Mean Evergreen (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Twelve)

by A W Hartoin

“This I’ve got to see.” And my bodyguard was off.

  “You won’t like it,” said Chuck.

  “You young people can’t handle anything!” yelled Moe as he disappeared through a doorway.

  “So?” Chuck looked at me.

  “So let’s go to the bedroom.”

  “Alright. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “Gross,” I said. “Elias is here.”

  “Sort of,” said Chuck.

  “Moe definitely is.”

  “Good point.”

  I led him into Elias’ bedroom and there was the picture I’d come for. It was in a silver frame on Elias’ dresser. The woman I’d noticed the last time I’d been there was as I remembered her. She was Gladys without a doubt and wearing a rather formal Edwardian high-necked dress. Not the picture of a prostitute in my opinion or at least not a currently working one.

  I turned to the wardrobe and looked through the clothes. One side was women’s and the other men’s. Perhaps not a full-time resident, but Gladys spent some serious time in the apartment.

  Chuck hovered by the door and asked, “What are we here for?”

  “Her,” I said and pulled up the photo on my phone from Grandma’s family tree and held it out to him.

  Chuck looked back and forth between the pictures. “It’s her. Where in the heck did you get that?”

  “My family tree. Grandma J made it on Ancestry.”

  “This is…who is she?”

  “Gladys Watts, my great-great-grandmother,” I said.

  He picked up the silver frame. “She’s the—”

  “I think so.”

  “Check this out.” I picked up the other photo from the dresser. It was of the Bled family in the 1880s. Elias would’ve been in his twenties in that photo and he was standing next to his mother in the back row, smiling awkwardly.

  “What am I looking for?” Chuck asked.

  “That’s Elias.” I pulled up another photo from the tree. “And this is Elijah.”

  “Whoa. They look exactly alike. Who’s Elijah?”

  “My great-grandfather,” I said.

  To my surprise, Chuck’s blue eyes filled up. “You are a Bled,” he whispered.

  “It’s true. I think it is.”

  “But why not just tell you, tell all of you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe something to do with the rumors about Gladys. Her real name was Giséle by the way.”

  He smiled and gathered me into his arms. “There’s a story behind that, I assume.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Were the rumors about her true?”

  “I don’t know, but I won’t judge her harshly even if they are. She had to do what she had to do and she’s family,” I said. “Grandma J said she was wonderful and Elijah adored her.”

  Chuck started to speak, but then he pulled back. The scent of roses filled the apartment. Wild roses. Hothouse roses. Heirloom, climbing, tea, Bourbon. The scent was everywhere, thick and warm, filling my heart and opening passages to my family’s past, both my families. I can only say that it smelled like love.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I woke up the next morning to the smell of hot chocolate and fresh croissants. Hands down the best way to wake up. No contest.

  We’d gotten permission to take the Montorgueil apartment from The Girls, who were more than happy to have us safe in one of the company properties. I stretched out on the comfy bed and then felt a prickle of intuition. Someone was watching me.

  “Creepy,” I said.

  “How’d you know I’m watching you?” Chuck asked.

  I rolled over and saw him lounging in the doorway, wearing only pajama bottoms and holding a cup of coffee. It was the kind of image that ought to be on a poster. It was that perfect with the light angling in from the window and the old, elegant woodwork framing his perfect body. Sometimes I questioned keeping him. In that moment, I couldn’t remember why.

  “I can feel you.”

  He gave me his sleaziest smile. Oddly, it didn’t ruin the effect. “Any time, my beloved.”

  At that moment, a fat tuxedo cat sauntered in like he owned the place and leapt up on the bed to begin the most serious four-pawed knead I’d ever witnessed. Skanky kneaded, but he was half-hearted in comparison.

  “He’s adjusted,” I said.

  Chuck laughed. “He’s a chill cat. This is what we’re doing now and he’s good with it.”

  I gave Porky Boy a scratch and said, “So they’re here.”

  “In a huge way.”

