The Wife of Riley (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 6)

by A W Hartoin

  The light changed and Aaron trotted into the street without checking to see if we were following. We chased him down a couple streets—those little legs could move fast—until we caught up in front of a children’s clothing shop called NotSoBig on Rue Tiquetonne.

  “Aaron,” I called out as the street swam in front of my eyes. Damn jet lag. If only I could sleep on planes.

  Chuck steadied me. “Hold it. Aaron. Stop. Now!”

  By some miracle, Aaron stopped and turned around. “Huh?”

  “Mercy’s tired. Give us a break, man.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Let’s get to the apartment.”

  Aaron waited that time and we walked a couple small blocks to Rue Marie Stuart where the Bled apartment was. I found the red door for our building and let us into the dim mailbox room and then through the glass door to the narrow timbered stairs. Chuck and Aaron stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up. Neither of them would fit very well. I was smaller than both of them and I barely fit.

  “Is there an elevator?” asked Chuck.

  I pushed the button on the wall next to me and the minuscule elevator opened.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I laughed. “When this place was built people didn’t come in your size.”

  “I’ll take the stairs.”

  “Suit yourself. Fourth floor. Green door.” I got on the elevator. I would’ve waited for Aaron, but he wouldn’t fit.

  The elevator rose to the fourth floor in the glacial manner that I remembered from the last time I stayed there when I was sixteen and ever so impatient with the whole world. I got off to find Chuck looking triumphant in the stairwell.

  “I beat you,” he crowed.

  “Impressive.”

  “You make it sound like you’re not impressed.”

  I gave him a peck on his stubbly jaw. “I’m totally impressed with everything you do.”

  “Alright then. Just so we have that straight,” he said, satisfied.

  Aaron came puffing up the stairs behind Chuck and hurled his orange suitcase on the floor. I think he might’ve stomped on it if he’d had the energy.

  Chuck picked up Aaron’s suitcase and I let us in, wondering exactly what Chuck was going to think.

  “It’s smaller than I imagined,” he said.

  “Everything is in Paris,” I said. “We should take the big bedroom.”

  I went into the little living room/kitchen combo and opened the shades. Not much sun came in. Most of the sun was blocked by the apartments across the narrow street, but the light cheered up the place. I opened the windows and the lovely scent of someone’s lunch wafted in.

  Aaron came over and took a sniff. “Lamb. Slow roasted in salt.”

  “You would know that. Do you want to check out the kitchen?” I asked, but he was already heading for the small space. It was a serviceable little galley arrangement with everything we could need, including a fabulous espresso maker, which Aaron automatically flipped on.

  I pushed my suitcase toward the bedrooms and then stopped when I saw Chuck’s face. He looked like he was in pain or panicked. I couldn’t decide which.

  “What?’ I asked.

  “I thought you said there are three bedrooms,” he said.

  “There are, but the third is teensy, more like a big closet.”

  “That’s okay,” he said brightly. “I’ll take the teensy one.”

  He went down the hall, found the teensy bedroom, went in and closed the door. I looked over at Aaron who, to my surprise, was looking at me. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “No.”

  “That’s weird, right? Shouldn’t we be sharing a room? Like a couple. We are still a couple.”

  “Huh?”

  “Aaron!”

  “Huh?”

  “You’d tell me if he was, you know, over me, wouldn’t you?” I asked and got a blank look for my trouble. “Look who I’m asking. This jet lag is worse than I thought.”

  “Rodney says Chuck loves you.” Aaron said love like he wasn’t quite sure what the fuss was about. He probably didn’t.

  “Rodney says, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alright. I guess that’s something. I’m taking the big room, unless you object.”

  Nothing happened, so I took the big room. Thirty minutes later, I’d unpacked, making sure to put Dad’s gift of pepper spray in my purse, just in case, and taken a super quick shower. Hot water was a scarce commodity, even in a Bled apartment. I put on a swishy sundress and heard something when I stepped into the hall. It was what I suspected would happen. Aaron hadn’t unpacked. He hadn’t even made it to his room. The little weirdo was crashed out on the sofa, curled up in a tight little ball like a kitten.

  “Aaron!” I nudged him, getting no reaction. “You can’t sleep. We have to get in the right time zone.”

  Snore.

  “Aaron!”

  “I’m awake.” His eyes weren’t open.

  “Where’s Chuck? He’ll wake you up.” I went down the hall, pounded on Chuck’s door, and received no answer. I put my ear to the door and, sure enough, there was snoring. I knocked and went in. The room, and especially the bed, was smaller than I remembered. Chuck was stretched out with his feet hanging off the end. It was ridiculous.

  I sat on the edge of the twin bed and poked him. “Wake up. You can’t sleep until tonight.”

  “I’m not sleeping,” he said.

  “What was that snoring then?”

  “A figment of your imagination.”

  “Get up. Let’s go out. See stuff.”

  “You’ve already seen it.” He rolled over, showing me his back.

  “You haven’t. Isn’t that why we’re here? To see Paris?”

  “We’re here to follow a lead on The Klinefeld Group,” he muttered.

