by Sophie Davis
Cyrus sighed. “The rules regarding fraternization are our least followed. Understandably so. Which is why I don’t enforce them, as long as care is given and discretion shown.” He shifted position, as if the armchair he’d been comfortably sitting in for the last fifteen minutes had suddenly developed lumps. “How do you know he likes you?”
“He asked her on a date,” Gaige chimed in helpfully.
“How did you know that?” I demanded, rounding on him.
My partner shrugged and, with no remorse whatsoever, said, “I read your letter.”
The letter had been sealed when he handed it to me. Meaning Gaige had used an infrared optical character recognition scanner to read through the envelope.
Revenge would be mine.
“I thought it might be relevant to the run,” Gaige was saying, sounding practical and matter-of-fact. “And Stassi misspoke. Charles DuPree is closer than a casual friend to Andre Rosenthal. In fact, he might even know where the final piece of the manuscript is. I think it’s worth checking out.”
“That’s farfetched, Gaige,” I quickly replied, hoping to keep Charles off of our boss’s radar. “Hadley Richardson is more likely to know the whereabouts, and I’m having lunch with her on Tuesday.”
“Oh, I agree, Hadley is a good bet. But you have an opportunity to meet with Charles before you see her, so why not take it? He might even be the killer,” Gaige intoned with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“He is not the killer,” I shot back, then repeated the words directly to my boss. “Cyrus, he isn’t the killer.”
“My idea is no more farfetched than yours about the toilet bowl,” my partner replied innocently.
“Toilet tank,” I corrected. “Though it’s nice to hear you went playing in the toilet bowl for fun.”
Cyrus had been silently watching our exchange with the rapt attention of a line judge at Wimbledon.
“You two bicker like a pair of old ladies,” he declared. “And what’s this about a toilet?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but Cyrus cut me off before I got out the first syllable.
“Actually, don’t answer that. I am confident that I don’t want to know. Stassi, accept the date. Ask Mr. DuPree where he shops for his dress clothes. Then we can go to the store with Lachlan’s picture and see if they remember him. Perhaps he’s even ordered clothes that haven’t yet been picked up, or maybe they have a delivery address for him. Though it’s a long shot, it could end up being well worth the trouble.”
“Yes, Cyrus,” I dutifully agreed. “I will.”
“So that’s it?” Gaige asked, as if he hadn’t just thrown me under the bus. “What’s our next play?”
“There are a couple other theories I want to explore,” our boss hedged. “Left untreated, time sickness can be lethal. From what Bane has told me about Lachlan’s running schedule, and the numerous chocolate wrappers in his hotel room, I have no doubt he has the disease. It’s very possible he’s already succumbed. I am going to check the morgue.”
That sent a shiver up my spine.
“For now, let me worry about Lachlan Shepard. You both should focus on finding the final piece of Blue’s Canyon. Gaige is right.” My partner sat up a little straighter at Cyrus’s praise. “Cover your bases and ask Charles DuPree about the manuscript.”
That night, hand shaking badly enough to smudge the ink, I responded to Charles’s invitation, accepting his date.
“YOU LOOK…LIKE a girl.”
The next night, my assignment was back to parties, champagne, and a handsome guy instead of death and a psychotic killer.
I spun to find Gaige standing in the doorway to my bedroom, a broad smile on his face.
“She looks beautiful, a true vision,” Cyrus added, joining Gaige in the entranceway. His grin matched my partner’s, though it lacked the half-stunned, half-amused quality.
I turned again to look in the freestanding oak-framed mirror, feeling very self-conscious. The dress Naomi selected specifically for the evening was stunning. Unlike most women’s clothing for the time period, this dress had a natural waist. Layers of black taffeta hung just past my knees, almost like a ballerina’s best tutu. Two-inch straps of blue and white crystals started at the small of my back, trailing up over my shoulders and down over the bodice to an oval broach at my waist. With the sparkling embellishments, we’d decided against adding additional bling with jewelry.