  Grandma came up behind Chuck, ducked under his arm, and bustled in with a tray. “Finally. I thought you’d never wake up.”

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Time to go. Get up.” She set the tray on the bed and put a latte in my hands. “You showered last night. That’s good, but what happened to your hair? My goodness. It’s like Medusa with garter snakes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Isolda,” called out Grandma, “you weren’t kidding about the hair.”

  The next thing I knew, Isolda was in the bedroom, evaluating my hair and wardrobe. Monsieur Barre had called her about us going in Elias’ apartment and informed her of my tragic state. Bastard.

  “So shopping first thing,” she said.

  “Didn’t you bring my clothes?” I asked.

  “We did, but those aren’t clothes for Paris.”

  “They’re fine. We’re not staying very long.”

  Isolda and Grandma ignored that and decided shopping was on the menu.

  “We don’t have time for Madam Ziegler, but Moncler will do,” said Isolda.

  “I can’t shop at Moncler,” I said.

  “Why not?” Grandma asked.

  “Because they charge two hundred bucks for a tank top.”

  Isolda waved that off. “It’s winter. You don’t need tank tops.”

  Grandma wrinkled her nose. “You shouldn’t wear tank tops, dear. They don’t really work for your figure.”

  “That’s not the point, and thanks for reminding me that I’m too booby for tank tops.”

  “It’s just a fact, dear,” said Isolda. “I’m too tall for stilettos. It is what it is.”

  Chuck sucked in his lips and barely kept himself from laughing as the old ladies discussed what I might be able to pull off. Not much was the assessment. They totally ignored my contributions and lack of money. Isolda said I should put it on my account. I don’t have an account at Moncler or anywhere in Paris. I was lucky to pay off Madam Ziegler and that stuff, while gorgeous, was living in the back of my closet. Where am I going to wear it? On a stakeout? Chasing criminals? Blood draws? I don’t think so.

  They started discussing my shoes as Aaron trotted in with hot chocolate and asked, “You hungry?”

  “Yes. I’m planning on eating my feelings all day.”

  Moe came in with damp hair and a half-eaten croissant. “When do we leave?”

  “Is anyone left?” I asked. “Would anyone else like to come in?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Grandma. “There’s no one else here.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” I took the hot chocolate from Aaron and let it course through my body, soothing me even as Grandma started listing our stops for the day. In short, everything. If it was in Paris, we were seeing it.

  “That’s a lot for two days,” said Chuck, his amusement gone.

  “True. The Louvre can’t be done properly in less than two alone and we have to start at the Orsay,” said Isolda.

  “Can you call him?” Grandma asked. “We’re going to be late.”

  “We’ll change it to tonight. Serge won’t mind. He’s lovely.”

  I waved at them. “What are we doing?”

  “We’ve made arrangements to see Elias’ collection. Serge Dombey is very excited about what he’s uncovered,” said Isolda. “I will call and change the time. He’ll understand. He knows Mercy.”

  Chuck shooed them all out and pulled me out of bed. “It�
��ll be an adventure.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  “Get dressed in your garbage clothes and let’s do this thing.”

  He laughed even as I was chasing him around, trying to give him a good smack. My clothes were fine. My hair wasn’t, but that’s what hats are for.

  We managed to get out of the apartment in less than a half-hour and start Aaron’s food tour of Paris, mixed with the sights. We started with the Eiffel Tower because that’s practically a requirement and worked our way across the city, ending up at the Orsay as dusk was setting in.

  “It’s just beautiful,” Grandma said. “I knew it would be, but it’s better than I imagined.”

  We crossed the Pont Royal with a gorgeous view of the glorious train station that now housed the Orsay Museum. It was hard to believe, but at one point there had been a plan to tear down the building with all its stonework and arches. I couldn’t imagine what horror would’ve been put up in its place. Paris wouldn’t have been the same with some modern monstrosity on the Seine.

  “I’m just so excited,” said Grandma, hooking her arm through Moe’s. “Aren’t you?”

