Sensational

by Jodie Lynn Zdrok

  “Friends,” Jules repeated, his tone, his eyes, his expression all the epitome of bittersweet. “I said before that was too much, that I couldn’t be your friend because I’d want to be more. That was a foolish sentiment, the words of a broken heart. It would be an honor to be your friend.”

  He smiled a sad smile, kissed her on the cheek, and walked away.

  45

  Le Rasoir Plummets From Tour Eiffel

  The words were on the lips of hundreds of thousands by the next morning, and gauging from the foreign newspapers she spied on the omnibus, the news went far beyond Paris. En route to the morgue she read and reread anonymous accounts provided by Jules and herself, Pelerine’s fellow morgue workers, and former theater colleagues. Together they crafted the story of “a bitter soul exacting revenge on a city that rejected him.”

  Samuel Pelerine was a gifted actor—of that there is no doubt. He was frequently overlooked for roles earlier in his career, though, and believed it to be because of his condition.

  “Not true at all,” said one theater source. “He was insecure and sought to attribute his failure to others. Personally I think he felt inferior because he’d inherited a modest fortune and didn’t think he deserved it. Can you imagine? Nevertheless, I don’t think it had anything to do with his appearance.”

  Another source contradicted this contention. “Unfortunately, that’s why he was relegated to small roles and eventually gave that up, in recent years, for creating stage dress and scenery.”

  Pelerine mastered that as well, skills that would explain his ability to craft a working guillotine (how he secured a blade remains unknown) and, police say, his knack for disguises. Investigators posit that he had several “versions” of himself that he’d “wear” in public.

  “This is a man whose attention to detail was unparalleled,” said an actor who’d worn several of Pelerine’s costumes. “As was his propensity for the dramatic.”

  Pelerine’s discontent with the theater scene heightened over time, reaching its peak almost a year ago. He and an actor—the rumored lover of the “Jester” victim, Timothy St. Martin—got into a physical altercation, and Pelerine stormed out of the theater for good.

  Police propose several theories as to why he sought a job at the morgue: to be in proximity to corpses so as to understand them better, to learn about body disposal in the public domain (i.e., where bodies were found such that they ended up at the morgue), to feed his desire for an audience, to see alleged morgue Insightfuls at work. One or more of these suppositions could be true.

  At the time of press, police were investigating the basement of an abandoned theater they suspect may have been where Pelerine committed his crimes. The body of Ida Blackwell has also yet to be found. It may well be in the murderer’s den, according to a member of the police.

  Here Nathalie’s breath caught.

  Could it have been?

  Her body tingled with fear, discomfort, and realization.

  An abandoned theater. Was it the one she was supposed to explore with Simone and Louis? Their vin de coca episode had gotten in the way of that, and they hadn’t chosen another time to do it.

  What would they have walked in on?

  Nathalie shuddered and continued reading.

  An initial search of Pelerine’s apartment revealed newspapers with coverage of the crimes, some of them framed and placed on the wall; guillotine sketches; illustrations depicting la coiffure à la Titus; several theater manuscripts on parchment paper listing himself as playwright; and of particular interest, the remaining pages of the “play” he attached to some of his victims. This is the preface, published today exclusively by Le Petit Journal:

  Title: SENSATIONAL

  Playwright’s Note: This is my work in honor of the 100th anniversary of Guillotin’s proposal and the storming of the Bastille. I aim to have it performed in front of the grandest stage Paris has ever known, the Exposition Universelle.

  * * *

  She crossed paths with Gabrielle, whose limp was the most prominent she’d seen yet, outside the morgue. They conversed at length about Pelerine (“I always found him a little too well-mannered,” Gabrielle claimed) and all that had happened. Nathalie thanked her, again, for the connection with Dr. Delacroix.

  “I’m going to write to him today or tomorrow, in fact.” Nathalie left out her concerns and her reasons for writing, and Gabrielle didn’t pry.

