The Wife of Riley (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 6) Read online

  “Way to pee on my parade.”

  He glanced around, the most interested he’d been in anything all day. “What parade?”

  “Never mind. You’re hopeless.”

  The train announced Châtelet and I grabbed Aaron’s hand. The doors opened and we ran off. The platform was packed, of course. Was there a second suit? I didn’t know. Two exits.

  Which way? Which way?

  Aaron yanked me to the left and we ran up the stairs. I glanced back down and saw him, another suit. Suits in Châtelet weren’t unusual, but this one was looking right at me, brown eyes boring into my green eyes. There was something about him. Vaguely familiar. Aaron pulled me around a corner and I lost sight of him.

  “Number two, beige suit, double-breasted,” I gasped.

  Aaron didn’t answer. We ran through tunnels and then up the escalator, yelling, “Pardon!”

  The crowd helped us, but beige suit was never far behind. We crossed through the station and ran down another escalator with more yells of “Pardon!” Once in the tunnels again, music welled up ahead of us. “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien”, the song that Myrtle and Millicent said had lyrics to live by, echoed off the concrete and tile. The instrumental version drew me toward it, saying this way, this way.

  I refused Aaron’s next turn and made him go my way, kind of stupid in retrospect. I could get lost practically anywhere and Châtelet was confusing even if you had a sense of direction, which I didn’t. But Aaron let me choose and we came into a crossroads with a large open area containing the string quartet, playing their hearts out to passersby, and a fruit and vegetable stand. We could hope to outrun the beige suit or try something else. Since I was missing a shoe, I was all about something else. I started telling the vegetable guy that we needed help. He stared at me blankly until Aaron took over, saying that there was a man who groped me on the train chasing us. I pointed to the table his wares were piled on in decorative arrangements. He nodded, and we dove under the skirt. The heavy felt didn’t quite reach the floor and I could see shoes hurrying past as we crouched underneath, thighs burning.

  Then he came, the beige suit, with his gleaming mahogany shoes. He went past, tapping on the concrete and then doubled back, spinning around. Then he approached the vegetable stand. I squeezed Aaron’s arm so hard it had to hurt, but he didn’t wince. I held my breath as the suit asked the vegetable guy if he’d seen me. He spoke French with an unusual accent. Beige suit described me as an American with a sneer. I didn’t have to see his face to recognize the expression.

  Bastard!

  Then he said I was fat with horrible hair. Typical American.

  I will—

  Aaron held me back from lunging at his leg, teeth bared. I think I might’ve bitten him if I’d had the chance. Fat! I don’t think so. I was more like festively plump, curvy, if you will.

  I growled with frustration under the table and the vegetable guy raised his voice to cover it. Aaron squeezed me tighter in case I completely lost it, which was a possibility, I have to say.

  The veg guy said I had gone to Line Fourteen, but there was something in his voice that made me forget all about my supposed fatness, a little quaver, a doubt. Beige suit heard it, too. He pushed, questioning if veg guy was lying and saying he was a member of the Paris police and I was a fugitive. I noticed no noise of him pulling out a badge. Veg guy shuffled his feet. Now he was nervous.

  Crap!

  The song had led me astray. I was starting to regret hiding under the table when another voice interjected, a strong male voice with a Parisian accent saying that I had gone to Line Fourteen and to basically bugger off unless beige suit wanted to show some identification. The quartet started playing “Fuck You” by CeeLo Green with a vengeance. Beige suit hesitated until veg guy asked for his badge, then he did bugger off, walking away with hard, dare I say angry, taps on the concrete.

  Aaron and I waited, hoping he wouldn’t double back again. I went to settle my new fedora more firmly on my frizzy head and discovered it was gone. Two hats lost in four days. It was a record.

  Veg guy knocked on his table and Aaron climbed out. I came into the light more slowly. My hair was weighing me down. Aaron thanked him profusely. I said that we weren’t criminals and the suit definitely wasn’t a cop. Veg guy nodded sagely. I broke into Novak’s cash and pressed a hundred euros on him. He tried to refuse, but I wouldn’t let him. He offered me fruit in exchange, but I picked out five perfect pears and paid for them, too.

