The Parting of Pierre
Page 6
A smile broke across my face as my heart skipped a beat. “No, Inspector. I share your conviction.” I felt a blush creep across my face and décolletage, surprising me. I would have thought there was little left in the world that could inspire such a reaction in me.
“Very well. Then I just may go forward with it sometime.” He winked at me. “Bonsoir.” He tipped his hat to me and went out with a teasing smile, leaving me laughing in pleased astonishment.
Who would have suspected the inspector of leaving me in such suspense!
FIN
P.S. The photographs I ordered from Oates Pichette delighted my ladies! Young women never tire of looking at beautiful pictures of themselves…
P.P.S. Yes, of course I devoured Monsieur Guillot—he richly deserved it and I was hungry. But you’ll just have to guess how I managed to get to him before he was safely across the Seine…
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Other Books in This Series
Dear Reader,
I currently have 6 short books and a prequel published in the Madame’s Murder Mysteries series. It will be an open-ended, ongoing series, and I will keep writing them as long as you like!
Here are the titles that are out now:
The Murder of Mariano – The Prequel – available only via my website: www.annettemoncheri.com/free-stuff/
The Passing of Pascal – Book 1
The Expiration of Elise – Book 2
The End of Isabelle – Book 3
The Parting of Pierre – Book 4 (this book!)
The Death of Daisi – Book 5
The Mortality of Matias – Book 6
The next book is in progress:
The Finish of Fiore – Book 7
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Chaleureusement (with warm regards),
Annette
FREE Excerpt from Book 5: The Death of Daisi
Dear Delicious Reader, I am so pleased to tell you another histoire.
In this one, we meet two monsters (besides myself, of course), but only one who is missing a part of their soul. Perhaps you have met a person like this yourself, and if you have, then I am truly sorry. Often nothing they do is really a crime, and so one cannot call for a policeman, and yet their damage cuts deeper than that of any common criminal.
Well, allons-y—let’s meet our monsters, shall we?
It was like any other night at Le Chat Rose, with a drawing room buzzing with mesdames and their customers, and the grand piano playing a cheerful jazz tune, when I heard an unintelligible cry of rage and saw Anaelle, red-faced, at the large fireplace on the south wall. She was ripping up a letter with tremendous fury, her long, fair hair tangled around her face. “I can’t stand her!” She began throwing the pieces into the fire.
Mireille—she of the small, dark beady eyes and the passion for cards that had caused us so much trouble a few weeks ago—reached out but did not touch the other woman, clearly trying to placate her.
I hurried over, tsking to myself. Anaelle was drawing attention and disrupting the conversations around her, and she was still shrieking when I arrived. “I can’t stand her! I hate her!” She spoke with such fury that her voice was turning hoarse, and her long hair was swinging dangerously close to the flames.
I grasped her arms gently and turned her away from the fireplace, saying, “It’s not worth setting yourself on fire, darling.” As she settled down, I smoothed her fair hair back behind her ears until she took over the task herself with quick, impatient gestures.
“Amitée again?” I asked. That was Anaelle’s sister, with whom she’d had an ongoing battle for the entire time I’d known her—some four years now.
“Papa has sold all his bonds and given the money to her. He has so little money! And he’s giving it to her! She doesn’t need it! How can she lie to people like this? How can she use them this way?” She turned her pale green eyes on me accusingly, as if I were to answer for her sister.
“Darling, I’m sorry. There’s no explaining some people.” I squeezed her hands. “But this isn’t the place.” I gave her a pointed look, and she glanced around and then scowled as she saw the people staring at her.
“Go upstairs and take some time to calm yourself, all right?” I said kindly.
She shook me off and flounced toward the front staircase. I watched her go with a sigh. Anaelle was difficult, but her sister was, as the saying goes, a piece of work. Her newest scheme, according to Anaelle, was to malinger—pretend illness—and apparently now she’d used the lie to coax money out of their father.
“What’s the sister lying about this time?” Mireille asked me from close by, her voice lowered conspiratorially.
“Oh, we shouldn’t gossip,” I said. I patted her on the shoulder and smiled to take the sting out of the correction. “Look, my dear, there’s a lovely man over there at the table by the door looking around longingly for a bit of attention. I think he’s a veteran of the war.”
Mireille followed my gaze. The man in question had luxuriously tousled brown hair and a strong jaw—the kind of handsome that requires no effort. “Oh!” She smiled and smoothed her hair. “I suppose I could live with that.”
