The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (15 page)

While Michel busied himself pouring the amber liquid from a bottle on the top shelf, I scanned the titles on a small bookcase behind the bar that appeared to be a lending library of sorts. I’d spent the past two hours flipping through the glossy editions of
Harper’s Bazaar
,
Vogue
, and
Vanity Fair
scattered around the restaurant, and my interest in magazines was beginning to wane. Hoping for something more stimulating, or at least more educational, I ran my eyes over the rows of spines.

“Wait, is that a Fantômas novel?” I asked Michel, just as he slid the glasses over the smooth bar.

Following the direction of my stare, the barkeep walked over to the bookshelf and searched for the title in question.

“Second shelf, on the right,” I chimed in helpfully.

Michel held up a book with a masked man in a top hat on the front and raised one eyebrow in question. A young American woman interested in graphic novels was apparently quite odd. Or maybe it had more to do with my interest in the character some murderous whackjob was using as a muse.

“Yes, that one,” I said, hoping my eagerness wasn’t too transparent.

The bartender handed over the book. I opened it to a random page, running my fingers over the pictures of Fantômas. Could it be sheer coincidence that a killer was imitating the comic book character?

“Do you read French, mademoiselle?” the waiter asked as I began flipping through the graphic novel.

I smiled sheepishly.

“Only a little,” I admitted. “Would it be okay if I took this over to my table?

“Of course, of course,” Michel replied. “That is what the books are here for.”

A phone hanging on the back wall rang.

“Pardon me, please,” he said.

Novel in hand, I turned and began walking to our table with Gaige’s drink. I left Rosenthal’s atop the bar for Michel to deliver, since I didn’t want to disturb the writer. Though it was an unlikely scenario, if I interrupted Rosenthal at the wrong moment, I might never get to read
Sparrows of Summer
when I got home. Or it might suck.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle Prince?” Michel’s voice called, just as I was about to sit down.

It took me a moment to remember that Prince was the last name Gaige had given us.

“Yes?”

“There is an Ines Callandries calling for you. She apologizes, but she has been detained at her place of work and will be unable to meet with you and your brother.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you, Michel,” I replied.

“She’s obviously a very hardworking and dedicated employee,” Gaige grumbled, as I slid his fresh drink across the table.

“Last one, fishy,” I warned, watching him take a deep gulp.

“I’m not a fish, I am a man,” Gaige declared, just before he belched loudly.

Yeah, the day was off to a great start.

“WAIT RIGHT HERE,”
I said to my partner. “Do not get up out of your chair, understood?”

Gaige’s third scotch had somehow brought the idea that he and Rosenthal were old pals, and my partner was resolved to approach the man. I could just picture him pulling up a chair at the author’s table and plopping down to offer unsolicited critiques on the man’s work.

With a final warning glare to Gaige, I went up to the bar to return the book and settle our check.

“Je voudrais le cheque, s’il vous plait,” I said to Michel, drawing an amused smile.

Okay, so I wasn’t exactly a linguist. But I also needed to practice, or I never would be.

“Monsieur Rosenthal’s, aussi, s’il vous plait?” I added.

“That is very kind of you,” Michel replied in English. “I’m sure Monsieur will appreciate the gesture.”

“It is the least I can do after my brother’s untoward behavior. I hope he has not disturbed Mr. Rosenthal’s work for the day.”

The bartender looked over at the corner where the writer was still frantically scribbling away.

“I assure you, Monsieur Rosenthal becomes easily lost in his own imagination,” Michel said kindly. He scrawled several figures on a slip of paper before turning it upside down and pushing it over to me. “Is there anything else that I may do for you this afternoon?”

I glanced down at the book in my hand, debating whether to ask about buying it from him. The comic was probably in bookstores, and I might even be able to find an English language version. Then again, this copy was in my hands. And if it proved too difficult to understand, I could always read it aloud and hope my pronunciation was good enough for the Rosetta to translate.

“Would you consider allowing me to purchase this?” I asked uncertainly.

“No charge.”

“I’d like to buy it,” I clarified.

“No charge,” the waiter repeated with a wave of his hand. “We have several more copies.”

“Thank you.”

Adding a generous tip, I paid our check and retrieved Gaige from where he’d remained dutifully in his seat. As we exited, I glanced back at Rosenthal, still working away. I felt a tinge of shame over planning to steal something the quiet man had obviously dedicated a great deal of time to. If
Blue’s Canyon
had ever been released, I might have really struggled with the mission, though I never would have admitted it. Only the thought of someone in my time becoming enthralled with the novel assuaged my guilt. Books were meant to be read and enjoyed, not hidden away, lost, and forgotten like a hoarder’s treasure.