My auburn hair—something I still wasn’t used to—was pinned up in a sleek bob with a deep side part, so that a portion of my hair was swept across my forehead. Felipe completed the look with minimal makeup, save a deep crimson lip. The overall effect was spot-on for the time period; I’d be just another wealthy woman who had nothing but time to look beautiful.
Honestly, I barely recognized myself.
“Are you sure I look okay?” I asked the two men studying my appearance.
Cyrus pushed past Gaige and walked over to get a better look. He took my hand to spin me back around to face them. In my stacked black heels, I only had to tilt my head slightly to meet his gaze. My boss had a faraway look in his eye, as though his thoughts were somewhere else.
“Your boy is going to have a hard time keeping his hands to himself with you in that dress,” Gaige declared as he stepped into my room, snapping Cyrus out of his reverie. He shot my partner a warning look.
“Is that necessary?” Cyrus asked him, releasing my hand and taking several steps backwards. “I would not put it quite so crassly, but yes, Mr. DuPree will undoubtedly be quite taken with you.”
Gaige snorted. “He already is.”
“Which,” Cyrus continued as if Gaige hadn’t spoken, “will make it easier for you to get information out of him. If, of course, there is any information to be had.”
“Oh, Stassi will be able to get more than information out of him,” Gaige interjected with a wicked smile. With Cyrus’s attention on me, my partner began thrusting his hips, proving his mental age had yet to catch up with his shoe size. I guessed his expression was supposed to be ecstasy. It missed the mark entirely, landing somewhere closer to pain.
“Gaige,” Cyrus snapped, his tone devoid of all traces of amusement.
“Sorry, sir.” Gaige straightened and gave our boss a small salute.
Cyrus turned his attention back to me. “Are you ready, Stassi? I believe Mr. DuPree will be here soon, but take as much time as you need.”
“Actually…,” I started, hesitating. “I will be meeting Mr. DuPree at the restaurant.”
As expected, this drew a stern, disapproving look from Cyrus.
“He offered to pick me up,” I rushed on. “But I thought it might be best to just meet him there.”
My boss appraised me for another long minute. He glanced over at my juvenile partner, who was clearly a bastion of embarrassment.
“I suppose I can understand that,” Cyrus said. “Though I strongly disapprove, particularly with a killer on the loose.”
“I’ll be fine,” I promised him. Without thinking, I reached out and gave Cyrus’s hand a reassuring squeeze. When I remembered myself—he was my boss, not a doting father seeing his daughter off on her first date—I yanked my hand back and began stuffing random items in the matching crystal clutch from Naomi.
Gaige stayed behind when Cyrus went to see if the car Charles was sending had arrived yet.
“You are such a weirdo,” he joked, slinging an arm over my shoulder. He turned us both so we were facing our reflections. For a long moment, he looked me over from heels to head, then studied my face.
“What?” I asked uncertainly. I wondered simultaneously if the outfit and styling were too much, or possibly not enough.
“I am damn good looking,” Gaige said finally, putting his dimples on full display.
“You’re an idiot,” I declared, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and giving him a squeeze. “Come on, I’m going to be late.”
As it turned out, the car had not yet arrived. Against my be
tter judgment, I waited in the living room with my motley crew. Ines also came over to see me off, compounding the awkwardness. Luckily, she was her usual self, chattering away about random nonsense.
“Hadley is quite taken with you, my dear,” she told me between drags of her cigarette. “Have you decided what you will wear for your lunch with her?”
“Hadn’t crossed my mind,” I replied. “I’m sure Naomi will have something lined up.”
“She certainly did an exquisite job tonight,” Ines said kindly. “Really, Stassi, you look absolutely stunning.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, desperate to deflect the attention away from my appearance. “You’ve spoken to Hadley?”
“Indeed,” Ines said with enthusiasm. “She is positively giddy about seeing you tomorrow.”
