The Expiration of Elise

by Annette Moncheri

  The Expiration of Elise

  Madame’s Murder Mysteries: No. 2

  Annette Moncheri

  Contents

  A Note to the Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Receive the prequel for FREE!

  Other Books in This Series

  FREE Excerpt from Book 3: The End of Isabelle

  About the Author

  Connect with Annette

  A Note to the Reader

  Bonne année, dear Reader! And merci for picking up this little book!

  I wanted to let you know—at the end of this book, you’ll find an offer to receive the prequel to this series for FREE if you subscribe to my mailing list at my website. Look for the link at the back of the book!

  À bientôt!

  ~Annette

  1

  Dear delicious Reader! I can’t imagine that you have ever found yourself a suspect in a murder investigation. Surely you have had a sensible and quiet life, as we all should, if we are lucky enough to have the opportunity.

  As for myself, my life has had its challenges, but one of the more difficult moments was when I found myself stared down by the gorgeous Inspector Thibauld Baudet as he uttered the words, “You must know that you are, of course, a person of interest in this investigation, Madame.” To be distrusted by someone you have affection for—well, I don’t wish it on anyone.

  But how did it happen, you ask? And how did it all work out?

  Dear Reader, I will tell you everything…

  It all began two days before Christmas—and how wonderfully festive Christmas can be at a high-class Parisian brothel! In every corner of the enormous drawing room I had placed a broad Christmas tree draped with garlands and decorated with metal and glass ornaments and gas-lit globes. From the balcony railing at the top of the staircases hung a sign proclaiming “Joyeux Noël.” I made a point of advising our pianists to play holiday songs, and Monsieur Gachet prepared the finest in Christmas specialties: dove-shaped dinner rolls and baked brie, palmiers, hazelnut tart with pear, and, of course, thick slices of bûche de Noël—the Yule log, decorated with marzipan holly leaves and berries.

  Outside, more globes of light filled every bush and tree, the lights reflecting off the snow-covered ground, and on the sidewalks, mistletoe salesmen walked around wrapped in the greenery, looking like walking bushes who used scissors to snip off little branches of themselves for sale.

  Of course, I imagine Christmas is equally magical everywhere… but I shall never see it celebrated anywhere but on the Íle Saint-Louis.

  But now I’ve tipped into melancholy—I shall extricate myself immediately!

  Yes, it was two days before Christmas, at about ten o’clock at night, my drawing room full of my mesdames and their customers, everyone bubbling over with joy from holiday parties and too much champagne, cigarette and pipe smoke wafting up toward the high ceiling, and everywhere you looked, brunette finger curls and red-painted lips. Those were my ladies, of course. Everyone’s wives were at réveillons—holiday dinner parties—so the men were out to play!

  I liked to stand at the spacious balcony at the landing, toward which the two broad staircases swept up from the ground floor, so that I could survey my kingdom, as it were, and make sure everyone was as happy as I could possibly make them.

  And of course, not everyone was happy. It wouldn’t be business otherwise.

  First of all, let’s consider our septuagenarian lady, or l’Ancienne as my other ladies liked to call her—Madame Dorothée Thomas. Her octagenarian lover, Monsieur Edward De la Croix, had been waiting for her for two hours and no one was sure where she might be, other than that she wasn’t here, and it was unusual of her to be out on the streets so late and not to have told anyone where she was going.

  Dorothée had told us once with shining eyes that her Monsieur De La Croix had fought in the Franco-Austrian War of 1859, and pointed out that he still carried his military bearing, despite his use of a cane. He was a handsome and forceful man. Impatient now, he had formed a permanent frown under his knobby nose and tapped his cane on the floor in an impatient rat-a-tat.

  And now Monsieur Georges was speaking to a patron who clutched a handkerchief to his face, wiping away blood from a fast-bruising gash on his forehead. “Oh!” I said to myself. I rarely saw physical injuries in my maison. It made me wonder what could possibly have gone wrong in the bedroom.

  Monsieur Georges had his hand on the customer’s arm and was speaking to him in what I knew would be a calming tone, and likely offering first aid skills. My night butler had many skills.

  I came down the stairs carefully in my high heels. As I crossed the floor, Estaban Escoffier caught my gaze from across the room, and he smiled and waved at me.

  The gesture made my heart sink. Which it shouldn’t have, since Estaban was an attractive fellow, young-looking despite his middle years, with honest features set in a wide, handsome face, and brown hair that tended to stick up rebelliously in spots.

  But if you recall my first story, then you know perfectly well why my heart sank. He was far too attached to me because I had been forced to use my enchantement on him in connection with Pascal’s murder. Now I needed him to give up his infatuation with me before his wife lost her temper. Again. More seriously.

  Estaban had so far only been shouted at, or so he told me, but his wife, Elise, was the sort of alcoholic Scottish redhead who gives alcoholic Scottish redheads a bad name. I had long suspected Estaban was a bit hen-pecked, but I was increasingly concerned that he might be hen-murdered.

  I crossed my fingers in hopes that he would see me busy and go find company with one of my ladies.

