The Paris Secret (13 page)

“I wonder if these are the other society members.” I asked, looking at a black-and-white framed photo on the wall. It looked like it was taken in the late ’50s or early ’60s. I leaned closer for a better look.

Five carefree twenty-somethings sat around a table at a café. I recognized Monsieur Marcel who looked much the way he did now, only his thick, wavy hair was jet-black. He gazed adoringly at a young and very pretty Evalyn Hewitt, who in turn only had eyes for the handsome, serious-looking black man sitting next to her. He was the only one staring directly into the camera. Sitting on the opposite side of him was a grinning Oliver Renard who had a head full of blond hair. A busty dark-haired girl with glasses sat on his lap. She must have been Anna Schroder.

I took the picture out of its frame and flipped it over. There was a note on the back:
Le grand jour á
Bernard. Bernard’s big day. I flipped the photo over and looked again at the handsome black man. So
this
was the infamous Bernard Fouquet? The info we’d found on him on the web didn’t include any pictures. I don’t know why I was so surprised he was black…or hot. With his slim build, sensual lips and brooding gaze he could have been a model.

I put the picture back and turned my attention to the bookshelves. Much like those in Dr. Hewitt’s library, many of Monsieur Marcel’s books were in French and English, leather-bound, and looked well-worn. But his tastes leaned heavily toward non-fiction with one whole shelf devoted to books on alchemy and in particular, the philosopher’s stone.

I took one off the shelf and flipped through it. It was in English but may as well have been a foreign language. I couldn’t make heads or tales of what I was reading. I started to close it but something was stuck to one of the pages. It was a faded snapshot of Dr. Hewitt. But she looked older than in the black-and-white group photo on the wall, maybe early to mid-thirties. She was sitting on a blanket in a grassy area. The Eiffel Tower was in the background. And sitting in her lap was a Bichon Frise puppy.

“Agnes?” I whispered and then laughed at myself. Of course it couldn’t be Agnes. Lots of people remain loyal to a breed of dog. I flipped the snapshot over and saw the year, 1970, written on the back.

“Looks like Dr. Hewitt may not have been the only who believed in the philosopher’s stone,” commented Simon, who had come up behind me. I quickly shoved the snapshot back in the book.

“I own a copy of Grimm’s Fairytales but that doesn’t mean I believe in them,” I said.

Simon chuckled. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that something like the philosopher’s stone could exist?”

“Don’t tell me you believe what Dr. Hewitt told us? You don’t strike me as the type to believe in hocus-pocus and magic elixirs,” I said, taking a wine glass and following him over to the couch.

“I’ve been all over the world chasing stories and have seen some pretty amazing things, Maya, people cured of terminal illnesses at Lourdes, children who can give detailed and verifiable accounts of past lives, psychics who help the police solve crimes. Could the philosopher’s stone be real? Who the hell knows? But I’m open-minded enough to believe in the possibility that it could be.”

“I can respect that. But until they come out with the Philosopher’s Stone Anti-Aging Cream and the Philosopher’s Stone Gold-Making Kit, I’m still a skeptic.” I laughed when I said it, but I couldn’t get that snapshot and Dr. Hewitt’s voice out of my head.
“Would you believe me if I told you my Agnes was almost forty years old?”
And I didn’t want to contemplate all the weirdness that had happened since I’d put on the posy ring.

“And I’m happy to contemplate the mysteries of life,” Simon replied, interrupting my thoughts and clinking his wine glass against mine.

“Speaking of mysteries,” I said, shaking my head to clear it. “I wonder what Monsieur Marcel meant about things not being as they seem. Simon scooted close to me on the couch and squeezed my thigh. I rested my head on his shoulder.

“It probably means we should have thought twice about coming here. How do we know that old man hasn’t called the police and told them where to find us?”

“You honestly think he would have told us everything that he did if he thought we were murderers?”

“
Non.
But he might if he’s the killer.”

I sat up and looked at him. “Are you serious?”

