The Paris Secret (12 page)

I peeled off the poncho, that awful wig and the fake moles. After fluffing out my hair with my fingers, I grabbed the lab coat from the hook and put it on. I stuffed my disguise into the trashcan by the door and threw my glasses in my bag. I walked out just as the nurse, who’d come looking for me, was coming in. She didn’t give me a second look. I walked past the waiting cop without incident.

Once through the exit, I took off running. I ran and ran. I kept running for at least two blocks. When I finally stopped to catch my breath I headed down an alley next to a bistro. I was taking off the lab coat when a firm hand gripped my shoulder. I yelped. But it was only Simon.

“What the hell happened?”

I filled him in, explaining that Bellange and Bernier tried to use Jarrod to catch us. When I told Simon about Sylvie being gone from the hospital, his face fell.

“We don’t know that Garland has her,” I said, reading his mind. “She has a head injury. She could be wandering around the hospital in a daze or she could have just gotten scared and left.” I pulled the same handkerchief I’d used on the cut on Sylvie’s forehead from my pocket to wipe my sweaty palms.

“Don’t you see? If something has happened to Sylvie, she won’t be able to tell the police about Garland’s connection to Juliet Rice.
Merde!
I just wish we could catch a break!” He angrily kicked the side of the dumpster, making me flinch.

A small flash of gold on the handkerchief in my hand glinted in the sunlight, catching my eye. I stared at it, noticing for the first time that this was the same handkerchief Monsieur Marcel had given to me to wipe my eyes when he’d picked me up at the DCPJ headquarters after my interrogation. Now that I had time to really look at the monogram in the bottom right corner, I could see that it was actually a gold infinity symbol with the letter
S
in one section and
M
in the other. I remember thinking when he’d given it to me that the initials stood for Sebastian Marcel. It didn’t.
This
was why the Society of Moret’s symbol had looked so familiar to me. I’d seen it before, on Monsieur Marcel’s handkerchief.

“What’s wrong now?” snapped Simon.

I held up the handkerchief and grinned. “I think our luck just changed.”

Being a tour guide for TransEuro Tours made Sebastian Marcel an easy man to find. All I had to do was look at my tour group’s itinerary—still crumpled at the bottom of my bag—to see that today Monsieur Marcel was scheduled to take anyone from our group who was interested on a tour of the Palais Garnier, which included stops at the nearby Fragonard Perfumery and the Galeries Lafayette department store.

It was the middle of the afternoon by the time Simon and I reached the Palais Garnier, also known as the Paris Opera House. Along the way, Simon bought me a black baseball cap from a street vendor and I tucked my hair underneath it and put the horn-rimmed glasses back on. The sun was bright as we approached the opera house, making the two gilded statues of L’Harmonie and La Poesie, which sat majestically atop the building, gleam like highly polished gold coins. The area was thick with people. Traffic was heavy and several tour buses lined the nearby side streets.

I had no idea which bus belonged to Monsieur Marcel’s group. The back of the opera house faced rue Scribe, the street that the perfumery was on. According to Simon, the Galeries Lafayette was a mere block away. Now all we had to do was wait.

“I hope we haven’t missed him.” I scanned the street for the dapper, white-haired Frenchman.

“If so, I can always enlist Francoise,” he said teasingly.

“You’ve done enough corrupting of a minor for one day.”

“Have you always been this uptight?” asked Simon as he leaned against the doorway of the entrance to the Fragonard Perfumery’s museum.

“I’m not uptight. I’m just cautious.” He was definitely starting to annoy me.

“I bet you’ve never had so much as a parking ticket in your life, have you?” He somehow made it sound like something to be ashamed of.

“No, I haven’t. But I’d say the mess I’m in now more than makes up for it, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s him.” I nudged Simon in the ribs. A man with snowy white hair stood about a half a block away with a group of people, half of whom I recognized from my tour group.

I headed toward him, but Simon grabbed my arm.

“Easy, Madame Cautious. You can’t just run up to him waving a bloody handkerchief in his face. Let’s follow him and see if we can catch him alone.”

