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

by Alice Quinn

  “Well, then you need to know this. That’s what it’s about. Me. Who I am. Me. I’m—”

  “I love you as you are. I love who you are. I love you.”

  “Well, I’ve seen enough of this. I’m out of here!” muttered Laroche. “You people should get a room!”

  “Don’t pay him any attention. He’s in the middle of his transfer process,” I said to Linus as if I actually knew what I was talking about.

  He nodded in agreement.

  And then it happened. Karma. Something always happens. And this was my karma catching up with me. I deserved it. What could I do?

  A key turned in the door. Someone was there, and that someone hadn’t realized yet that the door wasn’t locked. Or even shut. The door was pushed open.

  And . . .

  There was Rachel Amar.

  Rachel.

  Amar.

  The real one.

  I recognized her immediately. I’d seen her one time with Véro.

  She was dragging a huge suitcase.

  Pastis ran up to greet her. He rubbed up against her legs and let out a huge happy meow. Then he realized he didn’t actually know who she was, got skittish, ran over to me, and jumped up to my shoulder.

  Amar shook her head, backed up, and checked the name over the doorbell. She stepped back in, headed straight for Linus, and held up a can of pepper spray to his face. She didn’t set it off, though. Maybe she recognized him. Wow! This wasn’t going to go down well. I backed up toward the living room and kitchen. Maybe there was a hole in the ground in there—a nice big hole that would swallow me up.

  I couldn’t have been more ashamed. What was I supposed to do? All my worst nightmares had come true all in one morning. Rachel Amar was back. She’d caught me red-handed in her own apartment, pretending to be her, no less.

  But more humiliating than everything wasn’t that she’d find out that I’d dared to treat her patients with my own special brand of therapy, or that she’d know I’d been sleeping in her room with all my crew. It wasn’t even that I’d been having my way with one of her favorite colleagues. No, no. What bothered me the most was that I’d failed my mission.

  The place wasn’t even clean. I hadn’t cleaned inside a single cupboard and the ironing was nowhere near finished. In fact, the place was a fucking pigsty. And I hated that! I didn’t live like that, so why had I allowed it to happen here? There was no way I was getting paid for this sorry mess! Pay me? I wouldn’t have paid me!

  I found refuge in Linus, who had followed me and who I was gripping onto as if my life depended on it. He had no idea what was happening. Poor baby.

  Bintou and Laroche had now made an appearance in this latest act of the tragedy of my life. They were both startled to see Amar too.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Laroche.

  “No! Unbelieeeeevable!” cried out Amar.

  She had made her way to the living room. Gaston (he was the only one who’d kept to himself so far) forced himself out of the big armchair with a grunt, dropped his notes on the coffee table, and scuttled over to see what all the fuss was about. The twinnies followed him, suddenly interested in the latest character in what was fast becoming a farce.

  “Who are you?” Gaston asked.

  “Rach—Arrggghhhh! Who are you?” Rachel Amar asked, her face burning hot. She was showing all the signs of being crazy pissed. Out of her tree.

  “Gaston Contini, at your service,” he replied, ever the polite, high-class gentleman. You’ve got to love him!

  “Gaston Contini, the poet? No . . .” Rachel Amar spluttered.

  Gaston smiled. He was flattered. I could tell. I reckon that if he’d had a mustache, he’d have been twisting it between his finger and his thumb at this stage.

  “Yes. And you are Rachel Amar, I presume? Come, come, I’m sure you must be in need of a little pick-me-up!” he sang. “Allow me to prepare you a Spritz.” And just like that, he took her by the hand and led her to her own kitchen.

  I could tell Linus was as confused as a man can get, but he still wanted to stay by my side. He must have thought there was something he’d missed along the way, and he must have wanted to know who Gaston was and what he was doing there.

  Borelli and the rest of the police gang reappeared. My five minutes were up. He was rather pleased with himself, gleefully glancing at his boss every couple of seconds. I imagined he was thinking, I told you so! (It was one of his fave things to say!)

  Rachel Amar soon discovered the extent of the damage a family of four to five adults and four to five children can make in a kitchen. Total chaos. Livid doesn’t even come close to describing how she looked. She violently pulled her hand away from Gaston.

