by Ritter Ames
A quick search revealed twelve bedrooms on this level, each with their own en suite. None of the exterior doors I opened led to a bathroom. Three suites revealed recent occupation but all remained empty of people. There was a large lounge with windows looking onto the terrace and, again, the space sported an overabundance of everything a guest could want: books, pool table, video games, televisions, etc. A staircase and an elevator completed the floor plan. Motion detectors stood guard as I entered a room, and they stayed when I departed. So many spaces, so little information gained.
I still couldn't believe the absolute lack of taste in all the furnishings. As if this unique and beautiful house had been designed and built at great cost to enshrine—vulgarity?
The stairs were a clever play on a spiral staircase. Not quite as tight in the turns but winding all the same. Not a staircase for running up or down. No quick getaway here but architecturally interesting.
The second floor wasn't quite so deserted. I watched a couple and a single gentleman enter the elevator. The party must be starting. More bedrooms but still nothing personal; no sign of the owner, and not a modicum of taste in the luxurious furnishings. The tackiness may not be obvious to a lay person, but to anyone like Moran this interior design would have been an affront to the senses. Time to head to the first floor.
I left the spiral stairs and hit the doors. Most were locked. I tried eight before a door finally swung open. Books lined the shelves, overstuffed chairs and gaudy lamps filled the room, but once more there wasn't much of a personal feel to any of it. There was also no smell of cigars, no decanters of special liquors—nothing. Like a showcase for people to see what they expected to see.
I pulled a book from one shelf and thumbed through. It had never been opened. I picked another, and another, all from different shelves. They, too, had never been opened. A room full of books no one read.
I needed to check the rest of the rooms. I pulled the pick from my clutch and headed out to the hallway. I'd been lucky so far. Now I needed to be very careful.
Six rooms later I remained disappointed. I could discern no reason for these rooms to be locked. More bedrooms. More adult playrooms. Who needed this many bedrooms?
I fumbled with the next lock. The pick didn't seem to want to work. I tried again. Maybe I was getting sloppy in my technique. I concentrated, heard the click, and turned the knob, but again the door didn't open. Not ready to give up, I reversed the order I used, and the door opened. This space looked promising, definitely used, and I attached my last motion detector to the doorframe.
This was a room lived in by someone who made a mess and didn't care. Definitely not Moran. From all I knew of him, he was fanatic about his personal environment and possessions.
Empty bottles, glasses, debris, an overflowing bin, clothes left on the floor. I picked through the room searching for some clue to the owner's identity. A man's patterned sweater lay on a chair. Women's clothing and possessions were tossed as though someone had gotten ready in a hurry and left without bothering to straighten.
I opened the closet door. Both men's and women's clothes inside. As I shut it, I looked back at the sweater. My breath came faster. Something about the collar was familiar. I looked through the men's clothing in the closet more carefully and recognized two of the shirts.
Leaving the door wide open I walked over to the sweater and inhaled a familiar masculine scent. It was Simon's. He was here. With a woman. One mystery semi-solved. He was still alive. Or had been when he'd occupied this room.
I scrutinized the room more closely. Nothing in it screamed "held against their will." So, apparently, not kidnapped, not tortured, not dead. All the worry, speculation, the calls, the texts, the e-mails, yet Simon hadn't responded or attempted to contact me. And here he was, at this possible estate of Moran's living with a woman. What was I missing? Simon and Moran? Working together?
The sweater still clutched in my hand, I moved to the bathroom and looked for a hairbrush. Hadn't I been told he was dating a woman with hair like mine? Strange, but I couldn't find any kind of comb or brush anywhere. Had they left only some of their things behind?
I turned back toward the bedroom and smelled the sweater again as though the essence of Simon would reveal the answers. Instead memories of us working, laughing and being together bombarded my brain as though a switch had been flipped. I opened my hand and let the sweater fall from my fingers. It couldn't talk, and there was nothing more to be gained from this room. Sick of speculation and sick at heart, I had to find Simon and discover what was going on. There was no way he'd teamed up with Moran. Not the Simon I knew. Without thinking, I ran into the hallway and plowed right into an older couple.
"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. Êtes-vous bien?" Not much taller than I and a bit stout, the gentleman and his wife were both dressed in formal attire.
"Excuse me," I replied in English. "I wasn't watching where I was going."
He smiled. "You are American. At first I thought you were Mademoiselle Jane. But she is English and not quite as," he looked sheepish, "put together as you."
He knew Simon's girlfriend.
"No, I'm her younger sister, Laurel."
"Allow me to introduce myself and my wife. I am René Barnard and this is my wife, Monique."
I used one of the few phrases I remembered from French class. "Comment allez-vous?"
Monique took my butchered French at face value. Her face lit up and she began firing off sentences in a way I couldn't possibly understand. Her husband noticed my dismay and said something that made her stop.
"I wish I could speak French," I admitted.
"No worries, Mademoiselle Laurel." He offered an arm to his wife and an arm to me. "May I escort the two most beautiful women to the ball?" He quickly repeated his words to his wife in French.
