by Mary Vee
He sipped his coffee, finished his breakfast, and people watched. Occasionally he filled time by rereading his notes and the newspaper. If only all his stakeouts were this nice.
The waiter stopped at the table. “Would you like something else? Coffee?”
“Non.” He glanced out the window, and for a moment, he thought a woman matching Sylvia’s description walked from the boutique toward a cab. He blinked and caught a better look at her face. It was her.
Branson reached for his wallet, pulled out more cash than the amount due, and snatched his coat. “Excusez-moi.” He stepped around the waiter.
“Merci. Do you want your change, Monsieur?”
Branson ignored the question, whipped open the door.
The taxi pulled away before he had a chance to confirm if the woman was her. The car turned the corner. He looked up the street for a taxi, but there wasn’t one in sight.
She was there.
And he’d missed her.
How he managed to restrain his frustration, he didn’t know. He drew in a deep breath and held it until his mind regained composure.
A plan. He needed a new plan to find this woman hiding in Paris, and all the while do so without notifying the police of her presence.
Think. Think. Think.
Chapter Sixteen
Branson once lost his aunt. After picking her up at the airport, he loaned her his car for the day. She dropped him off for a meeting and went shopping. That evening, he called, but she didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure in which hotel or the room number she stayed but had a few ideas. That experience gave him a plan to find Sylvia.
He walked the few blocks back to the hotel mentioned by the cab driver and opened the floor to ceiling glass door. Regency styled furniture, delicate chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, polished marble floors, 17th century tapestries in white, pink, and green hues comprised a lobby best described as elegant. He walked up the step and to the left near the counter where several clerks spoke with guests. He remained back a few feet to give them privacy.
Once the guests took a room key and walked toward the elevator, he stepped forward.
“Puis-je vous aider?”
“Yes.” He answered in French, happy for the attendant’s help. “Sylvia Duvet is a guest staying in this hotel.” He didn’t know for sure, but this was the only way to get information from the attendant. “I was hoping to have lunch with her. She told me her room number. Unfortunately, I can’t remember it. Would you mind calling her and letting her know Branson Carhill is in the lobby?” He took a brief step back to reflect his willingness to wait and not demand private information. All part of his plan.
“But of course.” The attendant tapped on his computer. He picked up the phone and waited.
Ah, so she was staying here.
If the woman who walked out of the boutique and stepped into the cab truly was Sylvia, there wouldn’t be an answer to the attendant’s call. And, because this was now after check-out time, she planned to stay again this evening.
The clerk set the phone back on the counter. “I am sorry, Monsieur, she does not answer. You understand I cannot give her room number to you.”
He gently nodded and smiled. “I understand,” he said in French. “May I leave a note for her?”
He relaxed and produced hotel stationery. “But of course.”
“Thank you. I have some.” Branson pulled out the new linen stationery he’d purchased and his rollerball pen. The worker turned away as he penned. A nice courtesy.
Dear Sylvia,
Your family hired me to find you. They are very concerned about your welfare. I have not reported your whereabouts. Could we speak? Ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the Café et Ses Amis.
Branson Carhill, PI
She could be frightened when reading the note from a stranger, but that couldn’t be helped. He enclosed one of his cards to validate his name and business, gently sealed the envelope, and penned Sylvia on the outside. “If you would see that she gets this note, I would appreciate it.” He slid the envelope across the counter.
“Oui, Monsieur.”
With the current business completed, jet lag caught up with him. He walked back to the coffee shop, ordered a cup to go, then stepped in line at the designated taxi stop and waited for the next one.
A taxi pulled up to the stop, and Branson climbed in. “Leblanc’s Shop.”
The driver pulled forward only a few feet, leaving room for the next available taxi to pick up a customer. “Are you quite certain, Monsieur?”
“Why do you ask?”
“His gallery is but two blocks away. I assume you did not know. Since the weather is nice, did you want to walk?”
“You are absolutely right. Tell me how to get there.” After receiving instructions, Branson handed him a tip and stepped out of the car. “Merci.”
Everything about this case finally made sense. The French Club Immersion students stayed in this same hotel. They frequented the Café et Ses Amis, and when given free time, they ventured to local stores, except Leblanc wouldn’t have had a shop back then.
Subsequent visits, though, took them to his store after it opened. Branson walked to the corner and turned right, noting the shops he passed along the way. At the crosswalk, he glanced to the left and right for traffic. Halfway down the block was a sign protruding out from a building. From the distance, he could only read the word Galerie.
Leblanc’s shop was one block farther. Still, the Galerie intrigued him. He turned and walked to the store. As expected on a Saturday so near Christmas, many delighted shoppers walked along the street gazing into storefronts, entering and exiting with packages in hand. Christmas lights shone in the treetops. Holiday decorations donned shop windows. Fluffy snowflakes tumbled to the ground.
Branson stopped at the storefront for La Vue De l’artiste Galerie, which translated to The Artist’s View Gallery. Paintings of snow-covered country sides graced the window. A store bell rang when he opened the door. He walked inside. Such magnificent works arrayed the showroom. Canvases in all manner of sizes and shapes covered every inch. City and country. Crowds and gardens. Paintings hung on the walls, rested on easels, and stood on the floor, leaving little space for customers’ feet. In one corner was a stool. Drawn to the masterpieces, Branson sat with his coffee for a time.
