The Paris Secret (17 page)

“Ah, Madame Sinclair, you are awake,
bon.
”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You’ve got quite a nasty concussion.”

“Where’s Simon?” I demanded.

“In jail, of course.” Bellange settled his bulk into a chair next to my bed and poured me some water.

“We didn’t kill Vincent Garland or that man at Versailles!”

“I know you didn’t.”

“And Garland is the one who killed Juliet Rice. They were lovers!”

“I know.”

“And I’m going to sue the city of Paris if you don’t drop all charges!”

Bellange held up his hands. “Calm yourself,
madame,
calm yourself. You’ve not been charged with any crimes.”

“Then why am I handcuffed?”

“Because you are as slippery as an eel and I wasn’t taking chances that you would run off again before giving us a statement.” He pulled a small key out of his pocket and unlocked the handcuff.

“Where’s your partner?”

“With his wife. It’s their anniversary. I’ll tell him you asked after him.”

That gargoyle had a wife?

“Wait a minute.” What he’d just told me had finally sunk in. “Did you just say you know we didn’t kill anyone?”

“Were you not listening to a word I’ve said?” he asked, looking annoyed.

“But…I don’t understand.”

“The case is closed. Vincent Garland committed suicide. But not before sending a letter to his mother at the U.S. Embassy confessing to not only Juliet Rice’s murder, but his girlfriend Shannon Davies, and Bruno Allard, the statue cleaner at Versailles.”

“Why?”

Bellange shrugged his thick shoulders. “Dr. Rice discovered he’d killed the unfortunate Madame Davies. She threatened to report him. He killed her and mistakenly thought she’d confided his secret to you. Thinking you knew what he’d done, he set up you and your friend Girard to take the fall. That poor bastard Allard just got in the way. We even found your corkscrew on Garland’s body. And the gun he used to kill himself is the same make and model as the one that killed Allard. Apparently, his conscience got the better of him. At least that’s what the letter to his
maman
said. Both she and Ambassador Garland identified the handwriting as their son’s. And if you don’t close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.”

My mouth snapped shut. I hadn’t realized it was open. Had I heard him right? This was all about the murder of Garland’s girlfriend? What about the crucifix, the
Aurum Liber
and the Society of Moret? I told Bellange everything that had happened, starting with Garland’s attack on me at Versailles. The words came tumbling out in a torrent while Bellange stared at me with one eyebrow raised like I was a nutty relative making a scene at the family reunion. When I was finished, he sat back in the chair and rubbed his chin.

“If I’m not mistaken, you are a librarian. Correct?”

“Yes, why?” I asked warily. If he made a crack about sensible shoes and glasses on a chain, I was going to punch him.

“Madame Sinclair, you have had quite a bump on the head. Perhaps you are confusing what happened to you with a book you read, no? Maybe
The Da Vinci Code?
I know symbols and codes and secret societies are popular with you Americans. I bet you think you-know-who is really buried under the pyramid at the Louvre.” He laughed heartily but I wouldn’t be distracted.

“Well, what about the other murders—Evalyn Hewitt, Oliver Renard and his daughter, Sylvie? They were all friends of Juliet Rice’s. They belonged to the same society.” He continued to stare at me blankly. “The Society of Moret,” I added. “Didn’t Garland confess to killing them as well?”

“Why would he do that,
madame?
They were no threat to Vincent Garland. Why kill them? There is no proof he even knew them. Besides, we’ve already taken into custody another of Dr. Rice’s colleagues for those murders. A Dr. Sebastian Marcel. I believe you know him, as well?”

“He was my tour guide,” I said, nodding slowly.

“Either you’ve a knack for attracting trouble,
madame.
Or you are the most unfortunate tourist I have ever met.” Bellange was studying me intently like has was trying to figure out what made me tick.

“You’ve picked Monsieur Marcel up for murder? On what evidence?”

“You know I can’t tell you that, Madame Sinclair. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Was it over money?” I asked, remembering the mountain of bills in Marcel’s apartment. The narrowing of Bellange’s eyes told me I was right.

“Let us just say friends and money do not mix. And when one friend has much less than the others, and is constantly borrowing money, the resentment and conflict can often build to a murderous level.”

Monsieur Marcel was a murderer. I’d been wrong about yet another man! When Simon and I caught up with him at the Galeries Lafayette, he had no idea I’d figured out the symbol on his handkerchief and connected him to Dr. Hewitt and Dr. Renard. He hadn’t given it to me on purpose hoping I’d figure it out and come find him. It was all bullshit. He must have been the one who pushed Sylvie Renard down the stairs then finished the job later at the hospital. I didn’t want to believe it was true. But I’d seen the blood-smeared fake crucifix with my own eyes. Wait a minute. The crucifix!

“Where’s my bag? I can prove what I just told you is true.”