“Look around you. Your Monsieur Marcel is hardly living like a king, is he? Oliver Renard could afford to go on sabbatical to write a book and Evalyn Hewitt was comfortably retired. They obviously had money but not Marcel. He’s earning a living as a tour guide. Maybe he needs the money the book can bring. And have you stopped to wonder why neither Renard nor Hewitt’s homes were broken into? They knew whoever killed them. Marcel could have easily walked up behind both his unsuspecting old friends and slit their throats for them.”

“No.” I shook my head. “No one snuck up on Dr. Hewitt. She knew she was going to die or she wouldn’t have pulled those books off the shelf.”

“Marcel could have pulled those books off the shelf. He could have used Garland murdering Juliet as an opportunity to kill off the rest of the society so he wouldn’t have to share the book knowing their deaths would be blamed on someone else…us!”

“He doesn’t even know where the book is. And he’s the only one helping us. Besides he’s an old man. I don’t think he has it in him to kill anyone. We need all the help we can get. You insisted that I trust Francoise, Mr. Open-Minded. Can’t you at least have some faith in Monsieur Marcel?”

“You’re forgetting I know Francoise. I don’t know Marcel and something is still off about all of this. All I’m saying is that we shouldn’t be so quick to drink that man’s cool ale.” He leaned his head back against the couch and ran a hand over his face.

“Kool-Aid, Simon,” I corrected, chuckling. “Once he gets here, Monsieur Marcel will be able to help us figure out what Juliet did with that crucifix. But right now,” I said, yawning and laying my head in his lap, “I’m really tired.”

The apartment was dark when I woke up alone a few hours later. When I rolled over, I found myself looking into Marcel’s cat’s icy blue eyes. I reached out my hand and the cat rubbed his head against my palm and then began to groom himself.

“Simon?” I called out and got no response other than the echo of my own voice. I stretched and called out again. “Monsieur Marcel?”

Suddenly I became aware of voices coming from the hallway just off the small foyer. I headed down the short hallway with the cat on my heels. Simon was watching a small TV in a dark office. Before I could say anything, Sylvie Renard’s beautiful, smiling face filled the small TV screen. Then the picture disappeared, replaced by a shot of what I recognized as the guest parking lot of the American Hospital and a black Mini Cooper surrounded by a police barricade. The bottom dropped out of my stomach.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“
Oui.
A parking attendant found a blood trail in the parking lot that led to Sylvie’s car and called the police. Her body was in the trunk. They’re looking for the couple that brought her to the hospital. Good thing I wiped our prints from her car.”

“When did you do that?”

“While you were busy in the hospital about to be turned in by your upstanding friend,” he replied sarcastically.

“Where’s Monsieur Marcel?” My heart started to beat faster.

“He never showed up, Maya. Not so much as a phone call.”

When Oliver Renard’s picture flashed onto the TV screen next to his daughter’s, I slid down the wall next to the office door. The cat jumped into my lap and curled up.

“But he was going to help us.”

“I’m not so sure about that. I found these in his desk drawer.” He handed me a pile of papers.

I riffled though the unpaid bills and letters from collection agencies. Monsieur Marcel was in a mountain of debt.

“He was being evicted from this apartment.” Simon handed me another letter with the words
Notification D’expulsion
stamped across the top in bright red letters. “He must be desperate for cash. And desperate people are dangerous people. We have no idea what the extent of his connection to all of this is.”

I tossed the bills on the floor in disgust. Could I have been wrong about Sebastian Marcel, too?

“Now what are we going to do?”

Simon just shook his head and continued to stare at the TV. Sylvie was dead and now Monsieur Marcel was missing and possibly dead too. The only two people who could have helped us were gone. I would have cried if I had the strength. I didn’t want to see any more. I took the cat with me and went back to the living room couch. Simon joined me a few minutes later.

“Are you hungry? Marcel’s got some fruit and cold chicken or I could go out for food.”

I shook my head no.

“You have to eat something. You haven’t eaten all day.”

“Hold me.” He just stood there watching me with a worried frown.

“Please,” I pleaded when he didn’t move.

Simon knelt in front of me and pulled me into a tight embrace. My arms wrapped around him. My cheek rested against the top of his head. I could smell his hair and feel his warm breath against my skin. We stayed like that for a long time until his hands found their way under my sweater and unhooked my bra. I pulled the sweater over my head. Simon tugged at my pants. Thirty seconds later, I was completely naked and unfastening Simon’s pants. He grabbed my hands, shook his head and smiled.