  Moe smiled at her. “These last few days have been some of the most exciting of my life.”

  They hurried off ahead with Isolda and Chuck pulled me close. “What’s going on there?”

  “I’m afraid to ask,” I said.

  We followed the trio along the river to the museum entrance. There was no queue since it was closing time, but Serge Dombey was outside waiting for us with a glowing smile. He dashed across the pavers to exchange cheek kisses with Isolda and then me before taking Grandma’s hand for a kiss and patting it.

  “It is a pleasure to meet any member of Mercy’s family.” Serge’s big hands enveloped Grandma’s. His charm and joy were infectious and I forgot the miles we’d logged.

  “This is Moe Licata,” I said. “He helped me with my latest case.”

  “I heard about that,” said Serge, shaking Moe’s hand. “You must tell me more. The city is buzzing about fresh bodies in the Panthéon. That doesn’t happen every day.” Then he turned to Aaron. “My friend, it has been too long.”

  He and Aaron exchanged cheek kisses and began discussing a new technique for duck confit as we went in the reserved entrance.

  “Oh, Moe!” Grandma exclaimed. “Look.”

  Coming in the Orsay always felt like a revelation, an opening of the soul. The huge curved ceiling with the glass showing off the night sky above the sculpture gallery made me feel like a bird. I could just take flight and soar through the beauty.

  “Would you like your tour first?” Serge asked. “Or perhaps Elias’ collection?”

  “Oh, the collection,” said Isolda. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve accomplished.”

  Elias it was and we left the showy section of the museum to go to the working part. Inside a room the size of my apartment was Elias Bled’s collection on easels, tables, and the walls.

  Serge took me by the arm and led me to a section filled with sketches. Even my untrained eye saw the significance.

  “They’re here just like Alice Monet said in her letters.” Serge showed us with growing excitement a dozen sketches by Monet, Degas, and others. “Elias had a better eye than I gave him credit for. He bought so many artists that weren’t in the styles I associate with him.”

  “Like who?” I asked.

  Serge brought me over to where Isolda, Moe, and Grandma were admiring a set of canvases in brilliant colors with geometric shapes blended with soft flowing ones.

  “These are by Delaunay. They show he was moving into Orphism earlier than we knew. These are the only examples of this blend between his earlier Neo-impressionist period and his later Orphism. This is a portrait of his soon-to-be wife in the brief period between her divorce and their marriage.”

  “What’s Orphism?” Chuck asked.

  Now you’ve done it.

  Serge got going on the differences between cubism, Neo-impressionism, and Orphism. I’d heard it all before, but his enthusiasm drew me in anyway and I listened as he showed us different examples until there was a soft touch on my arm. Aaron drew me away from the lesson and took me to a corner of the room where there were several racks that included paintings in watercolor and oils, sketches, and sculptures. I didn’t see the significance until he pulled a piece off a rack. It was Giséle in a reclining nude pose in charcoal. It was by Matisse and I’d seen something similar by him before, but it wasn’t as delicate.

  Aaron put that piece back and showed me another. This one wasn’t nude, but of a smiling Giséle pulling up her skirt to wade in a lily pond. I didn’t recognize the artist. There were more, many more. I counted twenty and we weren’t done.

  “They’re all her,” I said.

  Aaron touched my arm and quickly put a watercolor out of sight before Grandma came up. “I think we’ll go up now for a coffee before the café closes.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I said.

  She looked around at Elias’ collection, missing his true passion completely as we all had for the last one hundred years. “So sad what happened to him. He was a great collector. Serge says he was amazing.”

  I was choked up but managed to squeak out, “I think he was.”

  “But sad.”

  I thought of seeing Elias on the bridge and of him seeing me, a moment I couldn’t shake. “Very.”

  Serge escorted everyone, except Aaron and me to the door, leaving us briefly alone with greatness and I don’t just mean the artists.

  “How did you know?” I asked Aaron.

  “You saw the cat last time,” he said.