  “You’re most welcome,” said Gabrielle. “As to your gift, there is a murder today. A man was shot. I provided my reading and am curious what you’ll see.”

  A vendor thrust a trinket between them. “Tour Eiffel necklace, ladies?”

  They declined, Nathalie less politely than Gabrielle. As they were about to part ways, Gabrielle seized her in an embrace.

  Nathalie hardly had time to respond in kind when Gabrielle stepped back and waved, retreating without a word.

  She’s still strange.

  But now I like her.

  Nathalie realized that maybe her possessiveness relative to the morgue wasn’t the most appropriate response to change. Sharing responsibilities, making new friends (for what was Gabrielle to her if not that?), learning new perspectives both at the morgue and elsewhere—these were important, too.

  * * *

  M. Arnaud, busy giving directions to someone, acknowledged Nathalie with a nod as she slipped into the morgue. (To the annoyance of others, as usual.) M. Soucy, who appeared to be the most distraught of all the morgue personnel by Pelerine’s horrifying truth, gave her a subtle wave.

  Several Americans and a pair of French soldiers were in the viewing area. Nathalie stood before the pane, noticing not only what was in the display room but what wasn’t. Who wasn’t.

  The space where M. Cadoret once stood was empty. Nathalie stared at it. He was there, his placid face and friendly smile. Then the grin slipped into something more sinister and he became Samuel Pelerine.

  She blinked. Of course he wasn’t there. And yet he always would be, no matter who took his place.

  As M. Soucy prodded the group along, Nathalie stayed behind. She studied the corpses, her eyes falling on the one with a gunshot wound in his chest. She rested her fingers on the glass.

  The victim’s face wrenched in pain, hands over his heart. He let go and held his hands up as the bullet left his chest and returned to the gun.

  Then she came to the present.

  That was it.

  A gunshot in reverse.

  It lasted mere seconds.

  A vision that told her nothing but what she already saw. What anyone walking into the morgue could see.

  An utterly inconsequential, unhelpful vision.

  * * *

  Nathalie told no one.

  She didn’t even go see Christophe. She exited the morgue like all the other onlookers and went straight to a shop selling postcards, figurines, and other tourist wares. She bought a postcard; as soon as she left the shop, she filled it out, leaning against a wall to scratch out the words.

  Dear Dr. Delacroix,

  My visions are still in reverse. They continue to diminish in length and significance, as does my memory loss.

  Am I losing my ability?

  If so, will it return?

  I know you’ve explained this. I know you don’t know.

  I still feel compelled to ask.

  Warmly,

  N. B.

  46

  Two days later, Paris was still talking about Le Rasoir. Several unknowns had become known after a more extensive search of the apartment and Pelerine’s background.

  The newspapers reported on his meticulous attention to detail; the search in his apartment revealed that he’d had the guillotine blade made in a village in eastern France. He paid a blacksmith a substantial sum not only to forge the blade but to keep quiet about it. He must have had it shipped home via train, although this couldn’t be ascertained.

  Pelerine had an older brother who’d moved to America and lived in Chicago.
He was helping the police paint a picture of Pelerine’s early life, if for no other reason than to establish something in his background prior to theater life in Paris. He was raised in Neuilly-sur-Seine, not Fontainbleau as he’d claimed. Of note was a wealthy, abusive father who was a chess enthusiast and member of several high-profile chess societies. Among his aims was to have his sons show a similar penchant and gift, which they did not. The brother noted that when their father was drunk, he’d often force them to play chess against him, then beat them if they lost.

  Chess.

  Seeking out intoxicated victims.

  A perverse inversion of how his father treated him.

  Mad at the world, thought Nathalie. At his father, at the theater, at himself.

  Lastly, the basement of the abandoned theater had indeed served as Pelerine’s subterranean chamber of death. Police found the guillotine, the chessboard, and trunks and valises in various sizes.