He pushed me down on the couch and kissed me long and deep. He cupped my breasts and squeezed gently as he kissed the valley between them. He began to leave a trail of kisses as he moved lower and briefly stopped at my belly button, showering it with attention. Then he lifted my legs over his shoulders and kissed and nibbled my inner thighs. Just when I couldn’t stand it anymore, his tongue found me and slowly explored each wet, warm crevice. I shuddered and gasped from the sheer pleasure.

The roughness of his beard only added to the intensity. He kneaded my breasts, massaging my hardened nipples with his thumbs, as he alternated between sucking my clit and bathing it with his tongue until I was about to lose my mind. Simon held me in place as I came. He kept his mouth fastened on me until I stopped thrashing around. My moans turned to soft whimpers and then heavy breathing, then he laid his head on my stomach.

After I caught my breath, I pulled him all the way onto the couch. I pushed him onto his back, not taking my eyes off him as I slowly unfastened his pants. His eyes widened in surprise then quickly glazed over as my tongue flicked the tip of his cock. I took him into my mouth. As I pulled him in deeper, I was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath as his head fell back and his fingers tangled in my hair. We spent the rest of the evening lost in each other. We were in big trouble and our options were growing limited with each passing hour, but at least for a little while, we could forget.

Louise-Marie entered the room and sat on the side of the couch where I lay with Simon. She took my hand and brought it to her lips. She kissed the posy ring.

Once again, I was the Black Nun and I was filled with the most overwhelming sense of heartache as I peered out of my rain-streaked window onto the ornamental gardens below.

I had been at Fontainebleau for a month and had yet to be presented at court. The royal family visited me whenever they came to the convent to fill their candy boxes, but I was not deemed fit to dine amongst them. I had been hidden away, again, in these rooms. And though lavish they may have been, they were nothing but a gilded cage. My only confidante, besides Philippe, was my young maid, Anne-Elise, and she was but a young girl of twelve.

It was never meant to be. It had been an impossibility all along. Of course the king refused our request to marry. I should have known better. Philippe was his nephew and who was I? An outcast. A mistake to be reviled. Philippe will marry his first cousin Mademoiselle de Blois. She was the king’s daughter but she was not my sister. Her mother was not my mother, the queen, but Louis’s mistress, Madame de Montespan. And she would be Philippe’s wife, not me. According to Anne-Elise, the mademoiselle had a two-million-livres dowry. And what could I bring to a marriage besides love? Books? Sugar candy?

“Vous devez manger, mademoiselle.”
Anne-Elise sat the silver tray of food on the table by the window. I hadn’t heard her come in.

I had no appetite but I sat and allowed her to serve me a bowl of pea and leek soup. “Merci.” I spooned a bit of it into my mouth to satisfy the girl and she left.

Restless, I wandered over to the canopied bed where a white silk gown lay. It was beautiful with a tight bodice and low, broad neckline trimmed in lace. The dropped shoulders were of the latest fashion, or so I was told, along with paned sleeves lined in a pale blue the same shade as the bow-covered petticoat. Another gift from Phillip. It arrived this afternoon. But it was not a gown for a wife. This was a gown for a mistress, which I had now become. It was not made for me and I wondered if it was cast off from some other mistress.

Philippe insisted that this was the way of things and despite his upcoming marriage to a woman he did not love, we would still be together. All the men of the court had mistresses and provided for them quite well. I could not blame him for his way of thinking. This was the world he was born to. It was I who had been naïve. I looked down at the silver ring on my finger. Of his love I was sure. But a deep sorrow tugged at my heart. A loud knock followed by a voice at my bedchamber door startled me out of my thoughts.

“
Louise-Marie
…mon amour.”
It was Philippe. I hesitated. But finally rose when he called my name again, knowing I could not deny him.

“Maya! Maya! Wake up!” Simon shook me by the shoulders as the sound of police sirens disrupted the predawn silence.

“Get dressed. We’ve got to go.” He tossed me my clothes from the floor. He was already half-dressed.