With the afternoon suddenly free, I suggested we walk for a while to familiarize ourselves with the area. Though European cities weren’t completely overhauled on a regular basis like they were in America, we’d never before visited Paris in 1920s. Montparnasse—the neighborhood where the expatriates lived, worked, and played—had been a seedy area with little to offer culturally or socially when we last visited the city. This new mecca for starving artists on the Left Bank was all new to me. Also, Gaige needed to burn off all of the alcohol he’d consumed. Ines had yet to impart our plans for the evening, but it was a safe bet that booze would be included.

We wandered through the streets of Paris, stopping to window shop every so often, when something caught our attention. Gaige kept up a running commentary on Rosenthal’s writings the entire time. As he spoke, I realized that my partner was not just pretending to be a fan; he was a genuine devotee of the reclusive author. When Gaige started in on Rosenthal’s use of symbolism and how
Sparrows
was actually a metaphor for antiroyalist views, I tuned out of the conversation.

“I mean, I know it sold more copies than any of his other books, but it was
still
undervalued. People just don’t properly appreciate—hey, it’s that bookstore!”

Gaige stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and pointed up at a sign. A picture of England’s most adored bard hung above us, just under the name of the store: Shakespeare and Company. It was a beloved and historically significant establishment, known as much for welcoming and supporting starving artists as it was for selling controversial works like James Joyce’s
Ulysses.

The store would undergo a change of ownership and move locations again in the coming years, so being able to visit the original one was pretty incredible. Stepping back to take in the infamous bookstore’s façade—the large windows cluttered with books propped on stands, the front door that always remained open, rain or shine—my attention was immediately diverted.

Several doors down, hung another sign, the same size and shape as the one of Shakespeare. The design was that of an off-kilter five-leaf clover, drawn in a swooping calligraphy style.

No. Fracking. Way.

With my eyes still on the sign, I reached blindly and hit Gaige on the arm several times.

“Ow!” he exclaimed, rubbing his shoulder. “I get it, visiting Shakespeare’s is very exciting, but you need to lock it up.”

Finally tearing my eyes away from the achingly familiar sight, I smacked Gaige in the arm again and pointed.

“Oh,” he said dumbly.

My partner turned back to me, and for a moment we simply stared at each other. A woman walking a toy poodle down the sidewalk, undoubtedly wondering what on earth the two fools in her way were doing, jolted us out of the reverie.

“Let’s check it out,” Gaige said decisively, already moving away from the bookstore.

I hesitated. We’d come to Paris to find Rosenthal’s mysterious manuscript, and Shakespeare and Company owner, Sylvia Beach, was reportedly a good friend of his. It was a contact we needed to make.

Plus…this was something I wanted to do alone. At least, for now.

“Stass? You coming?” Gaige called over his shoulder.

My hand closed around the locket at my throat. I traced the outline of the five-leaf clover carved on the back with my thumb.

“Why don’t you go visit Shakespeare and Company? I’ll go check it out by myself. We don’t even know if this has anything to do with my locket,” I said lamely.

My partner scanned the front window of the store beneath the clover. The long strands of gold necklaces and intricately engraved bracelets displayed under bright lights made my response all the more absurd. My partner turned and studied my face.

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, running a hand through his dark locks. “No problem. Just, you know, come get me if you need me. For anything.”

“I will,” I promised.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the door of the jewelry store. The name was scrawled in white ink across the glass: Bonheur’s. I glanced over my shoulder. Gaige was still standing uncertainly on the sidewalk watching me. I gave him what was meant to be a reassuring nod, but I was so tense that the movement was just a jerky twitch.

My partner put a hand over his heart, waited for me to return the gesture, and then walked away.

A BELL TINKLED
softly as I slipped through the front door of the jewelry shop. Heart already in my throat, the noise nearly caused me to choke on the oh-so-important organ. The utter stillness and absolute silence inside Bonheur’s made the accelerated thudding in my chest seem deafening by comparison.

It might be a coincidence,
I told myself to calm my nerves.

But it wasn’t. The five-leaf clover stamped in the gold of my locket was identical to the five-leaf clover painted on the sign above the storefront. The locket had come from this store or one of its predecessors.

I knew I should have been giddy, over the moon, on cloud nine, or some other silly saying meant to describe a feeling of elation. Finally,
finally,
I was going to learn something that could help me uncover the identity of my birth parents. And yet, now that I was here, standing on a precipice, I was suddenly terrified of the truth.

It was easy to idealize parents you had never met. It was easy to resent parents you didn’t know. It was easy to love the people who’d given you life. It was easy to hate the people who’d abandoned you. The truth was never easy. The truth was complicated and messy. Once I knew the truth, my parents would no longer be two stars in the sky watching over me. Was I really ready for that change?

