Counterfeit Conspiracies (25 page)

"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.

 

 

 

 

 

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 recognize 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? 

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 promises." 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?"

He shuddered. "Thanks, but no thanks." He looked around. "The room's empty." He stared at the wall of windows. "I've never seen anything like that."

I hadn't noticed before, but from this angle the mountain was strategically and tastefully lighted, emphasizing its geographical features in a way that made the entire structure its own natural art. No light pollution here, but I must have been lit up like a Christmas ornament hanging out there. Thank goodness I hadn't known it at the time.

"The art of the mountain. The art of the building. Nature's own beauty," Jack said softly. "If I'm not mistaken the outside construction is mostly basalt, which is not typically used in building because it's porous. But it is beautiful."

"And the interior decorations of the house, the unnatural part so to speak, is gaudy and overdone, representing man's avarice and envy. Is that where this heading?"

"It would seem so."

"Like one big joke . . . which is something I was thinking earlier," I mused.

"Time to check out the roof, Laurel."

"You're not the boss of me."

"Not yet, but I'm working on it."

We passed through the double French doors and were promptly fired upon.

 

 

 

 

I grabbed Jack, and we both ran around the corner of the lounge to gain cover.

"Do you have a gun?" I whispered.

"Of course," he replied in kind. And then I saw he had it in his hand. A nine-millimeter Glock.