Elusive (7 page)

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Chapter 6: Hide and Seek—Tag

Paris, France - April 1912

It had been just weeks since he had returned
from his journey. The knowledge Roddy had gained on that trip had
shaken him. She is in danger, his precious Blair. How could he keep
her safe? If they located him, they would locate her as well. He
would have to take her to Scotland soon, and tell her all that he
had tried to keep from her until she was ready. He could wait no
longer. She had been through so much already. Julien’s death had
shaken her, and just as Roddy had been about to tell her the truth.
It pained him to know that he would cause her more upset, but it
was better than having her die.

No, he would not permit any harm to come to
her. He would tell her tonight and they would leave for Scotland in
the morning. He had to keep her safe. Everything was coming
together and he must not permit anything to go wrong—not after all
these years when they were so close to reaching their goal—his
goal, since she was still unaware of how her life was about to
change.

He strolled absent-mindedly down the street,
the buildings fronted with the booths of flower, fruit, and
vegetable vendors. Here he knew was where locals—and tourists as
well—could find the best buys.

He stopped briefly at his favorite flower
vendor’s booth. As he was about to ask young Claude how his day was
going, the shot rang out.

Claude saw the stunned expression hit Roddy’s
face, and then the old man’s eyes went blank before he just slowly
slid to the street. Claude ran to Roddy as screams went through the
crowd. Passersby spread out and away from the body that now lay in
the street—its life’s blood streaming down the cobblestones. While
the shoppers stared in shocked disbelief, the whistles of the
rushing gendarmes grew nearer.

***

Blair and Esmée sat at a little table on the
shaded patio behind Madame’s shop. The building had originally been
a private residence. That, as had been the case with Mssr. LeGard’s
building, had been over a hundred years ago. Madame had converted
it to a shop shortly after her husband’s death, but had left the
lovely little patio as it had been, adding new plants in pots and
containers of varying colors over the years. They were enjoying a
small but satisfying lunch, giggling like little girls at a shared
memory.

The sky was a shade of blue that Blair always
imagined was not its color anywhere in the world other than Paris.
The air was scented with early spring flowers. A soft breeze came
through the hedge of blooming shrubbery that provided privacy from
the neighboring buildings. Blair saw Esmée’s eyes widen. She turned
to see what had caused the reaction only to find Madame stepping
outside the shop with a nervous looking young gendarme following
close behind.

“Blair, my dear,” Madame’s voice trembled
slightly, as she approached Blair who could not fathom why Madame
would look so somber. Her eyes, always bright with her enjoyment of
life, were now dulled with some shock Blair did not understand.

“Madame, what is wrong?” Blair stood, and
reached for the woman who only led her back to her seat and urged
her down again.

“Blair, mon chéri,” Madame quietly started
again. “This gentleman has come with shocking and very sad news.
Please sit, my dear. Let him say what he must,” Madame patiently
urged her.

The painfully young gendarme seemed very
uncomfortable, and Blair could feel every muscle in her body
tighten and tremble. “Please, what is it? What has happened?”

“Mademoiselle, you are the niece of one Rodée
Delamare?” he asked her. Blair noticed that he had mangled his
pronunciation of her dear uncle’s name.

“Yes, of course she is, you twit,” Madame
responded to him tersely. “I already told you that. Spit it out,
boy! Spit it out! Do not torture the poor girl.”

The young gendarme’s face turned scarlet, and
he continued, “Mademoiselle, I am sorry to advise you that your
uncle was killed today.” Looking at his watch briefly, he
continued, “It happened about an hour ago…at the market place near
his apartment. A flower vendor, he checked his notes, a Claude
LeGard, told us where to find you.”

The Paris sky and all around her turned white
and became silent as if she were under water, as her body simply
floated to the ground.

***

She opened her eyes and could not imagine how
she had gotten onto the small settee in Madame’s back office.
How…then it all came rushing back. “Oh,” she cried out in grief.
“Uncle Roddy! Uncle Roddy!” The cry became a keening plea as tears
streamed down her face, while Esmée held her and Madame looked on
with tears of her own.

