Counterfeit Conspiracies

by Ritter Ames

  The bus crawled into the area. Traffic appeared in waves and layers; a lot of buses, cars and slow moving vehicles, bikes, and motorcycles. Even wagons and horses helped pack the streets and lanes.

  The trip took longer than I'd planned, mostly due to the heavy traffic. Our bus overflowed with people, and each shouldered a couple of carry-on bags.

  Thanks to Rollie, I'd secured a window seat at the beginning of the journey, so only one person sat in direct access to me. Upon settling in the seat, I'd protected my bad arm and my pack by wedging the bag between me and the side of the bus. My arm was additionally padded by the pack's thick straps. It wasn't a lot, but everything helped until I could better assess the damage. All these preparations insured that if I fell asleep no one could get into or grab my pack without my knowledge.

  Temperature control in the bus came via passengers opening windows when the effects of too many bodies crammed into a small space began to overheat the inside of the bus. Fortunately, thermoses of coffee, flasks of liquor and freshly baked food traveled with us too, and their lovely aromas helped mask the other more earthy human odors. We sang and carried on lots of cross-aisle conversations from one end of the bus to another. I was tired, but felt relatively protected by my anonymity and Rollie's presence, so I dozed a bit before we rolled into Le Puy.

  Rollie encouraged me to question his extensive knowledge of the area. A local friend opened his home to my traveling companion every year, so Rollie was a festival regular. As he put it, there was a mutual exchange of homes throughout the year, which sounded like a nice practice. Rollie offered to let me stay with him, no strings attached. I agreed to consider it, but made no commitment. Whether I crashed at the friend's house or not, the place offered a good drop site to leave gear. From this point on, I planned to be moving, and there was no sense renting a room when something was available.

  The die had been cast for this plan from the moment I left the hotel in the wine region.

  First stop on my personal agenda included a visit to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame du Puy, which stood at the foot of the Rocher Corneille, above the old town. The chapel and art there came up in information related to Simon's disappearance.

  For my cardio workout of the day, accessing the Rocher Corneille meant a step-climb to the statue of the Virgin. I had no idea what to search for, only that I was looking for something to point out a clue to my next move.

  I also hoped something would tell me how to find Moran's estate. That was my best bet to gain a lead to Simon and the sword. I really didn't think my schoolgirl French would prove very effective in searching for the estate, and Moran was too smart, too wealthy and too connected to let his real name be known in the area. I had to count on luck, good critical thinking skills, and damned good eyesight.

  After finishing the last of my water, I stuffed the empty bottle back into my pack. I hadn't been able to even look at the sandwich. I was getting antsy. The bus barely moved at this point.

  "We can get off the bus and walk if you would like," Rollie said, turning to me. "We will have an uphill climb, but Thierry's home is only a few kilometers away."

  "The bus allows someone to exit before reaching the depot?" I don't know why I was surprised. I guess living in a place where computer schedules and authoritarian rules of security were everything made me question the freedom of movement.

  "Oui. People will start getting off the bus any minute now. No one wants to wait while the bus rests in unmoving traffic."

  "I'm game," I replied. Before we could stand, several people at the front of the bus called to the bus driver and gestured toward the exit. He argued, sighed, shook his head, and magically the door opened.

  Like cake icing squeezed out of a tube with a tip too small, the majority of people on the bus happily jostled and pushed their way out onto the street. Rollie and I joined them. I kept watch, but no one followed me. No lone gunmen or redheaded women, just people in groups having a good time.

  By the time we turned down another road, everyone else had pretty much disappeared, and we were alone. I almost decided to trust Rollie. He really appeared to be what he was, a charming, well-traveled, educated, much loved grandson of a wealthy man. I allowed myself to relax a bit and followed dutifully as we headed for his friend's house.

  The mention of home exchanges probably meant Rollie had money, and his friend's house was a little jewel. Tucked away on a quiet back street, on a cul de sac out of the main drag, the cream colored stone dwelling rose several stories, crowned by a bright terracotta roof like its neighbors, and boasted an intricately carved wooden door.