  One of the trunks contained the body of the Princess, Ida Blackwell. Nathalie was sickened reading that but hoped the return of her body for a proper burial provided more closure for her loved ones than never finding it at all. Police speculated that Pelerine was in a rush—perhaps he heard someone, perhaps he was eager to execute his elaborate display of the head—and hadn’t had time to dispose of the body.

  Paris was still talking about Le Rasoir and Nathalie was still thinking about him. Having nightmares because of him.

  She hadn’t had any more dreams in the vein of Aunt Brigitte, even last night, the night before her funeral.

  As for Aunt Brigitte’s last dream to involve her, Nathalie expected she’d always wonder. The three shadows in the woods, one disappearing. Nathalie’s own dream after that, Aunt Brigitte beheading Simone and Louis, then holding up the heads of Jules and Gabrielle instead. The disappearance represented loss, of that she was certain, and she understood it to be Jules. Her own dream had asked: Which one?

  Which one was the next victim of Le Rasoir?

  Jules. She’d worried about Simone, but it had been Jules. He’d come away with his life. He’d lost so much else.

  Aunt Brigitte’s funeral was a small affair at Saint-Ambrose. The Baudins and the Marchands, Christophe, Louis, and Jules. She thought she saw Gabrielle in a veil slink into a back pew, but if so, she left before the recessional. Several staff members from Saint-Mathurin were in attendance, even though Nathalie was almost certain they’d been paid to go.

  The priest spoke of the Beatitudes.

  Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of God.

  Blessed are the meek and humble, for they shall inherit the Earth.

  Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

  There were other beatitudes, other words. Nathalie didn’t remember many of them. Not because of a vision or memory loss, but because they’d been consumed by the sadness that had overtaken her.

  Aunt Brigitte had always been there. “There” was Mme. Plouffe’s, then the asylum. Smiling Tante who spoke of bizarre nightmares, something Nathalie took for an odd trait and symbol of madness until she’d fully understood.

  No, not fully. No one could fully understand what Aunt Brigitte had endured for having gotten one of Dr. Henard’s blood transfusions for the sake of magic.

  * * *

  Later that week, a letter arrived for her, inviting Nathalie to a different kind of grief.

  She knew what it was going to say before she opened it. She’d had no memory loss at all following the brief vision of the gunshot victim. Not so much as an unaccounted-for blink of the eye.

  And the day after Aunt Brigitte’s funeral, there had been another murder at the morgue. Or so she’d heard from Christophe, Jules, and Gabrielle, for despite placing her hands on the glass, she’d had no vision at all.

  So when she did read Dr. Delacroix’s words, they didn’t fill her with dread. She’d been full of dread for a week already. Instead, the words made their way into her heart, the part reserved for sorrow.

  Dear Nathalie,

  Nothing is certain in the world of Insightfuls, of that I can assure you. The nature of our gifts continues to amaze me.

  I am sorry to have to share this opinion with you, and I wish we could talk in person rather than through pen. I regret to inform you that given what you’ve told me, yes, I believe it’s highly probable that your gift is dissipating or will leave altogether.

  I do not know of a case in which an Insightful ability, once completely gone, has returned.

  Perhaps you will have an extraordinary turnaround, or perhaps what you’ve shared with me is incomplete. You might be writing me at this very moment to say all is well. We can never dismiss the possibilities magic might render. We Insightfuls are something of a miracle, are we not? You especially, as a natural.

  Again, my dear Nathalie, I am very sorry not to have better news, yet I ask you not to despair. Please do keep up your correspondence with me should it be in your interest to do so.

  With warm regards, I remain,

  Delacroix

  She wasn’t in the mood to talk to her parents about the letter. Not now. With all that had been going on, she hadn’t told them of her dwindling ability. They had other concerns, and so did she.

  Mostly it was denial. Not speaking of it made it easier to ignore.

  There was no pretending anymore. It was time to be pragmatic and let her mind explore this new reality, how it might look, feel, smell, taste. Touch.