  I traced the muscles in his back with my finger. “That’s not the only reason. It’s the most romantic city in the world.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I bet I know what will wake you up.” I unzipped my dress and was he awake fast. Awake and on his feet.

  “I’m ready,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “Where should we go first?”

  I crossed my arms. “That’s it. What is up with you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, backing up to the door.

  “Don’t give me that. You’ve been trying to get me naked for years. Now I unzip and you run the other way. Are you dumping me in slow motion?”

  He took my shoulders and gave them a squeeze before he zipped me up. “No way. I’m never, ever going to dump you. If anything, you’ll dump me.”

  “Do you want me to dump you?” I asked, my stomach doing a half-gainer and landing in my throat.

  “No. Of course not. I’m respecting you. Don’t you want me to respect you?”

  That seems like a trick question.

  “I guess.”

  He patted my shoulder and pulled me out the door. “We’re taking it slow like they did in the old days.”

  “But you never say sleazy things to me anymore. Where’s the sleaze?” I asked.

  “You want me to be sleazy?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll work on that. Where are we going? The Eiffel Tower? The Louvre?” he asked, avoiding looking at me like crazy.

  In ten minutes, he had Aaron up and was pouring espresso down his throat. While they were distracted with finding directions, I texted Calpurnia that I was in Paris and on the case. Well, sort of. First stop, Notre Dame. A few prayers were in order.

  Actually, Notre Dame was our second stop. First was Boulangerie Eric Kayser on the end of Rue Montorgueil, the pedestrian-friendly street packed with shops offering pretty much anything you could want or need. It took us thirty minutes to make it to the bakery because Aaron had to look in every cheese shop and inspect the produce stands. I practically had to drag him along, only to get there and find it had a long line as usual. I wasn’t that hungry. I just wan
ted the comfort that a good boulangerie can bring.

  We waited and got chocolate croissants before heading to Notre Dame. It was a thirty-minute walk and Chuck held my hand, keeping up a distracting chatter. I think he was afraid I’d ask more questions, but I wasn’t going to. I didn’t know what to do. There was definitely something going on, but I had bigger things to worry about like the Fibonacci phone in my purse and how in the world I was going to confirm the mystery woman’s identity in twelve days. When I decided on the length of our stay, it sounded like more than enough time, but now that I was walking the streets of Paris, looking at the apartments, the millions of people and it seemed impossible. What was I thinking when I said I could do it?

  “We’re not in the metro,” said Chuck. “Can’t you take off that hat?”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “I love this hat.” I didn’t exactly love it. I needed it for more reasons than one. Firstly, I didn’t want cameras pointed at me. Second, my hair wasn’t the fan of Paris that I was. It always went crazy curly and not in a good way. The Girls said it was the Seine. My hair didn’t like the moist air. I lived within miles of the Mississippi, but, apparently, that was different. Whenever I ventured out of Paris, my hair calmed down. The closer to the river the worse the hair.

  When I was little, Millicent would put my hair into pigtails that ended up looking like frizzy puffballs. As I got older, we tried a myriad of shampoos and conditioners. No luck. Hats were my only hope.

  “It’s so floppy, I can’t see your face,” said Chuck.

  “That’s the point.” I wasn’t about to mention the hair. Let him discover the horror naturally.

  “Let’s test the theory. Maybe nobody will notice you,” he said.

  “Pass.”

  Chuck pestered me until he spotted a looming tower. “There it is.” He dragged me forward and we practically ran into the square, packed with people, of course.

  The cathedral stood in front of us, blocky and impressive. The French called Notre Dame the Temple of Reason for a period after the revolution and I could see why. The perfectly symmetrical towers, the rose window in the center, and three arched doors with their many intricate carvings gave a sense of calm, of reason in a chaotic world. No wonder the revolution that destroyed so much had left Notre Dame standing.

  “Oh no. We’ll never get in.” Chuck’s broad shoulders slumped.

  There was a line. There pretty much always was. But it went fast. I steered him to the end and we joined the international queue that included five different nationalities just in our little section. Guys came around hawking souvenirs. Chuck wanted to buy me everything. I had to convince him that I didn’t need a mini Eiffel tower or a Mona Lisa postcard.

  The couple in front of us were trailing a couple of carry-on bags. When they reached security, they were stopped and an argument in French ensued.

  “They can’t bring luggage in?” asked Chuck.

  “No, but people always try to do it.”

  “Can you understand what they’re saying?”

  “A bit.”

  The security guards escorted the enraged couple out of line and then waved us forward. Since we had no bags, except my purse, we got to go right into the dim interior. I pulled off my sunglasses but left my hat in place. Chuck tried to snatch it off my head, but I smacked his hand.

  I stalked ahead of him through the crowd. The center nave was blocked off because there was a mass going on. It was easy to forget that Notre Dame was a working icon, the neighborhood church for plenty of Parisians. The sight of so many heads bowed in prayer humbled me as it always did.

  “It’s massive,” whispered Chuck, taking my hand.

  I squeezed his warm hand. “It is.”

  “Is mass always in French?”

  “No,” I said. “There’s an international mass on Sundays.”

  Aaron put his hand on my back and urged me forward.

