The older man chuckled and commented, “Very protective boyfriend you have here.”
Not bothering to correct the detective, I thought for the first time how “boyfriend” might just be the perfect title for Xavier. In the future. For now, I had a crime to solve.
The group was starting to disperse until a revelation hit me. “Wait!” I exclaimed. “I think I know where Patric might have gone!”
Chapter 7
Looking as though he might have a coronary if I didn’t divulge Patric’s possible whereabouts, Detective Morceau stared at me wide-eyed, prompting impatiently, “Well, where do you think he is Mademoiselle?”
“Marseille,” I said quickly before the poor man burst into flames. Something told me that Detective Morceau had been trying to frame Patric Anguisson for the better part of his law enforcement career. “This morning I went online and did my own research about Patric. The databases I searched gave two addresses for him. One was the apartment in Paris and another was located in Marseille.”
“Yes, he is originally from Marseille and still has relatives there,” Detective Morceau said, his color returning to normal. “We’ll see what we can find in terms of cell phone records and get back to you later today. I do hope you’ll come with us to Marseille if that’s where the investigation leads.”
“Definitely,” I agreed without hesitation, ignoring the protesting groan that escaped Xavier. “I’ll be across the street at home waiting to hear from you.”
Xavier and I walked back home as adrenaline made me feel like flying there. Law school was so incredibly dull compared to the cross country action that a case like this could provide. I wasn’t sure how I was going to concentrate on my Sahara dry textbooks after playing novice detective in this exhilarating chase.
Making sure my cell phone ringer was turned on the highest setting for the officers to reach me, I busied myself by soaping the breakfast dishes. “I hope they call me soon!” I called over my shoulder to Xavier who was pouring himself a second cup of morning coffee.
“I’m taking the day off from work. The bookstore can live without me for one day. And if we do go to Marseille, it will probably turn into an overnight trip, so they can live without me tomorrow too,” Xavier said, reaching for his cell phone.
“How far is it from Paris to Marseille?” I asked, sponging up a stained coffee cup with fragrant suds.
“It’s almost 500 miles, but by high speed train it would only take us 3 hours to get there,” Xavier explained before concocting a story about feeling sick and conveying it to the coworker who answered the phone at the bookstore. A moment later, he hung up. “Done. Now I can go with you to Marseille or wherever they need us to be.”
Towel drying the dishes, I smiled at Xavier. “I’m so glad you’re in this with me now.”
“So am I,” he replied simply as my cell phone jingled. Clamoring for it like a hyperactive child, I said urgently, “Allo? Oui?”
Detective Morceau’s voice sounded as excited as I felt. “He’s in Marseille. We have a very reliable source that has narrowed down his whereabouts to a 3 mile radius. Can you get to the train station by noon?”
“Yes!” I replied instantaneously. “See you at noon!” Hanging up, I realized that I hadn’t asked the detective which train station to go to. “Oh no! I don’t know which train station to go to. There are dozens here in Paris…”
Chuckling, Xavier enlightened me. “There’s only one station that goes high speed to Marseille, and that’s the Gare de Lyon. Let’s pack our overnight bags and make our way there.”
“Okay, let’s do this,” I responded, making a beeline to my bedroom and yanking a duffel bag out of the closet.
Frantically, I tossed in the prettiest, most colorful sundresses in my wardrobe. Then, remembering the confidential nature of our quest, I smacked my forehead and exchanged the alluring dresses for dark colored pants and tops. Camouflaging myself might be necessary, and stylish clothes clearly weren’t the way to do that. On Barbados, haute couture consisted of happy hues and airy fabrics, but France was fashionable in a more understated way. Already, my height made me stand out like a Halloween costume in April; I couldn’t look like an outsider with my apparel too.
Xavier was waiting for me in the hallway, downing yet another cup of coffee as I gave him a slightly judgmental look. “What? It’s just coffee. At least I haven’t been smoking lately.”
“No, you haven’t.” I suddenly realized that I hadn’t caught him with a cigarette since that night on the balcony.