  Explore. Wasn’t that who she was, too? Someone who wanted to explore life? Her power and her work at the morgue had given her plenty of adventures. Some she’d sought, others she’d run from, figuratively and literally.

  Still. She wanted to control it. She wanted to be the one to say when her time was done at the morgue. Not the magic.

  Since when have you been able to dictate how it works?

  This was what it meant to be an Insightful. And she’d still be one, even if her visions did fade entirely.

  She put Dr. Delacroix’s letter away in her room, under the watchful eye of Stanley, and sat on the bed.

  There was only so long she could keep this to herself.

  In a few hours, she’d be joining Simone and Louis on a cruise along the Seine. There was to be a band on board and a stellar view of fireworks, or so Simone said. If she had the opportunity, she’d discuss it. If she could do it without sounding like a killjoy.

  * * *

  Nathalie wasn’t on board the boat a quarter of an hour before she regretted it. It was crowded, for one, but more important, she felt exceedingly out of place. Some of Louis’s acting friends were on the other side of the deck, but she didn’t know them beyond a passing greeting. Simone and Louis were in an amorous mood, and she wanted neither to interrupt nor to witness it too closely.

  Moroccan musicians played melodies unlike any she’d ever heard. It was alluring with a mystical quality; it stirred something in her, a longing.

  Or maybe you’re just feeling sorry for yourself.

  She rested her hip against the railing, watching the musicians and those who ventured to dance, like Simone and Louis. Although the formal European style of dance didn’t fit, people did their best to make the steps work with a different beat.

  “Bewitching tunes, aren’t they?”

  A voice that was so unexpected, she almost thought she’d heard wrong. But there was no mistaking that woodsy, orange blossom cologne.

  Nathalie turned to see Christophe beside her, smiling broadly enough to show his charmingly crooked tooth. “What are you doing here?”

  Christophe threw his hands up playfully. “Even serious police liaisons at the morgue are allowed an evening of good cheer. Occasionally.”

  She laughed. There was no one she’d rather see today.

  Wait. Is he alone?

  Nathalie peeked around him. No one who looked like a fiancée, no mysterious woman standing too close to him.

  “Louis asked me to come,” he continued,
tracking her gaze and glancing behind him, “but I’m not allowed to say why.”

  “That only makes me all the more curious.”

  “Is there anything that doesn’t make you curious?”

  She blushed. He knew her too well.

  They spoke for a while about music and riverboats and then music again, when Simone rushed over to Nathalie, sparkling with joy.

  “Nathalie, I have the most glorious news. Louis has asked for my hand in marriage!” Simone threw herself into Nathalie’s arms before she even finished the sentence.

  “He has?” Nathalie caught Christophe’s eye, and he gave her a knowing smile. That was why he was here. “Felicitations, my wonderful friend! I am so happy for you both!”

  “Now,” said Simone, stepping back, “don’t think this changes anything between us. We still have adventures to embark on. Only I’ll be doing it as Madame Louis Carre.”

  Louis came up behind her just then, and Nathalie and Christophe shook his hand. They spoke until the band played a song at a slower tempo. Louis held his hand out for Simone, and together they moved onto the makeshift dance area.

  Nathalie gazed at them a moment, then Christophe came into her view.

  “Mademoiselle Baudin, shall we dance?”

  She melted, then and there, onto the top deck of the riverboat. As if made of wax and warmth and everything that could rob her of the ability to move.

  “Of course,” she said, taking his hand. “You do realize, I don’t know how.”

  Christophe chuckled as he escorted her a few steps to the dance area. He leaned in with a grin. “Neither do I. Let’s be terrible dancers together.”

  EPILOGUE

  “You’re being silly,” said Simone, kicking sand at Louis.

  “And you’d be disappointed if I were otherwise,” he said.

  Nathalie rearranged her sun hat. “You’ve been engaged a month already, and she still loves you dearly. There’s no risk. Throw her in the water already, Louis.”