by A W Hartoin
“How’d she manage that?” he asked.
“She learned seven languages during the war and could do accents really well. Stella spent a lot of time in Paris and she helped quite a few people escape. I always wonder if what The Klinefeld Group is looking for came from here,” I said.
“Too bad none of them are alive to ask,” he said.
“Margot de Genlis and Marie Galloway Laurence Morris Huntley Huntley Smith are still alive. They both knew all about Stella.”
“Whoa. That is a name.”
“Marie’s a character.”
“You’ve met her?”
“I’ve met both of them several times, but I don’t know what they’d be willing to say. Stella’s activities are still classified so, to some extent, their hands are tied.”
“How can these women still be alive?”
I glared at him. “Because they didn’t die. They’re tough women.”
Chuck grimaced. “I’m not sure why, but I’m sorry. How old are they? A hundred plus?”
“Hardly. They both joined the resistance in their teens. I think Margot is ninety-three and Marie is probably older, but I’m not sure.”
“Do they live in Paris?”
“Margot lives in Tuscany with her daughter. Marie has a house in St. Louis, but she could be anywhere. She’s quite the traveler. The family might know, if I can figure out a way to ask them.”
“What family? The Bleds?”
“Of course. Marie was married to one of Nicky’s brothers. She’s family,” I said.
“Nicky Lawrence? Stella’s husband?”
“The one and only.”
“We’ve got to talk to those ladies. They could know what The Klinefeld Group is after, not to mention the connection between your family and the Bleds. Maybe they know about the meeting here between your great great-grandparents and Stella and Nicky.”
“Marie doesn’t like to talk about the war. Her scars are deep. She was in Ravensbrück.”
Chuck’s face, that had been gleeful with the thought of new leads, grew solemn. “How long did the Nazis have her?”
“Fourteen months. She was barely alive when the Soviets liberated the camp. I don’t want to ask her if we can avoid it.”
“What about Margot?”
“She avoided capture, mostly because Marie wouldn’t give up any information. Her memory isn’t great, but she remembers her part in the resistance with great pride. Margot will talk to us, but she won’t betray any oaths she made.”
“But it was so long ago. How can it matter now?” he asked.
I glanced at the memorial. The guards were watching us, wary and alert. The memorial was considered a target for terrorists and they didn’t like us standing there. “Time depends on who you ask. I’d better go in. The guards aren’t happy.”
“We’re going, too,” said Chuck.
“You don’t have to. It’s my thing.”
“And now it’s our thing.”
Our. I like the sound of that.
We walked over and the guard asked if we spoke French. I did a little and he was happy not to have to get another guard to translate. He ran the metal detector over us and checked my purse before going over the rules. No pictures down in the memorial. It was a quiet place for reflection and remembrance. I told Chuck and Aaron what he said and we were allowed in.
We went down the long concrete stairs to a courtyard with an iron-barred gate and a jagged black sculpture. The sculpture always reminded me of the sign over the gate at Auschwitz. Maybe that was the intent. On the other side of the courtyard was the entrance to the memorial itself. I stepped through the open door into a room with an eternal flame in the center. There was an opening in the wall with bars over it. It was the entrance to a long tunnel. Myrtle and Millicent said it symbolized the journey into darkness from which few returned. The walls were inscribed with names, thousands of names.
I did as I’d been taught, clasped my hands in front of my heart, and remembered each of the names my godmothers had me memorize. It was very important to The Girls that I do this, stand in that spot and remember those men, women, and, especially, the children. Then I remembered Big Steve’s parents. He never asked me to, but I thought he’d like it if I did.
“Okay,” I said.
Chuck looked down the hall. His eyes roved over the names. “I forgot that the Nazis occupied the city.”
“Paris makes it easy to forget, but the past is everywhere you look,” I said.
“I think we’re going to find something here,” he said, still staring into the distant black end of the hall.