Madame's heart broke for the girl. The tie
between the uncle and the girl had been so very strong. She stepped
forward with a small glass of wine ready for her. “Here, Blair, my
dear, drink this. It will help,” Madame said, as she held the glass
in front of Blair who—wondering if she would be able to swallow—did
finally manage to do so.

“Madame, please tell me all you know. I must
understand what has happened,” Blair pleaded when she realized the
gendarme was no longer with them. Madame took the time to tell her
everything the gendarme had told her. It grieved Madame to know
what this slip of a girl would need to handle over the next few
days.

“Do not worry, Chéri,” Madame continued,
“Esmée and I will assist you in every way we can.” She looked over
at Esmée’s pale face as the girl nodded in agreement.

“Blair,” Esmée said quietly, “Let me take you
home now. You need to rest. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

Later Blair did not even remember how she got
back to her apartment. It would be several hours before she
realized that anyone—currently Mssr. LeGard—had been hovering with
tea, cookies, anything they could offer to try to get some food
into her system.

Esmée had left the sweet old man in charge of
watching over Blair late that afternoon, while she returned to
assist Madame in closing the shop for the day. She had promised
Mssr. LeGard that she would return later that evening, to take over
again. He, of course, was glad to be of some service to Blair and
would not rest easy until she was herself again.

As he tried once more to get her to eat
something, he had to reassure himself that he had heard her speak.
“What is it, child?”

“Why?” She barely whispered, with her voice
scratching and raw from hours of crying. “I do not understand why.
Everyone loved him. Why would someone kill him? It must have been
some terrible accident—a mistake. He was such a loving, gentle,
peaceful man. Perhaps they thought he was someone else?” She seemed
to be pleading when she raised her chin and looked into Mssr.
LeGard’s face.

“Yes, my dear, I am certain you are right,”
he tried to assure her. His true opinion was very different. He had
learned from his grandnephew, Claude, that the killer had been
right next to her uncle when he fired the shot. No. The killer had
known what he was doing and to whom he was doing it, LeGard was
certain.

Unfortunately, the crowd had been thick, and
Claude’s attention had been on Roddy, not the passersby. Someone
did not love him, he thought. LeGard was afraid that the
‘who’
and the
‘why’
of her uncle’s death might never
be known.

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Chapter 7: From a Distance

Paris, France – April 1912

As soon as Alexandre got to Paris, he looked
into this Roddy Delamare and his
niece
, Blair. He found that
the man had died just the day before. No—he hadn’t
died—
he’d
been murdered, or so his sources told him. No doubt at the hands of
some other criminal sort. How—why—had such people sucked his family
into their intrigues?

After unpacking, he walked outside and paced
on his balcony. He kept this small, third floor apartment in
Paris—overlooking the Seine—for those occasions when he needed to
get away from business and rest his mind and body.

It was a nice little place that pleased
him—soothed him. He didn’t need anything as large as his estate in
Bretagne when he traveled here. It felt comfortable. He had had it
decorated by a young student at the university who was studying
design. It suited him and was close to his favorite restaurants,
cafés and shops.

He watched the sun set over Paris while
deciding what he should do next.

***

Three days after his death, Blair’s uncle was
laid to rest in a small cemetery on the outskirts of Paris. Roddy
Delamare had always been a quiet man, had often kept to himself—
except for the company of an old familiar friend in the form of a
book. Blair thought he would appreciate the quiet, solitary
setting—if he had been able to see it. Still in shock, she almost
laughed at the irony.

She noticed that there was a sweet, little
bench just a few yards away where she could sit when she came to
visit with him.

Roddy’s small, select circle of friends and
hers were all in attendance—Esmée, Madame, Mssr. LeGard and his
nephew, Claude. Few faces were strange to her, but one of those
bothered her considerably.

She was not sure she liked the looks of him.
Mind you, it was not that he was not handsome! She thought he was
probably as handsome a man as she had ever seen. Tall, probably
exceeding six-feet by at least three inches, his hair was long,
sleek, shining, thick, and black as night. It flowed freely in the
morning’s breeze only to settle touching his broad shoulders when
the breeze abated.

