by A. Gardner
"I don't think I'm ready," Marta says quietly.
"To leave?" I hurriedly take another bite of my brunch. "Me neither."
"No, for another relationship," she clarifies. "Plus, I just don't have time for one."
"None of us do." I take a bite of crispy ham mixed with the gooey smoked mozzarella. My taste buds enjoy the saltiness of it, but they're craving sweets. Particularly chocolate sweets.
"Cheers." Marta leans back and inhales the rising steam from her mug. "I don't know how we keep getting on the topic of my love life. What about yours?"
"I date," I confess. "But that's about it."
"No special man back in America?"
I shake my head.
"Not even a prospect?" she continues.
"Not today," I answer, thinking back to my last moments with Locke in my bedroom. I still stand by my decision to lay that relationship to rest, though my mom would have loved it if she could've announced two engagements at her holiday party. My brother Mark seems to be doing something right. Maybe I should start calling him once in a while? Some of that good luck might rub off on me.
"Okay, now I'm finished." She takes her last bite and runs her fingers through her hair. I devour the rest of my food and stand up, grabbing my purse. I can't wait a moment longer for the next stop on our Sunday morning excursion.
"Let's go."
I follow Marta back onto the street. It's easy to keep pace with her while she's wearing heels. She doesn't walk as fast. I actually have her beat—strolling with ease in my favorite pair of nude pumps. Marta pretends to adjust her scarf as she glances behind us at Detective Berry.
"Right over here," Marta instructs. She points to a storefront with two glass windows and a sign that says Chocolaterie written in a milk chocolaty color. Sculptures made of chocolate and spun sugar welcome visitors. I see golden boxes of assorted truffles and even a chocolate fountain showing off the smoothness of their gourmet product. I feel like I'm watching the intro to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I used to rewind the beginning over and over again just for another glimpse of a candy factory at work.
We walk inside, and the smell of caramel wafts through the air. Detective Berry stays outside, pretending to read the menu of the restaurant next door. There are counters of truffles, chocolate tarts, flavored caramels, and fruit jellies all around me. I don't know where to start.
"Their mendiants are my favorite," Marta says. She studies an entire row of chocolate discs topped with candied nuts and fruit—both milk chocolate and dark chocolate. She hones in on a group with pistachios and dried cherry pieces.
"What's that one?" I point to the cluster of sweets next to it. "Are those topped with pineapple and coconut?"
"You can top a mendiant with just about anything you want," Marta replies. "I've made them before, but they temper their chocolate to perfection here." She licks her lips, waiting for someone to assist us.
"Do women marry chocolatiers for their chocolate?"
Marta chuckles.
"I would," she confesses. She orders a box of assorted mendiants for us to try.
My gaze falls on their collection of beautifully crafted caramels. Raspberry caramels were the very first confections I ever received from a boy. His name was Swinton, and he gave me a box of the cheap drugstore kind on Valentine's Day in second grade. I remember that caramel being the best thing I'd ever tasted at the time. I'm sure that was just the sugar rush of eating the whole box talking.
"Throw in a few caramels," I add.
"Anything else?" Marta asks.
"I'll try anything." I smile as I peruse the rest of the shop. It feels very different from Le Croissant. It's simple and modern. No chandeliers. No crown molding. Just white counters and industrial lighting. It's a pleasant change from the antique feel.
I take a deep breath and step back outside. Detective Berry is across the street on his phone, and Marta is paying at the register. The city bustles around me, and it leaves me wondering if Sam's killer is lurking around the corner. Was his killer the figure watching me at the Eifel Tower? Was it the same man who broke into Marta's apartment?
They've got my necklace. What more do they want?
I don't know who's after me or why they care so much about a measly little intern from a pastry school in Georgia. I barely knew Sam, and the fact that I found his body first isn't enough to name the murderer to the public like Billie claims she's going to. Maybe Billie said something she shouldn't have that night in the pub?
Okay, she probably says a lot of things she shouldn't.
I replay that night in the pub in my head. Billie was drunk the whole time, and I still never figured out what kind of scam she had planned for the wedding. Maybe it really was murder?
And then there's Cira.
Sam's fragile lover whose life was shattered when he decided to move on to bigger and bustier things. I should have paid more attention to her. Maybe she wouldn't be missing in action if I had been her shoulder to lean on? There's also the possibility that the killer escaped from a nearby asylum, and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I might leave for home never knowing the answers.
A breeze rushes across my face, and I look up and down the street.
I freeze when I notice the tall body standing stiff right next to me. Too close to be coincidental. A hand covers my mouth, and I drop my purse to yank the foreign glove from my face. There's no time to scream for help or even bite the leather glove shoved in between my teeth.
I'm snatched off the ground like a morning croissant from a breadbasket. The storefront moves farther and farther away along with the figure of Detective Berry on his cell phone. My eyes are wide. I fixate on him, hoping that our thoughts can somehow connect on some sort of telekinetic plane. Maybe. If I try hard enough.
My vision starts to blur.