“I’m really trying to quit. Thanks to you,” he said warmly before pouring the coffee down his throat.
“Thanks to my needling and nagging?” I tossed out the self-deprecating joke.
“Exactly,” he replied with amusement, picking up the coffee pot and pouring a few more drops into his cup. “Better to get my fix from caffeine than nicotine, right?”
“That’s right,” I said softly, proud of him for trying so hard to conquer his addiction.
“Okay, off we go,” he said, placing the empty coffee cup on the counter and opening the door.
“I’ve never been on a TGV train,” I shared, referring to the mind boggling high speed transportation that translates as Train à Grande Vitesse in French.
“Well get ready for a wild ride. It’s like science fiction how fast these trains go,” Xavier said, locking the door behind us. “We’ll be zipping down south at more than 160 miles per hour.”
“Wow!” I breathed, unable to contain another excited shiver that pulsed through me.
Hailing a taxi to take us to the Gare de Lyon, we packed ourselves and our luggage tightly into the back seat as Xavier issued polite instructions to the driver. Only having traveled by metro since arriving in Paris, I was fascinated by all the sights whizzing by from the vantage point of the taxi. “Look, there’s the Moulin Rouge!” I exclaimed as Xavier favored me with a charmed smile.
“I’ll have to take you there sometime. The cabaret shows aren’t really my thing, but every visitor to Paris needs to go to the Moulin Rouge at least once,” Xavier said as I looked at him with mild surprise. Maybe he just wanted to be my tour guide…but no, I knew better. Xavier had just unofficially asked me out on a date.
“I’d love to see a show there,” I enthused, gazing out the window again and admiring all the historical wine and cheese shops that had likely stood since the middle of the twentieth century---or even earlier.
Arriving at the train station, we quickly spotted the investigative team, led by a grave looking Detective Marceau. Handing us our prepaid tickets, he voiced his concern. “Three hours better be fast enough. I’m worried that Anguisson will get tipped off and move his location again, so we’re going to have to start searching the moment the train pulls into the station in Marseille.”
As soon as the train pulled into the station, we hustled to get on and find seats. Morceau and his group of police officers were definitely in undercover detective mode, as I noticed they had changed from uniforms to plain clothes since I had initially spilled my story at the precinct. As the train sped out of the station, my stomach lurched, unaccustomed to the extreme speed. I felt like I was on a roller coaster as the train quickly accelerated to maximum speed and the world rolled by in dizzying technicolor vision.
“Have some bread,” Xavier suggested, pulling a crusty baguette out of a small picnic basket he had packed.
“Oh thank you,” I murmured, grateful that he had the foresight to bring some stomach-taming snacks.
In disbelief, I observed other passengers reading paperback novels and playing with their smart phones. How could anyone concentrate on such a rumbling, whiplash-inducing ride? I closed my eyes, hoping that the three hours would pass quickly and that I wouldn’t become sick on the train. I needed to be in top shape when we arrived in Marseille so I could execute whatever plot Detective Morceau had in store for me. But the thought of seducing a confession out of Patric made me sicker than the speeding train.
Finally, the train jerked to a stop in Marseille as I sipped from a bottle of water and swallowed a few more pieces of bread. Feeling stronger as soon as the train became motionless, I stayed in my seat awaiting instructions from Detective Morceau. He rose from his seat and stood over me, handing me a folded sheet of paper with written instructions. I avidly read the paper, realizing that our mission was too delicate and secretive for him to issue verbal directives.
Unfolding the paper, I tapped Xavier on the shoulder, motioning for him to read the note with me. In barely legible chicken scrawl, Detective Morceau had written:
Stay in the train station with your cell phone ready until you receive a cue from law enforcement. There’s a café and a couple of restaurants where you can pass the hours before we contact you. Be prepared to wait until the small hours of the morning if necessary. Thank you for your help in this critical matter.
As we disembarked the train, the group of police officers and detectives separated from us and disappeared through the exit door. Slowly, Xavier and I strolled through the station, stretching and yawning.