  When I reached Monsieur Georges and the injured patron, I said, “Bonsoir, Monsieur. I am so sorry to see you in pain.”

  “Well, then, you ought to have your girls trained better!” he said, his voice loud and his face flushed beneath the drying blood.

  “I’ll fetch bandages and ice,” Monsieur Georges said.

  “We will be in my private meeting room,” I told him, and he hurried off.

  I put my hand on my customer’s shoulder and gazed into his eyes while I applied a touch of my charme to soothe him. “I’m so sorry, mon ami. Do come along with me and I will take very good care of you.”

  I took his hand and pulled him through the drawing room.

  On the way, Estaban Escoffier again waved at me, his smile more desperate this time, and I nodded sweetly to him, while I said not-very-polite words inside my own mind.

  The other person to catch my eye was Monsieur De La Croix, who pointed to his wristwatch. I nodded at him. I still had no idea where his Madame Dorothée might be. I caught the sleeve of a servant and asked her to send a runner out in search of her, then signaled to De La Croix that I’d taken action.

  Once in my private meeting room, which was a small drawing room adjacent to my office, I seated my injured guest and myself on cushioned chairs near to one other and again placed my hand on his arm in sympathy. “Do tell me what happened.”

  The man turned red again and stammered a bit. “Well, I’ll tell you this much, it was in the ropes room. And your girl Anaelle doesn’t know how to use the ropes properly! She fell backward and kicked me right in the face! With heels on!”

  I will tell you that were it not for all my years of experience in catering to men’s fragile emotions, I would have laughed. Instead, I took on my
most serious look.

  In fact, the injury did have a distinctly heel-shaped bruise near its center.

  “I am so sorry, Monsieur…”

  “Martin Martin, if you please.” He wiped the trickling blood again. “Yes, both names the same, Martin Martin.”

  I fought back another smile.

  “Monsieur Martin,” I said with a soothing tone, “I will have Anaelle trained again on the ropes, and I offer you my most sincere apologies. Your next three nights at Le Chat Rose are free of charge no matter how long you stay or how many ladies you care to meet. Bring along a friend and he will also be free of charge all night long.”

  “Well!” he said doubtfully, but then his face lightened and a hint of a smile crept onto it.

  Monsieur Georges materialized with an armful of first aid supplies—an ice bag, a damp towel, ointments, and bandages.

  “Monsieur Martin, you are in capable hands now,” I said. “I do hope your night improves. And I will tell all the girls and all the staff that you are a VIP guest as of now.”

  He nodded, placated now, and I called for a servant to escort him back to the drawing room and help him find his next companion.

  I decided my next stop was to find Anaelle and ensure that she was uninjured. I planned to take the back staircase, as it was closer to Anaelle’s bedroom on the floor above, but as I passed by the various rooms and my office, I thought I heard an extremely faint and muffled cry—almost as faint as the miaou of a cat several rooms away.

  I paused and listened intently, extending my supernatural senses out into the adjacent areas.

  Again, there it was. “Help!”

  A very quiet voice, and elderly, it seemed to me. Female.

  Madame Dorothée?

  My heart nearly stopped.

  2

  I listened more intently, but heard nothing. I tried to remember the previous shout, and decided it was coming from the rooms to my left. I took a few steps closer, and concentrated on my supernatural hearing until the small noises in the background became a cacophony. Footsteps in the hallway just above, laughter and the clinking of glasses in the drawing room, jazz on the piano, the cries of lovemaking in the bedrooms upstairs… and a faint, “Someone, anyone, please…”

  The room with the safe. That was it exactly.

  I hurried to the enormous floor safe and found it closed and locked. I put my ear to the door. From inside came the soft sounds of weeping.

  I opened the combination lock and pulled open the door to find Dorothée Thomas a prisoner inside. She was disheveled, and blinked hard against the light.

  “Oh, thank God!” she cried as she saw that it was me.

  The poor woman!

  “Whatever happened, dear Dorothée?” I asked. I helped her stand and come out of the safe. “How long have you been in there?”

  “I don’t know. It felt like forever,” she said, weeping. “Hours. I was so frightened.”

  “You’re lucky I passed by,” I said, but I wondered if she realized just how lucky. With my supernatural hearing, I was the only person who could possibly have heard her cries for help. The safe was so thick and heavy as to be nearly soundproof—in fact, nearly air-proof as well. The thought of poor Dorothée trapped inside…

  “Who put you in there?” I demanded.

  “I don’t know. He put this hood over my head from behind.” She showed me a piece of black fabric on the floor. “I never saw his face. And he didn’t say a word.”

  I turned the black fabric over in my hand. Today was Tuesday, deposit day, when we left only the small safe in my office filled with money, and left this safe unlocked and open to air out.

  I saw her hands trembling and suddenly remembered that the poor dear was diabetic. “Do you need sugar, darling?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I do,” she murmured. “I think I’m hungry.”

  And then the sweet old woman passed right out—and I caught her in my arms.