Bellange retrieved my bag from the closet and handed it to me. I dumped the entire contents on the bed. Everything that had been in my bag was present and accounted for except the velvet pouch with the forged crucifix. It, like my Eiffel Tower corkscrew before it, was gone. I was suddenly muzzy-headed and confused. It hurt to think. Had I imagined the whole thing? Bellange looked at me with pity. I avoided his eyes as I shoved everything back into the bag.

“Just give it time and I’m sure things will seem much clearer to you in a day or two.”

“How did you know Simon and I were in the Luxembourg Gardens?”

“We didn’t. Ambassador Garland’s wife notified us that her son had a gun and planned to take his own life. We dispatched units to the Luxembourg Gardens on the suggestion of his mother. It was his favorite spot. You and Monsieur Girard were spotted in the vicinity by one of our officers.
La mission á accompli.
” He grinned.

“Okay. If you know we’re innocent, then why is Simon in jail?”

“There is the matter of an illegal handgun found in Monsieur Girard’s possession at the time of his arrest. Would you happen to know where he got it?”

I shook my head. Bellange laughed. A nurse appeared in the doorway. She gave the captain a hard look and he got to his feet.

“I’ll leave you to your rest, Madame Sinclair. But you still need to give me a statement at your earliest convenience.”

“Wait!”

He turned and gave me a quizzical look.

“Don’t you owe me and Simon something?”

“Something like what?”

“Something like an apology, maybe?”

Bellange’s face crinkled into an indulgent smile. “As an officer of the law, I can only act upon the evidence as it presents itself to me. And that evidence initially pointed straight to you and Monsieur Girard. But if it’s an apology you want then so be it. Please accept my sincere apology on behalf of the DCPJ.” And with that he was gone.

Bellange was right. Everything seemed much clearer to me the next morning. And still nothing the captain told me the night before made a bit of sense. But Juliet’s killer was dead and it was over and that’s all that mattered to me. I was released from the hospital later that morning. The media had camped outside the hospital, so I ducked out a service entrance to avoid them. The suicide of an American diplomat’s murderous son had made headlines all over the world. With no place else to go, I took a cab back to the Bienvenue Hotel. My room was paid through Sunday and though it seemed like a lifetime since I’d set out with Brian and Jarrod for Versailles, it was only Thursday, a mere four days later. Zalima, the manager, was manning the front desk when I arrived. She did a double take when she saw me.

“Madame Sinclair, you’re back.” She came out from behind the desk to greet me. I could see the intense curiosity burning in her dark eyes but I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

“Is my room still available?”

“Of course,
madame.
”

“Do I have any messages?” I was hoping a certain Frenchman might be out of jail and looking for me.

Zalima reached behind the desk and grabbed a stack of white message slips. I flipped through them but they were mostly from my BFF, Kelly, begging me to call her. A few were from members of the Associated Press wanting interviews, and amazingly one was from Ben. I stared at it for so long dots appeared before my eyes. I balled it up and tossed it in the trash. There was nothing from Simon.

“Is there anything else I can get for you? Lunch is being served in our restaurant and if I’m not mistaken, you have a complimentary meal coming to you.”

“Maybe later.
Merci.
” I started up the steps and stopped. “Would you happen to know if Mr. Perlman and Mr. Mitchner are still in Paris?”

“I’m sorry,
madame.
Monsieur Mitchner suffered another heart attack while in the hospital and died on Tuesday. His friend, Mr. Perlman, left Paris with his body only this morning.”

I hurried up the steps to my room so Zalima wouldn’t see my tears.

After a long, hot shower and an even longer nap, I dressed in the only clean outfit I had, the khaki cargo pants and white shirt Brian and Jarrod had picked up for me at the Monoprix. While I dressed, I watched the news. An ashen-faced Ambassador Ernest Garland, who looked nothing like his son, came out of the coroner’s office. He supported his weeping wife as he ushered her into a waiting limo. From the few words I could understand, they’d just come from identifying their son’s body. Then another familiar face popped up on the screen.

Simon, in need of a shave and drooping from fatigue, was being mobbed by the press outside the DCPJ headquarters. Cameras and microphones were thrust into his face from all directions. He smiled graciously and said something in French that elicited laughter from the reporters. My heart did a happy little flip-flop. He walked toward a waiting Mercedes. The crowd parted enough for me to see Claire Samuelson by his side with her arm looped possessively through his. It was all size two of her in a cropped red jacket and skin-tight jeans with to-die-for black leather knee-length boots laced up the front. She must have bailed him out of jail. The least she could do considering she called the police on him. Francoise must be in heaven. Why had I been so happy to see him when he was another woman’s man? When would I learn? I turned off the TV and swore to myself that I’d hop a plane home tomorrow right after I made my statement.

Once downstairs I was happy to discover the hotel had started serving dinner. I ordered chicken and sausage cassoulet and practically buried my face in the large fragrant bowl when it arrived. I was mopping up the juices in the bottom of the bowl with a hunk of crusty bread when a painfully slim woman sat across from me.

