I hurried up Avenue de la Motte-Picquet, trying to outrun my thoughts. Why hadn’t Sophie confided in me that night? Had I said something to hurt her or make her believe I didn’t care? And why had she changed her passwords on her phone and laptop? That was strange. She’d always wanted me to have access to her computer or phone in case something did happen. After the house was investigated and an autopsy performed, I learned Sophie had been pregnant. Someone had written on the final report “Suicide. Motive unknown.”
I was furious and called Sargeant Cain to read him the report. “Motive?” I asked. “It makes it sound as if Sophie committed a crime.”
Cain said, “She killed herself and a four month fetus.”
I’d forgotten his religious views. No use talking to him.
I stopped walking. I forgot where I was going. This noise in my head was throwing me off target. Oh, yes. Now I remembered. The Frenchman lived up here somewhere, probably in some swank apartment, but I had no idea where. I needed some grounding so I turned around and headed back a few blocks to Café Desaix where I grabbed a table in the glass enclosed smoking area. A few tables away, a couple shared a cigarette, their knees touching, his hand caressing hers. I wished Hank were with me. Putting away a rapist was one thing. Murder was something entirely different. I pulled out my journal.
My hand shook as I fumbled in my purse for pen and journal. What in hell was I doing? I ordered coffee, a crepe, and scotch in my rusty French. The waiter replied in English. Of course.
What was I doing here? Was I really going to do what I came here to do? Would Sophie want me to?
Suddenly her loss squeezed my heart and I felt faint. I dropped the pen. Was that her across the street? I called her name, but it came out garbled. I waved frantically. I tried again to call to her, and she turned her head slightly. Then she picked up a department store bag filled with toys and walked away.
10
This corner in this café on this mission suited me. I could watch people come and go with a minimum of interference. I ordered a second scotch and knocked it back. I had to call Gerard. I had to hear his voice. I had to make this real. When his voicemail answered, I struggled to keep my voice level. “This is Helen Craig. I’m looking forward to dinner tonight, my treat, of course. See you at seven.” I hung up.
It wasn’t enough.
On a paper napkin I wrote, “Kill the bastard.” Then I shredded the napkin. When the maître d’ seated two young women next to me, their features so similar, they had to be sisters. I swallowed a sob.
The crepe came. I ate without tasting it. When the food settled, my blood flowed again. Only then was I calm enough to make a list of places my fake article could cover.
Carousels—2 near the Eiffel Tower; free
Marais—shopping area and (I couldn’t remember the name of) department store
Catacombs—the interred bones of six million Parisians
Opéra Garnier—
I stopped, pen hovering. Opéra Garnier! The setting for Phantom of the Opera, Sophie’s favorite musical.
She loved it so much she saw the musical three times, twice in New York City and once in L.A. I wasn’t big on musicals, but one night … and now that I think of it … a few nights after Sophie returned from the Miami Business Fair, she insisted on watching the film version with me. Hank was gone again, so we ordered pizza, half combo, half vegetarian, drank a couple Coronas with lime wedges, and finished off a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream.
The movie was sappy, overacted, nothing more than a soap opera with singing. Sophie had opinions too, but hers centered on the chandelier scene. She told me the scene came from a true incident. In 1896 in the opera house theater, one of the counterweights of the seven-ton chandelier broke through the ceiling, fell, and killed a construction worker. This was romanticized in The Phantom with a scene where the chandelier falls and kills an audience member.
“It’s a pivotal scene at the end of the first act in the Broadway musical,” she said. “But moving the scene to the climax of the movie was a mistake. The filmmakers probably did it for effect. In my opinion, it ruins the scene’s significance.”
At the time, I didn’t ask “What significance?” because I didn’t care emotionally about anyone in the musical. Instead, I asked, “Did the family sue?” trying to be funny.
Sophie either didn’t hear me or ignored me. “It’s such a romantic story.”
I wanted to say, “It’s a fucking tragedy, Sophie!” but didn’t.
