive plates of food. The aromas made Maura’s stomach growl, and reminded her of her meager lunch that had consisted of a stale roll, a chunk of cheese, and tea.

  Overall, the bistro was rather dark, lit only by its lovely ornate stained glass lamps hanging over each table and by the light bouncing off its mirrored walls. Shouts and raucous laughter drew her attention. Against the farthest wall, illuminated by dozens of candles, was a gorgeous sculpted wooden bar, so highly polished that it shimmered in the candlelight. Glasses of all shapes and sizes lining the wall behind the bar sparkled like stars in the flickering light. A group of at least a dozen men and women were gathered around the far end of the bar, the apparent source of the shouting and laughter.

  Moving to the bar area as she was instructed, she selected one of the few empty tables and sat down with her back to a large television screen. After spreading out th
e three-page application form, she withdrew a pen from her handbag and began filling in the form. For her name she wrote Anouk Allard, and gave the hotel’s address.

  Meanwhile, more people arrived nearby, after which several explosive bursts of laughter firing in machine gun fashion, distracted her. Maybe she should move to the dining room, she thought. But when she glanced toward the hostess who had specifically sent her to this area, she squashed the idea.

  Halfway through filling out her application, she took a break and glanced around her. Her attention fell onto the back of an English newspaper that the man sitting next to her was reading. She scanned the page and stopped abruptly, recognizing a photograph of herself. A gasp escaped her. The man turned and glanced at her. With her heart pounding, she folded up the application and tucked it inside her handbag, scooted back her chair, stood up, and as quickly as she could manage without drawing attention, walked tall and confidently toward the door.

  Near the exit, the hostess stopped her. “Are you finished already?” she asked, extending her hand to take the application.

  Maura shook her head. “I—I’ll have to fill it out at home and bring it in later.”

  Frowning, the hostess said, “Is there a problem?”

  “No, no,” she said. “I just need to look up my references. I bought a new handbag yesterday and forgot to put my address book inside. You know how it is.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I do that sort of thing all the time.”

  Once outside, Maura paused and looked around. Her heart fluttered, making her lightheaded. She pictured the newspaper, and her stomach twisted in a knot. She started walking and making plans. She would leave the city from the Montparnasse station on the first departing train. Moments later, she faltered. Her duffel bag with all her belongings was in her hotel room. If she lost those, especially her cash, she might as well give up. At best, she might have enough cash to buy the train ticket, but then what would she do? She would have to make a quick stop at her hotel.

  She didn’t bother changing clothes, but covered her blouse with a loose-knit green woolly, grabbed her duffel bag, and left the hotel without checking out. Outside, she decided to take one last precaution by donning her dark glasses and a scarf over her hair.

  By nightfall she was back at Gare Montparnasse. She rushed inside the glass building and purchased a ticket to Angers in the Loire Valley. Her mother had vacationed there for two weeks many years ago, while Maura was away at school, and it was the first familiar name she saw. When the boarding announcement came over the intercom, Maura climbed aboard the TGV and carefully made her way to the back of the carriage. She had barely sat down in an aisle seat and made herself comfortable when she noticed three police officers enter the carriage at the front. Craning her neck, she tried to make out what was happening. She turned her head and looked behind her, thinking she might need to sneak out that way, but a train conductor stood in the aisle, his arms folded in an intimidating stance.

  “May I be of assistance, Mademoiselle?” someone asked.

  She noticed a gray-haired gentleman dressed in a business suit sitting across the aisle from her. He was leaning toward her with a friendly smile.

  “Oh,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, “I was wondering why those officers are here. Is that normal?”

  “I see them on the train occasionally. I make this trip at least twice a week, you see.” He smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth, which surprised her. “It may be a random check, or perhaps they are looking for someone. Either way, they will ask each passenger to show their identity card.”

  “What if we don’t have one with us?”

  “By law, anyone without ID is subject to arrest in France. That law is rarely enforced, I’ve been told. But—”

  She felt a knot in her stomach. “I forgot my identity card. Is there a way off the train?”

  An uncertainty crept into his expression and her hope sank.

  In the seconds that followed, he winked. “I’ll create a diversion. Hopefully, that will distract the conductor. If you’re quick, you might manage to dash out through the back exit.”

  She nodded.