With a sweet smile, she placed her hand on his arm. I needed to search the other rooms, but I also wanted to check out the ground floor in case Simon and Jane were at the party. This couple's presence would help normalize mine.
"Thank you very much," I replied and together we waited for the elevator.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monsieur Barnard was a banker and Monique a housewife. They happily gave me details about their family and visits to America. A daughter who lived in Massachusetts with her professor husband and two children. A trip they once took to Florida. They described their plans to visit their grandchildren and peppered me with questions. The elevator was indescribably slow.
By the time we reached the first floor, we were firm friends, and I knew without a doubt they were not friends of Moran. He would have been bored by these solid citizens of Le Puy.
We entered the over-decorated lobby and followed the music and noise into the main party room. Across one wall stretched endless amounts of food, another table held liquor of every kind, a last wall was taken by a band playing music. Everywhere people talked, danced, laughed, and, unlike their American counterparts, smoked.
Again no art, no taste, just excess. As though the house was playing a role.
Some people wore costumes, but they were much different costumes than the ones I'd observed earlier. These were 'fancy' dress. Not necessarily unique to the sixteenth century, more to the eighteen century I'd say with the décolletage and jewels on display. Many older people, like the Barnards, dressed in formal attire. My little black dress blended well with the twenty- and thirty-somethings like me, and as I'd expected many of the younger people dressed more casually.
The characteristic in common was their wealth and obvious social status. And none of them were Simon. I also did not see anyone who resembled me. The criteria for Jane.
I excused myself, murmuring something about food. The Barnards and I parted company, and I slowly explored the room.
The glass doors to the veranda were closed, probably due to the temperature. As I approached, an overdressed uniformed man opened it for me. Quite a few people talked and circulated around the space, but I didn't re
cognize any of them.
I returned to the main salon, waved at the Barnards and smiled at other guests as I strolled casually back to the lobby. The area was packed with small animated groups of people talking, probably not wanting to scream over the music in the other room. I made my way to the right, and within minutes the banging pots and shrill voices were a dead giveaway that I was in the kitchen area. I retraced my steps and found myself in a deserted winding hallway of even more rooms. This place was like a maze
Systematically, I searched five rooms, but located nothing resembling a clue to where Simon was, or if this place had anything at all to do with Moran. I also never got away from the excesses in decoration, and the fact that no art could be seen.
Wait. Maybe that was the clue.
I hadn't seen any of the people I see on the usual circuit, and the only major artwork I'd noticed so far sat in the middle of a pond. And calling the sculpture art was a bit negligible.
I ended my search at the last door on the left. The door was locked. I quickly took care of that little problem and walked into the dark room, my mind still working to figure out what was going on.
Only to be grabbed from behind.
Using my best self-defense moves, I attacked the attacker, not the hold. But the person controlling our tango didn't budge. I kicked hard, and he grunted but didn't let go.
In a guttural voice, he asked, "Qui êtes-vous?"
I think he asked who I was. Or something to that effect. Why he asked me a question when it was obvious with his arm around my throat I clearly wasn't going to be able to answer, would have been laughable if it wasn't getting harder and harder to breathe. I tried every defensive move I knew. Nothing worked. I struggled to speak, but gurgled instead.
He pushed me forward and angled me around the other side of a couch. I kicked him. He grunted again but still didn't release me.
So not fair to die in this awful house.
"Connaissez-vous cette femme? Pourquoi l'avait vous tuée?"
I knew that voice, but my own voice was still too constricted to reply. Instead, I tried to translate his words. I knew femme meant woman, but the rest I couldn't quite get. He shook me and repeated the questions, his tone still quiet but even angrier than before and his voice . . .
I guess he finally recognized the problem, and I found my feet lifting from the ground, my face inclining downward, until I was staring at an unmoving woman stretched out on the floor.
Oh my gosh, it had to be Jane. Long blonde hair lay in disarray across her back, and blood soaked through her white blouse and onto the baby blue carpet. Her face was to the floor so there really was very little difference between the two of us at the moment.
He pulled me upright and repeated what sounded like the same thing. I had no ear for languages on a good day, and this was far from one of those.
"Connaissez-vous cette femme? Pourquoi l'avait vous tuée?"
Did that mean murder ? Did he think I did this?
"Repondez-moi salope!" He insisted harshly.
I knew the word bitch, I'd heard that plenty of times. Hearing it in French was the final straw. I hated name-calling with a passion. I lifted my feet and slammed down with the Blahnik heels and hit pay dirt. While his arm didn't leave my throat—had to give him credit for that—it did loosen enough for me to croak out his name amid all the names he was now calling me. And this time not one of them was as nice as bitch.
"Jack! It's me!" French language zero; voice recognition ten.
His arms tightened convulsively around me, and I started stomping again.
He let go and helped me turn around, holding me as I swayed. He might have had tears in his eyes, but it was really too dark for me to see. Besides, I might have had some in mine.
"Stop, woman, you'll cripple me for life. First you leave me for dead at the foot of a cathedral, and now you're trying to amputate my toes with stilettos."
My laughter was a great emotional release, even if it did sound like a sick cow with a sore throat.