“About The Klinefeld Group?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
Chapter Nine
We stayed up late on our first night in Paris. Dinner at a tiny bistro that Aaron picked because they had great duck confit. He was not pleased when I ordered steak frite instead. He warned that it wasn’t going to be great and it wasn’t. What can I say? I wanted steak and fries. Chuck did obey our resident food expert and he said the duck confit was fantastic. We all had crème brûlée and, I don’t care what anyone says; it’s different in Paris—creamier and the sugar melts ever so slowly on your tongue.
I collapsed on my bed at midnight—alone, might I add—and slept until ten the next morning. That was a lot later than I was planning, but I forgot to set the alarm on my phone.
The apartment was quiet, so I crossed my fingers that Chuck and Aaron were still asleep and I could sneak out. I almost talked myself out of taking a shower in the name of saving time, but I couldn’t do it. I took a quick shower and put on a pair of jeans and the red ballet flats Chuck kept trying to take out of my suitcase. The man did not like flats, but he didn’t have to like them. I wasn’t putting them on him. I got a black sweater, my floppy hat that he’d tried to throw into the Seine, and my big sunglasses. I didn’t want to be noticed, especially not when I was searching for Angela.
My door creaked open and I winced. So darn loud. I tiptoed past the other bedroom doors and through the kitchen/living room. I unlocked the door when a voice said, “Hey.”
Dammit!
Aaron trotted across the living room while slipping on a faded 80’s-style jean jacket. “I’m ready.”
“Shush,” I whispered. “I’m going out for croissants.”
“No.”
“I’m not asking permission,” I said.
“You’re not getting croissants.”
Double dammit.
“Okay. I’m getting macaroons. Happy?”
“No.”
“Aaron, please, go back to bed.”
“I’m ready. I wrote Chuck a note,” he said.
“Saying what?”
“That we went to the school to check in for our class.” He opened the door, ushered me through, and locked it behind us. He started for the stairs, but I grabbed his arm.
“Aaron, you’ll go to the cooking school and I’ll do whatever. Understand?”
“No.”
“No, you don’t understand. Or no you won’t do it?”
“I’m going with you. We’re partners.” Aaron went down the stairs with me on his heels. He was like a tubby steamroller. I couldn’t stop him.
“Aaron, we’re partners when my dad sends us to do things, not all the time.”
“All the time.”
We went outside and took a right to Rue Montorgueil. The shopping street was busy, even for a Sunday, with shoppers and the smells were fantastic. Roasting chicken, bread, and hints of ripe cheese danced in the breeze.
“Oh for god’s sake. You can’t go,” I said.
“I’m going. You’ll get lost.”
That was probably true, but there were metro stops every other block, so I could always find my way back. “I’ll be fine. Where are you going?”
“Here.” Aaron marched into the corner café and sat at a table facing the street.
“I’m in a hurry,” I said. “See ya later.”
“Sit and t
ell me why you have two phones,” said Aaron.
It was the first order the little weirdo had ever given me and I sat out of sheer surprise. “I was hoping you forgot about that.”
“I didn’t.”
The waitress came over and I ordered café crème and chocolate croissants for both of us. They came out immediately and I sipped the hot heavenly mixture before saying, “You know I have a connection to the Fibonaccis from our time in Honduras.”
Aaron nodded, ripped off a piece of croissant, and eyed the flakiness before stuffing it in his gullet.
I watched Paris walk by, my eyes never straying from the tourists in heavy backpacks, businessmen with their baguettes, and mothers wrangling unruly children while I told him how much I owed Calpurnia Fibonacci and why we were in Paris. I told him Chuck didn’t know and that he couldn’t for his career and our relationship, whatever that was.
“Okay.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “You understand that you’re basically working for the mafia?”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“We’re going to have to find a cooking school and at least make this sound plausible.”
“Done.”
“You found a school?”
“Yep.”
“Is it the Cordon Bleu?” I asked.
“No.”
That was all the info I was getting. I’d just have to trust Aaron to make the story believable. I wasn’t exactly comfortable with that, but what could I do?