Slowly, like a reluctant bride on her wedding day, I began my march up the center aisle of Bonheur’s. My low heels left impressions in the thick jade carpeting with each hesitant step. On my left and right, bright bulbs shone down on glittering jeweled masterpieces in glass display cases. I scanned the rows of gold and gems without really seeing the individual pieces.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” The man’s voice was soft and soothing and came from somewhere near the back of the store.

“Bonjour,” I called back, my own voice high and squeaky.

A short man in a tailored navy pinstripe suit stood and emerged from behind a semi-circle glass counter at the rear of the store. His salt and pepper mustache twitched as his lips curved into a polite smile. Red spots of light danced across the ceiling from the stones—rubies most likely—inlaid on his gold wedding band when he made a wide, sweeping gesture around the store.

His next words were spoken in rapid French. Even with the Rosetta, I barely understood his invitation to peruse the merchandise.

“Parlez-vous anglais?” I asked, donning a sheepish expression.

I made sure to mangle the pronunciation to convey just how poor my French speaking skills were. With my anxiety reaching all new heights, I didn’t want the added bother of relying on the Rosetta for the impending conversation.

“But of course, mademoiselle,” the man said in perfect English.

He joined me in the center of the store, by a hexagonal configuration of display cases with white cushioned stools strategically placed around the perimeter. Ornate hand mirrors were facedown on the glass display cases by each stool, Bonheur’s trademark five-leaf clover engraved in the center of the silver ovals.

“Our beautiful city has many visitors, from many cities around the world. I am schooled in a variety of languages,” he continued, as if speaking numerous languages fluently was as commonplace as basic arithmetic.

“English is all I know, so that will work for me,” I replied, fighting the urge to fiddle with my locket. I wasn’t ready to draw his attention to the piece quite yet.

“English it is then. What brings mademoiselle to Paris? On holiday?”

“Yes. My brother and I are touring Europe currently,” I answered in a tone meant to be polite, yet also express that I had no interest in idle chitchat.

Clearly an expert in inferences, the man went into sales mode. “How can I be of assistance today? Are you looking for a particular item? A new pair of earrings, perhaps?” He pointed to the gold and crystal dewdrops dangling from my earlobes and nearly brushing my collarbone. “Beautiful pieces, but no doubt heavy. Allow me to show you our selection.”

He unlatched a hook beneath one of the cases, and it swung outward on a hinge. He entered the ring of cases, so that we were standing face-to-face over the glass displays.

“Please, sit.” He gestured to the closest stool.

I sat, debating how best to segue to my locket.

There was no one else inside the jewelry store, so I didn’t have to worry about being overheard. I also didn’t have to worry about wasting the man’s time, since paying customers were nonexistent.

Best to get to the point. Rip off the bandage,
I thought.

“Are you the owner?” I asked aloud.

The man looked up from the cases he’d been examining in search of a new pair of earrings for me.

“I am,” he said and held out his hand. “Matthieu Bonheur.”

“Stassi Prince,” I replied, returning the handshake.

“A pleasure, Mademoiselle Prince. Now allow me to show you our House of Bourbon collection. It is inspired by Louis XIV. You may know him as the Sun King. It is one of my favorite designs.”

“Do you design the pieces yourself?” I asked, as Matthieu selected a pair of earrings with a fiery red-orange stone surrounded by delicate spokes of gold that resembled the sun’s rays.

From behind the counter, he withdrew a trifold leather book in the same shade of green as the carpet. Matthieu placed the book on the glass and made a great show of unfolding the leaves. He carefully arranged the earrings on the velvet, somehow managing to place them at exactly the right angle for optimal sparkle.

They really are beautiful,
I thought with a twinge of guilt, since I had no intention of making a purchase.

“I am the designer, yes. Each piece you see in this store was designed and individually crafted by either myself or another member of my family. It has been this way for generations. My father, my father’s father, my father’s father’s father—they were all artisans,” Matthieu Bonheur declared proudly.

“Everything is so lovely,” I told him honestly.

“The mademoiselle is too kind.” He picked up the oval mirror and pointed to the sun earrings. “Would you care to try them on? Or is there perhaps something else that may be more to your liking?”

I exhaled slowly. “I apologize, Mr. Bonheur, but I am actually here about a specific piece of jewelry.”

The jeweler arched a graying eyebrow in question. “Oh?”

“A locket,” I hurried on, now desperate to discuss the reason I’d come to the store in the first place.

Bonheur’s eyes followed my movements as I unfastened the clasp at the back of my neck. I placed the locket on the white velvet alongside the earrings.

“This locket, to be precise,” I added unnecessarily.

Matthieu Bonheur was a man transfixed. His eyes seemed glued to the locket. Only the tiny hairs of his trim mustache moved slightly as he breathed through his nose.

After a long moment that seemed to span eternity, I asked tentatively, “Do you recognize it?”