We waited and watched from the doorway as Marcel addressed the small group. A minute later, the tourists had left, heading in various directions, a few of them looking at their watches. Monsieur Marcel headed off past the opera house and Simon and I rushed to keep him in sight. Half a block later, he disappeared inside the Galeries Lafayette.

“Hurry up! If we lose him we’ll never be able to find him in there,” I said.

The store was packed with shoppers loaded down with bags bearing designer names I would never be able to afford. And Marcel was nowhere in sight.

“I told you we’d lose him in here!”

“Is that him?” Simon pointed toward a spot in the crowd about twenty feet away where a bright white head of hair bobbed in a sea of blonds, redheads and brunettes.

We followed him and found ourselves at a wine bar in the women’s clothing department. He perched on a stool and ordered wine.

“
Un verre de Cabernet sauvignon pour moi et mes deux amis, si vous plait.
”

The bartender looked taken aback and looked at the empty stools on either side of Marcel.

“What did he say?” I whispered to Simon.

“He just ordered wine for himself and two friends. Is he nuts?”

“
Au contraire, Monsieur Girard, le vin est pour vous et Madame Sinclair,
” Marcel said, swiveling around to face us and giving me a toothy smile.

So startled that he’d addressed Simon by his name, I actually jumped. The bartender sat three glasses of red wine in front of Monsieur Marcel.

“I’ve been expecting the two of you. Please, come sit and have a glass of wine with an old man.”

I wasn’t expecting such an invitation. I’d thought we’d have to corner the man and plead for his help. He not only expected us, he welcomed us with wine. Was this a trap? Only after seeing the warmth and genuine concern in his eyes, I made the decision to join Monsieur Marcel at the bar.

“Maya,” Simon whispered and tried to pull me back. I slipped out of his grasp.

“You and your friend have nothing to fear from me, my dear,” Monsieur Marcel whispered as I sat next to him.

“It’s okay,” I said. Simon hesitated a few seconds before sitting on the stool on the opposite side of Monsieur Marcel. He wasted no time taking a large gulp of the wine.

“You’ve been expecting us?” I asked in a low voice, keeping my eye on the bartender to make sure he wasn’t listening. He was busy tending to other patrons.

“I had high hopes that you and your friend would seek me out, Madame Sinclair.”

“You gave me that handkerchief on purpose? You wanted me to see the Society of Moret symbol?”

“Not exactly on purpose,” he said simply. “It was more as a precaution.”

“Some precaution. Why didn’t you just tell Maya you knew Juliet Rice? Why didn’t you warn her?” Simon slapped his wine glass down a little too hard on the bar.

A faint blush colored Monsieur Marcel’s cheeks and he regarded Simon calmly. “It was my greatest wish that the police would clear Madame Sinclair of all suspicion in poor Juliet’s murder. By the time I realized the situation was so serious,” he said, glancing over at the bartender and lowering his voice further before turning to me, “you were on the run. And I was too afraid to contact you for fear they would be tracing your cell phone. They can do that kind of thing” he concluded matter-of-factly.

“But how could you be so sure I’d figure it out?”

“I could not be sure. I could only hope you’d put it all together. And might I add that I overheard you telling Madame Berman when you arrived that you are a librarian. I have great respect for librarians and have yet to meet one who didn’t possess extraordinary problem-solving powers.”

Not exactly the answer I was looking for but somehow just being in Monsieur Marcel’s calm, reassuring presence was making me feel hopeful that Simon and I were going to come out of this nightmare okay. I squeezed his hand.

“We need answers, Marcel. What the hell is going on?” asked Simon.

“Yes, of course, Monsieur Girard. I will answer all of your questions to the best of my ability, but not here. We need privacy.”

He took us to the empty tour bus parked in front of the Fragonard Perfumery’s museum. The bus driver was too busy smoking and talking to the driver of the tour bus parked across the street to pay much attention to us as we climbed onto the bus.

“Alright,” said Simon, leaning across the aisle once we were seated. “What do you know about this Moret Crucifix? Do you have any idea where Juliet could have hidden it?”

“Juliet’s killer wants us to bring it to him tomorrow night in exchange for the murder weapon he used to kill Juliet. It has my prints on it,” I explained.