  “Oh,” whooshed out of me. I had seen the family apparition in Elias’ apartment. My mother had named the black cat with startling green eyes Blackie and he only showed up on family property in times of tragedy for Mom’s side of the family. Mom had seen him before Aunt Tenne’s terrible car accident and of course, right before Agatha and Daniel were murdered. I’d seen him at Nana and PopPop’s house before Richard Costilla had tried to kill me and in Elias’ apartment before nearly getting killed by Poinaré when he tried to kill Angela Riley. Family property. Always on family property.

  “It’s family property,” I said. “It never occurred to me why I could see him there. Why didn’t you say something?”

  Aaron shrugged. “You needed to figure it out for yourself.”

  I gave him a hug and pulled out the nude again. It wasn’t unseemly or porn-like. It was beautiful. Was Giséle a prostitute or simply an artist’s model people decided to see in a bad light? I might never know.

  “I see you’ve found one of our mysteries,” said Serge, coming up behind us. “I should’ve known you would.”

  I wasn’t ready to give anything away and I knew Aaron wouldn’t. It was impossible for the little guy to go against me.

  “It was Aaron actually,” I said.

  “Well spotted, Aaron,” said Serge. “I saw this nude first. A Matisse and rare, of course, but I didn’t think anything of it until we started uncovering the other works featuring this particular model. She was obviously a favorite. There are thirty pieces in all featuring her during a one-year time span and by multiple different artists, but I’ve never seen her before.”

  “How unusual,” I said.

  “All artists have their favorites, but she wasn’t unique to one artist.”

  “Maybe she was Elias’ favorite.”

  He rubbed his big hands together. “The mysterious woman that drove him to despair. Yes, I can see it. A beauty and such a smile.”

  Serge showed us everything with Giséle in it and nothing I saw changed my mind about her. It was love. I was sure of it. The artists saw her with Elias’ eyes. He was a terrible artist, so he had them immortalize Giséle for him.

  “We should go.” Serge took us back up to the museum café where Grandma surprised me by sitting alone with her coffee. She waved me over and I sat down with a grateful sigh while Aaron and Serge
went in search of the others.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked. “Are you getting tired?”

  “I’ve never been less tired,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “I’m still not buying clothes at Moncler”

  “I know. It’s not that.”

  An attendant brought me a latte and I sat back with it warming my hands. My mind was only half there. Elias and Giséle took up most of the space in my brain. “You look serious.”

  “I’ve made a decision,” said Grandma. “And it is final.”

  Elias and Giséle vanished.

  “About what?” I asked, taking a big drink.

  “I’m not going back.”

  “To the apartment? Would you rather go to a hotel?”

  She shook her head and a strand of silver hair got stuck in her lipstick. “I’m not going back to St. Louis.”

  “What do you mean? You have to go back. We have tickets,” I said, sounding silly even to myself. Tickets. That’s all you’ve got?

  “Tickets can be changed and they have been. It’s done.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re going to do.”

  Grandma brushed the hair away and smiled. “Anything I want. Isolda’s in search of her father. Moe and I are going to tag along. She’s got a lead in Berlin. We’ll do that and then we’ll go somewhere else. Maybe Denmark or Norway. I’ve seen nothing of the world and I want to see it all before it’s too late.”

  I drank my latte to delay and then said, “But it’s Christmas.

  She reached across the table and took my hand. “I’ve spent the last fifty years and more doing for everyone else. I’ve missed nothing that anyone else needed or wanted. This is just for me and it’s only one Christmas. Do you have any idea how many Christmases your grandfather’s missed?”

  It’s not a small number, I know that.

  “A few,” I said.

  “A lot. It was his work and I admire that commitment, but I was never first.” She twisted in her seat and pointed out into the gallery at Chuck standing with Aaron and Moe, laughing with Isolda and Serge. “He came. He made a mistake with you and dropped everything to make it right. You forgave as you should. I always forgave, but your grandfather never made it right.”