by A W Hartoin
Serge frowned at me between two of the Asian ladies. I glanced around frantically, looking for Chuck. He wasn’t there and I blew out a breath as Serge came over. “I thought you were going to the toilette.”
“I was,” I said. “I got…distracted.”
Serge only watched me.
“What?”
“You got distracted from the need to go to the toilette?”
“Er…well…you know, books. I like books.”
Serge blew a raspberry at me but with only one cheek. Very French and very ‘I don’t believe a word that you’re saying to me.’ Great.
“Really,” I said. “You’ve got some great stuff in here.”
“Do you approve of our remodel?” he asked, all ready to raspberry me again.
“Er…sure,” I said.
Serge took my arm and led me into a corner behind the Austrians. “What are you doing here in Paris?”
“I’m showing Chuck the city.”
He blew his raspberry again.
“Really. What else would I be doing here?” I asked.
“Your godmothers called me three days ago.”
I stopped breathing. Crap. Double crap. “What for?”
“To ask me to assist you if you were to call,” said Serge.
“You are assisting me. Let’s go back to the restaurant. I sure could use another café.”
Serge didn’t move. “I will assist you with whatever you are really doing in Paris.”
“What did The Girls say exactly?” I asked.
“Only that this trip was unexpected and something that you could ill-afford. They did not say that you were up to something, but that is what they think. What are you doing here?”
I grabbed Serge’s arm and looked through the glass walls that separated the shop from the museum. “Where’s Chuck?”
“In the restaurant. I told him I’d find you and that”—he made a little telling cough—“the ladies’ rooms are hard to find, so it would be easier for me than him.”
“Thank goodness.”
Serge’s eyes roved over the tables. “Do you need a present for Chuck? Perhaps I could help.”
“You can help, but it’s not a present that I want. Can we keep this between just us? You can’t even tell my godmothers.” I tilted my chin down and batted my eyes. I couldn’t resist. I always wanted to try that on Serge back in the days when I thought I had a shot if I could just get him away from my godmothers for thirty seconds. Predictably, he laughed, causing everyone in the room to look at us and crushing my thirteen-year-old self.
“Shush,” I hissed.
“You are charming, my dear Miss Watts. In another life, perhaps…if you always wore a hat. Where is your hat? The curling has begun.”
“Never mind that. Will you keep quiet or what?”
“You have my word.”
I tugged him down my level. “I need to see Corinne Sweet and she can’t know that I’m looking.”
Serge whispered back. “The Corinne Sweet who works here?”
“Of course.”
Serge didn’t ask any more questions. He went straight through the grey door. I went to the kids’ table and picked up a childrens’ guide to the Orsay in English. My friend, Ellen’s, girls might like it and I might need it if Corinne was Angela.
Serge came back into the shop with a woman behind him. He smiled broadly and swept his arm toward me. “This lady is in a rush, Corinne. Can you help her”—he saw the book in my hand—“with her purchase?”
The woman said she would in a soft voice and turned to me with a polite smile, asking if I was done selecting my books. My breath got snagged in my throat. Angela Riley in the flesh.
“Ma’am?” she asked in her Missouri accent.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “I’m finished.”
Serge said he had someone to attend to and left us heading to the counter. Angela aka Corinne took my book, holding it by the spine, I noted, and scanned the code. I gave her my credit card and studied her face as she ran it and bagged the book. One of the other employees asked her a question and she answered in nearly accent-less French. If I hadn’t studied the pictures so hard, I would never have known it was her. But the changes didn’t fool her sister. She knew her instantly. It made me think about what Dad said about our other senses, our intuition. Corrine Sweet wasn’t recognizable unless you were really paying attention. But Gina felt who she was. Her heart told her.
The reality of this so-called missing woman standing in front of me made me a bit woozy. I looked again, almost unable to believe it, but it was absolutely her, standing in the Orsay bookshop, handing me my credit card slip. She’d highlighted her straightened hair with auburn and given herself bangs and wisps of hair to frame her face. The brown contacts were a nice touch and her nose was smaller and upturned. Whoever did the surgery did an excellent job by not making it too small or obviously altered. The thing they didn’t and couldn’t change were the uneven lips and shape of the eyes. It was Angela Riley. I wanted to jump up and down. Yes! Yes! Yes!
“Is that all, Ma’am?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said automatically. “Thank you.”
She turned away and nodded to the customer behind me. I moved out of the way and walked into the now packed museum.
The crowd surged around me, pushing me toward the exhibits. I had to fight my way back to the stairs. I trotted halfway up and then slipped my hand in my purse. The Fibonacci phone sat at the bottom under a scarf and a bunch of tampons to discourage snooping.
Crap and double crap.
I didn’t have a plan for if I actually found Angela. I’d only thought about the search, not the aftermath. I didn’t know until that moment that I didn’t expect to find Angela in Paris. In my heart, I’d believed her dead. I could call Calpurnia and unleash the Fibonaccis on Angela, but then they would decide her fate. I leaned on the black hand railing. No. Not yet. Angela Riley had pulled off the perfect disappearing act, leaving the children she reportedly adored, her sister, her parents, not to mention her husband. She left with nothing, but somebody paid for that nose. Who and why? I had to know. There was a lot more to this story than a dissatisfied housewife who did a runner. This was orchestrated and I was going to find out why.
