Queen of the Masquerade (Rosie Maldonne's World Book 3)

by Alice Quinn

  ALSO BY ALICE QUINN

  Queen of the Trailer Park

  Queen of the Hide Out

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Alice Quinn

  Translation copyright © 2016 Alexandra Maldwyn-Davies

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Translated from French by Alexandra Maldwyn-Davies. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503939493

  ISBN-10: 1503939499

  Cover design by Janet Perr

  Contents

  Start Reading

  Monday: Lazy Bones

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  Tuesday: New Encounters

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  Wednesday: Fluctuating Current

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Thursday: The Lover Who Came in from the Cold

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Friday: Hurricane, Tornado, Deluge

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  Saturday: The Fear

  65

  66

  67

  Sunday: Shiny Happy People

  68

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  “The zebra’s shadow has no stripes.”

  —Eudoxie Bintou Apraksine

  “When you dig in shit, you wind up stinking!”

  —Monsieur Charles

  “I was no longer the love of his life, but a weird little specimen under his microscope.”

  —Rosie Maldonne

  Monday: Lazy Bones

  1

  It had been some time since I, Rosie Maldonne (or Cricri, as everyone calls me because of my love of crickets), had woken up on a Monday morning with such a zest for life, but as I hopped out of bed in my big, beautiful trailer, that’s exactly what I had.

  Let me sum up my situation. It’s no easy ride bringing up three little girlies on my own, with no fixed income and just my welfare checks to get by. Life can get more than a little tough at times, forcing me to do a fair amount of juggling to make ends meet. But I ain’t complaining. Luck is on my side when it comes to the most important things in life: I live in the most magnificent trailer in France, and my daughters just happen to be as amazing as they come.

  To be honest, I’d been feeling in pretty fine form since returning from Amsterdam. I know it seems far out that a girl like me, surviving in a trailer with three kids and no permanent job, could get herself and her little ones up to Holland for Christmas on just her welfare money, but truthfully, it’s the total truthful truth.

  And even though it was starting to feel like ages ago, and the incredible memories of the postcard-perfect medieval houses along the canal were slowly fading away, and despite the unbelievable things that had happened to us while we were there (another story for another time), my life had been on the straight and narrow for six months, and things finally seemed to be on the up and up.

  I suddenly wondered what had woken me and then I remembered: Pastis! My cat. The man of the house! The only man who has ever stayed. Sabrina’s daddy was just a ship passing in the night—a ship that had sailed all the way from Cape Verde. Lisa’s father actually put a ring on my finger but took it off quick enough when he left me for a classier broad. I’ve never had anything to do with Emma’s father because she’s not my real daughter. Emma is the daughter of my best friend, who died having her. I was beyond devastated. Emma’s been with the three of us since the day she was born. So Pastis has been the only fella to ever live with us in our home sweet home—and we like it that way.

  He was standing in front of the window, ready to pounce.

  He was making those funny little nic nic noises that cats make with their jaws when they’re hunting. A little bird must have caught his eye. And that’s when I heard the pretty song of a swift. At least, I think it was a swift. I have no idea what the difference is between a thrush, a blackbird, a swift . . . I don’t know any birds! But I think the swift has the coolest name. So a swift it was.

  I scanned outside. Wild honeysuckle quivered in the light breeze that came over to my trailer to say a quick hello, leaving in its wake the most gorgeous of smells. Magical! A tiny little bird, like a bobbin red chest but without the red bit (honestly, no clue about birds), was jumping from flower to flower, as happy as a clam.

  I understood why I had such an incredible level of energy that morning and why my mother had sent me a particular song from beyond the grave.

  The sun has got his hat on, hip, hip, hip, HURRAY . . .

  Although my mother died when I was just sixteen (over eleven years ago now), she has never really been all that far away. She continues to speak to me as I sleep and sends me hidden messages through songs that get stuck in my head. They’re not always easy to solve, these little singsong puzzles, so they get those little gray cells working as soon as my eyes open.

  And that particular morning, it was an ode to sunshine she had given me. Perfectly normal.

  During the heat wave that had been sweeping France just then, I had been sweating like a pig and swigging water to stay hydrated. When I was out and about, my pumps would stick to the pavement. I didn’t mind too much, but the melted tar could be a pain. I don’t own skirts unless they’re very, very short, but the one I was wearing that day was not quite as mini as I usually like, and my strappy, see-through vest weighed down on me like a sweater. Breathing was becoming a bit of a problem too, in the suffocating humidity.

  Everything around me was screaming: It’s summertime!

  That meant there were only a few days left of school.

