The Haunting of Anna McAlister (19 page)

In a few minutes he turned down the Avenue de Italia. In a dozen or so blocks, the very essence of Paris had changed. Instead of grand old buildings and history at every turn, this street was lined with modern office buildings and stores. This was business Paris . . . and, as with most city’s, it’s appearance was business as usual.
 

There wasn’t much time to compare architecture. Claude pulled up in front of a large warehouse and slammed on his breaks. “378 Avenue de Italia,” he snapped.

Anna paid him far more than his attitude or their destination warranted. Money was not her primary concern at the moment. Besides, she had enjoyed at least part of the tour.

Each dollar improved the driver’s demeanor. “Thank you very much,” he said in perfect English. “I hope you enjoy your visit to France.”

Tom was about to say something, but Anna held up her hand and said, “Don’t.”

Claude pulled the cab away from the curb and waved. At least Anna thought it was a wave.

* * *

Monsieur LaRoche was expecting them when they walked into his office. Anna had called him from the plane when they were flying over. At first he had refused her request for a meeting, but it is difficult to say no to someone who is 37,000 feet over the Atlantic and on their way.
 

“I have to admire your persistence, if not your common sense,” Monsieur LaRoche said as soon as Anna and Tom appeared in his office doorway. He completed writing a note on a pad next to his phone while raising and extending his free hand. “I have some good news for you, I think.”

“That is something we could really use,” Tom said.
 

“Please have a seat.” Monsieur LaRoche directed Anna and Tom to two chairs in front of his desk. He sat back down in his seat and looked at them for the first time. For several seconds, he placed his hands together at his chin as if he were praying. He stared at his visitors, apparently trying to decide whether to deliver the good news he had promised them.
 

Perhaps it was the look of pure desperation on Anna’s face, but for whatever reason he chose to continue. “After you phoned yesterday, I contacted my client.”

“The grand niece of Ariene?” Anna’s eyes opened wide.
 

“
Oui
,” Monsieur LaRoche paused again, obviously uncomfortable with what he was about to say.
 

“Please,” Anna said softly. “Go on.”

“My client’s name is Madame Isabelle Lapautre. She was very concerned about your decision to pursue the history of the music boxes. In fact, she called it foolhardy and dangerous.”
 

“Why dangerous?” Tom asked.

“She did not offer, and I did not ask.” Monsieur LaRoche was obviously interested in speaking with Anna only. He found Tom to be a nuisance. “She only said that it would be very wise if you abandoned your plan.”

The disappointment showed on Anna’s face. “I can’t do that.”

“She thought that might be your decision. So, in light of your insistence and your arrival in Paris, she has agreed to give you an audience.”

“Like the Pope?” Tom asked.

Monsieur LaRoche gave him a look that caused Anna to say, “Shh, Tom. Be quiet.”

Anna turned to Monsieur LaRoche. “Will she tell us the whole story?’

“What she chooses to tell or not tell . . . that is up to her. But, I don’t think you will be disappointed.”

“Thank you.”

“In French,
sil vous plait.
You are after all in France, no?” Monsieur LaRoche lectured.

“
Merci
.”

“Much better.”

“When can we meet with Madam Lapautre?”

“I have arranged everything. You will meet with her at 11 o’clock this morning.” He looked at his watch. “Which gives you almost two hours.”

“That’s wonderful,” Anna said. “Tha. . .
merci. Merci beaucoup
.”

Tom sighed, knowing that his real deal with Anna about returning home was now officially dead.

“Madame Lapautre’s home is perhaps three kilometers from here.” Monsieur LaRoche handed Anna one of his business cards. Under his name he had written the niece’s name and her address, 15 Rue Desera. “I suggest that you take a cab.”

Anna and Tom laughed. “I think we’ll walk,” Anna said. “We don’t want to be late.”

“Or broke,” Tom added.

Monsieur LaRoche ushered Anna and Tom out of his office and walked them to the warehouse door. “I wish you luck and good health.
Au revoir
.”
 

* * *

When Anna and Tom stepped out on the Avenue de Italia, the sun seemed unusually bright and the heat was shimmering in the air.
 

“Nice day for a walk, huh?” Tom said.
 

“Yeah,” Anna said. “Let’s go.”
 

Anna led the way in the direction given by Monsieur LaRoche. She knew how to get to the home of Madam Lapautre. She only wished she knew what she’d discover when she got there.

Chapter 18

Anna and Tom arrived at 15 Rue Desera very sweaty and a little early. The journey which began as a happy stroll through Parisian streets quickly grew into a major pain in the ass. The pain grew much worse with each degree the temperature rose through the 80’s. By the time Anna and Tom stood in front of the Cafe, across from the number 15, both of their faces were bright red and their clothing clung to their bodies like wet tissue paper.

As Anna peeled her blouse away from her chest she smiled at the memory of her grandmother telling her that “Ladies don’t sweat, they glisten.” She wiped her brow and then shook the drops of sweat from her fingers.
 

“Grandma,” she whispered. “If this is glistening, then I ain’t never glistened so much in my whole damn life.”

“What,” Tom was glistening up a storm himself.

“Nothing,” Anna said. “What time is it?”

Tom’s watch had taken a sweaty slide to the side of his wrist. He twisted it back in place. “About a quarter to.”

“Drink?” Anna pointed to the cafe.

“And a dip in the bathroom sink.”

While Anna found a table in the shade of a tree, Tom excused himself. “I’m going to go wash up a little,” he smelled his shirt. “Maybe a lot.”