“
Mon Dieu,
” said Marcel, letting out a breath. “I’m so sorry. I have no idea what Juliet could have done with it. I didn’t even realize it was missing until Oliver called me last Friday. It was his turn to have the crucifix and he called me in quite a state, saying it had been stolen and a fake left in its place.”

“How did he know it was a fake?” asked Simon.

“Sixteen ninety-four, the year the Black Nun of Moret took her final vows as a nun, and the year we believe the crucifix was given to her, was engraved on the back of the crucifix. It wasn’t there anymore.”

“What do you mean it was Dr. Renard’s turn to have the crucifix?” I asked. Simon appeared equally confused.

“Oh dear, I’ll have to start at the beginning I’m afraid.”

“Please do,” prompted Simon. I nodded for him to continue as well.

“Well, it all started back when we were students at the Sorbonne back in 1957. Bernard Fouquet, Evalyn Hewitt, Anna Schroder, Oliver Renard and I were all great lovers of history, you see. We were in many of the same classes and studied together. It wasn’t long before we were inseparable. But it was Bernard who was the glue that held us all together. He was the one with all the grand ideas and theories. He was brilliant.”

“He was the one who studied the Moret Tapestry,” I said, then added, “Dr. Hewitt told us.”

“You’ve spoken to Evalyn?” He looked surprised.

“She’s dead,
monsieur,
” said Simon bluntly, causing the old man’s eyes to instantly fill with tears. I could have kicked him.

“I was supposed to have lunch with her today. She called and told me not to come. It was most odd. She didn’t sound like herself at all. I should have known…”

“She may have saved your life,” said Simon a little more gently this time.

“I’m afraid Dr. Renard is dead, too.” I took his hand. “I’m so sorry about your friends. We found both of them today. That’s why we really need your help. We have to stop the man who’s doing this.”

“I’m the only one left?” he said in a hollow voice.

“And you could be next,” Simon added.

Monsieur Marcel nodded and rubbed his eyes then cleared his throat before continuing. “In answer to your question, yes, Bernard was the one who studied the tapestry. His research proved that the original design of the Moret Tapestry had been altered during an attempt to restore it in 1920. He discovered that the restoration destroyed one of the major clues to finding the book entrusted to Sister Louise-Marie.”

“What clue?” we asked simultaneously.

“When the tapestry was found in Fontainebleau, it was in a state of disrepair. There were many places that were faded and threadbare. One of those worn places was the area on the front of the kneeling nun’s chest. The restorers filled in the spot with solid black, the color of her habit. But in closely examining the few surviving photographs taken of the tapestry before it was restored, Bernard was certain that the nun had originally been wearing a crucifix.”

“The Moret Crucifix!” I said as a warm feeling of excitement flowed through me. But it was more than that. I somehow
knew
Bernard Fouquet’s theory was right.

“
Exactement!
It was all just speculation of course. Bernard believed the crucifix was commissioned by the Duke of Chartres who was in love with Louise-Marie and gave it to her as a gift and a reminder.”

“To stay in the convent,” I said and Marcel nodded.

“And of her higher purpose of protecting the book. Sadly, no one in the academic community paid Bernard’s theories much attention. Then the Moret Tapestry was stolen in 1959 and Bernard was unable to substantiate his theories. Even the four of us had our doubts. Eventually, we all drifted in different directions, taking up faculty positions at various universities after graduation and moving on with our lives. We lost touch with each other. But then something amazing happened. In 1970 we all got an invitation from Bernard to visit him at his home in Moret-sur-Loing. He told us he’d found something and it would be very much worth our while to show up.”

“He found the crucifix?” Simon asked.

“
Oui.
You see, he’d always theorized that the crucifix must have been hidden someplace where Sister Louise-Marie spent a great deal of time.”

“The convent,” I added again with certainty. He nodded.

“Bernard believed Louise-Marie was a member of a Benedictine convent in Moret built in 1638 called the convent of Notre-Dame-des-Anges.

“Notre Dame of the Angels,” said Simon to no one in particular.