I was positively giddy about our lunch as well, only for a very different reason. I liked Hadley well enough, from the brief interaction we’d had, but I was far more interested in information about Rosenthal and the last piece of the manuscript. If I could get her to tell me about other places he went to work, or other haunts he frequented, we could resume the search and get out of the 1920s. I was ready to go home. This run had been the oddest I’d ever heard of, let alone encountered. Once we had the complete work, we could leave all of the weirdness behind and go back to our own time.
I thought about my other reason for remaining in Paris after the run was complete.
My locket.
Somehow, after almost two years of searching, I had a lead. Maybe not a very good one, but something was better than nothing. I needed to follow it, to find the great adventurer whose cufflinks were somehow linked to my necklace.
Without thinking, I rubbed my throat, where the necklace should have been. Naomi had been so insistent about not ruining the neckline of the dress that I’d relented and taken off my most prized possession. Without its light weight against my chest, I felt empty inside. The necklace was a part of me. I missed it terribly.
“I mean, even Alice loved—” Ines was saying.
“Excuse me, I forgot something upstairs,” I blurted out, jumping to my feet.
Our Parisian guide was visibly affronted by my rude interruption. She huffed out two plumes of smoke. In the kitchen, Cyrus stopped pacing long enough to say, “The car will be here any moment, don’t take too long.”
“I’ll be quick,” I promised, running for my room as quickly as the heels would permit.
Once the necklace was securely around my throat, the disjointed feeling melted away. Just as Naomi had predicted, it did not match the dress. It actually looked a little ridiculous between the jeweled straps, but I didn’t care. Stupid as the notion was, I felt more confident with my locket on.
I hurried back downstairs to find a short, pudgy man in a chauffeurs’ uniform standing in the living room. He bowed slightly when he saw me, his cap clutched between meaty fingers.
“Ah, my dear sister has graced us with her presence,” Gaige proclaimed grandly, as if I’d been hiding out upstairs all evening.
I shot him a withering glare.
“I apologize for the delay,” I said to the driver. “I am ready whenever you are.”
“It is no problem, Ms. Prince, I assure you,” the man replied.
There was a round of air-kisses from Ines and a hearty pat on the back from my partner. The affectionate squeeze from Cyrus came with a whispered reminder to pump him for information. They all stood at the door as I descended the steps to the curb, as if they couldn’t help but take every opportunity to be embarrassing.
I gave the group one last wave through the window as the car door closed behind me, feeling a simultaneous rush of affection and mortification. We pulled away and, finally, I was off for my date with Charles DuPree.
The restaurant, La Coupole, was straight from the history books. From the waiters’ white gloves and airs of superiority, to the impeccable coattails worn by the men and latest designer fashions worn by the women, it was classically Parisian. In the middle of the vast dining room, a blue domed ceiling of stained glass overlooked a metal statue of two curved men. The entire space was rife with art deco designs that almost seemed out of place with the old-world elegance, but I sort of loved it.
“Anastasia Prince, here to meet Mr. Charles DuPree,” I told the maître d’ in French.
Apparently, my grasp of the language was sufficient for his liking—or he found my attempt amusing—because his lips curved into a friendly grin.
“Mr. DuPree has already arrived. If you will follow me this way?” he replied, also in French.
The English translation whispered in my ear as I smiled and nodded deferentially. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach as we wound our way through tables of diners.
Breathe, I told myself. You have done this before. This is nothing new.
Okay, so that wasn’t exactly true. I’d only had occasion twice to truly sidle up to men on a run to gain information, but neither had the charm of Charles DuPree. They hadn’t been fascinating, or alluring, or so damned good-looking. This was definitely new.
I saw him before he saw me. I had only a moment to admire the strong line of his jaw and perfect slope of his nose before his head turned and our eyes locked. A slow smile spread across his handsome face, and then he stood.
My breath caught.
What have you gotten yourself into?
“YOU LOOK AMAZING,” Charles whispered, placing a light kiss on each of my cheeks.
The slight contact had my heart beating double-time. The steady thumps were so loud in my own ears that I was sure he could hear it.
