by Mary Vee
The moments of silence didn’t surprise him. Words had to be carefully chosen to prevent scandal. “Why did you come?” The tone did not accuse. However, it demanded a response. She set one hand on the other.
“Ma’am, I service the needs of those who wish to remain out of the eyes of the media. Your daughter became concerned on December eleventh.” He paused, giving her time to assess the information. “The housemaid, a Mrs. Shepherd, called her after you hadn’t rung for breakfast by the usual hour. She went to your room and didn’t find you. She called your daughter who drove to your house. The maids had no answer for where you went. She searched the house and found only your planner in the library. Assuming you happened to be at an appointment, she turned to these two weeks and found nothing scheduled. No note. No messages anywhere. She thought something dreadful had happened to you.”
The waiter set a silver tray with a cup and saucer, a small pot of tea, cream, and sugar to Sylvia’s left. In front of her, he placed a croissant on a scalloped edged plate.
“Thank you,” she said.
The waiter nodded and left.
Branson sipped his coffee, waiting for the waiter to walk out of hearing range. “She didn’t know what to think and her concern was paramount.”
“So, she contacted you.”
“After the police refused to listen.”
Sylvia drew her cup up with both hands, wrapping her fingers around the warm surface. She sat more than two minutes sipping her tea before speaking. “Have you ever wanted to do something spontaneous, Mr. Carhill?” She faced him for the first time during their meeting. The weight of her problems showed in her sunken, tired eyes. “Charles, my husband, has been dead eight years.”
His research stated Charles had died suddenly of a heart attack the night of a social event in their honor. The numerous photos plastered in magazines and newspapers gave many photojournalists a hefty paycheck exploiting her sorrow.
He set his cup down and drew a deep breath. He would never want to experience that. “Yes,” he said softly. “And I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”
“I assume you know most of the rest of my story.” She looked away again. Her gaze drifted past other diners, out the window, and down the street to the left.
“Most?”
“I’ve visited Paris before.”
“Yes. When you were a teen. The French club spent a month here. A study abroad, I believe?”
“More of a cultural infusion for the French students.”
Branson sat back and sipped his coffee giving her the freedom to share the story at her pace.
“We toured most of France. During our last week, we had liberties to explore. There was a row of shops that intrigued me. Jewelry, books, clothing, shoes. Boutiques with fashions that hadn’t reached America. Galleries.” She laughed softly. “My friends wanted to visit the bars.” She dabbed her mouth with the napkin.
“But the fashions and art intrigued you.”
She nodded more with her eyes than her head. She drew the cup to her lips and sipped tea. “Investing in the next greatest artist or designer is wise. It’s like knowing how valuable the internet would become back when it was in the trial stages.”
“There is more than art to this though, isn’t there?”
Her mouth opened to speak then she closed her lips. She seemed at such a crossroad. What to share. What could be trusted?
“Sylvia, may I help you? Absolutely nothing will be shared that you don’t want said. Even with your daughter.” If she’d only give him a clue about her issue.
“There was a gallery in Paris that displayed a magnificent pastel painting in the window. The brush strokes and composition intrigued me. I walked inside for a closer look. A young artist, not more than a year or two my senior, sat on a bench with a sketch pad and pencil. He showed me no notice when I sat next to him. In the hours that passed, he transposed the blank paper into a perfect likeness of the original. The gallery owner looked at the paper every so often. When he finished the drawing, the owner said, ‘Jean-François, C'est votre meilleur!’ This is magnificent. Quite a compliment from the gallery owner to a young artist.
“I was raised to never speak to a man unless first properly introduced. As an older teen, I frequently bent the rules and so considered the gallery owner’s mentioning of Jean-François’s name out loud as the introduction required.
“The drawing is magnificent,” I said.
“It was then he put his sketchpad and pencils away and invited me to spend the rest of the day with him. We walked along the Seine, stopping at art and book vendors along the way. We talked about this and that and laughed. Like long lost friends. Before either of us realized, the sun had set.
“The Eiffel Tower sprang to life, flashing blue and white lights. He took my hand and said, ‘You have never seen a sight more worth a painting than from the top of the Eiffel in the dark. Let me show you.’
“We were the last allowed up the tower that night.” She sipped her tea and stared off into the distance for a moment. Her smiles flickered. “He was right. At the top, I gazed at Paris as I’ve never done since.”
She filled her cup with more tea and stirred.
“You saw him again when the five of you returned to France. Cinq amis visits became fewer, shorter, and far between afterwards.”
“Oui.”
“You married, and the young artist helped his parents in the vineyard, taking over the business when they passed.”
“You’ve done your research, Mr. Carhill. What else do you know?”
“That Jean-François wanted to be a painter like Leblanc with all his heart. For a long time, he couldn’t study the craft what with all the work required at the vineyard.”
“Yes, that is so.” She raised her cup of tea and sipped. Her eyes drifted toward the window along with her thoughts.