  The reading ended and the next started. We walked down the right side toward the pulpit, past thick stone columns, looking up at the beams of light jetting down through the air tinged with smoky incense.

  We passed behind the choir stalls, a solid wooden wall with carved reliefs. I think Chuck took a picture of every single figure, so it took fifteen minutes to get to the end. We peeked around the edge to watch the priest with his arms extended as he spoke about forgiveness. His green robes were embroidered with gold but managed to seem simple in the grandeur of Notre Dame. One of the other priests gave him a lit thurible with smoke billowing out. The grand organ played as he walked in a semi-circle, swinging it. The scent of the incense filled the air and I missed The Girls. I’d never been to Notre Dame without them before. It felt strange and a bit empty without my godmothers and their prim Chanel suits handing me coins to put in the prayer boxes.

  Mass ended and I dug in my purse. I’d come prepared to do what was expected of me. I gave Chuck two euros and he stared at them. “What’s this for?”

  “A prayer. Pick a saint. Any saint.”

  “What should I pray for?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Is this your first time?”

  “Well, I never paid to pray before,” he said.

  “It’s a donation, you nut.”

  He got thoughtful. “Maybe I should pray that one of my mother’s marriages will stick.”

  “It can’t hurt.”

  Aaron held out his hand. I gave him some euros and he trotted off into the crowd.

  “What do you think he’s going to pray for?” asked Chuck.

  “Divine food inspiration,” I said, hefting my heavy coin purse.

  Chuck stared at the large amount of coins. “How many prayers are you doing?”

  “I’ll cover all the bases. It’s tradition.”

  “The bases?”

  “Myrtle asked me to remember Stella, her parents, her friend, Marie, and some others.” I turned around and went to Saint Denis, dropped my coin, and lit a candle for my parents. Chuck followed suit and we worked our way through Notre Dame, praying for souls and continued health. At least, that’s what I was praying for. I don’t know what Chuck was doing.

  On the other side of the nave, I stopped at Mary’s altar. I dropped my last coin and asked Mary for wisdom.

  Mary, please help me find the truth and to know what to do with it when I do.

  Chuck put his arm around my shoulders. “You look so serious.”

  I leaned on him and breathed in his scent of cologne and wintergreen gum, mixed with the incense. It went together well.

  “Not serious. Hopeful,” I said.

  Aaron appeared at my side and announced that he was done. We headed outside, squinting in the sunlight and marveling at the line that was now twice as long. I felt renewed and ready to go look for Angela. Unfortunately, Chuck was clamped onto my hand. This was a tourist day, like it or not.

  “Where to now?” asked Chuck. “I’m too tired to remember the plan.”

  “What else do you want to see?” I asked.

  “Everything.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I asked with a laugh.

  “That’s it.” He kissed me lightly on the lips. Progress. Maybe we should take another turn around the cathedral.

  “We could go over to Sainte-Chapelle and the Conciergerie,” I said. “They’re on the island, but they’re probably crowded by now and the line doesn’t go fast.”

  “What do you suggest?” he asked.

  “I need to go to the Deportation Memorial.”

  “Where’s that?”

  I pointed past the cathedral. “Not far.”

  “Aaron, you good with that?” asked Chuck.

  Aaron shrugged, so we walked into the gardens beside the cathedral. A school group of little girls in black and white uniforms giggled and ran around their teachers, kicking up the gravel and breaking into song. Couples were strolling and taking pictures. Parents were trying to soothe screaming toddlers and wailing infants. This all seemed out of sync with the looming grey stone of the
cathedral, but it helped to remind me that this wasn’t only a monument. Notre Dame was part of everyday life.

  I took some pictures of Chuck and Aaron standing at the back of the cathedral with the flying buttresses behind them and sent the pics to Mom. She, like Calpurnia, required frequent updates and proof that I was alive.

  Aaron led us straight to the memorial, an austere site at the end of the Ile de Cité. There was a low concrete wall with the years of the Holocaust written in jagged black writing on it. It memorialized the 200,000 Parisians who were deported to their deaths in concentration camps.

  Chuck glanced around. The area was empty except for the two guards at the entrance, nothing like the cathedral that was now standing room only. “Where is everybody?”

  “People don’t really know it’s here or realize what it is, I guess. Remembering the Holocaust on your vacation is kind of a downer,” I said.

  “But you want to go?”

  “Want is putting it a little strongly. It’s what we do. Remember, I mean.”

  “Are you remembering someone in particular?”

  “Absolutely. Big Steve’s parents were survivors. His mom was deported from Paris.”

  Chuck’s face registered his shock. Few people knew about Big Steve Warnock’s family. He didn’t want to make a thing of it. We knew because he was a family friend and my mom worked for him as a paralegal for years.

  “I had no idea,” said Chuck. “Aaron, did you know?”

  “Yeah.” Aaron didn’t elaborate. He never did. I knew more about Big Steve’s parents’ Holocaust experience than I did about Aaron, the man I called my partner.

  “Besides the Warnocks, is there anyone else?” asked Chuck.

  “Stella knew quite a few people that were deported. Some of them were members of the resistance cells she was involved with and some were innocents, friends that she couldn’t save. Most of them never knew who she really was or that she was an American.”