"I did not leave you for dead," I began whispering until he smiled. A beautiful smile.
"I thought she was you." As if that explained everything. Which it kinda did.
"I know."
"I didn't like the feeling."
"I could tell."
"What are you doing here?"
I wasn't ready to go there. I massaged my throat. "What are you doing here? And how did you know about Jane?"
"Who?"
"The dead woman. You know. Jane. Simon's English girlfriend. You introduced them, remember?"
"Simon?"
"Yeah. He's here. Living with a girlfriend. Or at least he was." At his puzzled look, I grimaced. "Don't bother asking me. I'm as confused as you are. But why didn't you recognize her?"
He had the grace to look sheepish. "I kind of lied about knowing her. She was described to me, and I was trying to . . . "
"Push my buttons?" I raised an eyebrow.
He smiled again. "Have you seen him?"
"No. I just recognized his sweater."
"His sweater." His bewildered expression gave way to determination, a face I knew well. "Oh, never mind. I think we'd better get out of here before someone else comes along."
"Good idea."
By mutual accord, we left, and he locked the door.
"Now what?" I asked as we moved down the hall toward the lobby.
"We find Simon and ask for an explanation," Jack replied grimly. "After I've had a drink. Maybe three."
"I always figured you for a drinker. After all there has to be something wrong with you."
He grunted, but I could tell he was pleased by my remark. Dressed in a beautifully tailored suit, he looked more than good.
"Have you seen Moran?" I asked after he had hit the bar.
"Is this his place?"
"Don't you know?"
He shrugged and asked for another drink. I got one, too.
We finished searching the ground floor. Still no sign of an owner in residence.
"How long have you been here?" I asked Jack.
"I barely arrived when I found the body." He finished off his scotch.
I told him about the locked doors upstairs, and we headed there. Cutting through the lobby on our way to the elevator, someone called my name.
"Laurel! I thought you said you didn't want to come? Yet, here you are!"
Once more I was twirled around. Fortunately, before starting out that evening, and in anticipation of the bouldering exercise, I had taped a thick bandage around my arm.
"Rollie," I said weakly. "How nice to see you."
He, too, cleaned up well. His suit was as nice as Jack's but with that certain French suavity other men simply can't imitate.
"You must come dance with me, Laurel, I insist. In fact, I think they are just now playing our song."
Jack stood by my side, patient to the last. "Yes, why don't you go and dance with your little friend, Laurel? I'll take care of things." He held out his hand. "I'm Jack, by the way. . ."
Rollie smiled, clearly not having caught the condescension in the phrase "your little friend." "Nice to meet you, Jack. I'm Rollie. I see you know Laurel."
"Who doesn't?" Jack replied carelessly. "She gets around."
My feet were itching again, ready to stomp toes. Jack backed away. Smart man.
"Rollie, I'm afraid I can't go with you. Jack and I have some business we have to take care of. I'm very sorry."
"But, Laurel, you are on vacation. You said so yourself!"
"I know, I know. But this particular problem can't be avoided." I glanced into the dancing room. "There are many beautiful women in there, Rollie. Go ask one."
"But they aren't you."
Jack laughed. "You're so right, Rollie. Just wait till she brains you with her hard little head. Or cuts off your toes . . ."
I rolled my eyes. Used to drive my grandfather crazy. "That's enough, Jack. Rollie, I'm afraid I can't go with you now. Maybe later, but no prom
ises." I reached up and lightly pressed my lips to his cheeks in continental fashion. "Have a great time partying."
"I will hold you to your non-promise." Rollie graciously returned my salutation, nodded at Jack, and disappeared into the ballroom.
"That went well." Jack said sarcastically.
"Shut up," I said. "And get your you-know-what upstairs."
Several locked doors and ugly rooms later I couldn't help complaining. "This is the weirdest place. The building is beautiful, but everything in it is ugly and overdone. There's hardly anyone here. I find no evidence of anything personal except in Simon's room. I don't understand building something like this and disappearing!"
"We don't know that anyone has disappeared," Jack replied. "Besides, could you live here?"
"From the outside, yes. On the inside, no way."
He closed the door on the last room to search. "Is there anywhere else we haven't looked?"
I thought for a moment. "I was interrupted when searching the roof. Let's go there." I headed for the stairs.
Jack followed. "The roof?"
"This place has a roof terrace. I guess you haven't been here that long, huh?"
"I told you I'd barely arrived when I found Jane. And then you." His limp increased.
"Just checking," I answered breezily, and wiggled a finger at his foot. "But hey, if we're going to compare injuries, I could cough and choke and hold my throat. Stop being such a ham. I'm going to be bruised for weeks. I'll have to wear turtlenecks."
"You should know better than to be off guard when walking into a dark room in a strange place. I thought you were trained in combat. Evidently, you're not safe to be let out on your own."
"I beg your pardon. I brought motion detectors to warn about creeps behind me, but the sheer number of rooms depleted the supply. Yours was the last room I was going to check." I was breathing heavily as he opened the door to the lounge. Of course he wasn't the least bit affected. "Besides, I've done just fine on my own, thank you. Want another demonstration on your other foot?"