“The convent disappeared during the French Revolution. But fortunately for Bernard, the Benedictine nuns of Moret were famous for their barley sugar candy making. Their candy…”

“Candy!” I blurted out. It wasn’t possible, was it? How could I have dreamt about being a nun in a convent where they made candy? Had Dr. Hewitt mentioned it? Had I read about it someplace and just forgotten? That must have been it. I’d read about it. There was no other explanation unless…I fingered the silver ring and shoved my left hand under my thigh so the elderly Frenchman wouldn’t see it and recognize it as belonging to Dr. Hewitt.

“But what has candy got to do with the Moret Crucifix?” Simon asked, ignoring my odd outburst.

“Let the man talk, Simon.

“I’m sorry,” said Monsieur Marcel, blushing. “I do get carried away.”

“It’s okay,
monsieur.
Go on,” I said.

“After the revolution, the nuns once again began their candy making in Moret and set up shop in a little house next to Notre Dame Church. In 1970 they turned over the recipe to a local family in Moret who owned a candy shop. Much of what had been in the nuns’ house was given to Notre Dame Church. One of the priests knew that Bernard was a historian and asked him to take a look at the items from the house to appraise their historical value. Most of it was directly related to candy making but some of it was items belonging to the nuns that dated as far back as the early 1700s. Among the items Bernard found a prayer journal from 1732 belonging to a young novice nun named Sister Cecile. One of the entries gives an account of the night she sat up praying with an elderly, dying black nun named Sister Louise-Marie. Before Louise-Marie died, she gave Cecile something and made her kiss a gold crucifix as a promise to keep it safe.”

“She gave her the
Aurum Liber?
” asked Simon.

“Well, the item was not mentioned but, yes, Bernard assumed it was the
Aurum Liber.
He assumed Sister Louise-Marie may have also given Cecile the crucifix. Cecile fell ill and died in 1734 before taking her final vows as a nun. Through old church parish records, Bernard was able to discover Sister Cecile’s family name was Lambert. She’d belonged to a wealthy family in Fontainebleau. He thought that stories about the book or the crucifix had been handed down through the family. Bernard traced her family tree and found a direct descendent of Cecile’s family, a woman named Albertine Dumaire.

“But by the time he found an address for her, she’d already died. Bernard just happened to show up at Madame Dumaire’s tiny apartment the very day her possessions were being auctioned off. He was wandering through her home when he spotted a grimy, dusty blackened crucifix hanging on the wall above her bed. He had a hunch and bought it for a franc. Once he cleaned it up, he discovered his hunch was right. It was the Moret Crucifix and it had been hanging on the wall in that poor woman’s derelict little apartment for who knows how many years.”

“But what about the book?” asked Simon.

“He never found it. It wasn’t in Madame Dumaire’s apartment. Somewhere between the time of Sister Cecile’s death in 1734 and Albertine Dumaire’s death in 1970, someone in the family must have hidden the book. That’s why Bernard invited us to Moret-sur-Loing. He formed the Society of Moret and recruited all of us to study the crucifix for clues as to the book’s whereabouts. Each year one member of the society was given the crucifix to study for an entire year, after which we would meet at Bernard’s house to share our findings with the society.”

“You mean Sister Louise-Marie didn’t create the Society of Moret to protect the book after her death?” I asked.

Monsieur Marcel chuckled humorlessly. “I see you’ve been reading Evalyn’s book, Madame Sinclair. Evalyn wrote
Secret Societies of France
as a textbook for one of her classes. Only fifty copies were printed. And do you know what one of the questions was on the final exam for that class?”

I shrugged and shook my head.

“What secret society listed in your textbook is not a real centuries-old society?”

“The Society of Moret?”

“If you’d gotten to know her better, you’d have discovered Evalyn had a wonderful sense of humor,” he said as he looked off in the distance.

I had to admit, she got us good. Dr. Hewitt must have known Simon wasn’t really a filmmaker. She’d had a bit of fun at our expense, which is exactly what we deserved for lying to her. I wondered what else she’d lied to us about. By the set of his jaw, I could tell Simon wasn’t ready to appreciate the humor just yet.