“Let’s go, partner.”
We got off the metro at the Bastille stop with all its revolution artwork and passed the spot where the prison that incited the rage of the people once stood. We walked around the traffic circle into the broad boulevard where the market was bustling. Aaron made a beeline for it, saying he needed stuff. The market definitely had stuff, everything from clothing to fresh fish. I dragged Aaron away down the street, crossing over to an avenue with lovely apartments towering over us with wrought iron balconies dripping with red blossoms. That area I knew. The Marais. My godmothers loved it. My earliest memories of Paris were of the Marais, listening to the street musicians and Millicent feeding me bites of chocolate babka to keep me happy in museums.
I got turned around a couple times, but we found Place des Vosges without much trouble. The buildings around the seventeenth-century square were impressive with their red brick walls and blue slate roofs. We walked under the same vaulted arches that Gina’s mystery woman had disappeared through.
Aaron stopped and made a little sound of contentment at the sight of the park in the center. The border was edged with trees shaped into squares. Beyond them were gravel paths through green lawns leading to a cluster of trees with a fountain in the center. It was a peaceful, elegant place and felt a world away from the city it was in.
I hooked my arm through Aaron’s. “I know. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? The Girls wanted to buy an apartment here, but the one they wanted never came up for sale. Let’s try the restaurants first.”
Café Victor Hugo had just opened, so the staff wasn’t too busy. They took a look at my pictures, but didn’t recognize either the woman or the man with her.
Aaron and I worked our way through every café on the arched promenade. Normally, I would’ve loved spending time there, imagining all the other people through the centuries that had walked where I was walking, but we had a mission and it was a big, fat fail.
When we made it back to Café Victor Hugo, I asked for a table with a view and we had some more coffee while I stared at Gina’s pictures. I was right. The man did stand out. He wasn’t like anyone we’d seen that day, but no one knew him. Maybe they were only passing through. Tourists. If that was true, we were screwed. I’d have to track down the cab and see if they used a credit card. What a pain. I didn’t have a clear shot of the license plate.
I showed Aaron the picture. “If you saw this guy, who do you think he’d be?”
I expected the little weirdo to shrug, but he surprised me by saying, “Artist.”
“He could be an artist. A well-off one, that’s for certain. No Paris garret for him.” I looked up at the elegant apartments overlooking the square. “But surely if he lived here, someone would’ve remembered him.”
“Dealer?” asked Aaron.
Our waiter came over, smiling at me shyly. “Mademoiselle, may I have a picture with you?”
I was surprised until I realized that I’d taken off my enormous floppy hat and sunglasses. I had no makeup on, but he didn’t care. He thought I was Nina Symoan, the wife of Mickey Stix. I corrected him, but he was so disappointed that I showed him the latest publicity shots I’d done for the band. He blushed and asked for pictures. Nina had retired and I’d taken her place as cover girl. I figured this was part of the deal. Mickey would be happy. He thought I should be more of a publicity hound. I got enough publicity just walking around. I didn’t care to get any more, but I stood up, fluffed my hair,and applied some Harlot Scarlet to my lips for effect. We took a bunch of pictures and when I was smiled out, he said, “You are looking for that gentleman, Mademoiselle Watts?”
A thrill went through me. “Yes. Do you recognize him?”
“No.”
Dammit.
The waiter frowned. “You think he is the artist?”
“I was guessing that he might be.”
“If he is the artist, he might have his work in the gallery.”
I took his hand and he blushed until he was nearly purple. “What gallery?”
“Art Symbol would be my choice.” He gave me directions and I kissed him on the cheek, leaving a perfect lip print. I stuffed my hat on my head and put my glasses back on while Aaron paid. We dashed out of the café to the road, Place des Vosges. There were half a dozen galleries on the street. We’d have to work our way through them.