“Looks like I’ll be drinking even more coffee than usual,” he drawled. “And I might even need a cigarette.”
“No!” I protested vehemently, feeling like I had just taken a blow to the gut at the thought of Xavier smoking again. “You’ve been doing so well. Don’t cave now.”
“Okay, then I’m going to need a venti coffee. Black,” he replied wryly as we headed over to a brightly lit café.
As Detective Morceau had predicted, we spent the entire day and beyond inside the train station. Periodically, Xavier did some more secret work on his laptop as I itched to ask him what he was typing. But I kept my mouth shut, too tired from sitting and waiting all day to try to investigate anything else.
As sunset faded away and night fell, both Xavier and I were becoming restless. “We haven’t heard a word from the cops. What do you think that means?” I asked in exasperation.
“It probably means they’re still searching for Anguisson and have nothing to report.”
“But they must have his old address here in Marseille. It’s in the online databases.”
“Yeah, but he may not be at that address. He could be hiding out at a relative’s house or staying with a friend. Who knows where that viper has slithered off to?” Xavier spoke with a touch of hoarseness in his voice as he polished off the last bite of the spinach and mushroom quiches we had ordered for dinner.
“This is getting ridiculous. I mean, I want to solve this crime, but…”
“Before you get too impatient,” Xavier interrupted, turning his computer screen to my view. “Take a look at this.”
I looked at the newspaper article glowing on his computer screen. Initially, it appeared to be just another blurb about the stolen emeralds and an outreach to the public for assistance. But at the bottom of the article, there was information about a sizeable reward. “20,000 Euros for information leading to the arrest of the thieves! Well, that reward is rightfully ours if they catch him and get a confession! Why didn’t Detective Morceau mention this?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to get our hopes up…or have us assist the investigation for the wrong reasons,” Xavier suggested.
“Maybe,” I said thoughtfully. “But how incredible would that be? I could pay off my law school loans and quit my job at Collette’s stupid pastry shop! With my half of the reward of course,” I added quickly, acknowledging that Xavier was entitled to a 50% share of any monetary compensation.
“I have a few bills I could pay off as well,” he admitted, yawning for the millionth time and sitting back in his hard wooden chair. “I really wish this were a recliner right now.”
“I know. I just want to get some sleep,” I complained. As soon as the words parted my lips, the long awaited ring of my cell phone chimed as I rushed to answer it.
Detective Morceau began speaking immediately, sounding breathless and urgent. “A squad car is coming to the train station to pick you up now. We’ve tracked down Anguisson at a cousin’s house on the outskirts of Marseille. You’re going to pay him a surprise visit tonight, Isabelle.”
“Okay,” I replied uncertainly as my heart thudded crazily. “And how am I going to explain just showing up on his doorstep at night, hundreds of miles from where I live?”
“You’re going to have a huge performance to put on,” came Detective Morceau’s simple answer. “Flirt, bat those pretty eyelashes, seduce him…make him forget about how you got there and why you’re there. Just make him focus on your beauty and he’ll be lost.”
Feeling anything but beautiful after being trapped all day in a stuffy train station, I grabbed for a tube of mascara and my favorite shade of ruby lipstick. Ten minutes later, the unmarked squad car had arrived with one of the police officers from Paris in the driver’s seat. Xavier and I hopped in as I felt massively unsure of this flirt-and-just-seduce-him plan. Patric wasn’t an idiot, and I wasn’t a beauty queen. He would definitely be suspicious of my presence in Marseille and the fact that I had somehow, miraculously, found him at his cousin’s house! Questioning the expertise of Detective Morceau and his crew, I gave Xavier a nervous look as he soothingly placed his hand over mine.
“This is crazy,” I whispered in a trembling voice.
Gravely, he looked at me and nodded. “I know. You don’t have to do this. Let the cops figure this out. I don’t want you to be in any danger. Forget about the money.”
“No, I’ve come this far. I have to go through with it,” I asserted as Xavier’s face remained set in stone. Detective Morceau had probably invested so much of his career trying to catch Patric and slap him with a felony charge that he was resorting to desperate measures like my pending improvisational Oscar performance.
