by A W Hartoin
Chuck opened the door slowly, probably afraid that I was nude and ready to pounce. “How’d you sleep?”
“Not great.” I glanced at the dresser and Blackie was gone.
Great. Now I’m losing it and I didn’t have much of it to begin with.
“Help me out, will you?” I asked.
Chuck hoisted me out of the pit. “Are you okay? You looked sort of scared when I came in.”
“I’m fine. What’s on the schedule for today?”
“I wanted to take a run at the Marais apartment manager. I talked to Novak and he says the guy lives on site, but I think I’d rather wait until we know who really owns it. We’re going to be typical tourists today. If we don’t get busy, we’re going to miss half of Paris.”
“Don’t I have class?” I had stuff to do on Angela. Calpurnia had texted me three times while we were in the army museum. She wanted progress. I put her off, but she was getting suspicious and wouldn’t wait much longer. She mentioned sending Fats Licata over to “help me out”. Translation: motivate me. I didn’t need Fats on my tail. It was hard enough to keep Chuck out of the know.
“Not today,” he said. “I checked.”
Fan-freaking-tastic.
“Great,” I said. “What should we do?”
“The catacombs. It’s on my bucket list. Get a move on. Rick Steves says we’ve got to get there early or we’ll be in line forever.” He patted my shoulder from an arm’s length.
“We’re going to be waiting forever no matter what,” I said, hoping hours in line would deter him. It didn’t.
“I don’t care how long we wait. I’ve got to see it. This is my chance. I might never make it back to Paris.” Chuck left the room and the instant the door closed, Blackie was back, staring at me from the dresser.
“This is so disturbing,” I said.
He didn’t blink. I didn’t think he could.
“Feel free to disappear and never come back. That would be nice.”
The cat yawned, did a toe spread, and began cleaning each little toe on his hind foot, biting each of the razor sharp claws. Blackie was going nowhere.
“Swell.” I found another of Madam Ziegler’s outfits on the rack she left me, the high-necked white dress with the asymmetrical hem. It wasn’t anything I’d ever pick. It kind of reminded me of Princess Leia’s outfit in Star Wars without the hood. Madam Ziegler poo-pooed that notion, stuck the beret on my head, and declared me stunning. I chose it mostly because it went with the beret, even though it made me feel sort of stupid. But the cloche had served me well at the army museum. I didn’t get one comment about being Marilyn and the looks I got were more about the clothes and fit than me. I really enjoyed that. I hoped the beret would have the same effect.
I slipped the dress on and sat on the bed to put on the low sandals that also matched. The cat leapt off the dresser onto the bed and stalked over to rub on me.
“Knock it off. You’re going to get hairs all over me.” I checked and he didn’t get a single black hair on my snow white dress. I guess you can’t shed if you’re not actually a cat.
He sat on the bed doing his usual stare and a little zing of fear went up my back. I’d only seen him in New Orleans before Richard Costilla tried to kill me. Mom had seen him when Aunt Tenne had her terrible car accident and when her grandparents were killed in a plane crash, but those were all post-tragedy. I saw him before and after the Costilla incident and everyone else saw him, too. I wanted to call Mom and ask her about it. Had she ever seen him before something happened and not in New Orleans? But I couldn’t call Mom. She’d tell Dad and he’d get a feeling and my parents would be all over that. I couldn’t have Morty sniffing around my activities in Paris. No, definitely not Mom. The only other person who would know and might be trusted to not tell my parents was Aunt Tenne.
Aunt Tennessee was the kindest, saddest person I ever knew. Scratch that. She was the kindest, formerly sad person I ever knew. The accident that killed her friends and, nearly ruined her life, sent her into a tailspin that lasted forty years. That all changed in Honduras when she made a fresh start and met Bruno, an artist of uncommon talent. Aunt Tenne was the happiest she’d ever been, but she still competed with my mother. Sisters. Some things never change.
Chuck knocked on the door. “Are you ready yet?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Where’s Aaron?”
“I don’t know. I’ll call him.”
While he tracked down Aaron, I called Aunt Tenne. It was about midnight in St. Louis, but she’d become a night owl since Bruno was going through a phase of painting the Mississippi. He said he was studying the effect of the moonlight on the water.
Aunt Tenne answered with a groggy voice. I guess the night phase was over. “Sorry, it’s me,” I said.
“Carolina?”
“Mercy. Did I wake you?”
“Yeah, but that’s okay. How’s Paris?”
I bit my lip and then said, “Good. Can I ask you a question about the cat?”
“We don’t have a cat,” she said with a yawn.
“Grandma’s cat.”
“She doesn’t have a cat either.”
The family, as well as Chuck, had gone back into ostrich mode when we’d gotten home after New Orleans. “Come on, Aunt Tenne. We all know he exists.”
She paused and I could feel the tension through the phone. “Has something happened?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why didn’t you call your mother?” she asked.
“Why do you think?”
There was a faint laugh and then she said something to Bruno about going back to sleep. “Go ahead. Ask away.”
“You won’t tell Mom and Dad?”
She yawned and said, “No. I won’t tell overprotection central. What is it?”