“Good idea.” Anna sniffed the air. “Very good idea,” she said, collapsing on one of the green wooden chairs that crowded the sidewalk. Anna watched as Tom walked into the cafe and down the stairs to the men’s room.
 

After ordering two bottles of sparkling water, Anna sat back and watched the people walking by and the others who had also decided to take a break from the heat by resting in the cafe. She looked at the faces of old travelers and young lovers. There were people smiling, laughing and talking. There were others who sat in silence, staring away and dreaming of another time. Anna found herself wondering what life stories these people could tell, and how each of them would die. She wanted to know what these people were thinking right now, and what their last thought would be.

Anna watched a young couple walk by. The woman brushed her hand against the front of the man’s pants, as if by accident. She did it again, and then again . . . smiling all the while. Anna’s eyes followed them down the street, and she imagined what their love making would be like.
 

When her gaze shifted back to the cafe, Anna was startled to see a man standing at the far end of the row of small tables. He just stood completely still, staring directly at her. Anna looked away for a moment, but when she looked back he was still there, watching. But, now he was one table closer.

In spite of the heat, the man wore a heavy long black coat that almost reached the top of his boats. His hair was combed straight back on the sides, and appeared to be even blacker than his coat. She had seen this man before, at the top of her stairs, at her doorway and in the back seat of her car.
 

Anna blinked, hoping both to focus and that he would disappear. Instead, the man had moved closer and now stood only five tables away. His dark eyes locked onto hers. Anna tried to get up, but couldn’t. His eyes seemed to be pleading with her. He raised his arms toward her. Calling to her. Anna saw him trying to speak. She saw blood dripping from his extended fingers.

“So, what-cha working on?” Tom pulled out the chair next to Anna’s and sat down with a noticeable thud. His hair and face were sopping wet from his recent, most welcome, soaking from the men’s room sink. Tony’s pet phrase had become Anna and Tom’s private joke, shared only by Jeffrey, Stacey, every other worker at the agency, their family members, friends and acquaintances. Actually, probably the only person who didn’t get the joke was old CB Tony himself.
 

Anna was startled by Tom’s sudden intrusion. She stared at him as if seeing a ghost. She looked directly through him, as if he wasn’t there.

Tom kissed her. “Wherever you are, baby. Come back.”

Anna shook her head. She leaned over and whispered into Tom’s ear. “Look over there,” she said, gesturing with her head toward where she’d seen the man.

When Tom looked, all he saw was an American family of five tightly squeezed around one of the small tables. Each of the three small children was loudly stating his or her preferences in ice cream, planned activities, hotel employees and anything else that could be shouted and argued about. The kids were animated and excited. The parents just looked tired.
 

“That’s the scariest thing I’ve seen yet,” Tom said. “Between a phantom killer and those kids, I thing I’d take the ghost.”
 

Anna looked over, shocked to see the family in the exact spot where the man had been not seconds earlier. She scanned the cafe for the man, but he was gone. Anna also noticed that the family had just finished its meal and was preparing to leave. The people had to have been there all along.
 

“You weren’t talking about that family, were you?” Tom asked, knowing the answer.

Anna described the man in the top hat and coat.
 

“Was it the same guy you saw at your house?”

Anna was about to say yes, when a heavy set man bumped into her chair from behind, momentarily pinning her against the table.
 

“Pardon,” the man said, continuing to press for a second before pulling away. “Sorry.”

As Anna fought to regain her breath, she caught a quick glimpse of the man’s eyes as he quickly walked away. She watched them fade from pitch black back to brown.
 

* * *

“Good morning. Do come in.” A man in a formal white jacket and dark blue pants opened the door to 15 Rue Desera as soon as Anna knocked. “I am Henri, Madam Lapautre’s assistant. Step this way.”
 

Anna and Tom were led into a beautifully decorated living room. It was furnished in Victorian style, with a stunning sofa, several chairs and numerous small tables. Magnificently painted vases filled with multi-colored flowers occupied three wooden stands that apparently were constructed for such a purpose. The walls were carved wood, and the paintings Renaissance originals.

Madam Lapautre rose from a chair and moved to greet them. “Hello. I’ve been expecting you for a very long time.”

Madame Lapautre stood no more than five foot one in her satin slippers. Her white hair was cropped short and held back in place by two silver barrettes. She wore a plain navy blue dress with white lace trim around the collar, cuffs and hem line, which fell precisely two inches below her knees. Her body looked frail, but she stood perfectly erect. She held her head up proudly, with her chin slightly raised and her brilliant blue eyes focused on her guests. She also spoke English perfectly, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Anna.

“Your English is wonderful.”

“I attended Syracuse University. My mother was an American like yourself. I learned English from birth from her.”

Henri entered the room carrying a tray holding a bone china teapot and matching cups. He placed it on the table in front of the couch before leaving.

Tom and Anna sat down on a couch, and Madam Lapautre offered them tea.
 

“Thank you,” Anna handed one cup to Tom before taking one for herself.
 

Madam Lapautre sat in a chair opposite the couch and took the third cup for her own.

“Your home is lovely,” Anna smiled. “So many beautiful things.”

“
Merci
.”

Anna looked at the Persian rug under their feet. It was an intricate blend of blues, burgundies, and golds. She reached down and ran her hand over the surface. “This is an incredible rug. I’ve never seen one quite like it.”
 

“There is none,” Madam Lapautre said. Her voice was friendly, if somewhat guarded. “This particular rug has been in my family for perhaps a century or more.”

Anna felt the delicate texture of the rug with her fingers, certain that Ariene had done the same many years earlier. She pulled her hand away.
 

“So, were you raised here in Paris?” Anna asked.