He waited before speaking again. “After his parents died, he inherited the vineyard turning it into a huge success. In what little free time he had, he taught himself to paint by studying the masters. His natural talent created works of art that soon gained great recognition. Then, like Michelangelo who excelled in several fields, he used his business sense to develop the unique master-painting handbag.”
She looked at him as if he’d unearthed what few only knew.
“He didn’t like using his given last name. Souris is translated mouse. Hardly a name for a great painter. He changed his name in the same way an author uses a pen name…to Leblanc, meaning: the white, as in hero. To keep his secret, Souris, or rather, Leblanc signs his work LEB.”
She set her tea on the plate. “How did you know?”
“I’ll admit I spent several late nights piecing the interview pieces together. He wants to meet you this evening, doesn’t he? I would guess at the Eiffel.”
She looked out the window again. “He has asked several times since Charles died.”
“One evening you found the empty pages in the planner. Contacted the Cinq Amis and formed a plan. Elizabeth’s assistant drove to your home on the evening of December 10th in her dark red BMW. She had trouble finding the house. Late that night, she drove to the servants’ entrance, parked the car and used a flashlight to cross the yard and signal you. You’re using your cane more than usual, so I’m guessing you did, in fact, leave through a window or back door, raced to the back gate, and climbed into the car. The stress on your leg flared the pain.
“You used your position and money to board a private jet that could deliver you here without passport inspection. I’m guessing you’ve purchased new clothes while here since your suitcase is at your residence.
“The only question I have for you, Mrs. Duvet, is why aren’t you happy? Every time you visited France, spoke the language, or looked at a French painting, your staff and friends say you smiled from deep within. I haven’t seen that yet.”
She wiped her hands with her napkin then picked up the small creamer and poured the thick cream into her cup before adding steaming ho
t tea and stirring. “Very well, Mr. Carhill, I will tell you my secret.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sylvia sipped the tea then set her cup back on the saucer. “The years have changed me. I’m not the spry, slim, high school girl he met long ago.”
Branson’s mother had expressed the same doubts about her appearance when friends from the past invited her to coffee. Ten rejected outfits piled on her bed before she reluctantly settled on the eleventh. “I’m fine, honey,” she said to him. “I only wish I looked better.”
Mom was beautiful. He knew she longed for those friends to love her as they had. Sometimes she returned happy, sometimes sad. He suggested her having coffee only with the happy friends again.
Sylvia had wonderful friends. Today was about acceptance from LeBlanc. “You’ve been lonely since Charles died. The other Cinq Amis still have their husbands and a heavy social calendar. They rarely have time for you. Most festive occasions require you to have an escort. Rather than suffer embarrassment you’ve remained home.”
“So, you know. How perceptive.”
“Mrs. Duvet, you sneaked out of your house, got on a private plane that didn’t require a passport and flew to a private airport in Paris.” Mrs. Spinnaker had confirmed this could be done without customs.
His discovery finally stimulated a genuine smile from her. She laughed before raising the napkin to her lips. “You are good at your job, detective. I have very persuasive and forceful friends.”
The smile became infectious. “Yes. You do. They enjoyed their coup and kept your journey a secret. But do they know you want to marry Leblanc?”
“Marry? You jest.” She smoothed the napkin on her lap. “He only asked to meet me at the Eiffel.”
“And ride the elevator to the highest point? To see the city at the best time?”
“The view at night is breathtaking.” A girlish smile brightened her face. She lifted the cup with both hands and revealed a magical night with her sparkling eyes.
Ah. Yes. Amour. L’amour à Paris.
“Sylvia. In all his years, Leblanc has been faithful to his family and their vineyard. He also pursued an art career. The man is a creative genius with this recent handbag idea. He isn’t poor anymore.”
“Money has nothing to do with this.” A gentle tear formed in her eye. “Jean-François is such a kind man. He is compassionate and listens to a person’s heart over their words. His dedication to his family over his own wants drew me closer to him.”
Branson’s interview had shifted to a meeting of two friends. And she needed help. “I would be honored to escort you to the Eiffel. We can visit the Gallery a block over before we go.”
The shield that had protected her heart for eight years finally crumbled. She closed her eyes, and although she didn’t look his way, she said, “I would like that.”
“Before we leave, there is one question I have not solved. Could you tell me why you took secret trips to the gallery not far from your home? I believe you called them book club meetings.”
“This is a secret that you didn’t need to solve your case, am I right?”
“True.”
“Then it shall remain my secret.” She stood. “Shall we go?”
* * *
The afternoon drifted by with a visit to the gallery and the boutique where she bought a new dress. They had a pleasant early dinner. She jokingly insisted Branson share amusing tales of his investigation. He mentioned the ghost. Then, oddly enough, she asked, “Do you plan to date Jeanie Holloway?”
The thought had entered his mind, but he hadn’t asked her yet.
* * *
The sun had fully dipped beneath the horizon when Branson hired a taxi to take them to the Eiffel. They walked to the large circled area under the tower.