“But that nun’s family could have just sold the book. It’s worth a fortune, right? How can you be so sure it was hidden?” Simon asked, looking highly skeptical.

“We’ve discovered that the inlaid stained glass scene in the crucifix’s handle isn’t as old as the rest of the crucifix. It was added a good hundred years or more after Sister Louise-Marie’s death. Bernard believed—as did the rest of the society—that the scene had been added by whoever hid the book in order to serve as a map to the book’s location.”

“Dr. Hewitt told us Dr. Fouquet believed the sun was the key to finding the book. Was that a lie?” I asked.

“We all believe the sun is the key. The sun is the not the largest object in the Moret Tapestry but for some reason it dominates the scene in the crucifix’s handle. It has to be a clue. And I’m afraid poor Juliet must have figured it out at last, only instead of sharing what she’d found, she betrayed us.”

“Why would Juliet even bother stealing the crucifix if she had the opportunity to have it for an entire year?” I asked.

“It was Anna’s turn last year. Oliver’s turn this year. It was my turn next year and Evalyn’s turn after that. It’s been two years since Juliet had her turn and she was going to have to wait another three years.”

“She stole it from Dr. Renard,” said Simon. “Remember Sylvie said they’d argued about something she took?”

“Sylvie? You’ve spoken to Sylvie?” Marcel appeared shocked.

“She found her father’s body shortly before we arrived, why?” I asked. He opened his mouth to speak but Simon cut him off.

“She’s disappeared, Marcel. So we need to know everything you know.”

He nodded and sighed. “Juliet came to see Oliver a few weeks ago out of the blue. He told me he was surprised to see her. They’ve never gotten on. Oliver could be a bit of a snob when it came to Americans. He felt Juliet was too flashy to be taken seriously as an academic.”

“He took her seriously enough to have an affair with her, right?” I asked.

Monsieur Marcel blushed. “It was long ago. And they both paid dearly for it.”

“Finish what you were telling us,” said Simon impatiently.

“Ah, yes, Oliver was eating lunch in his garden when she arrived. It was no secret that he kept the crucifix in his study. He thinks she switched it when she went inside to use his restroom. He’d been so busy working on his new book that he didn’t notice something wasn’t right about the crucifix until last Friday.”

A tap on the bus’s door made me jump. A half dozen people from Monsieur Marcel’s group were waiting to get back on the bus. Monsieur Marcel pressed a set of keys into my hand.

“There is still much to discuss. Please wait for me at my apartment.”

Simon and I exchanged looks.

“You’ll be safe there. Of that you have my promise,” he insisted.

“What about you? You need to be very careful.”

“Don’t worry. I should be home within the hour.”

He gave us the address of his apartment in the Marais district and ushered us off the bus, oblivious to the stares from our tour group. A sudden thought came to mind and I grabbed his hand.

“I think Dr. Hewitt left you a message,
monsieur,
” I whispered.

He gave me a startled look and I quickly explained about the books we’d found on the floor of Dr. Hewitt’s apartment and handed him the list of titles. He read them and all the color drained from his face. More members of the group arrived. I pulled the tour guide into a nearby doorway.

“Maya, let’s go…now,” Simon ordered. I ignored him. He cursed under his breath.

“These titles mean something to you, don’t they?”

“
Oui,
” he whispered. “They mean that all is not as it seems, Madame Sinclair. I’ll explain later. Now, please go before you’re recognized.”

He’d barely gotten the last word out before Simon grabbed my hand and dragged me away.

Sebastian Marcel’s apartment on rue de Poitou was above an antique shop. Compared to Oliver Renard’s mansion and Evalyn Hewitt’s fancy Ile St. Louis digs, it was a closet. But what it lacked in space, it more than made up for in charm. Much like those of his late friend Dr. Hewitt, the walls of his apartment were covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Well-worn leather furniture, antique lamps and oriental rugs made the apartment feel cozy. A Siamese cat sat, swishing its elegant tail atop a counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. Simon didn’t hesitate to make himself at home. He uncorked a bottle of Pinot Noir from Monsieur Marcel’s wine rack and poured us each a glass.