Chapter Fourteen
I slipped into my chair across from Chuck with no plan, as usual, hoping something came to me. Nobody goes to the bathroom that long. I could say I had cramps, but I’d rather die than say that in front of Serge, who was watching me with amused eyes.
“What are you guys doing?” I asked.
Chuck looked down at his cup. “We were having coffee.”
“Oh, yeah. I mean…”
What do I mean? What do I mean?
“You hungry?” I asked.
Aaron actually looked at me and that never happens.
“No,” said Chuck. “I had three croissants while you were gone. I get that you haven’t seen him in a while, but that was a long time.”
“Um…”
Serge signaled for another café and said, “Emilio does like to talk and the Bled family is here so rarely.”
I clutched my book. “Emilio?”
Chuck narrowed his eyes at him, suddenly hyper alert.
Serge accepted a fresh cup. “I don’t believe you made the trip to Restorations last fall.”
It took me a second. Sometimes, I’m so damn slow. “Oh, you mean Mr. Mazzagatti. I never call him by his first name.” I touched Chuck’s hand. “I’m sorry. I saw The Girls’ favorite restoration artist by the bookshop and I had to say hello.”
“It’s okay. I was a little worried you were sick or something.”
“Not sick, just thoughtless. I got a book for Ellen’s girls.”
Chuck wanted to look at the book, but I distracted him by saying that Serge had to be getting back to work. Serge agreed and waved away Chuck’s attempt at paying the bill. It was on the house.
We said goodbye and I told Serge that I’d definitely fin
d out about those sketches. We did the cheek kisses and he whispered, “Merci,” in my ear and I in his.
Aaron led the way outside. The wind was kicking up and the whole city had a grey cast to it. My hair reacted instantly to the moisture. Fabulous.
Despite the dreariness, a quartet of musicians played romantic standards on the walkway at the edge of the wide stairs.
“They have a lot of guys that play the bass here,” said Chuck.
“I bet you’ve never seen so many accordions in your life,” I said.
“No kidding. Does anyone play the accordion in the States?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.” I sat down with the crowd on the steps, weighed down by Angela’s fate being in my hands.
“What’s wrong?” asked Chuck, sitting next to me.
“Nothing. I miss Myrtle and Millicent.”
He put an arm around me and I reveled in the feeling. He touched me so rarely. “I’m no substitute.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He laughed. “I know. I was teasing you. Why are you so serious all the sudden?”
Better change the subject.
“What do you think is in that apartment?” I asked.
“That’s a switch. What made you think of that?”
“The Girls. It might have something to do with The Klinefeld Group.”
“Do you have a feeling?”
I leaned into his warm body as a breeze blew off the Seine. “I think so. What about you?”
“I don’t get feelings. I get facts,” said Chuck. “I called Spidermonkey. He’s going to find out who owns it.”
“That doesn’t tell me how you feel.”
He looked away at the musicians playing their hearts out. “I feel hungry. Let’s get lunch.”
“What about all those croissants?” I asked.
“I’m a guy. Pastry doesn’t last long. Let’s get something on the way to the Louvre.”
I stood up and dragged him to his feet. I had to get moving. Angela was in there and I needed to find the truth about why. “It’ll be packed. We’ll go on Friday.”
“What should we do then?” he asked.
The Fibonacci phone vibrated in my purse and I pressed it against my hip. “I think I’m supposed to go to the cooking school again. Aaron?”
“Huh?” the little weirdo said while chewing on his super short nails.
“The cooking school. Don’t we have class today?” I asked.
“You hungry?”
I punched him in the shoulder. “Focus. Cooking class. We have to go to the cooking class.”
“Okay.” Aaron trotted down the stairs.
“What about me?” asked Chuck.
“You’ll go back to that apartment and see if you can find someone who speaks English and isn’t hearing impaired. I’ll go roll dough until my forearms ache.”
“Dough again?”
“It’s a different dough.”
Chuck’s phone dinged. It was Spidermonkey, but what he said didn’t make Chuck happy. Spidermonkey couldn’t find out who owned the apartment. He could only tell that it hadn’t been sold for the last thirty years.
Aaron turned left into a narrow street packed with tourists. I was going to lose him. I dragged Chuck behind me. “What’s the plan?” I asked.
“He wants us to contact a guy named Novak.”
What the hell? Novak for both cases. How’s that going to work?
“What’s he going to do?” I asked.
“He lives here and speaks French. He can get the tax and utility records. Sorry, but you’ll have to deal with it.”
I spotted Aaron turning left. How did those little legs move so fast? “Sorry about what?”
“Spidermonkey says this Novak won’t like me. It’s better for you to handle him.”
Thank god.
“No problem,” I said. “Aaron! Slow down.”
Aaron stopped and began eyeing a menu posted on a café window. His expression didn’t change, but he didn’t approve. I could tell by the set of his shoulders. Even I could tell it wouldn’t be decent. There were pictures of the food on the menu. Never a good sign.
We caught up to him and he said, “Class in twenty.”