“I’m not sure he will meet me tonight.” She fussed with her gloves.
“He said he would.”
“That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have second thoughts.” she gazed up at the towering metal works to the highest point.
“You’re standing on the ground of a new life, Mrs. Duvet,” Branson said. “From here everything is upward. No more loneliness. Leblanc will give you your smile back.”
“I hope so.” She looked toward the river in the distance. “But he isn’t here.” She opened her handbag, pulled out a handkerchief, and dabbed an eye. “Call a cab.”
“Are you sure? Wouldn’t a Frenchman from the countryside wait longer?”
She turned away. Through the late-night thinning crowds, a man walked toward them. Shadows disguised his appearance. Branson guessed it was Leblanc.
“Sylvia?” The man gently said.
Sylvia Duvet’s smile broadened, and her eyes sparkled with the Eiffel’s blue twinkling lights.
He raised his arms beckoning her to fill them. “I’ve walked to this place on this date for so many years, hoping to see you.” He brushed her hand with his. “Comment tu m’as manqué.” How I’ve missed you. “Sylvia, again this year I invited you to Paris, and tonight I walked along the Seine to this circle, hoping you wanted to see me. See? You have made me a happy man this Christmas.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I was afraid something had happened to you when this detective said you were missing.” He kissed her. Not in the style the people of class greeted each other. Oh no. This was full lips and with such Parisian passion.
Sylvia didn’t back away. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back as if making up for many lost years.
Branson turned and walked away. His work was mostly finished. He took out his cell phone and called Mrs. Colinfield.
The phone rang three times before she answered. “This is Mrs. Colinfield.”
“Good evening. This is Branson Carhill. I am calling to report I have found your mother.”
“You have? Where is she? Is she all right? When will she be home?”
He kept his not until after Christmas answer a secret to honor a Mrs. Duvet, a woman who finally saw she was loved and wanted. “Your mother is safe, and she is happy. She is wearing a new dress and is spending Christmas with a friend. She plans to tell you all her news when she gets home.”
“Is she with those Cinq Amis friends of hers? They should have told me.”
“Mrs. Colinfield, I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to say. You are, after all, familiar with my agency’s policy.”
He slipped his phone in his pocket and walked along the beautiful Seine to a taxi stop.
Case Closed.
Acknowledgments
One autumn evening, my mother-in-law asked me what I thought about a family trip to Eastern Europe. Her son and I had been married only a few months, and the trip would take place during our first Christmas together.
Such a trip for twelve persons? Not likely. But she was my MIL. “I think it is a great idea.”
This trip was to be a gift from my father-in-law’s patients. Their appreciation for his gifts and kind bedside manner cause them to wonder when he last saw his home country. His mother. His brothers. Due to unrest in his country, he hadn’t seen her since he was a boy.
The patients, blessed with great wealth, offered the gift. I’m not so sure they understood the magnitude of their goal. Several family members had not yet become American citizens, even after living and working here many years.
They used their connections, to push through citizenship and passport paperwork. They organized layers of details required to transport this family ranging from five months to sixty to their doctor’s birth country. They provided funds to his family living abroad to pay for the food and visits to childhood memories.
I never forgot the generosity of this group of ten wealthy patients. Without them, I would have never seen these places or met treasured relatives, all with stories that brought tears. I think these elite souls thought the gift may have been their duty. To me, their gift was an unforgettable treasure. To them I say, Thank you. Your hearts are as rich as your pocketbook. I have created Sylvia Duvet in your honor. Sw
eet and honored in the eyes of others.
To my hubby, who has worked hard and kept food on our table.
To my children who spilled more than their share of milk and are very loveable.
To Jesus who is deserving of love because He first loved me.
To my amazing critique partners, Niki Chillimi, Dave Arp, Kathy McKinsey, Virginia Tenery, and Janie Winsell who have the eyes of eagles and great ideas.
To my Cinq Amis who are really Onze Amis. They are my sisters, my dearest and treasured friends who also happen to be writers: Angie Dicken, Amy Leigh Simpson, Ashley Clark, Cara Putman, Krista Phillips, Laurie Tomlinson, Pepper Basham, Casey Apodaca, Julia Reffner, Karen Schravemade, and Sherrinda Ketchersid
To my friend Elaine S. This Christmas story has been kept short because some readers prefer shorter holiday reads.
To you, reader. May you find true love
Thank You, Reader…
Thank you, Reader, for walking with Detective Carhill through this case. He appreciated your insights.
The best way to show an author you like their book is to write a review. Vendors like Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Goodreads, Book Bub, and more, select the books they plan to promote based on the number of reviews.
So.
Please write a review for Detective Carhill’s story. (Mrs. Spinnaker wants him to take on another case.)
About the Author
Mary Vee
Christmas is Mary Vee’s favorite holiday. She enjoys traveling to places like New York City and Paris. Mary has been a finalist in several writing contests and writes for her King.