  “Christ! What the fuck? What the fuck have you fucking people done to my fucking kitchen?!”

  Bintou dropped the very expensive Bodum coffeepot on the floor. Whoooosh! Bam! It smashed. The soft and comforting smell of coffee wafted through the room. The white marble floor was splashed and speckled with black coffee grounds. The same went for Amar’s legs. They didn’t look too hot.

  I had somehow found the energy to jump out of the way just in time, leaving Linus standing there in shock.

  “Nobody move! I’ll clean it up!” I roared almost as it happened. I ran over to the sink to find a sponge.

  “Stop that!” screeched Amar. “I want to know who you are.”

  Bintou stepped forward to speak. Brave woman!

  “Leave it, Bintou,” I said. “I’ll explain everything!” I started stuttering and spluttering.

  Linus stayed, observing.

  Rachel Amar’s eyes fired lightning bolts at me. I was taken aback by her fury and didn’t dare look directly at her. Very un-me.

  Laroche sat down at the table and started hammering away at the keyboard on that fancy laptop of his. He lifted his head to get up to speed every now and again.

  Bintou was feeling the terror, it was written across her face, but she worked up enough courage to say, “Of course, Madame Amar, this must be difficult for you to process. We had a slight suspicion that you might be a little vexed about this when you found out, but you see, your patients all believed, or still believe, that Rosie Maldonne was your replacement. We assumed you were in agreement about this and . . .”

  Well, she’d got me neck deep in it, but thanks for the help, Bintou!

  “Replacement?” asked Linus. Could a man get more bewildered?

  “What? Who? Rosie Maldonne? Who’s that? Is that you?” hurled Amar, shooting daggers at me.

  “Rosie Maldonne?” repeated Linus, gobsmacked by this latest revelation.

  “Rosie Maldonne?” asked big-boss Bertrand, his voice sounding disappointed.

  “Well, sure! Rosie Maldonne! Who else?” proclaimed Borelli, cackling wildly.

  “This must be a bad dream. Tell me this is just a dream!” Rachel Amar continued. “Unbelieeeeevable! You’ve had consultations with my patients? You’re the cleaning woman? Is that right? My maid told me someone would be replacing her. That’s it, isn’t it? I never forget a name, and I know she sent a message to me saying she’d be away for a few days but would send someone to replace her, a certain Maldonne. Rosie Maldonne.”

  “Y-yeeesss. That’s me, all right.” My voice was trembling.

  “The maid? The maid?” continued Linus, who was now looking at me with some distance in his eyes, almost professionally, like a psychiatrist would. I was no longer the love of his life, but a weird little specimen under his microscope.

  “Do you think you could just stop repeating everything I say like a human parrot man?” Amar quipped.

  Everything had gone to hell. Raindrops . . . head . . . still happening. At least, that’s how I felt.

  I thanked my mom for the heads-up.

  But I added, Mom, do you think your songs could sometimes include the solutions to these predicaments and not just tell me that something crappy’s coming up?

  43

  Laroche raised an eyebro
w and glanced at me. “So, it was all true,” he murmured under his breath.

  Gaston came and stood by my side, ready to support me and whatever I’d done. “I hope we’ll be all finished with this hullabaloo soon. What is this? Class warfare? Leave her alone! So she’s the maid. Is that punishable by death or something?”

  “Yes, it was all true, Monsieur Laroche!” I squalled, close to tears. “And how many times did I tell you? It’s impossible to count! And would you believe me?” I turned to Amar and managed to make eye contact. I felt a little stronger now that I had my Gaston with me. “I swear, Madame Amar! This is not my fault!”

  I couldn’t believe it was me talking. I’ve always hated whiners, and there I was whining and moaning like the best of them.

  Linus spun his head quickly to look at Amar. It was like he was watching the French Open, following the ball.

  “Rachel Amar,” he muttered in a low voice. “So this is the real Rachel Amar?”

  “Can I help you?” Amar spat. “Do you think this ridiculousness might be over with sometime soon? Or is it that you want an autograph or something?”