I shook off the memory, put a star next to Opera Garnier, thinking the place would be of interest to the readers for the pure opulence, and continued with my list.
Château de Vaux le Vicomte—lavishly decorated for Christmas; designed by the architect of Versailles (definitely)
Eiffel Tower at New Years—end of holiday season
The Eiffel Tower at New Years! Now I was thinking like a real journalist. What a good ending to an article celebrating Paris life, especially after the November Paris terrorist attacks. People celebrating, drinking champagne and partying. A thick, tipsy crowd that. …
… that wouldn’t care if a man passed out on a bench, a champagne bottle beside him.
What a perfect situation. What a perfect time and place to kill Gerard.
11
That night, I headed out early, the Metro casting flickering light, cold air whipping up my dress. A man standing on the corner looked me up and down, blonde hair, breasts, legs. He was so obvious! I glared at him as I passed. Was this what Sophie had experienced all her life? Why would I even ask that? Of course she had. But Sophie had seemed so unaffected by attention.
By the time I reached Suffren, I couldn’t feel my feet, and I rubbed my hands together. The maître d’ helped remove my coat and seated me. The restaurant hummed, and with most Paris restaurants, the tables were set close together and bottles of wine bloomed everywhere. I asked for a glass of Merlot, leaving the rest of the wine choices to the Frenchman.
I drank the wine slowly. When Gerard walked in, I recognized him immediately, and something happened I didn’t expect—my body overheated and my heart raced, and not from anxiety. He had what I can only call charisma. Some non-definable characteristic that sent signals to my lower parts. I patted the perspiration from my neck and forehead. I tried to breathe sense into my traitorous body. This could not happen. I could not fall for the bastard.
He caught my eye just before the maître d’ welcomed him like an old friend. I set the wine glass down, my hand trembling. Jesus. This was my sister’s murderer. The father of her unborn child. My fists tightened. Snap out of it, Ang. Now.
The wine wasn’t helping. I shouldn’t be drinking.
I took a deep breath and inventoried him, hoping to squash my insane reaction.
Gerard was tall and immaculately dressed, classic style, nothing showy. Not Sophie’s style. More my style. I grabbed my water glass. When he approached the table, I suddenly smelled the tang of wine, the shellfish platters, crusty warm bread, even the perfume of the woman next to me. I looked up. He smiled down at me, tanned face, brown eyes, strong chin, not weak like in his photo. He held out his hand. I shook it. He held mine for an extra moment. My heart raced.
I hardly remember the first part of the evening, the polite chitchat, the seafood platter that Gerard ordered. I recognized crab, oysters, mussels, prawns. He identified the rest—whelks, periwinkles, cockles, even pointing out the difference between the Papillons oysters and Fine de Claires. I watched him take a pin from a wine cork on the platter, tease the meat from the whelk shell, and pop it into his mouth.
I’d been to dinner with many men—other lawyers, police, politicians, even a judge—all with power that could be so captivating. Yet, none had made my body override my mind.
I grabbed my journal and a pen from my bag, and forced myself to focus. “So, Gerard, tell me about your job with the economic outreach program.” Thankfully, my time in the courtroom paid off; my voice
was solid, no quaver at all.
He enthusiastically launched into what sounded less of an advertisement and more like a passion. He was an economist. He was trying to change France’s lackluster reputation as a place to do business. He wanted the world to know about France’s vibrant economic future and what the country could offer. As he gave details and examples, I used the shorthand I’d learned years ago and scribbled, And what about Sophie’s vibrant future? Did you ever think about that? Then a thought occurred to me. I wrote: Had Sophie emailed him or sent him a letter? Did he even know she was dead?
I scrutinized his face, watching how animatedly he spoke about the program and France, while my mind whipped through this new possibility.
Would Sophie have sent him a suicide letter or email, telling him why she was doing it? Would she tell him about the pregnancy? But what if she hadn’t known she was pregnant?
