The Paris Secret (18 page)

“Tell me,” he commanded again, this time pulling my arms up and pinning them above my head with one hand.

“I can’t, Simon. I’ve got to go give a statement to the police this morning and then I’ve got a plane—”

He covered my mouth with his and guided his free hand between my legs. I gasped. I wasn’t wearing panties so his fingers just met my warm, wet flesh. He stroked me, first slowly, then harder and faster as my breath quickened. I moved my hips and grinded against his fingers and closed my eyes, losing myself to the sensation. I was getting wetter and wetter until he abruptly stopped.

“Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” I replied in a hoarse whisper. I pushed up against his fingers but they remained still.

“Say, ‘I want you,
Simon.
’”

Tired of the game he was trying to play, I rolled over until I was on top. I took off the T-shirt I was wearing and quickly unfastened Simon’s jeans and yanked them and his briefs down past his hips. He stripped off his turtleneck and gasped when I mounted him. His hands squeezed and kneaded my breasts as I rode him hard. I bent down and kissed him.

“I…want…you…Simon,” I whispered between kisses.

His only answer was a groan. He sat up so I could wrap my legs around his waist and held me close. After a while I lay back on his legs and pressed my feet against the headboard as he pulled my hips to meet his thrusts. The headboard slapped rhythmically against the wall. I hugged him and came, vaguely aware of him calling my name as his own orgasm hit. He lay back against the pillows, breathing heavily with me nestled against his damp chest, fighting tears. This couldn’t happen again. It was time to go home. I got up and turned away from him and put my T-shirt back on.

“You okay?”

“Never better.”

“No one could accuse you of being a lousy lay. God, I needed that.” He was sitting up against the headboard, looking relaxed and pleased with himself. I was flying home—
today
—and still he’d said nothing about ever wanting to see me again. All I was to Simon Girard was stress relief.

“Yeah, and that’s what I’d call a great sendoff. Thanks. Make sure you pull the door shut on your way out,” I tossed over my shoulder as I walked into the bathroom.

I didn’t mean for it to sound so harsh. But I couldn’t help it. I was hurt and disappointed, and in all honesty, had no right to be. Simon had made me no promises. It was my own stupid fault for letting things go so far. The stunned look his face that I glimpsed in the dresser mirror as I passed told me Simon wasn’t used to being dismissed by any woman.

“I’m happy I could oblige,” he replied through gritted teeth. He sat up and began to pull on his pants.

I thought about stopping him. But it was better this way. Better to end it now before I got even more attached. When I got out of the shower, Simon and his duffel bag were gone.

“So you told the man his money was on the dresser and not to let the doorknob hit him in the ass on the way out?” asked my friend Kelly.

I was on the metro having just come from giving my statement at DCPJ and was careful to leave out tales of nuns, crucifixes and priceless gold-bound books. They were sending my clothes and suitcase back to the hotel by police messenger, but I insisted they give me my cell phone. Unfortunately, it was dead. I had to use the cheap one Simon had bought. Forget about the murder, mayhem and being on the run. All Kelly wanted to hear about was Simon.

“I did not say that to him.”

“You may as well have. You treated him like a two dollar ho, Maya, and after he saved your sorry behind and everything. Poor Simon.”

“Oh, please. Trust me. Simon Girard will never be short on female companionship. In a week he’ll have forgotten all about me.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m fine.” It was a lie, of course, but it would be true in time.

I was about to tell Kelly about getting a message from Ben, but the phone dropped the call and the train suddenly stopped. An announcement was made in French and everyone started to get off.

“What’s going on?” I asked a lady loaded down with shopping bags.

“Bomb threat. We’ve got to get off.”

Bomb threat! I jumped up and followed her off the train. It was a good ten-minute walk in the semi-darkness back to the previous stop, Champs Elysees Clemenceau. The narrow platform was lighted, giving me plenty of opportunity to read the graffiti on the filthy, dank tunnel walls. Rats scurried somewhere below us. There were about thirty of us and everyone except me seemed calm and collected. I couldn’t shake the thought of Simon’s poor wife, Justine.