  Only a few moments later, I had assembled Monsieur Georges, whose first aid skills were much in demand tonight, as well as Monsieur De La Croix, and two of our servants, and explained everything in the privacy of my office, where Dorothée lay on a settee.

  De La Croix surprised me by weeping openly at the sight of his fainted lover. He stayed at her side, holding her hand, and pleaded with her to waken while Monsieur Georges carefully poured the slightest trickle of mimosa into her mouth. We all waited with bated breath until she swallowed. A few more such treatments, and she began to stir.

  “Dorothée!” Monsieur De La Croix cried, pressing her hands. “My darling!”

  Her eyes opened, and they embraced, murmuring sweetly to one another and caressing one another’s faces.

  Ah, true amour. I don’t mind telling you, it brought tears to my eyes.

  I sent Monsieur Georges to the kitchens to bring food, and I sent our servant Annette to Madame Dorothée’s room to collect her insulin, just in case.

  And with a sigh, I told the other servant, Gustav, to ring for Monsieur L’Agent Clement Carré—for we had had an attempted murder and the police would need to be involved. I asked that he be sent around the back way, for we had had enough excitement at Le Chat Rose when Pascal was killed here.

  De La Croix heard me speaking about the police and came to me. His face was taut and trembling with emotion. “Someone tried to kill my Dorothée. As a diabetic, if she had been left in there much longer…” He shook his head, unable to finish the thought. “Who would do such a thing? What enemies does she have here?”

  “None, my friend,” I assured him. “Dorothée is well loved by all of my mesdames and my staff. It must be a customer or someone unknown to us who managed to find his way in and secret himself in one of the rooms on the ground floor. Perhaps a thief whom Dorothée surprised.”

  “It is outrageous that you should have allowed it to happen on your property!”

  My eyebrows went up. “Allowed it? I hardly think I welcomed it. This is a large house, Monsieur, with more than one door and many members of the public passing through in any given day.”

  “You clearly need some security here!” he insisted, his eyes burning hotly into mine. “I would remind you that you are responsible for the well-being of your mesdames, and if anything should happen to my Dorothée…” His voice lowered menacingly. “You would not like the consequences, I assure you.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him and took a step closer. I invoked just enough of my charme to intimidate him. “I am well aware of my responsibilities to my ladies,” I said archly, “and you will do well to keep your threats to yourself. I assure you that I will do all I can to catch the criminal and to lay this threat to rest. But unless Dorothée has made a habit of collecting enemies, I hardly think this incident will become a trend.”

  I went out of the room without another word, furious.

  3

  I intended to check on Anaelle, with whom I’d not yet spoken after the incident in the ropes room, but in my agitation, I went the long way around, back through the drawing room. And as I passed through, I spotted an attractive young man with curly brown hair who was clearly up to no good. You see, I have lived in the heart of Paris for a very long time, and I have seen far too many ne’er-do-wells. I know all the signs.

  This young fellow, presumably moving from the bar to the front door, bumped into not one or two but three of my patrons as he went—and every time, the contact was unnecessary. He apologized and flashed a charming smile with every unnecessary collision, and his targets were none the wiser. Perhaps Monsieur De La Croix was more right than he knew. Perhaps I did need security after all.

  I swept down on the fellow like a thunderstorm and grasped his arm before he knew who had him. I said not a word as I escorted him to the antechamber, where, for the moment, we were blissfully alone. I pressed him firmly against the wall and placed my face near to his—he was exactly my height, as I am tall for a woman—and glared at him. Immediately, he sobered, and I felt a wave of anxiet
y coming from him.

  “I didn’t—” He cut himself off and shook his head hard, as if trying to dislodge an errant thought.

  “You did,” I said forcefully. “You’re a pickpocket—a thief.” I put the full force of my powers into the words, driving the color out of the young man’s cheeks—and damn the consequences. I was going to tell him that he would be banished from my premises and never permitted to return, and then, exactly since he would never return, I didn’t care if he were infatuated with me the way Estaban Escoffier unfortunately was.

  Come to think of it, perhaps I would need to put the same geas onto Estaban.

  “I’m sorry,” the thief squeaked. “But I—I didn’t—”

  “Of course you did. You stole from my guests.” The rotten thing was, now that I was looking at him up close, I realized this was not his first trip to Le Chat Rose. In fact, I believed he was a regular… perhaps of Melodie? Or Anaelle. I hated to think of the valuables he had liberated from my patrons in past visits.

  I gave him a bit of a shake and then released him. “Turn out your pockets.”

  With trembling fingers, he handed over the two wallets he had just stolen, and in his nervousness, gave me his own as well. I looked over it just enough to determine his identity—a Monsieur Léo Leblanc—and then tossed it back at him. I again charged my words with my unique magic. “You have potential for much greater things in life. Exercise it. Stop thieving.”

  He met my gaze wide-eyed and trembling. “Yes, Madame. I’m sorry.”

  I grasped his collar and prepared to utter the words “You will leave my premises and never return”—and that was just when I inadvertently exposed the secret crucifix at his neck. The sight struck me as if it were a bolt of electricity and I found myself suddenly at the opposite side of the room, gasping in fear.