This was new. I’d never even considered it. I’d assumed she did know. Suddenly I doubted it. Sophie might kill herself, but never the life inside her. She was the type who would have had the baby on her own and poured all her love into the child. So if she didn’t know, and she had killed herself because of this bastard across the table from me, she would never fault him only herself. She always accepted full responsibility for her choices. Shit. I’d lost touch with who my sister was because I was so intent on revenge.
“Am I talking too fast?” Gerard said.
I snapped to attention. “No, no, just fine, go on.” I met his eyes and saw no pain there. What a cold bastard. Handsome, charming, but cold. Easier to kill him, I guess.
He sipped his wine and raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t we leave the rest of this for another time. Over coffee perhaps? Let’s enjoy our meal. I’d like to know more about you.” He leaned forward. “Tell me about your travel article.” His brown eyes sparkled and he had little laugh lines at the corners.
I picked up my wine. Screw it. I fully understood his appeal, but I had it wrong. He wasn’t a cold bastard. He was no charmer. He was what Hank would call a “Boy Scout,” someone genuine, idealistic, and gung ho, characteristics I rarely ran into in my line of work.
“I’ll send you the packet of materials that will give you history and background on our mission, our goals. It’s a lot to take in in one evening.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
He borrowed my pen, wrote something on his business card, and slid it across the table. “That’s my home phone number.” He smiled, then ordered another bottle of wine. “So what made you want to write an article about Paris during the holidays?”
Not good. Sweat beaded between my breasts and I felt all fluttery again. He held my gaze, eager, attentive. Damn. I looked down at my journal and my blonde hair fell forward. Jesus. I’d forgotten I was blonde. What the hell was wrong with me? I was playing a part, I was a professional journalist, and I needed to act like one.
My heart slowed. I could do this. I sipped my wine and then said, “I want readers to know what it’s like in Paris during the holidays. Do you celebrate like us? What do you do Christmas Eve and Day? How do you celebrate? What do you eat? What’s special or different about the holidays here? What places should visitors not miss?”
All of this came out as if I’d been thinking about the damn article for months. He didn’t say anything. His half grin was disarming.
I added, “And what does Paris offer for romantic holiday places?”
“Hmmm,” he said. The “hmmm” vibrated sexily in his throat. That rattled me. Then he said, “Would you like coffee?”
I was so thrown off by his reaction that it was only then that I noticed the seafood platter was gone. The empty wine bottle too. When had they been taken away?
I nodded yes to the coffee. Why was I dumbstruck? Had this disguise put me too much in my sister’s shoes? Then he startled me with, “Would you like me to recommend a few places? I could accompany you, if you’d like.”
I jerked out of my sister’s shoes and back into my own. How could a married man, with a son, break away, especially through the holidays? Well, he’d managed to break away to be with Sophie. My ultimate goal would be to get him to the Eiffel Tower at New Years. That would be the perfect place, time and crowded conditions I needed. But that seemed like a long shot.
“I’d appreciate recommendations,” I said cautiously. His intense gaze made me bristle. Was he flirting? Maybe what appeared to be a “Boy Scout” exterior was really a cover for a serial cheater. I looked down at my journal. “Let me read you the list of places I might include.” I didn’t hurry, more to slow my mind than to engage him.
When I finished, he said, “Ah! Château de Vaux le Vicomte. Excellent. So beautiful this time of year. The Opéra Garnier, of course. We should also ride the great Ferris wheel, La grand Roue.”
We?
He smiled. Had I said that aloud? I looked away, picked up my pen and wrote “The Great Ferris wheel.”
“Where is La grand Roue?” I asked.
“At Place de la Concorde. Ah, I just remembered. The Jeu de Paume gallery is showing a Halsman exhibit. Would you be interested in viewing his photography?”
Was this a set up? Was I naïve in thinking he didn’t know who I was? Why was he so generous with his time? I decided to test him. “Yes, that would be lovely. I’ve seen the advertisements along the Metro with the Marilyn Monroe photo. They are hard to miss.” I watched him carefully. “They remind me of my sister.”
I held my breath.