  The man stood up and looked toward the officers. “I need help. Can somebody help me please? I think I’m having a heart attack.” He clutched his chest. In that instance, the officers rushed forward, and Maura slipped past them. She ran out onto the platform, began walking quickly back to the main concourse, and then onto the next platform with a train waiting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Life in a small French village is certainly different, Dave Martin mused as he gazed out the front window of his date’s apartment above her café. Reynier, a village of approximately six hundred residents, didn’t exactly have a bustling nightlife—not like back home in Chicago. But there weren’t shootings every day either. No graffiti, no gangs, no corruption—only gossip and meddling. After only ten days here, he’d already gotten an earful of that. As a kid, he’d loved coming here for summer-long visits with his grandparents. As an adult who’d outgrown his interest in the area’s caves, and who didn’t care for gossip, it was often boring.

  His days were split between tending to his seventy-seven-year-old maternal grandmother, Fabienne Laurent, working on his novel, hanging out at the local café, and going on occasional dates with Simone Charbonneau. He was in Reynier because Fabienne had called him and more or less told him she was dying. She’d begged him to come to stay with her until the end. Although he’d dreaded the emotional pain he knew he’d have to face, he couldn’t say no. Not when he was Grand-mère’s only remaining family—if you didn’t count his mother, who hadn’t spoken to her in thirty-four years.

  In spite of everything, he was mostly enjoying his stay. This evening, though, after a phone call had interrupted his date with Simone, he was finding it difficult to hide his impatience. He tried to focus on the scenery outside while Simone gabbed with her own grandmother, Jeannette Devlin, Fabienne’s oldest and closest friend.

  The view from this hillside vantage point halfway up the hill on the main side of town included a black-roofed Romanesque church peeking through the trees and extending its spire upwards, and right in front of it, the Trizay River, a dark ribbon shimmering in the moonlight at the base of the hill, or at least what he could see of the river since the businesses on the main street partially hid it. The river separated the hilly side of Reynier from the flat side. Sometimes, it seemed to Dave that the village had tumbled down the hill, jumped over the river, and spilled out. It could have continued that way, because the land on the other side of the river was wide-open, but the nearby town of Belvidere, with its alluring traditional town square, dozens of shops, and ample parking had taken over the growth spurt, leaving only one business street and five residential streets in Reynier’s newer section. The rest of the valley, for as far as the eye could see, consisted of farms, vineyards, woods, and unused meadows. The village and valley were by day a brilliant green, and peaceful—starkly different from Chicago’s tangle of high-rise buildings of glass, metal, and concrete. Even Reynier’s chalky limestone hillside on the north bank of the river, though barren during winter, was now shrouded by leafy bowers of trees, vines, and shrubs that made the creamy-gold bluff and white tufa houses and cave entrances all but vanish if you looked at them from the south bank.

  Dave impatiently glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes on the phone.

  Simone, standing in the kitchen, covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’ll try to keep this call short. Why don’t you pour yourself a glass of wine?”

  Short? It was a bit late for that. She seemed more interested in her phone conversation than in spending time with him.

  He poured wine into both of the wineglasses on the coffee table and handed one to Simone. He carried the other with him, and went back to staring out the window, watching kids kicking a ball in the moonlit street. The lamppost in front of the café provided them with additional lighting, though occasionally the ball flew into sha
dowy areas, causing the boys to hesitate before going after it. After a time Dave checked his watch again. Twenty minutes. He glanced over his shoulder and tried to make eye contact, but Simone was too absorbed in her conversation.

  “A dinner party? Oh, that sounds like fun. Who’s going to be there? Of course Dave and I will come.”

  Tuning out the rest of the conversation, he studied the rooftops in the distance. He hoped he was wrong, but he suspected he’d have to replace the roof on his house when he returned to Chicago. He’d already replaced the heater two months earlier. Before that, it was the air conditioner. It was always something.

  A young couple strolled by, arm-in-arm. They made the partial U-turn onto rue Corneille, which would take them downhill to the main street that ran alongside the river. So peaceful they looked. He and his ex-wife had strolled together like that on their visit here six years ago—before the divorce. He’d bumped into her and her new family at a Chicago mall two months ago. Seeing her holding her baby and watching as her husband and three-year-old son sat on a carousel, waving at her and laughing in delight, had reopened old wounds.

  He drew his attention back to the phone call. Simone’s grandmother, Jeannette, could talk anyone’s ear off as her often prolonged calls to his grandmother attested. At first, he hadn’t thought much about it, but recently he’d noticed how long

  Grand-mère gabbed and laughed, without showing any signs of pain or fatigue. Grandma Ellen, his paternal grandmother, hadn’t felt good enough to sit around talking and laughing when she had been terminally ill with cancer.

  Simone’s burst of laughter drew his attention back to the present. Her back was turned to him, and she was talking excitedly about some funny incident. A couple of minutes later, she finally hung up the phone. Holding out her arms to him, she said, “I’m sorry about that. Shall we go back to the living room?”