  Then Aaron asked who the other voice was. Veg guy nodded to the bass player of the quartet, who smiled at me. He was an older, slight man, who hardly looked strong enough to hold up the bass, much less carry it.

  I thanked him and the rest of the quartet, giving them a hundred euros, too. They thanked me and the bass player crooked a finger at me. I leaned in and he said, “Il avait une arme.”

  “Oui, monsieur. Je sais.”

  I kissed the bass player on the cheek and we dashed off. Now that was courage. He stood there, holding his bass as his only protection, and lied to a man claiming to be police with a weapon in his waistband. He didn’t have to. Nobody asked him. I never loved Paris more or bass players, in particular.

  Aaron tried to take me to the Line Four, but I dragged him to the Seven. My heart was still pounding when we got on the train and no suits ran down the stairs to stop us. The doors closed and we plunked down on two seats, not an armpit in sight.

  I looked up at the Line map above the door and put my head on Aaron’s rounded shoulder.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Aaron.

  “Our destination. We can’t go home again.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  We got off at Pont Marie and walked up the stairs into a thick mist wafting off the Seine. The drizzle had stopped, but my hair didn’t care. If anything, the curls got tighter. I could hear them mocking me. It was going to take a village to straighten my hair.

  I took Aaron’s arm and tried to fix a dignified expression on my face.

  I don’t care that I’m in Paris, looking like an idiot. I just don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Maybe nobody will notice.

  A couple of men dressed like they were going to a polo match passed us and gave me quick glances. Not the good kind or even the sleazy kind of quick look I was used to. More like an I’m afraid to look at this woman too long. I might burn my eyeballs off kind of look.

  We reached Pont Marie and its five graceful arches over the Seine. I tugged on Aaron’s arm to cross, but he couldn’t be moved.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “Aaron, we were just chased by armed men through the Paris metro,” I said. We’re soaking wet and I’m missing a shoe.”

  He shrugged. “They didn’t catch us.”

  I stared at him for a second until it dawned on me that he was right. We hadn’t been caught. That deserved a pastry, at the very least. “I could eat.”

  He tried to turn me off the bridge, but I refused. “First, the apartment, then food.”

  We crossed the Seine to the Île Saint-Louis. Aaron didn’t question where we were going. I got the impression that he didn’t much care as long as there was food in our near future. I hadn’t spent much time on the island, so I didn’t know what restaurants were good, but I was sure Aaron either knew or would sniff out the best spots before I had a chance to kick off my remaining shoe.

  I found the building easy enough from memory. It would be hard to forget that entrance even if I tried to. The double doors were well-worn bluish-green and eighteen feet high, rising to an arch with a weeping woman’s face carved over them in stone. I couldn’t imagine all the work that went into making the wood carvings, from the enormous wreath at the top to the multitude of panels, circular, square, and rectangular. Whoever made it really knew how to cook up a door.

  My memory wasn’t much help when it came to getting in. I didn’t have a key or a code. Monsieur Barre would be in residence. He was the building manager. I hated to let him see me
like that. Monsieur Barre wore suits 365 days a year and his three hairs were never out of place. Not one of my three million hairs were in place and he would let me know it.

  “I have to call Myrtle and Millicent. I hate to wake them up, but Monsieur Barre is a stickler. We need permission to stay here,” I said.

  The question was what to say. What were the right words to keep The Girls from getting alarmed and calling Mom and Dad. The last thing I needed was Dad showing up and sticking his long, freckled nose in my business. I’d be able to keep Angela Riley a secret for about fifteen minutes at the outside. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Okay.” Aaron got on his phone and began searching restaurants on the island. We all have our priorities.

  The Girls were awake and having a Thin Man marathon with their best friends, Magdalena and Ruth. It had run into the early morning hours.

  “Mercy, my girl, how are you finding Paris?” asked Millicent with a cocktail shaker going like mad in the background.