Behind a display of paintings, papers rattled leading him to conclude the storekeeper hadn’t heard him enter. Branson liked that he could walk into this shop and not be accosted by a salesman. Like the café, time could be defined by what the patron needed. All he had to do was ask. No wonder the Cinq Amis loved to visit this country.
He sipped his coffee and looked at his watch, surprised more than an hour had passed. Never once had the storekeeper interfered with his thoughts or asked him to buy or leave. “Excuse me?”
A man entered the showroom. His wiry gray hair hung over his ears. He wiped his hands on a paint-splattered apron hanging from his waist to his knees. “You seem taken by several of the paintings. How may I help you?”
“These works are magnificent.”
The storekeeper smiled.
“Have you owned this gallery long?”
He nodded. “Oh yes. Many years. And my father before me.”
“Do you recall a young artist from years ago? I don’t know his name. He came into this shop and sat on this stool. I am told he sketched for hours, learning the craft.”
The man paused and raised his eyes toward the ceiling. “His name was—I know it—Jean-François Souris.” The first name had an odd sound to his American ear, but the translation was John-Francis Souris. “He came to my shop when he was but a little lad.” The storekeeper used his hand to indicate the height of a child no more than six or seven. “He climbed up on that same stool where you sit and asked to draw. I gave him paper and a pencil. To this day, I’ve kept that sketch, knowing he would become a famous painter and sell his works in my shop.”
“May I see it?” Whethe
r curious or not, to neglect asking would have insulted the storekeeper.
The old man turned, his back bent with age, and walked into a back room. He brought out a five-by-seven pencil drawing of the French countryside. Even Branson could recognize it.
Shadings around a cottage with a thatch roof gave the dwelling a three-dimensional effect. The hillside in the background bore ripe grape clusters. A small shorthaired dog appeared frozen in action, possibly walking or running. Branson couldn’t be sure. In the dog’s fur were the letters JFS. “This is very advanced for a child.”
“I thought the same.”
“Did Souris live here in the city?”
“No. This drawing is of his home. He and his parents lived in the country. They have a vineyard.”
And so, the story took on a familiarity. “Did he visit again?”
“Oh yes. Each time his mother came to the city to shop, he begged her to let him spend time here. I never minded his company. It seemed the only time he could devote to art what with all the chores in their vineyard keeping the family busy.”
“Even as an older teen?”
“Yes, and after that.
“Then one day his folks died, and he had to take over the family business.” The storekeeper sighed. “More and more time elapsed between his visits. I never stopped thinking he’d become a great artist one day.”
“Did he?”
“Souris still runs his family vineyard.”
“But does he paint?”
The storekeeper’s whimsical smile answered the question. He walked to a featured painting on an easel. The subject captured the essence of a Parisian narrow street with shops. “What do you think of this work?”
This was the canvas Branson had spent much of his time looking at earlier. It allowed viewers to walk down the middle of a narrow street alongside couples, families, and individuals dressed in fine winter coats. On either side, shops with apartments above rose toward the sky. Centered, and far in the distance was the Eiffel Tower.
Snowflakes drifted like pixies in the air. Deep red painted a few token areas. Others had black, winter blue, and Noël gold. A slight gray sky background enhanced the stark white snowflakes. The painting was nothing less than brilliant. “Magnificent.”
“Souris’s depicted his passion for the city of Paris, non? That is his gift. A gift that overlooked his lack of training.” The storekeeper turned to Branson. “He is the Mozart of paintings.”
This work would look great in his office. He understood now why Sylvia and her friends frequently spent time looking at one canvass. A masterpiece like this transported the viewer to the very place.
The price would be more than his bank account could handle. Then again, Mrs. Colinfield might compensate him in appreciation for finding her mother. “How much is the painting?” The amount was near what he expected. He sighed. It definitely would enhance an office that courted the wealthy. “Can you ship it to the States?”
“You are American?” His eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t have guessed, so polished is your French. You don’t even act American.”
After working to perfect the language, Branson considered the observation a compliment. “Thank you.” He handed the storekeeper his credit card.
“Because of your interest in Souris, whom I boast started his work in this gallery, I will include a frame.”
“Thank you.” An odd thrill overwhelmed him. All the other works in his office had been rented. This was the first quality piece he owned outright. And the only one he truly appreciated. “Where is the Souris vineyard?”
“I’ll write the directions on the back of your receipt. If you’re interested, they give tours.”
“I might just do that. Thank you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Branson walked the next block to Leblanc’s shop and reflected on how one life could change so easily while another remained stagnant.
Mrs. Duvet had met the winemaker’s son years ago. She grew up and married a wealthy man while the son stayed at the family vineyard pining his dreams. Leblanc, on the other hand, found the path to artistic success. One never knew what life would bring.