  I peered at the clock. I was fifteen minutes ahead of my usual schedule. Great. Not being late was always a good thing. I would use the time wisely: five minutes to laze around, and then time to gently wake up Sabrina and the twins and take all three of my gorgeous little girlies to school.

  When I thought about school, I felt a shudder go down my spine: How was I going to avoid the staff today? I owed a lot of cafeteria money this semester, as al
ways. And then it hit me: I didn’t owe a cent! Nada! Oh, what a relief! How light I felt!

  Just fantabulosis! I didn’t have much money to my name, and there were a few other debts here and there, like the ongoing tab at the grocery store, but there was nothing major, nothing urgent, and, best of all, I was managing to feed the kids.

  As I was getting my little munchkins washed and dressed and all packed up for class, I wondered whether there was something I’d forgotten. It was such a weird feeling to have next-to-zero stress in my life that I couldn’t bring myself to quite believe it.

  The twinnies had grown some that year—I call them my twins because they’re the same age, four years old, and although I only gave birth to one of them, they’re both my girls, of course!—so they didn’t need their huge double stroller any longer. You’d think that would have made life so much easier, wouldn’t you? Wrong. You see, I have a couple of little dreamers on my hands who take a long time over things. Over everything, in fact. Especially walking.

  Lisa is a pretty timid girl and follows Emma everywhere. Emma is a little go-getter and always ready to give it her all. But when it comes to walking, they’re both on the same wavelength. They like to stop every couple of yards to check out a pebble, inspect an insect, dig around for cigarette butts. They call it looking for lucks. Anything on the ground is of incredible interest to them. Neither one could ever imagine anything more exciting than heading outdoors and looking for lucks. Before, when we’d used the stroller, we were one superfast little family. But everything now takes at least twice as long.

  So there the three of us were, slogging real slow to school. There were no dramas like we’d been prone to encounter in recent history. Nothing in any of the trash cans—I always check them out (let’s just call it a reflex)—and no more FBI or mafia types, no big muscly guys following us. No danger on the horizon. Total calm. Zero stress!

  First of all, I dropped off the two little ones at the nursery school and then Sabrina at the big school. She was in actual elementary school. Unbelievable! My, how she’d grown—she was seven now! Still full of nervous energy, tall and thin, all arms and legs. Her favorite things in life included bossing Pastis around, tying everything she could get her hands on with bits of string and yarn, and listening to adult conversations so she could chastise those who used any curse words. Observation was her true passion—looking at everything and everyone with her huge peepers. She’d make a good spy, that kid. She didn’t miss a trick. And she could read now! Oh my, could she read!

  What a fantastic school, I thought, watching her go inside. I must have really been seeing the world through rose-colored glasses that day if I thought that dump was great. The building had once been painted in garish shades, but the walls were now faded and covered in graffiti, the almost-bare little bushes dotting the yard were halfheartedly trying to brighten the place up, the swings in the yard were shabby and rusty, and the whole thing was surrounded by shoddy-looking welfare housing. But it all appeared magnificent to me.

  The heat was pounding down, but maybe I was getting into this whole heat-wave thing. What a great mood I was in! All this sunshine, all this free time I had ahead of me . . . Things were turning out well.

  I sang to myself, The sun has got his hat on!

  I meandered back to my trailer, taking some time to appreciate life. I told myself that for once, instead of attacking the housework and the laundry, or heading out and trying to track down work, I’d just enjoy a great long nap. Sleeping when everyone else is at work and it’s broad daylight outside. Sleeping when I really shouldn’t be sleeping. Was there a more glorious feeling?

  Of course, thinking back now, I should have known better.

  It was the quiet before the typhoon. However the saying goes . . .

  Be careful when the water is sleeping?

  A resting volcano . . . does something?

  A seagull squawking signals a storm?

  A rolling stone gathers no moss? (I know that one has nothing to do with any of this.)

  That was the general idea.

  2

  I did what I’d set out to do.

  I attached one end of my hammock to a big hook on the wall of the old railway station behind our little home and the other onto a thick branch of the big plane tree that provided a little shade around our trailer-sweet-trailer.

  I kicked off my wedge heels and climbed into the hammock. Softly, softly.

  Oh! I was just too supercool for school!

  The sensations were simply amazing! I felt safe, comfy, a real sense of freedom. Just as I was approaching full snooze mode, the sun warming my skin, reality came screaming toward me at full whack.

  My cricket started shrieking his little head off, startling me out of my slumber. My cricket being my cell. I call it my cricket because of the ringtone. As I reached down to pick it up, I almost fell out of that excellent hammock of mine.

  Snoozing in a hammock is about as good as it gets, but it’s hard to stay graceful in one. When you’re rummaging around for your cell and you’re far from being fully awake, you can very quickly find yourself flat on your face.