The car slowed to a stop as the police officer informed us that we were on the street where Patric was hiding out. “We’re going to stay a few houses back, but we’ll still be close enough to come get you if you need help. Just press that button next to your collarbone.” The officer indicated the device that had been attached to my chest for recording and emergency purposes. “Now go to #45. That’s where Patric is staying. The white stucco house that needs a paint job.”
“Okay.” Letting go of Xavier’s hand, I took a deep breath and walked down the street, holding my head high. As I crept along the sidewalk outside the hideaway house, I immediately recognized a familiar face from Paris. But it wasn’t Patric. Blinking in astonishment, I discerned the unmistakable flabby form of Yves gyrating around like an off kilter ferris wheel.
Chapter 8
Shrinking back against a row of bushes, I prayed that Yves wouldn’t see me and blow my cover. But in his highly agitated state it seemed that Yves would be oblivious even if a Category 5 hurricane whirled into town and scooped his chunky body right up off the ground. My ears were ringing from the fear stirring around in the pit of my stomach. I shook my head, trying to relax and stay focused on the scene unfolding in front of me. From nowhere, Patric appeared in a battle stance just a few feet away from Yves as they shouted at each other in vulgar French.
“Finally you come outside, you damn coward! Afraid of me? Well you should be! You screwed me over!” Yves jumped in place like a bull preparing to charge as Patric stood calmly.
“You’ll get your cut, old man. Just wait until Chérie is safely across the border and can sell the emeralds on the Black Market,” Patric said as I desperately fiddled with my recording device, hoping it would pick up his voice. But I feared that the only sounds the device would record at this distance were trees blowing in the wind and cars passing by. Carefully, I took a few baby steps closer to the confrontation.
“Why should I believe you? You already said you would pay me forward and you haven’t done that! I risked everything by baking those emeralds into the cream puffs so Chérie could take them and get them out of the country unnoticed! And how do you pay me back, you bastard…”
I didn’t hear the
next words Yves yelled because I was too stunned by the confession he had made. So he purposefully baked the emeralds into the cream puffs and left the tray in the refrigerator knowing that Chérie was going to take them? In fact, I hadn’t witnessed a robbery but a slickly strategized plan set in action. It seemed like a brilliant scheme to hide the jewels inside the pastries so that she could safely escape France. But where had she gone? She couldn’t have left on a plane because the metal detectors at the airport would have easily scanned the emeralds even tucked inside the pastry puffs. Marseille was a gateway between France and Italy…maybe she was in northern Italy…theories and conjectures swished around in my mind as the men continued to argue.
“Chérie should be in Italy by tomorrow morning,” Patric informed as I clapped a hand over my mouth, unable to believe how much was being revealed.
“What’s the damn delay?” Yves screamed.
“Don’t give yourself a heart attack, dough boy. She’s been hitching rides with friends. There’s no way she can risk using public transportation. We already have a buyer lined up in Italy and as soon as the sale is made, you’ll be paid. But I think based on this temper tantrum that I should decrease your cut…” Patric trailed off, infuriating Yves even more.
“You’re not decreasing anything, you bastard! You’re giving me what was promised!” The baker stomped his foot on the sidewalk as the concrete vibrated from his weight.
I clenched the recording device closer to my body, debating whether I should press the panic button and alert the officers. Why couldn’t they just make the arrest now? Even with fuzzy sound, my recorder might have captured every word of the criminals’ unwitting confessions. Couldn’t that be enough? There was no way I could muster the nerve to be a coquette with Patric now. As my thumb hovered above the button, I felt a tickle breeze through my nostrils. In horror, I realized that I was about to sneeze. Willing myself to stay silent and not emit my signature sneeze that sounded like a sonic boom, I felt another tickle play with my nasal passage. Fearing the sneeze was inevitable, I turned my head away from Yves and Patric, but it didn’t matter. As soon as the massive ATCH----OOO escaped my throat, it echoed in stereo along the night wind.
Sweet as Pie Crimes Page 11