I took the stairs to the street above. I had been in such a hurry to get my statement over with at the DCPJ that I forgot the station was a mere stone’s throw from the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Élysées, the widest street in Paris. My flight didn’t leave until 7:00 p.m. I still had hours to kill and since I was no longer a fugitive, I figured I may as well enjoy what time I had left in the City of Light doing a little shopping on the most beautiful avenue in the world.

I had a leisurely lunch of smoked salmon and crepes at a little corner bistro where I watched the chaos of cars, taxis and tour buses racing in and out of the enormous traffic circle around the Arc de Triomphe. Multiple boulevards converged upon the circle and as the vehicles battled with each other for the right of way, it was a wonder no one was killed.

After a decadent dessert of Grande Marnier chocolate mousse, I browsed the numerous designer shops and upscale boutiques, quickly discovering that the only shopping I’d be able to do was of the window variety. Then I spotted a Monoprix department store and made a beeline straight for it. I bought chocolates and cookies for my boss and co-workers back home, a silk scarf and scented bath oil for Kelly, and a bottle of champagne for my neighbor, whom I hoped was watering my plants. They wouldn’t know it all came from the French equivalent of Walmart and what difference would it make? It was still from Paris, after all.

I was leery about getting back on the metro, so I took a cab back to the Bienvenue. I lugged my bags into the lobby. Georges was behind the desk.

“Madame Sinclair!”

“
Oui?
” I said with a smile to let him know I had no hard feelings about his mix-up with Juliet Rice and me. He smiled shyly back in return.

“The gentleman is here for you,
madame.
” He gestured toward the small seating area across from the front desk where a balding, middle-aged man sat in the lone recliner, talking animatedly on his cell phone.

He was dressed in a gray suit. The jacket pulled tightly across his belly. His trousers were threadbare at the knees. A coffee stain on his red tie made him look sloppy. When he spotted me, he stood. He was easily over six feet tall.

“Madame Sinclair?” he called out to me in a voice that was higher pitched than I expected from such a large man. “May I have a word with you,
si vous plait?
”

“I’m sorry. I’m not giving anymore interviews.” I headed toward the stairs.

“No. No,” he said, reaching out a hand to stop me. “I’m not with the press. My name is Paul Moyet. Sebastian Marcel is my client. I’m representing him.” He handed me a business card but I barely glanced at it before shoving it in my pocket.

“You’re his lawyer?”

“Ah,
oui.
” He smiled at me. His teeth were stained.

“Why do you need to talk to me?”

“Monsieur Marcel would like to see you. He’s says it’s very important.”

“Why?”

“He would only say that it was a matter of life and death.”

“There’s already been enough death, Monsieur Moyet, and your client is responsible for much of it. He’s in need of psychiatric help and I really hope he gets it.”

“You are referring to his mental state from yesterday?”

“That and the fact that he killed three people.”

“Madame, Sebastian Marcel is only guilty of suffering from the beginning stages of dementia. He didn’t have access to his medication yesterday and was confused and disoriented. I can assure you that he’s quite himself today.”

“And what about the people he’s accused of killing?”

“There is absolutely no proof he is a murderer. There is no motive,” insisted Moyet.

“What about all the debt he’s in and the money he owed the victims? That sounds like plenty of motive to me,” I practically shouted.

“Please lower your voice,
madame.
” He looked over at Georges, who was shuffling papers around and pretending not to listen. “If you just calm down, I can explain.”

“You’ve got five minutes.” I followed him over to the seating area and noticed a beat-up suitcase next to the recliner. He picked it up and sat it on his lap.

“There is no physical evidence linking Sebastian Marcel to these crimes,” began Paul Moyet.

“What about the money motive?”

“There is
no
money motive,
madame.
” Moyet pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and started reading them aloud. “He did not owe either victim more than a few hundred euros. In his will, Oliver Renard left him an antique snuffbox collection worth perhaps ten thousand euros, which would hardly be worth killing for. And Evalyn Hewitt left her entire estate to her dog.”

“Agnes?”

“
Oui.
I believe that is the animal’s name. Sebastian Marcel was merely named its caretaker. Once the dog dies, all of the money and property are to be given to charity. The police are bending the facts to fit their case. I would think you of all people would understand this given what you’ve just been through.”

I certainly could but that still didn’t mean I wanted to get involved or that I trusted this lawyer, whose job it was to stretch the truth on his client’s behalf, any more than I did the French police.