  “Are you drinking?” I asked to stall. Maybe I should start having plans. No. That would mean Chuck was right. No plans.

  “Of course, dear. We’re watching Song of the Thin Man. One must have cocktails when watching William Powell.”

  “Martinis?” I asked.

  “With extra olives,” she said with gusto. “Did I ever tell you that I met Mr. Powell? On Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “New York City,” I said.

  “What was that?”

  “You met William Powell in New York, not Martha’s Vineyard. You met John Wayne in Martha’s Vineyard.”

  There was a slight pause. “Well…they’re not the same at all.”

  Holy crap! She’s drunk.

  “No, they’re not the same at all.”

  “Mr. Powell was odd. Did I tell you that?” asked Millicent.

  I stifled a laugh. “You did. Speaking of odd,” I’ve got it. “You know Elias?”

  “Elias the Odd?”

  “The very same. I was wondering if we could use his apartment instead of the one on Montorgeuil.”

  Millicent hiccupped and slurred, “It’s haunted, dear.”

  That’s new.

  “Haunted by what?” I asked.

  “Elias, of course. He jumped off the Pont Marie. Did I tell you that?”

  Oh dear lord.

  “I heard. Can we stay there anyway?”

  “Why would you want to? He walks around at night and makes a terrible racket. The neighbors complain, but there’s nothing we can do. He won’t listen to reason. He never did, even when he was alive.”

  “Are you saying you’ve actually seen Elias…in the apartment?”

  Maybe this isn’t such a swell idea.

  “Why, of course. He walks around moaning about that woman.” She put the phone down. “Myrtle, what was the name of that prostitute?”

  “I really don’t need her name,” I said. “I need to get into the apartment.”

  There was a little scuffle during which the phone was dropped three or four times before Myrtle picked up. “I’m sorry, dear. We don’t use the P word.”

  Thank god.

  “Myrtle, can we stay in Elias’s apartment?”

  “That’s not a good idea. Why on earth would you want to? Montorgeuil is lovely.”

  “It is. I…um…um.” I scanned the river bank, searching for an idea. I finally stopped on the Louvre. That made me think of museums, the Orsay, and then Serge. “Serge.”

  “Serge?” she asked. “What’s that about Serge?”

  “Er…he asked me a favor. I didn’t want to bother you, but he has an idea.”

  “Dear man. What’s his idea?” Myrtle asked.

  I told her about the Monet letter and the sketches. I said Serge had been very kind and I wanted to check the inventory to see if they even existed before I asked about the possibility of an exhibition.

  “You’d have to stay in the apartment then,” she said.

  “Why?” It slipped out. What an idiot. I wanted to stay.

  “Because I don’t remember any sketches on the inventory, but it’s not complete. You’ll have to search the apartment. Elias was a packrat. It will take some time, dear.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Can you call Monsieur Barre and ask him to let me in?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “You won’t be frightened?” asked Myrtle.

  “I’ll be fine. I’m not overly-sensitive,” I said.

  Myrtle took a long drink of something. “Of course not. I don’t know why Millicent said that. You’re practically a block of wood.”

  That’s not better.

  “Um…great. Thanks, Myrtle.”

  “Now if anything happens, you only need to be yourself.”

  Block of wood. Got it.

  “No problem. By the way, do you happen to know where Marie is?”

  There was a delicate burp before Myrtle said, “Which Marie?”

  “The Marie,” I said.

  “Of course. What other Marie is there really?”

  “Do you know where she is? I might want to ask her some questions.”

  “No idea, my dear,” said Myrtle. “She could be anywhere at anytime. I’ll call Monsieur Barre. Must get back. Ruth is running dry.”

  I thanked her again and hung up. “We’re in.”

  “Auberge de la Reine Blanche,” said Aaron.

  “What the…”

  “Or Nos Ancêtres le Gaulois.”

  “Are you talking about lunch?” I asked.

  He stared at me as if there couldn’t possibly be anything else to discuss. Ever.