Thank goodness. An out.
“Got to go,” I said. “You’ll go back to that apartment?”
“I don’t have anything else to do,” said Chuck, sounding put out.
I went up on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Sorry.”
Chuck grumbled.
“Aaron, when will we be done with class?” I asked.
The little weirdo had wandered over to the next tourist trap and was staring at a garish placard of sandwich pictures that looked like it’d been made before I was born.
“Aaron!”
He held up four fingers. I hoped that meant what I thought it meant.
I hugged Chuck before he could step back and avoid it. “How about we meet at Patrick Roger at five? I promised Mom I’d get her a box of chocolate pralines.”
I must’ve made a face involuntarily because Chuck asked, “What’s wrong with him?”
“Not him. Them. The shop ladies always treat me like a low-rent hooker.”
A change came over Chuck’s face. He went from strikingly handsome to demonically angry in a split second. “They treat you like what?”
Oh god! I’ve released the beast.
“Nothing. It’s fine,” I said.
Aaron had spun around and he, too, had an expression. Almost. He said something in rapid-fire French. My French isn’t great, but I think he said something about rude prune butts. Not sure what that meant, but I never should’ve mentioned Patrick Roger.
“Alright then,” I said. “Forget about the chocolate. Mom can order online.”
“Oh no,” said Chuck. “We’re going to that shop and, if those women don’t treat you with the utmost respect, I’ll—”
“Go batshit crazy?” I asked.
“It’s a possibility.”
“Were you always this nuts?”
“Only when it comes to you,” he said, still demonic.
I gathered my overprotective males and herded them to the Solférino metro stop. “How come I never noticed this part of you before?” I asked as we went down the stairs.
“You never let me date you before,” said Chuck.
I didn’t know what to say about that. Clearly, I had a lot to learn and there were some surprises in store for me. From the expression on his face, they wouldn’t all be pleasant.
We got on the metro and split up at Concord. Chuck went grumbling to the Marais district on the One line to try for more information on the mysterious apartment. If he didn’t wipe that expression off his face, he’d get nowhere fast. I tried to lead us in the opposite direction on the One, but Aaron trotted off in the warren of tunnels to the Eight. I chased him down and grabbed his sleeve. “Wrong platform. We have to go to the Champs-Élysées for class.”
“No class,” he said.
“There’s no class?”
“No.”
“Where are we going then?” I asked.
Our train pulled up and the doors ratcheted open. Aaron wormed his way on through the crowd and I had no choice but to follow. The doors closed and I ended up in yet another armpit. There were fifty percent women on that train and still I managed a male armpit. Aaron was next to a group of teenagers that looked like they spent hours dressing to get the perfect look. My guy was an American wearing a tank top and had never trimmed anything on his body, including nose hairs.
I prayed we’d get off at Madeleine. We didn’t and neither did Mr. Pit. He stuck with me all the way to Strasbourg Saint-Denis. I should’ve worn my crappy fedora, instead of crossing my fingers that this would be the time that my hair would behave. At the very least, I’d have to scrub the hell out of it to get the pit stink out.
Aaron rocketed off the train at Strasbourg Saint-Denis without checking to see if I followed. Before I could question our destinat
ion again, we were on the number Four. We got off at Château d’Eau and emerged from the depths into a solid drizzle. I could feel my hair getting angrier and angrier. I had no clue why we were in the tenth arrondissement. Food could be the reason. The tenth had lots of great ethnic restaurants or so I’d heard. The Girls didn’t have much interest in Middle Eastern food and we’d spent almost no time there. From the fabulous spicy smells wafting around the metro stop, they needed to rethink.
Aaron spun in a circle and then headed off down the street on a mission, trotting past nail salons and little shops selling food I couldn’t readily identify. I had the weird sense that we’d gotten on the train in Paris and gotten off in some other country.
I chased Aaron down and tugged on his sleeve. “What are we doing?”
“Novak.”
“How do you know where to go?” I asked.
“Spidermonkey.”
“He called you?”
“You didn’t answer.”
I pulled out my Fibonacci phone, held my breath, and looked at the screen. Aaron was right. It wasn’t Calpurnia demanding answers. It was Spidermonkey asking for an update.
Aaron stopped and I ran into his back. “What the…”
We stood in front of a narrow little shop called Urfa Dürüm. Under the red and gold sign hung a canopy with “Sandwich Traditionnel Kurde” printed on it. The smells coming out of that shop were straight up amazing. A pretty young woman with dark hair knotted up in a bun worked in the window, flattening out little dough balls into disks. Aaron stood there in silent reverence.
I elbowed him. “Novak lives here?”
“You hungry?”
“What about Novak?”
He ignored me and got in the line that was rapidly forming at the door. Food was the reason. Dammit. I had stuff to do, mysterious disappearances to solve. I sat down at the low wooden table in front of Urfa Dürüm and called Spidermonkey.
“I found her,” I said the second he answered.
“Sabine Suede?”
“Angela Riley.” I was suddenly very proud of myself. Not bad for an amateur.
Spidermonkey hesitated and asked, “You’re sure?”
“Very. She’s Corinne Sweet at the Orsay.”