“I’m really sorry, Monsieur Moyet. I’m leaving Paris in a few hours. Even if I wanted to, I can’t see Monsieur Marcel. There just isn’t enough time.”

Moyet sighed heavily and nodded solemnly. “I understand, Madame Sinclair,” he said, though he looked anything but understanding. “You have my card if you change your mind.”

He pulled a tweed cap from his briefcase and put it on then walked to the door where he paused before leaving.

“You know,” he said, turning to face me. “Sebastian Marcel is a sick old man who could spend the rest of his life in prison for crimes he did not commit. And his only concern is for others. Maybe that is his real crime, eh,
madame?
”

The slow, cold ooze of guilt seeped into my brain, wormed its way into my consciousness and flooded my senses. Was it so wrong for me to want to put this nightmare behind me?

Once I was back in my room, I dumped the Monoprix bags on my bed. The police had delivered my suitcase, and it sat just inside the doorway wrapped in clear plastic. I tore off the plastic and sifted through my things. All the new clothes I’d bought for the trip had been balled up and stuffed inside the suitcase. Everything was there along with an extra piece of clothing, a black Calvin Klein bikini top, size 8.

“This isn’t mine,” I said aloud. I held it up to inspect it and then dropped it like a hot rock when I recognized it as Juliet’s. I’d gotten my feet tangled up in it when I’d come back to our room the night I found her body. I had identified all of my things at the station; the bikini top hadn’t been there. Then I remembered I had run into Jerome Hubert while I was there. He had given me the evil eye but hadn’t said anything. What could he say? This must have been his idea of a joke.

I picked the top up and tossed it in the trash. The quiet in the room was too much for me. Thoughts of both Simon and Sebastian Marcel tempered my joy over going home. I switched on the TV and clicked through the channels until I found an English-speaking one. Unfortunately it was BBC World News. I’d avoided watching my own interview last night.

But I wasn’t going to get away from Diana Hughes that easily. She was on the screen interviewing a couple of young women who were identified as Danielle Savard and Brigitte Mathieu, school friends of Sylvie Renard. A picture of Sylvie and her father, Oliver, were in the background. The words
Father Daughter Double Murder Rocks Paris
were under the pictures. It made me mad they were ignoring Evalyn Hewitt’s murder. But I wasn’t surprised that the murder of an elderly woman who lived alone with her dog wasn’t an interesting enough story to the media. And who was taking care of Agnes now?

“What was she like?” Diana asked the women.

“Quiet,” said the woman identified as Brigitte. She had short red hair and blushed as soon as the word was out her mouth.

“But not shy,” added the other woman, Danielle, who seemed the more assertive of the two and had a slightly thicker accent. “You never knew what she was thinking. It was a little creepy at times.”

“Sylvie was a very serious girl,” said Brigitte, cutting Danielle a look. “She kept to herself mostly. Dani and I were her only friends.”

“She was a good girl,” said Danielle like
good
was a dirty word. “No parties, or drinking, or smoking, or sneaking out. We used to call her
la petite nonne.
”

“What does that mean?” asked Diana Hughes in her cool, modulated tone.

“The little nun,” I said aloud along with Brigitte and Danielle. I dropped the shirt I was folding and sank down on the edge of the bed.

Monsieur Marcel had said
la petite nonne
was the one who’d attacked him. He hadn’t been talking about the Black Nun of Moret. Had he been talking about Sylvie Renard? It wasn’t possible. But as the memories of what had happened these past few days flashed through my mind, it all made perfect sense. When Dr. Hewitt had pulled those books from the shelf as a warning to Monsieur Marcel, she wasn’t warning him about Vincent Garland. She didn’t know Garland. But she knew Sylvie Renard, her friend and colleague’s daughter. She’d have let Sylvie into her home not knowing she was in any danger. When did she realize the young woman was there to kill her?

King Lear
had been pulled from the shelf because it is a tale of scheming daughters who betray their father. Sylvie killed her father too. Simon had said it smelled like Oliver Renard had been dead for days. Had Sylvie killed him before leaving on her trip? Or had she lied about being in Spain and had been in the house all weekend with her father’s body rotting in his study?