There was undoubtedly a good strong build
under the long overcoat he wore. The shoulders were broad. Unlike
most of the men present, he was clean shaven, although the dark
beard fighting its way to the surface of his smooth, creamy-colored
skin could not be hidden entirely.

He had high cheeks and dark blue eyes that
looked out from between thick black lashes. Those piercing eyes
settled on her throughout the brief ceremony at the gravesite. The
mouth was strong, and would have been very appealing if it had not
been set in a sneer.

She tried to avoid his gaze, but his stare
had brought her back to him more often than made her comfortable.
She felt uneasy, and, because she was already in such pain, she
could hardly bear to stand there under his scrutiny.

Once the ceremony was over, he simply
vanished as the others came forward to offer her their condolences.
She did not understand her feelings. She had wanted him gone, but
once he left—she wished him back.

***

The next morning, Blair was restless and
decided to go to Roddy’s apartment to pack up his belongings. This
was a task she had been unable to carry out until now. She
carefully wrapped the vase from the kitchen and packed it in the
box of special items she would take back to her own apartment. His
clothing was packed up and donated to the soldier’s home. Then,
while she sorted through his many books, there was a knock at the
door.

“Oui?” She said, as she greeted the stranger
at the door. He was an odd, little man in a dark suit. Thick eye
glasses rested on what she thought was a most generous nose, and
the only hair she could see was the tiny amount sitting on his
chin. He carried an attaché case in worn, brown leather.

“May I help you, Monsieur?” she asked.

“Mademoiselle Delamare?” Then he looked down
at the paper in his thin hand, “
Blair
Delamare?” He’d been
told that she spoke English at home, so he would try to oblige
her.

“Yes, I am she. I am sorry, Monsieur, but I
am really very busy right now. If you are selling something…” She
did not realize until after he was gone that, had he been a sales
person, he probably would not have known her name. Her mind simply
was not functioning as clearly since…Roddy.

“No, no…” he cut her off waving his hand in
the air, flustered by her misunderstanding. “My name is Pierre
Bruyére. I was your uncle’s avocet…um, how you say in
English…
lawyer
?”

“Ah, yes, please come in,” she stepped back
and let the strange little man enter. “I was unaware that my uncle
had a lawyer, but, of course, he would need one from time to time.
Most business people do, I suppose.” Her mind was unfocused, and
she tried to rein it in. She showed him into the parlor and, when
he was seated, she offered him tea or wine which he declined. She
sat opposite him and waited for him to continue. He was obviously
here on some matter of business.

“Mademoiselle, I handled some of your uncle’s
legal affairs such as his Will, which I have brought with me as
well as a package he wished me to give to you in the event of his
death.”

“You knew him well, then?” She dried her eyes
one more time.

“In a business sense, oui,” he responded.
“However, he had another…lawyer… in Edinburgh that handled his more
personal affairs.” He had been forbidden by Roddy Delamare to
discuss any of his business in Scotland with her, and, although he
was aware of some of it, he would obey those wishes.

“I do not understand,” she blinked as she
looked at the package he handed her. “What business could he
possibly have had in Edinburgh? There was a Scottish heritage, of
course, but he had never been to Scotland. We moved here from
Cavalos, near Caen, though I don’t remember it. We moved to Paris
when I was just a small child—after my parents’ deaths.”

“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, I am not privy to
those matters. My understanding is that there are instructions for
you within the package you are holding. They will direct you to the
correct person in Edinburgh.” He had avoided that issue rather
well, he thought.

“As to his Will, you will see that he has
left everything to you. He had a nice little account at Le Banc
Royale, and those funds will be put into your name as soon as you
sign the papers I have brought with me. As to the other accounts,
you will need to discuss them with the party in Edinburgh. You will
find that some of these documents may reflect a name other than
Roddy Delamare.” He could see that she was still in shock from her
uncle’s death and probably understood little of what he was
explaining to her.