  Rollie pulled a key from his pocket and swung the door inward, politely waiting for me to enter. I motioned for him to precede me instead and quickly looked around. There was no one behind me that I could see, and as I stepped forward, no one appeared inside.

  The leather furnishings cost more than my annual salary, and screamed a wealthy male lived there, but the place had the air of having stood empty for some time. Rollie didn't waste time showing me around. He led me up a narrow staircase to a surprisingly large second story landing. There were at least five closed doors to choose from, and he indicated the one nearest the stairs.

  "This is for you. My sister often stays here, and you may find some feminine accoutrements. Please feel free to make use of anything you want. She would not mind. My room is just there," he said and pointed to the door across from mine. "You will not be disturbed and may stay here for the rest of the celebrations if you like." He pushed his pack up higher on his shoulder and smiled. "Or longer if you so desire. It is a nice place to take some time from the rat race."

  "Where's your friend?" I had to ask.

  Rollie laughed. "Oh, Thierry disappears weeks before and stays away for weeks after the festival. This type of celebration, it is not his choice you see."

  He looked around as though forgetting something. "Oh! The bathroom. It is down this way," he said. "As my guest, passe devant. I mean, please go first."

  Another shower sounded divine, and I knew I really needed to wash and apply disinfectant to my wounds. The one on my arm had not stopped throbbing, and I could feel dampness where my shirt stuck to the blood. I fought the urge to let Rollie shower first so I could search the house. "Thanks, I accept your generous offer."

  "I will meet you downstairs in an hour for some refreshment?"

  I smiled. "Right. I'll be out of the shower in a jiffy."

  He returned my smile. "Take your time, Laurel. After all, this is your vacation."

  The shower didn't take long, but I found the warm water coupled with the pain of cleaning my wounds zapped all my strength. I popped a couple more of the British version of Tylenol and laid down on the softest bed known to man. I had to fight to gain consciousness when my cell phone alarm warned a half-hour had passed.

  I dressed in a pair of jeans and a subdued taupe blouse. I might not look renaissance, but I wouldn't stand out either. I added enough makeup to look human again and grabbed a light pink sweater I had found at the bottom of the pack. I wasn't even sure the sweater was mine, but since my jacket was trashed, it became my only warm option.

  Rollie waited downstairs with cheese, bread, olives and wine for a light refreshment. I commented on the generosity of the spread and Rollie shrugged. "My friend knew I was coming, and he always prepares in advance for me. He has a lady taking care of the needs of the house."

  I took a long sip of the wine. I recognized the famous vineyard and the year. "This is delicious."

  He actually looked delicious too. Probably due to the festival, his rich brown hair was longer than fashionable and free of its suede tieback. It looked soft and silky as it brushed his shoulders. He wore a pair of dark jeans and a mulberry button-down shirt to compliment his olive skin, with several buttons undone at the top. He looked very relaxed.

  "You have tasted this vintage before?"

  "Yes, several times. It's actually one of my favorites."

  "Do you trave
l a lot, Laurel?" he asked casually, as he reached for a piece of cheese.

  I savored the wine on my tongue before answering. "I am often on the road. I've been looking forward to having a vacation. What about you?"

  "As I said, I have indulged in various traveling pleasures over the years to the distinct dissatisfaction of my grandfather."

  "Forgive my curiosity, but what were you doing in Brioude?"

  "Visiting my maternal grandmother. It's one of the ways I persuade the old man to my side. Visiting elderly relatives and showing their deserved respect receives high marks in his books. My grandmother, Suzette, is quite a lady." He grinned. "For further benefit, I can leave my car at her place while I come here."

  Well, there was one question answered: if he was as wealthy as I thought, why the hell was he taking the bus?

  "You don't want your car in Le Puy?"