My arms are constrained by a giant arm, but my legs kick violently, desperate to touch the sidewalk. If I can gain traction somehow maybe I can run back to safety? The man holding me is too strong. I'm no more than a box of French macarons to him.
This is bad. This is really bad.
My heart races, but I force myself to concentrate. I have to do something. Kick something. Bite the hand in my mouth.
Detective Berry finally looks up and sees me.
A glimmer of hope.
He shouts something and bolts in my direction.
He's a second too late.
I'm pulled into a humming car. It starts to move before the door is even closed. The chocolate shop along with Lewis zooms out of sight in an instant. I feel a knot in the pit of my stomach. I feel like crying. Screaming. My hands are already shaking, and I'm deathly afraid of turning to face my attacker.
I don't get the chance.
Once the door is closed and the car is secure, everything goes black.
* * *
My headache wakes me up. I'm lying on the floor in a dark room. As my vision slowly returns, I see chairs and a long counter extending the entire length of the room. Mirrors are spaced along it with individual light fixtures. I glance down at the spotless wood floors. I know this place. Not this particular one, but I know where I am.
I'm in a dressing room.
I go with my gut instinct and jump to my feet. My hands are tied behind my back, but that doesn't stop me from scanning the room for the nearest exit. I find it when the door opens, and a burly man with a shaved head enters the room. He flips on the light, smirking. I don't know if he's the same man who snatched me in front of the chocolaterie, but he seems pleased with himself nonetheless. I'm surprised to see that he's wearing a suit. A rather expensive looking one with bronze cuff links that gleam in the light.
"Sit down," he says, his voice booming through my ears like Dandre when he bangs baking sheets against the counter. I settle for the nearest chair. "You are Poppy Peters, correct?"
"Maybe," I answer. You should know, beefcake. I bite my tongue, holding my comments in until I'm sur
e I won't be beaten for sarcasm.
"Either you are or you aren't, love." Another Brit.
I stay silent, staring at the floor.
"I'm going to ask you some questions," he continues. He clenches his fist and holds it close to his chest. "And you are going to answer those questions, understand?" He pauses and waits for me to reply. He takes a heavy step forward and hovers over me. He isn't a patient man.
"Yes," I quietly respond.
"How well did you know the late Lord Dovington?"
"Not well," I answer.
He folds his arms and exhales so I can feel his breath sweep over my head.
"Are you sure about that?"
"We weren't romantically involved, if that's what you're asking," I respond.
"Did he tell you much about his personal life?" the man continues.
"No."
"Nothing about past relationships? His current relationship?"
This feels a little too much like an interview for the tabloids, only I'm not getting paid.
"He spilled coffee on me once." I scoot my chair back. "That's it."
"What about the rest of the staff?" The man takes another step forward. He's trying too hard to intimidate me. I get the guts to scoot back even more and stand up. I still have to look up when I face him.
"Please don't tell me you're a reporter," I answer, "because you didn't have to kidnap me to get all this information. I would've just told you."
"I'm not affiliated with the press, love."
"Then do me a favor, and take these things off my wrists. They're giving me bruises."
The man's chest bounces up and down as he laughs. It starts out as a light chuckle and grows to a loud cackle.
"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," he answers. "Now, the night Lord Dovington was killed you went to the local pub."
I gulp.
"How do you know that?"
"Just listen." He cracks his knuckles before proceeding. "You spoke to a women there named Billie Anderson. Tell me everything she told you." He glares at me as if my reaction gives everything away.
"She didn't say much," I begin. "She was already drunk when she got there, and I was at the pub waiting for the next train to London."
"Come on," the man urges me. "Out with it."
"She asked me if I was at the wedding, and I told her I was working in the kitchen, and…" The only thing left to add was her slip up—her intention of doing something to cause trouble.
"And?" The bald-headed man sticks out his jaw when he looks at me. His fists are firmly in between us. I wonder if he plans on using them or if they're only for show? Please, be for show.
"Then her date finished his cigarette, and they left."
"Did she say anything about her friends?" he asks. I shake my head. "Sarah? Maya?" His eyes are frozen on my face. "Cira?"
When he mentions her name, our eyes meet.
"So you know her?" the man questions.
"Who? Cira?" I force myself to speak casually, but my tone of voice changes when I say her name out loud. All I can think about is the last time I saw her. The look of desperation in her eyes. "She worked in the kitchen. I worked in the kitchen. We were bound to run into each other."
"Did she talk to you about the wedding?"
"The usual chatter," I answer. "Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Poppy," the man finally asks. He narrows his eyes and steps close enough for me to feel the steam of his breath. All the muscles in my torso flex. "What happened to Lord Dovington? I know you know."
"What?" My voice is soft and almost childlike.
"Do you know who the killer is?"
"No." I swallow hard.
"Hmmm." He raises his hand, and I flinch. He rubs the side of his chin.
"You think I'm lying," I mutter.
"I know you're lying." He grabs my arm so tight that I let out a cry. I feel his fingers compressing the bones in my forearm. He could snap them in half if he really wanted to.