As she sauntered toward the gentleman, I went after Anaelle up the stairs. Le Chat Rose was quiet tonight so far. I could take a few minutes away to speak with my girl.
Upstairs, I found her weeping face down on her bed, and I sat at the edge of the mattress and stroked her back while I murmured comforting nonsense. I wished I could help. What I wouldn’t give to fly to Amitée and frighten some sense into her! It was a fantasy I sometimes indulged in—but Amitée was far away in Rouen, where I could not reach.
Anaelle sat up with a red nose, and I brought her a handkerchief from her dressing table. “Tell me all about it,” I said.
“Just what I told you before. She’s such a liar.” She got up and began to pace. “Papa needs the money he has. I send him money myself from my work here, and it’s not enough. And yet of course he would do anything for Amitée. She always plays this part of the martyr, and I’m the evil one! She calls me a monster!” Her voice choked in outrage.
I got up and went to her and squeezed her shoulders. “You’re right to be infuriated, Anaelle, but you must find some way to let go of your sister’s behavior. Can’t you give me permission finally to tear up the letters that come from her so that they can stop tormenting you?”
“But Papa hardly writes to me anymore. She’s poisoned him against me. The only way I can find out what she’s doing is by her letters. She just has to hold all her little victories over my head. I can’t walk away from Papa.” Her eyes filled with tears and she sank down onto her bed.
“Darling,” I said. “I’m so sorry. But listen. The best way to handle the anger is to distract yourself. Wash your face, then come downstairs. Redirect all that passion into your work.” I found myself smiling mischievously. “Your next customer won’t even know what hit him.” I winked, and she rolled her eyes—but I saw her smirk, too!
As soon as I returned downstairs, Monsieur Georges brought me an envelope, and when I caught the carefully scripted name and address on it, my breath quickened. It was from Inspector Baudet. What could this be?
I tore it open quickly with my face turned toward the wall, just in case the message sparked an emotional reaction I didn’t want anyone else to see.
It read, “Dear Madame, I hope to enjoy the pleasure of your company at nine o’clock this evening at L’Arbre à Cannelle. Répondez, s’il vous plaît.”
I pressed the envelope
to my bosom while I breathed deeply, my eyes closed for a blissful moment and a smile spreading across my face.
Yet, at the same time, I began to worry. I couldn’t go to L’Arbre à Cannelle! It was in the 5th Arrondissement—just across the Seine, across running water. So close and yet… How could I explain this to him? I tried to remember the old excuses I’d given to past lovers… which way would work best this time…?
“Aha!” A feminine voice spoke very near and a delicate hand plucked the envelope away from me.
I turned my head to discover Hélène Bachelet, my dearest friend, her eyes sparkling in glee. “What have we here?” she asked as she unfolded the letter.
“Hélène!” I protested.
She read quickly. “Oh!” Her eyes widened in delight and she bounced happily, her black bangs jouncing along. “He’s asked you to dinner!” she announced as if this was news to me.
“Yes, I’m aware,” I said, attempting nonchalance, but I could feel the blush spreading across my cheeks and my eyes shining.
“Oh, you!” she cried happily. “He’s so handsome! Oh, those cheekbones… Are you smitten?”
“No, of course not,” I insisted. “The inspector is handsome, I will grant you that. But he is of course, only…” I struggled for words.
“’Only’?” Hélène asked merrily. “Only an incredibly attractive man? Whom any woman would rightfully swoon over?”
“I am not swooning,” I protested.
“Oh, you are,” Hélène said delightedly, her eyes sparkling.
Just then, a hard, insistent knocking came from the front doors, and then came the harshly voiced word “Anaelle.”
Continue reading - The Death of Daisi is available now!
About the Author
Annette Moncheri is une americaine but a francophile! She adores books about French food, culture, parenting, and more. She reads, writes, and speaks French un peu - a little (a very little!). Part of the joy of writing books set in Paris is the excuse to read books and watch films set in Paris. She hasn't been there herself yet, but she feels the need to do some on-site research coming up!
Annette grew up in small towns but has resided in Houston, Texas for more than twenty years. She's married and has a young son and two cats. Art, beautiful things, and live performances of music and theatre are essential to her survival. And she loves to go to La Madeleine Café and try to comprehend the expats speaking in French!
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