He didn’t flinch. Maybe he hadn’t equated my sister with the actress. Yet wouldn’t a man who had just been told that I had a sister who looked like Marilyn Monroe at least react in some way?
Instead, he said, “Then your sister must look very much like you.” Before I could react or even process this statement—because it was a statement, said more like a fact with no smile, no flirtation—he continued. “We could view the exhibit and then ride the Ferris wheel.” He sipped his coffee. “If the weather is good, you would get excellent photos from the top.”
The sister statement flummoxed me. His invitation hung there between us. Who was this guy?
I sipped my coffee and over the edge of the cup said, “I thought I would end the piece with New Years at the Eiffel Tower.”
I set my coffee down, picked up my pen, scratched something nonsensical into the journal, and tapped the pen against my teeth. I finally looked up after his silence made me nervous. His inspection made me squirm. I gave him a quizzical look, hoping to break the lock he seemed to have on me. He looked as if he were making up his mind to … what?
I reached for extra sugar for my coffee, and my fingers accidentally brushed his hand. It jolted me straight up. We caught each other’s eyes. He immediately relaxed and said, “I’d be happy to accompany you on New Years to Madame Eiffel.”
The offer sounded so formal using the Parisian “Madame Eiffel” that I almost laughed. But I also felt a tremor of excitement and … heat.
Suddenly I smelled Sophie’s perfume and before I could stop, I blurted out, “What about your wife and son?”
He put his cup down, sat back, and looked at me. Puzzled? Suspicious? Damn.
“What made you think I was married?”
Was he messing with me? I stuffed my anger and sweetly said, “Oh. You aren’t? I thought my contact for you said you were.” I forced a smile. “Well, that was a faux pas. I’m so sorry.”
I expected him to say, No faux pas. I am married and I have a little boy named Paul.
Instead, he said, “I’ve never been married.”
Now he looked slightly bemused. Not married?
The restaurant grew noisy with children’s shrill voices, couples conversing, cutlery clinking. A glass shattered. Beyond the restaurant, the street looked flat and deserted. Now what? I didn’t know what to make of this. Maybe he’d told Sophie this so she wouldn’t expect a future with him. Maybe it was a good way to keep her a mistress and not have any obligations. Whatever
it was, I was of two minds: The fucking asshole! And, Oh, my God, he’s single.
I fumbled through a thank you, another apology, as he called for a taxi to take me back to the apartment. Out on the sidewalk, delicate arches of tiny white lights hung above the dark street. I clutched my purse to my chest. Before the taxi arrived, we arranged to meet the next day to visit the Catacombs.
12
We met at the Catacombs entrance at 9:30. Gerard had already purchased tickets for a 10:00 entry. A line of frustrated tourists wound around the block.
I was more conflicted than ever about spending time with him. Last night, I’d lain in bed and pinched myself hard, over and over, for having any attraction to the man who killed my sister. Maybe it was the wine, or the glass of scotch I’d slugged back after the taxi dropped me off. I was tired, wound up. Plotting to kill him, for God’s sake. I tried to tell myself that my attraction was just a way of understanding their affair and my sister’s love for the man. But that was bullshit.
As we waited in line, the chemistry only grew. So did the mystery. Not married? No child? I decided to poke around about his visits to the States. Maybe he’d slip and divulge a trip or two to Oregon.
But in our half hour of conversation, he spoke mostly about Florida, one trip to Washington, D.C. and two to New York City. I lost focus. We were silent as we entered the Catacombs, descended 130 circular steps. How easy it would be to push him, to watch him fall down those stone stairs. Instead, we bumped against each other at intervals and I had an impulse to grab his hand. But I didn’t.
He continued with what he knew about the Catacombs, an ossuary, the correct term for any place where the bones of dead were placed. He explained that the Paris cemeteries by the 1700s had become overcrowded, a health hazard, and needed to have something done. At the same time, the once active limestone quarries beneath the city had been abandoned, creating large sinkholes in parts of Paris. Gerard said, “It appeals to me that Parisians hold up our city.”
Revenge in Paris Page 3