"Hey!" My shouting echoes through the dressing room, but it makes no difference.
We're alone.
The bald-headed man drags me through the door and down a long hallway until we reach another room. This one is smaller. This one is darker. This one feels like more of a storage closet than a room. He pushes me inside. I slam against shelves of cleaner and latex gloves. I clutch the side of my shoulder. It throbs like it's been whacked with a rolling pin.
The door slams shut.
I'm trapped.
My heart races as I feel my way through the dark, desperately pounding on the door hoping it will magically open. It's no use. The door is locked, and I can't see.
Something hits the opposite wall.
If it's a rat, kill me now.
"Hello?" the voice is low and soft. I recognize it. "Poppy?"
"Yes," I answer, raising my eyebrows in disbelief.
"It's me…" The woman steps forward and takes my hand, guiding me to an empty corner. "It's Cira."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The last time I saw Cira she held back tears and blamed it on allergies.
Now I know she was lying.
About everything.
I can't see her face clearly. The only light in the closet is faint, and it's coming from underneath the door. Cira hugs me like an old friend. I hug her back, feeling the bones protruding from her back. Her long, black hair hangs wild and stringy.
"How long have you been in here?"
"It feels like years," she answers. Her voice is quiet and strangely monotone. It's like the fire in her has been drenched with ice water. Like a caged animal accepting defeat.
"Cira." I hold her by her skeletal shoulders. "You have to tell me everything that's going on. Otherwise, we'll have no hope of getting out of here."
"Oh, we're never getting out of here. I heard them talking. They can't risk letting us free."
"Who are they?" I ask.
I can't make out her expressions through the dark shadows in between us. Cira doesn't reply. I hear her slow and steady breaths as she sits on an overturned bucket. The closet has just enough space for the two of us to sit and wait.
But I'm not much of a waiter.
I glance around the room, seeing blurry outlines of shelves and mops. My eyes move to the light coming from underneath the door. I bend down, looking for moving feet. Maybe even a security guard pacing the hallway. I don't see anything. I rub the back of the door and the neighboring walls, hoping for a light switch. My heart soars when I find one.
"It doesn't work," Cira says from her corner. I flip the switch repeatedly, disappointed that it does nothing. "They must have taken the bulb out."
I jiggle the door, attempting to loosen the lock.
"Tried that," Cira comments as soon as I pull the door handle hard enough to make noise.
"What about the ceiling?"
"It's too dark to tell what's even up there," she answers.
She's already given up.
"So you're just going to sit here?" I ask. My entire face feels warm as I search my brain for ideas. If only I knew how to make a deadly weapon out of a mop handle and cleaning products. I guess I'm at the mercy of Detective Berry and Detective Casey.
"They'll let us out eventually," she responds. "But only to move us somewhere else."
"Is that what they did to you?"
"No, but they have to." She kicks her foot against the floor. "I think there's a performance going on tonight."
I tug at a strand of my hair.
"Cira, you know where we are?"
"Of course," she responds. I hear a sniffle. "I've danced at the Palais Garnier before."
"Then you know you're way around?" I'm hopeful again.
"Sí." Her voice doesn't sound as upbeat as mine.
"Okay, so this is what we'll do." I improvise based on our limited resources. We have to try something before we're moved somewhere outside of the city. It must be easier to hide in Paris than in a tiny hillside village. "I'll wat
ch for feet, and as soon as someone walks by we'll pretend you've passed out or gone into shock or something…then I'll be waiting with one of these disinfectants…"
"Sounds ambitious, but you're forgetting one thing." She sniffles again. "What if there are two of them. Or five of them. What if no one comes, and they decide to light this place on fire instead?"
"Cira," I scold her. "You can't think like that."
The idea that someone would burn down a historic Parisian landmark just to silence us seems unreal to me. In my opinion, it would paint an even bigger target on the killer's back. I shake the thought out of my head. If I can survive a back injury, an obsessive mother, and pastry school, I can survive this.
"Why not?" She raises her voice.
"Because…" Before every performance, I used to visualize myself doing well. Taking center stage and outshining my cast mates. It gave me something to hold on to when I made a mistake. I've made way too many. In life and on stage.
"You may not think so, Poppy," she says, "but I deserve what's coming to me."
"What are you talking about?" I try the door handle again, hoping it somehow unlocked itself during the past couple of minutes. "We don't deserve to be left to die in a room where they store toilet cleaner."
"I do." She takes a deep breath. "I'm the murderer."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I'm stuck in a storage closet with a killer, and I'm contemplating sitting down and making myself more comfortable. Cira doesn't seem the type to kill someone, but what do I know? You expect a villain to be devilish with an extra dose of crazy. You don't expect her to be the woman you bonded with while working at a wedding. The girl who smiles. The girl who takes orders and does as she's told.
I can't fathom Cira's confession.
"Say that again," I reply. "I must have heard you wrong."
"You heard me right," she informs me.
"You murdered Lord Dovington?"
"Yes." She leans against the wall, looking up into the shadows. "You don't have to tell me what a horrible person I am either. I already know."