Bonheur hesitated. Then, as if tearing his gaze from the locket was physically painful, he met my eyes. “I apologize, Mademoiselle Prince, I do not understand. This locket, it belongs to you?”

“It does,” I confirmed. Turning the locket over, I pointed to the five-leaf clover. “This is your insignia, right?”

From the pocket of his suit pants, Bonheur produced a jeweler’s loop. He picked up the locket, gingerly placing it in the palm of his free hand. “May I?” he asked, indicating the small magnifying tool.

I nodded.

Reading facial expressions, interpreting body language, making inferences based on seemingly inane comments—these were all crucial weapons in a runner’s arsenal. And I was very good at all three. I had to be, if I wanted to live to old age. But even a green runner, fresh out of training—hell, a child on the street—would have known Bonheur was putting on a show, stalling for time. Why? That I couldn’t answer. Yet there was no doubt in my mind that the jeweler had recognized my locket as one of his own the moment he laid eyes on it.

He muttered to himself in French, so low that the Rosetta couldn’t decipher his utterances.

Finally, after eons passed, Bonheur set the locket back on the white velvet. He studied me, the skin around his eyes crinkling like an accordion.

“You are correct, this is one of our pieces.”

Hope washed over me like cool rain on a sweltering day.

“So you did make it? Do you remember whom you sold it to? Is there anything you can tell me about her?” The questions came out rapid fire, the end of one word weaving with the start of the next to form one long, mismatched sentence.

Eyes wide, expression vaguely alarmed, Bonheur took several steps backward. I shrunk down on my stool, cheeks burning from embarrassment.

“Mademoiselle’s locket is not one of my designs. You see these initials here?”  He pointed to two interlocking letters carved into the gold just below the clover. “S.B. for Sebastian Bonheur, my grandfather. May I ask how you came to be in possession of this necklace?”

I averted my gaze. “It belonged to my mother.”

Bonheur stiffened. He stared down at the locket with such a tangled web of emotions that I couldn’t possibly begin to parse out the individual threads of feeling. His continued silence set off a need to fill the conversational void, and I began to ramble.

“I’m an orphan. I never knew my mother or father. At least, I don’t remember knowing them. I was found wandering the streets alone as a child. That,” I jabbed a finger towards the locket, “was all I had with me. It’s the only thing that connects me to my birth parents. Anything you can tell me about the person who bought it would be helpful,” I pleaded.

I would’ve needed to flip a coin to determine which one of us was more surprised by my outpouring of emotion.

For his part, I couldn’t imagine that the jeweler received a lot of young women who sounded on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I was probably the first. The note of raw panic in Bonheur’s gaze told me that he prayed I’d be the last.

As for me, I wasn’t the sharing, let alone over-sharing, type. I was normally very good at controlling my emotion, as opposed to vomiting them all over strangers.

The thing was, Matthieu Bonheur knew something. Something he didn’t want to tell me. It was clear he recognized the locket, yet he’d initially pretended otherwise. His answers to my questions were vague, if he actually answered them at all. More often, he answered a question with a question. They were textbook evasion techniques. I should know; I’d memorized that textbook. That was why I also knew that my previous approach wasn’t working. Because I wasn’t about to go all Spanish Inquisition on him—I wasn’t that desperate yet—appealing to the jeweler on an emotional level was my only option.

“I am afraid I cannot help you, mademoiselle. As I said, the locket was designed by my grandfather, and most likely was purchased during his tenure as owner and head jeweler. I say ‘likely’, because Sebastian Bonheur officially retired two decades ago, after nearly thirty-five years at the helm. He continued to design specialty items until the day he died, five years ago. It is not possible for me to say when the locket was purchased, and certainly not by whom. I am very sorry,” the jeweler finished, refusing to make eye contact.

“Surely you keep records? I know I’m asking for a lot, but maybe you could look for the receipt or purchase order. I’d be happy to pay you.”

Bonheur laughed nervously. “I am afraid a search of my records would not produce any results. I do not care to burden myself with paperwork, too tiresome. I am an artist, a craftsman. I create beautiful jewelry for equally beautiful women. It is that simple. I am truly sorry to be unable to aid in your search.”

Liar!
I wanted to shout. No company stayed in business as long as Bonheur’s had without keeping records. Particularly when they did custom design work.

I took a deep breath to calm myself.

“I understand,” I said evenly. “But maybe you could at least tell me if this is a custom piece?”

Bonheur hesitated, obviously unsure how much to divulge.

“I cannot be certain,” he hedged.

I pushed the velvet-lined leather book across the counter towards him. The jeweler took the hint and examined the locket a second time with his loop. He turned it over in his hand, studying the hinge on one side, and then the seam on the other. Bonheur depressed the catch at the back. The locket sprang open. My heart ached at the sight of the two empty picture frames inside. One day, those frames would hold my parents’ faces. Until then, they would remain empty.