  I managed to grab it just before it stopped ringing.

  “Hello?”

  It was Émilie. Mimi to her friends. She was a waitress at Sélect, the bar where I sometimes worked (but got paid under the table). Her son, Léo, had been under the care of social services for some time. I didn’t know all the ins and outs, and Mimi didn’t seem interested in filling me in. Maybe she was ashamed? Or it was just too painful? All I knew was, she’d been trying to gain custody for several months.

  She sounded stressed out to the max. “Oh, it’s a nightmare! A total nightmare! What should I do? Cricri, is that you?”

  “Well, of course it’s me. You just called me, didn’t you?”

  “You’re the only one who can save my ass. Cricri, please, I’m begging you.”

  “What happened?”

  “What happened? I’m down at the ER! Go figure! I fell off a stepladder. I was cleaning my place, a total top-to-bottom job, because Léo is coming a week earlier than expected, you know? Just as a one-off. The judge agreed to give me a trial period. I can have Léo for the week. All the holidays and long weekends he spent with me went really well, so we’re doing a real-life test now to see how things would turn out on a day-to-day basis. I’m fine with it, he’s fine with it, the judge is fine with it, and all those social-worker touchy-feely types are down with it too.”

  “And?”

  “You don’t get it, do you? He’s arriving tomorrow! And I’m at the hospital. I’ll be going under the knife in a couple of days. They’re operating on my wrist. I can’t move, either! I knocked my back out.”

  “You poor thing! What do you want me to do? Do you want me to call them up? Tell them he can’t come?”

  “Have you gone craycray, Cricri? If he doesn’t come this time, it’ll be a never-ending story trying to make it all happen again. I’d have to go in front of the judge and all that crap. That’s if they’ll even give me another chance!”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think, Cricri? You tell me what to do. You always know what to do!”

  What was this? Someone wanted my advice? I don’t like giving out advice. Not even to myself! I’m not the sort of gal whose advice should be followed, either. The ship’s better off sailing alone than with me at the helm. But for some unknown reason, my girlfriends always wanted me to give them advice. Maybe it was because I loved reading all those books that Véro’s boss wrote. Véro was my other bestie. She cleaned for a shrink—well, for her shrink. And she lent me some of the shrink’s books from time to time.

  “I don’t know how good my advice is, Mimi. Sometimes I have some pretty bizarroid ideas.”

  “That’s exactly why I need you, Cricri. You don’t think like everyone else. So just tell me, what would you do in my shoes?”

  Since the beginning of the conversation,
I’d known what I’d do in her place. But telling others to do what I’d do isn’t all that simple. Because afterward, they’d have to do what I’d do and see it through. And doing what I’d do might not be what they’d do. Except they wouldn’t be asking what I’d do if they knew what to do. They’d just do what they’d do, right? It’s getting a bit hard to follow all this “doing” business.

  “I’ll tell you, but you don’t have to follow my advice, OK?”

  “Come on, Cricri. Spit it out.”

  “Well, I’d send Léo to a good friend of yours and tell him not to say anything to the welfare folks, and then see how it went until I was back on my feet again. Nobody would ever need to know, especially because Léo is almost all grown up now, isn’t he? He gets all this shit, right? Mimi? You still there?”

  A few more seconds of silence followed, and then she babbled on in a rush.

  “I was so hoping you’d say that. Thank you! Thank you, my Cricri! So you can take Léo for a couple of days? You’ll soon see he’s no trouble at all. You just have to make sure he gets his homework done, stop him from seeing those loser friends of his who all deal, and make sure he doesn’t get any closer to that other buddy from school who seems to be in some sort of neo-Nazi group. OK?”

  “Oh, is that all? And Léo’s supposed to be no trouble, you say?”

  “Yeah, he’s fine. He’s very easygoing. It’s just that he’s always been attracted to the outcasts, you know? And I don’t want him getting carried away. It’s a difficult age. Teenagers like to belong to something. All the kids in high school have the same problem. And then there’s absenteeism, of course!”

  “Are you some kind of sociopathogist now, using words like absenteeism? Do you mean playing hooky?”

  “Yep! You’ll see, Cricri. Your gang will be in their teens soon enough. You have to wise up.”

  “Fine. So, what do I have to do?”

  “Nothing! Don’t even move a muscle! I’ll send him a text message after class tomorrow and tell him to make his way to your place, OK?”

  “Do you need anything down at the hospital?”

  “Not right now. I’ll let you know if I do. The Léo thing is the most import—ouch! Oww! Don’t touch me! Don’t pull me like that! Leave me alone! No! I can’t move! My back! Sorry, Cricri . . . I’m going to have to hang up on you now!”