  He laughed. "What would be the point? There are three main roads into town and you saw for yourself. A mess. The roads are all used up for other things during the festival. Besides, part of the charm of the festival is to relax, let go of the modern day world and let others take charge of the necessary details."

  I took my last bite of a sumptuous crumbly farm cheese and topped it with the rest of my wine. He started to pour another glass, but I placed a hand over the rim to stop him. "Any more and I'll be too relaxed to move. And I'm too excited about exploring the town."

  On the bus, he had obligingly acquainted me with the layout of the town and several of the important places not to be missed. He also mentioned he had plans with old friends for this afternoon and evening's entertainment. Evidently, his arrival had become a bit ritualistic over the years, which suited me. I could set out for what I needed to do without fuss.

  Rollie stretched back in his chair, his long legs straight and crossed at the ankles, his short boots highly polished. He twirled the wine in his glass and looked over the rim at me, offering a wistful smile. "Are you sure I cannot persuade you to accompany me? Everyone would be most delighted to meet you and even more delighted to kid me about bringing 'a friend.'"

  I pushed away from the table. "Now who's kidding, Rollie? I definitely get the impression you are never without friends. You certainly had no trouble making my acquaintance."

  His grin was a bit sly. "The old saying is true. Do not judge a book by its cover, Laurel. I know I am a good-looking guy, but I'm also picky, very picky." His expression grew serious. "You are a beautiful woman, make no mistake. I would be proud to be considered your friend."

  My gaze softened. "That's a lovely compliment, thank you. Also, thank you for allowing me to stay here and for interrupting your plans. I will do as you ask and not judge you by your . . . exterior . . . shall we say? Instead, I will judge you by your actions. So far they have been very helpful to me." I stood and took my dishes to the sink. "Ready to clean up?"

  Rollie sighed. "Message received loud and clear. You go ahead, Mademoiselle Laurel. I will do the dirty work on my own and concentrate on looking forward to seeing you over the breakfast table tomorrow morning. I make delicious coffee by the way."

  "I'll look forward to . . . tasting the coffee," I said, smiling to remove the sting.

  "She kills with words," he mocked, then stood and held out a key.

  I reached to take it, but before I could, he held my hand, palm up, and folded my fingers over the key with his.

  "A bientôt, Mademoiselle Laurel. Be safe, as my grandmother would say." He brushed his lips against my hand before stepping back. We exchanged smiles, and I pulled free to leave the kitchen.

  Pack now sans clothes and on my back, trusty guidebook in hand, I prepared to head out. I stayed alert to the fact I might be followed, but a sightseeing venture is a great way to keep a sharp eye on the surroundings without being obvious.

  First stop was to find the car I had asked Nico to arrange. Slipping Jack's phone from my bra, I gave a quick call.

  "Nico, it's me."

  "Bonjour, Laurel," Nico said. "Comment allez-vous? Profiter du beau temps et des sites du Le Puy?"

  "Two words, 'Shut it,'" I replied.

  "I figured you'd be having a grand time." Teasing aside, he said, "I've sent you the coordinates for the car. There's been no chatter, no nothing. It's as if everyone has gone underground and is waiting, for what I'm not sure. Be careful, Laurel. Something about this feels wrong."

  "Careful is my middle name," I breezily replied.

  "Laurel . . ."

  "I know, I know. You be careful too."

  Sure enough, a non-descript dark blue sedan, which could have belonged to anyone, was parked between a black Mercedes and a red Volvo on a street off the beaten path. Dark tinted windows—nothing illegal I was sure—Nico was too smart for that—made seeing the interior difficult, just as I liked. I was familiar with the make and model, with its powerful engine, ready for any open road. At that point, however, I was more interested in finding the information I knew was buried inside the car. Sensitive data neither of us wanted to exchange via phone.

  I slipped a hand under the quarter panel where we always hid the keys. In seconds, the back door stood open, and I saw a familiar courier pack, which contained money, papers and a map. He knew I was more comfortable with a map in my hand than one on a screen, especially with the tendency of some GPS systems to lead drivers into ponds. I wanted to see where I was going before the voice talked to me.