The first three were a bust and I was starting to get discouraged. The fourth gallery, Art Symbol, wasn’t going to be much different, except maybe less pleasant. We walked through the door into an ice cold gallery filled with modern pieces that Myrtle and Millicent would quietly say weren’t their cup of tea, which is to say they were big, raw canvases with pink stripes in the center. One had a paintbrush fixed to it. There were some interesting panels with human figures coming out of them, but I doubted The Girls would’ve considered anything there worthy of the Bled Collection.
A girl came out of the back at the tinkle of the doorbell and it was instantly clear that she didn’t think that we were worthy of her shop. She looked like it was Halloween and she was going as Mia from Pulp Fiction, complete with the Cleopatra haircut, heavy eyeliner, and the starched white shirt. I hoped she didn’t fancy herself an artist. She wasn’t terribly original.
She asked in French with a German accent if she could assist us. I assumed she didn’t want to assist us, since her lip was raised in a sneer. We did not smell bad, I swear. I tried to show her the photos, using my French, which isn’t that bad, but she acted like she couldn’t understand me and we should simply go away. I wasn’t getting anywhere with her and, if we didn’t leave, I might just kick her in the shin.
“Let’s go,” I said to Aaron, who’d remained silent throughout all my interviews.
“Non,” he said.
“Huh?”
Aaron went on to speak perfect French in a raised tone that got the girl’s attention with a quickness. He was speaking so fast, I couldn’t follow what he was saying, but I heard the name, Bled, several times. Then Aaron waved her away like she was an annoying bug and she hustled through a back door. Three seconds later, a man in a fabulous suit and a purple tie came out. There was a hint of pink on his high cheekbones and when the girl attempted to follow him back into the shop he hissed at her. He actually hissed. It was awesome.
He introduced himself as Monsieur Neel and spoke with Aaron in respectful but not obsequious tones. Then he turned to me. “Welcome, Mademoiselle Watts. We are happy to assist any member of the Bled family. I apologize for my assistant
. She is young and not yet well-trained. I will see to her.”
I could tell by the glint in his blue eyes that she wasn’t going to like how he saw to her. “Thank you, Monsieur Neel. We are looking for this man. He was in the neighborhood about three weeks ago. Do you recognize him?”
“Oui. Of course. That is Monsieur Huppert. He is of the Musée d’Orsay in acquisitions. He was here looking at one of our new artists.”
I went a little faint. Monsieur Huppert. Yes! “Thank you so much. Do you perhaps recognize the woman who he is with in this photo?”
Monsieur Neel looked again. “I believe she was with him that day, but I do not recall her name. I apologize.”
“There’s no need to apologize. You’ve been extremely kind and helpful,” I said. “Do you have a card that I might have?”
He gave me a card out of a slim silver case he kept in his breast pocket. “Thank you for visiting us, Mademoiselle Watts.”
“Thank you. I will pass your name on to my godmothers.”
He puffed up and said, “Will you? The name of Bled is well-known in the art world.”
“I will. I’ll tell them that you were very helpful and they will remember.”
Monsieur Neel thanked me again and opened the door for us. I stepped outside, feeling lighter than I had since the moment I saw Oz Urbani standing in my living room.
Aaron led the way into the Bastille station with me tugging on his jean jacket. “Since when do you speak French?”
“1985.”
“How’d you learn the accent so well?”
“People,” he said.
“French people?”
Aaron ignored that and I had to admit it was a pretty stupid question. He didn’t answer any of my other stupid questions either, so I called Spidermonkey on the Fibonacci phone, intending to leave a message since it was five in the morning at home. Spidermonkey shocked me by answering, completely awake and working. The night before, he was at a cocktail party with his wife’s friends, all podiatrists. I said I’d call back if he needed to sleep, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Apparently, the uberization of podiatry biomechanics and practice expansion wasn’t quite as fascinating as Loretta thought it was. Usually, Spidermonkey didn’t mind. He considered it the price of being married to a doctor who had no interest in retiring, but if he saw a chance to escape, he took it. He ended up snoozing in his host’s den for most of the evening with a glass of scotch.