Releasing me, Charles hurried around the maître d’ to pull out my chair. I sat, arranging the bottom layers of my dress over the seat as best I could.
“Please, enjoy your meal,” the maître d’ told us.
With a bow, he left the table. And I was alone with Charles.
Sure, we’d been alone together before. But this time felt different.
Because this is a date, I thought. Shite. A date. I am actually on a real flipping date.
My hand flew to my necklace. With the cool metal beneath my hot fingers, I felt more grounded. I could do this. It was just a meal with an asset. A means to an end.
I wonder if the means is going to kiss me goodnight….
Um, no. You can’t just go around kissing assets.
“How are you this evening?” Charles asked, sounding remarkably formal.
Putting an end to my mental debate, I replied just as properly.
“Very well, Mr. DuPree. And you?”
“Very well,” he echoed my words. “But, as I’ve said before, please, call me Charles.”
His gaze wandered to my hand, still gripping my necklace like a lifeline. I released it abruptly, tucking it beneath the neckline of my dress. Charles had expressed too much interest in the piece of jewelry last time we’d seen each other, and I didn’t want to go down that road again.
Thankfully, Charles made no comment about my locket. I worried for a moment that we had nothing to talk about, or that I’d seem unworldly or uncultured to him when engaged in actual conversation. My worries were unfounded, though. Charles steered the dialogue, bringing up banal topics like our mutual friends and acquaintances. Unbeknownst to him, this was exactly the opening I’d been hoping for.
“My brother is having the time of his life,” I told Charles. “He has another boxing date with his boyfriends this week.”
Charles eyed me strangely as he poured champagne.
“Is Gaige queer? He does not seem the type.”
“Oh, no, no.” I laughed, realizing my mistake. “I was referencing his male friends, that is all. I assure you, my brother only has eyes only for women.”
Charles’s reply was interrupted by the waiter coming to take our order. The menus were still closed, set to one side of the table. Without looking at them, Charles rattled off an impressive array of dishes. Taken aback by his presumptiveness in ordering for me, I had to remind
myself that he was from a different time. This gesture was normal, if not expected. As the Rosetta tried to keep up with what he was saying, I had to stop myself from giggling at the awkward translations. Hopefully “cock in wine” was more appetizing than it sounded.
“I hope the dishes I selected are to your liking,” Charles said, once the waiter was gone. “I should have asked, I just thought it would be easier for me to order, since I speak French.”
“I speak a little French,” I told him haughtily. Then, remembering my manners, I added in a softer tone, “But the food choices sound wonderful.”
“Very good.”
When he let out a breath and visibly relaxed, I realized he was nervous, too.
“How is your brother’s eye?” he continued. “It must be healing well if he is willing to go another round with the boxing trio?”
I shrugged.
“Gaige believes it is a badge of honor.” I sipped my champagne. “You are friends with Rosenthal, no? Do you ever box with him and the others?”
The question sounded innocent enough. Nonetheless, I knew from experience that naming only Rosenthal would, hopefully, lead the conversation to the paranoid writer.
“Me? No.” Charles shook his head. “Boxing is not really my sport. We are friends though, yes. Instead of joining him in the ring, I usually attend the theater or a nightclub with Andre. Or parties, like the one for Scott the other night. I float between two sets, Andre’s is one of them.”
“So you’re part of the literary set. Are you a writer? Or a painter?” I asked, though I was confident he was neither.
“No,” he chuckled. “Merely an enthusiast, like your brother. Though, perhaps not quite so enthusiastic.”
“I think it’s the mystique surrounding Rosenthal that he finds so enchanting.”
Charles scrunched his brow. “What do you mean?”
“How he hides pieces of his work around town until he is ready to publish,” I said. “It’s quite…eccentric.”
Charles rolled his eyes. Noticing my glass was empty, he paused to pour me more champagne.
Slow down on the booze, Stass, I warned myself. You don’t need alcohol muddling your brain. Your hormones are doing a bang up job already.