“Have you ever seen Blackie anywhere other than Grandma’s house in New Orleans?” I asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Can you just answer the question?”
“Yes. Have you?”
“Er…”
“Mercy,” Aunt Tenne said, her voice razor sharp.
“Here in Paris. Where did you see him?” I asked.
I heard some rustling, footsteps padding across hardwood, and then a door closing. “I saw him in the St. Louis house.”
“Mom’s house?”
“No, my parents’ house when we lived in St. Louis before my grandparents died. It was right before…my accident. Mercy, if you’ve seen him, you need to pay attention.”
“To what?” I asked.
“To whatever you’re really doing in Paris,” she said.
“I’m on vacation with Chuck.”
“And Aaron, your partner.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Lying to Aunt Tenne wasn’t on my to-do list.
“Mercy, it’s fine. Do whatever it is that you’re doing, but be very careful. That cat shows up when something happens to the family.”
“Like a warning?”
“And then he sticks around afterward. I don’t know why,” she said.
I held out my finger. The cat sniffed it and then marked me with his cheeks. “Did anyone else see him before your accident?”
“That was the weird part. Well…it’s all weird, but I was the only one who could see him that time. By the way, my grandmother saw him before the crash and nobody else saw him either.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No, I was curious after she died and I read her journal. She’d been seeing him for a week before they got in that plane.”
I think I’m gonna barf.
“I have to get on a plane pretty soon,” I said, my throat hot and tight.
“You’re flying commercial. Theirs was a private plane. And it’s not like it was an accident.”
The cat let out a loud meow and I went stock still. “What did you say?”
“Um…you knew that, right?”
I shook my head no.
“Mercy, I’m sorry. I th
ought you knew. I thought Carolina told you.”
“They were murdered?”
“I’m afraid so. The plane was tampered with.”
“Who did it?” I asked.
“Nobody knows. Two men were seen going into the hangar prior to flight. They wore the right uniforms, so nobody challenged them.”
“Why would somebody kill them? Was anybody else in the plane?”
“No. Grandpa was a licensed pilot. They were flying to St. Louis. We don’t know why. Grandma called my father’s office and left a message that they needed to see him. His secretary said she sounded tense. Their house was searched before we got down there for the funeral.”
“What did they take?” I asked.
“Jewelry, cash. I don’t remember how much it was worth, probably less than 500.”
Nobody sabotages a plane for 500 bucks.
“Nothing else was taken?”
“Not that I know of. You could ask, but I will say that this still upsets my mother. She never talks about it and I didn’t tell anyone about the cat in Grandma’s journal or about the time I saw him. My point is that it’s not a commercial plane you have to worry about.”
“That’s not as comforting as you think.”
“Tell Chuck.”
“About the murder?” I asked.
“About the cat. It’s a warning. I wish I’d known you were seeing him when you were in New Orleans. I would’ve told you then,” said Aunt Tenne.
“Mom knew. Why didn’t she tell me?”
“I told you that I never told anyone.”
Chuck knocked again and opened the door, peeking around the edge. “Are you ready?”
I looked up.
He pushed open the door. “What’s wrong? Who’s that?”
“Aunt Tenne.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” I said.
“Tell him,” said Aunt Tenne and she hung up.
I grabbed my purse and dropped the phone in. “Ready.”
He grabbed me before I made it out the door. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later. We have thousands of dead Parisians to see.”
“They can wait.”
Chuck wouldn’t let go, so I broke down and told him about my great grandparents, leaving out the cat who had disappeared the second he opened the door. I didn’t want to freak him out.
“I’m not sure what to say. I’m sorry,” he said.
“I thought it was an accident my whole life. I remember asking about it. Mom would get upset and leave the room. Dad told me to stop pestering her. He wouldn’t say anything either. I thought Mom missed them like I’d miss Nana and Pop Pop if that happened to them.”
“Do you think it could be The Klinefeld Group?”
“That long ago? What for?”
Chuck got thoughtful. “Your family has been connected with the Bleds for a long time. Maybe it had something to do with what The Klinefeld Group is looking for. They’re capable of murder. Lester proved that,” he said.
I took his hand and squeezed. “I really don’t want to think about Lester right now.”
He hugged me hard for the first time in forever and it felt so good. “We’ll figure it out.”
I listened to his heart rate go up and said, “We’ll figure out a cold case from forever ago?”
“If it’s connected to The Klinefeld Group, we will. I think we’re getting closer.” He pushed me back. “You still want to go to the catacombs? We can skip it.”
I smiled. “No way. It’s on your bucket list.”
“It won’t upset you?”
“I’ve been there before and I’m not the hysterical type.”
He kissed my forehead. “Thank god for that.”
“Is Aaron here?” I asked.
“No, he does have a class.”
Dammit. I need to check Novak’s phone.
“Is he already gone?”
“Yeah, Monsieur Barre said he left a while ago, but not before making him a traditional English fry up. I think I know why Monsieur Barre offered to let Aaron stay with him. That geezer’s been eating like a king.”
“Bastard,” I said with laugh.
“I’ll feed you on the way to the catacombs.”
I grabbed his arm. “Aaron went to class?”
“Yeah,” Chuck said slowly.