  Hanging from the side hook were several items of clothing, including a few formal gowns. Labeled and stacked neatly along the back seat were accessories needed for each costume.

  Nico and I had developed a routine over the years. One could almost say we read each other's minds. Fortunately, our relationship had always remained strictly friends and business associates. I couldn't risk losing him.

  I put my pack in the back before sitting down in the front seat of the car, package in hand. I pulled the door closed, locked it, and perused the contents.

  Disposable phone, maps, money, passport and reports.

  Nico had been working to find out who and what Jack represented, but the information was scanty at best. In fact, the scantiness was what made it downright peculiar. I pushed my thoughts aside and read on through the report. Still no word from Simon and no information about suspected sightings or theories. Nothing about the Amazon either.

  While not having any recent contact with Max had been oddly relaxing, I realized I probably needed to speak with him. To touch base if nothing else. It was still morning in New York, but my attempt to reach him with the burner phone got nothing but voicemail—something that rarely happened. Maybe he wasn't answering because of the strange number. Whatever. I didn't leave him a voicemail since I had little to tell. I depended on him to talk. Or yell. Whatever it took to make him feel better and let me get on with the job. He didn't consciously behave abominably, I knew, but that was the normal outcome in one of our trans-Atlantic calls.

  Something had to break in this case soon. Moran's estate was here. I knew it. I felt it.

  With the opening ceremonies to the five-day festival tonight, I hoped someone like Moran would avoid mixing with the hoi-polloi by holding his own gathering of wealthy friends and business connections.

  I left Jack's phone in the backseat, placed the new one in my bra, and I scooped up my pack. The money, the passport, and the report folded into my money belt, and the map stayed in my hand. I exited the car and locked up.

  Time to track down the Black Virgin and the Chapelle des Reliques.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I found myself back in the heart of things as I moved on foot toward my destination. The narrow streets were three-deep with people. Crowds spilled out and around the austere old buildings. Except for evidence of modern lighting, it was like being thrust back several centuries. Fortunately, I wasn't the only one wearing modern day clothes, so I didn't stand out too much.

  The smells and the noises reminded me of a popular amusement park. Preparations of food and
revelry were everywhere. Families, couples, and lone wanderers danced and strutted to the changing strains of music, as the street vendors set up and carried on.

  Between the booths, shop doors were propped open, and the atmosphere remained an anticipatory one. There were signs posted everywhere about this event or that contest set up to encourage people to try their luck.

  Flyers and brochures provided information, as did all the helpful people setting up. No local police sightings yet, but I assumed the force probably dressed in costume so as not to attract attention. Or maybe the presence of the local gendarme was unnecessary until later, when the opening celebrations began. Rollie said this was a family friendly event, so revelry could stay to a minimum.

  I dodged and smiled as I wound my way through the town heading toward the cathedral, and first stop on a very personal pilgrimage to find what happened to Simon, Moran and the sword.

  Cathedral of Notre-Dame du Puy, was a magnificent structure towering above the narrow Rue des Tables like a graceful swan. Lying in a valley between two huge volcanic thrusts, the structure looked almost oriental. I couldn't wait to get inside.

  I walked up the steps and entered, overwhelmed by the sheer ageless beauty and variety of combined styles. Inside the architecture was its own artistic creation, and I caught my breath as I viewed the marble Black Virgin with her son, perched on a baroque high altar.

  I had seen many beautiful items in my life, and even though I knew this one to be a copy of the original, I couldn't imagine anything more gorgeous and timeless. Tearing my gaze away, I turned to my left to enter the Chapelle des Reliques with the large fifteenth century mural of The Seven Liberal Arts spread out before my inviting glance.

  At first, I simply admired the majesty of what my eyes saw because it was the only thing I could do. I looked up and around, overwhelmed by the entire building and contents. Even the dim lighting added to the beauty of everything within the ancient structure.