  “Psychoanalysis and Criminality . . .” he whispered as if meditating on the words.

  “It’s true!” insisted Bintou. “She told us who she was. But, before seeing your reaction, I wasn’t really sure whether or not . . . She’s quite brilliant, though! You should have seen how she straightened us all out and our specific cases!”

  “You! I didn’t ask for your opinion on this,” Amar said, pointing in Bintou’s face. “And you!” She moved her index finger in my direction and smiled nastily. “I know how to deal with you!”

  “I knew this was going to be a big deal,” I said, wincing.

  “This might be the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me,” exclaimed Amar, getting angrier by the second. “I’m not sure I can actually believe it. Someone pinch me! Jesus! It’s unbelieeeeeevable! And completely illegal, of course. Everything that’s gone on here while Rosie Maldonne has been in my house is illegal and you’re all accomplices.”

  Bossy-boy Bertrand jumped with a startle. “Please, Madame, I beg you! There are officers of the law here. We’re certainly not accomplices. Please watch what you’re saying.” He took out his badge and flashed it, feeling the big man again.

  “Scared of me causing a scene? Worried there will be a story? Well, there will be! And not a small one either!” It was only then that she recognized the words he’d spoken. “Officers of the law? Police?”

  She grabbed his wrist to examine the badge and he gasped indignantly. Police officers aren’t used to getting grabbed much.

  “Well, that’s just great! You’re already here, so that’ll save me some time in getting this fixed. I want to file a complaint. Or I want them all arrested. Whatever I can do, I’m doing it. It’s as simple as that.” As she continued, she became more confident as to what she wanted done with us all. “I’ll see you all at trial, every last one of you. One by one. Those of you who are patients of mine knew that Madame Maldonne’s real job was a . . .” (She didn’t dare say the word maid again in front of Gaston.)

  I couldn’t take much more of it. “Just take it easy with all your Madames! I’m not a golden oldie, OK? Christ, how old do I look?”

  “Sorry to be a further bother to you,” said Commander Bertrand to Amar, “but you’re going to have to make all these complaints at a later date. We’re unable to deal with them here. We’re on official duty. You’ll have to go down to the station and file them formally. However, you’re going to have to come with us, anyway. You’re expected in court.”

  Linus was definitely looking at me differently. I took it hard when I first noticed it, but I was forced to admit that his look didn’t betray disgust or sadness . . . it was worse than that. It was professional interest. Any trace of being loved-up was gone. That was hard to take.

  “Rosie . . . Rosie . . . Rosie . . .” repeated Linus—and more than three times too!

  “What’s with this nutcase? Why does he keep saying your name? This is unbelieeeeevable.”

  I spoke so that only Linus could hear. “Call me Cricri. Like I told you to. I prefer it. Let me explain why.”

  He started with the repetitions again.

  “Cricri . . . Cricri . . . Cricri . . . So there was at least a morsel of truth in what you told me . . .”

  Pastis came running as he heard my name and sprang up into my arms. Linus stroked him softly. I closed my eyes. I knew there was no way I’d ever be able to relight his fire now. What was done was done. No going back. My fairy tale had crash-landed in the real world. In fact, it had crash-landed in a big bucket of icy-cold water.

  Bintou went ahead and said what everyone else was thinking—she was maybe saying it to herself, but it was loud enough so we all got an earful.

  “There’s no way I want Amar treating me anymore. She’s a nervous wreck!”

  Rachel flipped. I actually thought she might bite Bintou. “I already told you! Your opinion isn’t required! Who asked for it, exactly?”

  Laroche didn’t appreciate Bintou being picked on and finally found his voice. “Madame Amar, we’ve been obliged to put up with your rantings for a good ten minutes, and I would now like to ask you to go easy. Yelling won’t change a thing here. I agree with you, this is all a bit nuts. I’d even go so far as to say it is a catastrophe. But you’re the one who bailed. From your practice. From your patients. And you were gone for some time. Madame Maldonne here covered for you. I’d even say she did a good job. A better job than you. She cured some of your patients! That’s what’s ‘unbelieeeeevable’! I know you didn’t have many to start off with, apart from all the criminals you treat for free for your research, but now you have even fewer. But don’t lose hope. You’re still young. You’ll find more. You’ll pull yourself back up!”