Branson stopped before the storefront display. An array of handbags crafted with unique fabrics hung in the window. A weaver of fine cloth once showed Branson how she embedded an image or painting into the fabric. Huge machines and computers quickened the process. Once Leblanc painted the drawings, he would scan each into the computer and wait for it to immerse the image with dyes into the fabric. From there, the chosen handbag would be crafted. The product was more unique and valuable than a pearl necklace. A red carpet envy.
He opened the door and went inside the shop. Floorboards creaked under his shoes. A worker sat on a stool behind a counter. “Is Leblanc in today?” In theory, he shouldn’t have landed if he delayed his flight to see Sylvia. The employee’s answer would solve so much of the puzzle.
“Non. I am sorry. Leblanc should be here on Monday. Perhaps you can come back then?”
“Thank you.”
The worker returned to his job and Branson left the store feeling confident he’d discovered the last piece of evidence about Sylvia’s secret.
He walked to the taxi stop and waited for an available cab. When one drove up, he climbed in and gave the address of his hotel. Jet lag had taken over him. He fought the urge to yawn. All he wanted to do was sleep now that he’d solved the case.
* * *
The alarm woke him with a start at 7:00 a.m. Although Branson had budgeted plenty of time to shower and dress before the 10:00 a.m. meeting with Sylvia, his head told him it was only 2:00 a.m. back home.
Before going to bed last night, he left a note with the front desk requesting to have his suit cleaned, pressed, and delivered to his room by 7:30 a.m. Two years ago, he learned the necessity of keeping a packed suitcase at the office for emergencies, including everything he needed for two days. Clothing in a city like Paris could get expensive. Mrs. Spinnaker always managed to message his luggage to the airport in time. She was a constant wonder.
Branson showered and shaved. He temporarily put on jeans and a tee as a knock sounded.
“Mr. Carhill? Your suit is ready.”
He grabbed tip money and opened the door. “Thank you.”
The employee handed him his suit and smiled when the tip touched his hand. “Thank you. Have a nice day, sir.”
Branson dressed then packed his suitcase, sorry to be heading home so soon. He chose not to call Mrs. Colinfield yet since he hadn’t actually seen her mother. The woman ran away for a reason. Why make her situation worse? Mrs. Colinfield could wait a few more hours.
He left his room and rode the elevator down to the main floor. Most guests would have gone to the lowest level for breakfast at this time. The lobby was empty as he expected. He walked to the desk.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” said the same woman as yesterday.
“Bonjour.”
“Puis-je vous aider?”
“Yes, you may help me. May I store my suitcase? I am not sure if I will be staying this evening or not.”
“Oui.” She took the suitcase and tucked it into a closet. “You wish to check out?”
“Yes. But, please hold my reservation for this evening.”
“Oui, Monsieur.” She processed the paperwork and took the key from him. “Enjoy your day.”
“Bonne journée.” He smiled. Solving a case had a sweet taste.
* * *
Branson had chosen Café et Ses Amis for several reasons, mostly because of its close proximity to Sylvia’s hotel. The woman, after all, occasionally used a cane. He walked inside and found the same table near the window available.
A waiter stopped and offered him a newspaper. “May I take your order?”
“Un café s'il vous plaît.” Branson opened the paper. “I am expecting a guest.”
“Oui, Monsieur.” The waiter nodded and left.
Branson held the newspaper and watched for Mrs. Duv
et while reading the headlines. It was near 10:00 am. Sylvia should arrive anytime and wouldn’t recognize him.
When he finished reading the headline story on page one, he glanced up the sidewalk. Sylvia Duvet walked toward the cafe wearing a Christmas blue coat that came to her thighs. She walked with the grace and style of a first lady, her cane tapping the ground every second step. She held her chin up confidently. Her black pantsuit was pressed, elegantly flowing, and complimented her refined stature.
A waiter opened the door for her, and she replied, “Thank you.”
Branson stood and buttoned his suit coat. He walked to the entrance and gently said, “Sylvia?”
Her suspicious eyes scanned him from head to toe. He pulled out his card. “Branson Carhill. Mrs. Colinfield sent me.” The last sentence did not appear to ease her suspicions in the least. Had she but one smile left in her life, he would not have received it.
“Our table is this way.” He indicated with his hand.
Reluctantly, Sylvia walked to the table with Branson behind her. He let her choose which chair she wanted, helped her with her coat, then held the chair for her. She sat and hooked her cane on the table. Her fake social smile perfected by proper upbringing said so much, including her annoyance for the summons and the potential embarrassment.
She gave a simple signal to the waiter with the rise of her eyes. He responded by walking to their table and leaned a bit forward, as one would for a countryman or highly welcomed guest. “Yes, ma’am?” He patiently waited for her to speak.
Although she smiled at the server, her eyes did not glance up at him. “Thé et un croissant.” Tea and croissant was a typical simple breakfast enjoyed by the locals.
“Très bien.” The waiter walked away with no other communication. Precisely what would be expected by the café’s patrons.
Since Branson had called the meeting, initiation of the conversation fell upon him. He chose to speak in French and not draw undue attention to foreigners in the restaurant. “Your daughter is concerned about you and what the papers might say.”