“The Corsican and that other suit probably know about the class. They might be watching.”
Chuck shrugged. “It’s fine. Aaron said he found out about another way in from one of the chefs.”
My racing heartbeat slowed. “So he won’t be seen going in?”
“Nope. He’s going through another building on another block.
“I guess that’ll work,” I said.
“I told you it’s fine.” Chuck hustled me out of the apartment, jabbering like crazy. I think he was trying to take my mind off the Corsicans and my great grandparents. He needn’t have bothered. My mind was firmly on the here and now, specifically on two men in suits and the black cat of doom.
I was right. Why am I always right when it comes to lines and so rarely when it comes to other stuff? Rick Steves was wrong and an hour before the catacombs wasn’t enough. We got there an hour and a half before the opening at ten. The line was wrapped around the little park next to the small, dark green building that looked appropriately like a mausoleum or maybe a garage if you didn’t know what lay beneath it.
I groaned when I saw the line, but it didn’t bother Chuck. He was happy to wait and read the tour books he brought for entertainment. If I could’ve thought of a way to slip away and get the search on Angela’s hotel taken care of, I would’ve done it. Since I wasn’t so bright, I stayed with Chuck and the other tourists in line for two and a half hours. It was the worst I’d ever seen it, but Chuck was treated to a special show of a teenaged girl forcing her way out of the entrance in complete hysterics. From what I could tell, she freaked out in the tunnel leading to the catacombs and never actually made it in. Hysterical girl added fifteen minutes to the wait while the staff got the rest of her group up top with her. The line got pretty restless with her screeching on the sidewalk. Chuck thought I should do something since I was a nurse, but the staff handled that kind of thing on a regular basis and it’s not like I had a Xanax to give her.
The wait was worth it, though. Chuck had a great time, going down the spiral stairs and through the tight tunnels where he had to duck his head. He even liked the claustrophobia and prickles of fear that came with the ticket. I’d never gotten used to the feeling, but I knew it would stop as soon as we passed under the sign saying that we were entering the Empire of the Dead and got out into the ossuary.
Chuck entertained me with a myriad of facts and pelted me with questions as if I knew whether there were children in there among the adults. The thought really seemed to bother him. Adults were fine, but children were a problem. With six million people down there, odds were children were among them, but I said I didn’t think so. They wouldn’t stack right and the catacombs were done decoratively. Chuck seemed soothed and we made it through in under an hour, coming out of a nondescript door that you’d never think was connected to a graveyard if you didn’t already know. I was ready to hoof it to a café, but Chuck spotted the gift shop, and we had to go. He got a magnet for his lieutenant, a notorious worrywart, that said, “Keep calm and remember you’re going to die,” a cheery thought that made Chuck gleeful. He liked to bother the man when he wasn’t bothering me.
When we got out of the shop, the hysterical girl was now at the exit, hyperventilating and wailing.
“Maybe you can do something,” said Chuck. “She’s been at it for a while.”
“It’s a put-on,” I said. “You can’t wail and hyperventilate at the same time. It’s an either-or kind of thing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. Ready for lunch?”
“I don’t think we should do lunch before,” he said.
I ste
ered him away from the growing crowd around the wailing girl and asked, “Before what?”
“The sewer tour. I think it stinks.”
“Hell, yeah, it stinks. You never said anything about the sewer tour,” I said.
“Didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Aaron wants to go,” said Chuck.
My hands went automatically to my hips. “Aaron wants to go? Oh, really?”
“Really. He told me.”
“You make it sound like you had a conversation with him.”
“I did.”
“Nobody has conversations with Aaron. He barely speaks and I would know. He’s my partner.”
“Call him and ask,” said Chuck, pulling out his phone. “I wonder where the closest metro is.”
I did call Aaron and we had what apparently counts as a conversation these days. I asked a question and he said, “Huh?” and then when I asked a second time, he said, “Yeah.” That was it.
So we got on the metro and headed for the sewer tour. I’d only been once before and once was enough. Millicent said we had to go so we’d be well-rounded tourists. I should’ve known the guys would want to go. It had engineering and pipes and concrete with a tremendous stink.
Like with the catacombs, the entrance to the sewer tour wasn’t all that impressive. The Girls and I passed it three times when we went. I wanted to give up, but The Girls weren’t fans of giving up or skipping museums. We only knew we had the right area from the smell wafting around on the breeze from the river. Eventually, we realized the tollbooth-looking building was it.
Chuck didn’t need the stink. He zeroed right in on the booth and bought three tickets. He claimed that Aaron’s “yeah” meant he was on his way. Chuck kept checking to see if we were followed. We weren’t and the area around the booth was so deserted it was easy to tell. We hung out and watched the tour boats heading toward the Eiffel until we heard labored breathing coming up behind us.
“You ready?” Chuck asked Aaron.
“Yeah.”
“I got tickets.”
“Okay,” said Aaron.
“Alright.”
Chuck nudged me. “See? We talk.”
“Impressive,” I said before heading over to the entrance, basically a concrete-lined hole in the ground, and waving Chuck down into the depths first. I got halfway down before Aaron poked me in the back. “What?”