  Rachel Amar couldn’t find her voice. She was choking up big-time.

  “Stop that!” I cried. “Don’t speak to her like that! She’s incredible! She’s a real pro! The best!” I gazed at Linus, tears welling up. “Isn’t that right, Linus? She’s the best, isn’t she?”

  Linus couldn’t look me in the eye as he said, “Well, this is the woman who wrote Psychoanalysis and Criminality, isn’t it?”

  “Take my advice,” continued Laroche, speaking directly to Rachel, “don’t bother taking anyone here to court. You won’t come out on top.”

  “He’s right!” added Bintou. “You know what, Rachel? I’m afraid to say it, but if your patients are asked to take the stand, they might just say they were undergoing therapy with you for years and years with no particular results, and then got cured by your cleaning lady in just a couple of days. I’m a bit worried it might not turn out so well for you . . .”

  Rachel Amar stepped back, horrified.

  “There’d be terrible publicity, you know?” Bintou concluded, clearly pleased she’d found the right words for the job at hand.

  Rachel Amar gave it one last attempt. “Since when am I going to let a hysterical nutter who has suffered more than one major breakdown, and a loser schizoid orgy-organizer, tell me where I’m going wrong in life, in my business? And as for you,” she hollered in my face, “you’re so fired! You little good-for-nothing!”

  I had to stifle a snicker. It was the first time in my life I’d been sacked from a job for the right reasons. It was a bit of a shocker! I hoped I wasn’t going to stay traumatized for too long.

  Amar ran out of the room and headed straight for her office.

  “All of you leave me the fuck alone and get the fuck out of my house!”

  “Sorry, that’s not going to be possible!” replied Bertrand. “And watch that mouth of yours. Borelli, go get her. You two, back him up.”

  Borelli ran after Amar, followed by the two street cops. I followed too. I don’t know why. I think I wanted to see her getting cuffed. Even Gaston couldn’t tear himself away from the action.

  Rachel Amar screamed hysterically.


  What was she screaming at? The police weren’t exactly going to rough her up. We all ran into the office to check it out.

  Sitting at the desk in Rachel Amar’s chair was my Sabrina . . . in the middle of a consultation. She was listening most attentively to the wacktoid electrical repairman who was lying down on the couch, all wrapped up in yarn and string. The guy was worse for wear. He was in a sorry state—bandages, cuts and bruises, plus the string. The twins were using him as a play mat. They were sitting on his legs, cracking up, playing the real version of Happy Families that I’d given Sabrina earlier that week.

  “What’s this, now? As if we haven’t all been through the mill enough?” sulked Borelli.

  “Mmmm . . . Mmmm . . .” muttered Sabrina, nodding her little head.

  And the repair guy was letting it all out, chatting away like he was never going to stop. “And she never ever noticed a thing! I did so much! And she never saw me. Never. I broke stuff, I climbed up the curtains, I turned the radio all the way up . . . Nothing ever worked! So, this one night, I went into her room and set fire to the curtains. And it was on that night, as I looked up at the full moon, that I understood nothing would ever amount to anything. She didn’t care. She continued to snore as if it wasn’t happening. As if the flames weren’t creeping up the fabric. Her whole room ended up on fire, and nearly the entire house too. She almost died! But she just didn’t get it. The next day, she told the firemen she thought she’d left a cigarette burning on a paper plate. Whatever.”

  He started crying. Rachel Amar and the rest of us listened in disbelief. We remained where we were, not wanting to disturb this improvised therapy session.

  “I tried telling her it was me who’d done it, but she wouldn’t listen . . .”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Rachel Amar finally managed to say in a small broken voice. But she wasn’t able to finish her sentence. She crumpled to the floor, completely done, her face in total misery. She stayed crouched down around our feet. The woman was broken.

  Sabrina turned to her. “Madame, I know your cathe ith urgent, but can’t you thee that I’m with thomeone here?”