  “Focus, Aaron. We’ve got bigger problems. The Girls are under the impression that this apartment is haunted and we’ve got guys with guns hunting us.”

  He shrugged and I rolled my eyes as the right door made a thump. My heart went into my stomach. So ridiculous. Elias the Odd wasn’t going to open that door or any door, for that matter.

  A wizened old hand came around the edge of the door and Monsieur Barre peeked out at me. He blinked and stared. His slightly clouded eyes ran up and down my form and he frowned severely.

  “Miss Watts?”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Barre,” I said pertly.

  He didn’t believe me. I had to show ID, two forms. I didn’t think I looked that bad, but I guess I did. Monsieur Barre finally opened the door and the smell of expensive pipe tobacco enveloped me. He stepped back, revealing the inner sanctum of the building, a foyer that movies were filmed in from time to time. Black and white marble covered the floor and there were arches everywhere, leading to a staircase with black wrought iron.

  “Merci, Monsieur Barre,” I said, accepting the heavy brass keys to Elias’s door and a card with the code on it before heading for the elevator.

  Sadly, Monsieur Barre followed with the soft patter of his bespoke shoes. He was slow, but the elevator was slower.

  “Mademoiselle, you must”—he did a shrug and a wave together—“do something about the appearance. You are a Bled.”

  I didn’t argue. He saw me as a Bled and that was that. “I will. I promise.”

  “This coiffure is unbecoming.”

  I poked the up button repeatedly. “So I’ve been told.”

  Monsieur Barre smoothed his three hairs and pulled a slim gold case out of his breast pocket. Inside was a neat collection of business cards. He gave them a scan and selected several.

  “No, no. I’m fine, Monsieur Barre. It was raining.” I pointed to my head. “This isn’t normal.”

  He pursed his lips and held out the card collection. “I agree.”

  The elevator dinged. “I really don’t need any help.”

  “Have you viewed yourself recently?” he asked.

  “Er…”

  “I really must insist.” He held the cards out. The glint in his eye said he would be calling Myrtle and Millicent one way or the other.

  I’m so screwed.

 
; “Thank you, Monsieur.”

  “Madam Ziegler will be happy to…make you more presentable.”

  The elevator door opened at a snail’s pace. So painful.

  “I assume she’s a private dresser,” I said, my heart sinking. How would I ever pay for this?

  “But of course. She is the best,” said Monsieur Barre with a gentle yet pitying smile. I obviously needed the best since I was such a mess.

  Aaron and I got on the elevator and I pushed the button for the third floor. The elevator had to think about it. While it did, Monsieur Barre waited patiently, taking note of my every defect. It was quite a catalog, I’m sure.

  The elevator finally decided that it would in fact take us to the third floor and dinged. The doors inched closed and Monsieur Barre nodded before saying, “When you are ready to leave, please ring me to return Monsieur Elias’s key. I assume an hour or two will be sufficient.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “We’re staying. I’ll return the keys in six days.”

  Monsieur Barre’s face went from calm to absolutely panicked in a split second. “Mademoiselle, that is not wise. Monsieur Elias…he—”

  “Monsieur Elias is dead,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Mademoiselle, this is Paris and Monsieur Elias was French at heart.”

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  I put my hand out and stopped the creaking door from closing. “Monsieur Barre, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t an emergency. It is an emergency. Elias will just have to get used to it. By the way, if anyone comes looking for me, you haven’t seen me since last fall. Okay?”

  Monsieur Barre’s forehead wrinkled. “Mademoiselle is in trouble?”

  “Yes, I’m in trouble,” I said, surprising myself with my frankness. “But that is between you and me. Telling my godmothers will make it worse. Please trust me on that.”

  Monsieur Barre’s eyes went all squinty. “You are investigating in my city.”

  My jaw dropped a little. “You…uh…know about me.”

  “I have the internet.”

  Of course you do. Great.

  “Then you know secrecy is vital.”

  “Call Madam Ziegler. She will know how to make you blend in,” he said before putting his finger to his lips and stepping back.