Her face was expertly made up. Her glossy lipstick probably never smudged and her gray eyes were made wide by the artful use of smoky blue eyeliner. She smiled at me with blindingly white teeth and held out a business card in her manicured hand.

“Diana Hughes, Miss Sinclair, BBC World News. I was hoping you’d be willing to speak with me about being framed for murder by the son of the U.S. ambassador.”

Her accent was what the Brits would call posh. But her measured, careful way of talking screamed elocution lessons. She’d probably revert back to her regional accent if she got enough liquor in her. I ignored her outstretched hand and took a weary sip of wine. She placed the card on the table and slid it over to me.

“I’d really just like to put this all behind me. I’m not interested in talking to the press.”

“Not even to set the record straight?”

“About what?”

“Ernest Garland and his wife have made claims to the press that their son was murdered. They say he’d never have committed suicide and he must have been forced to write that letter. They’re blaming you and Simon Girard for his death. Didn’t you know?”

I slammed the wine glass down so hard on the table it shook, causing Diana Hughes to sit back in alarm.

“If that’s the case, then why did his mother call the police and report that their son had a gun and was suicidal?”

“Well,” she replied, crossing her thin arms and fixing me with a predatory gaze. Her eyes went suddenly hard. “I could tell you. But what would be in it for me?”

Idiot. I’d completely fallen into that trap. But I really wanted to know. “Fine. I’ll give you a brief interview and I get to pick the questions.”

“Fair enough.” She scooted her chair close to mine. “Here’s the thing, Miss Sinclair; there was a call made to the police by someone claiming to be Martha Garland. Only she denies she made the call. In fact, the Garlands claim they didn’t even know what had happened to their son until they were notified by the police. It was only after getting that call that they found the suicide note. The Garlands say their son was framed for murder and was then killed.”

“Of course they’d say that. What family would willing believe a loved one capable of murder and suicide? The Garlands are in shock, that’s all. And shame on you for exploiting their grief and trying to make this a bigger story than it is. And just how do they think Simon and I were involved?”

“They don’t. I just wanted to wind you up a bit.” She actually grinned.

The urge to hurl my wine in her face was so strong I got up and started walking away.

“I guess you’re not at all interested in the results of the preliminary toxicology report on Vincent Garland?”

Keep walking, Maya. It’s not your problem. KEEP WALKING!
screamed the voice in my head. Except I don’t like being screamed at. I went back. “What about the toxicology report?”

“What about my interview? Tit for tat, remember?”

“Why should I talk to a woman who just lied to me?”

“Because I’ll bloody well camp out in front of this hotel until you do,” she replied sweetly.

The brief interview with Diana Hughes ended up taking over two hours. Unbeknownst to me, Hughes’s camera crew was cooling its heels in a news van parked outside. Zalima allowed us to use an empty suite for the interview. The whole thing would have gone much faster if the rather vain Ms. Hughes didn’t need her makeup retouched every five minutes and if she wouldn’t have wasted so much time trying to find the right camera angles to capture the best side of her chinless face.

Even though she promised to stick to the questions we’d agreed on, she asked me plenty of questions I had no intention of answering, such as exactly how close I got to Simon while we were on the run. I gave her a blank stare and refused to answer until she moved on. Only she wouldn’t move on.

“So, you’re not denying things became physical between you and Simon Girard when the two of you were on the run?”

“Simon Girard and I were two innocent people thrown together by unusual circumstances. We came to rely heavily on each other and I’d like to think we became friends but that’s all we are…friends,” I stammered.

Hughes smirked, realizing she’d finally found my weak spot. I took off my microphone and stood I’d had more than enough of her. I estimated that after editing out all my silent, blank stares, she probably had maybe two minutes of usable footage. I shoved my mic into her hand.

“Now, what about that toxicology report? You were saying…?”

It’s amazing how the thin veneer of politeness wears off once insincere people get what they want. Diana Hughes didn’t even bother looking at me when she replied. I was already old news.

“Vincent Garland had alcohol and muscle relaxers in his system. Not enough to render him unconscious, mind you, but enough to render him out of it to the point that loading. let alone pulling the trigger, on a gun would have been highly unlikely. There were also cotton fibers found in his bullet wound. Someone most likely held something against his head to muffle the sound of the gunshot.”

“And you got this info from…?”

“I’d have thought you’d have learned from your
friend
Simon Girard that a reporter never reveals a source.”

Vincent Garland’s parents were partially right. Garland hadn’t committed suicide. He had to have had a partner and his partner must have killed him. Could it have been Monsieur Marcel? Boy, was I glad this wasn’t my problem anymore. Whoever killed Vincent Garland had done the world a favor. I was just happy to be going home.

Loud pounding woke me early the next morning. I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Wasn’t this the way Monday had started?

“Who is it?” I asked before looking out the peephole. A pair of intense green eyes stared back at me.

“It’s your
friend
…Simon. Open up, sleepy head.”

I opened the door and Simon pushed past me and dumped a duffel bag on the floor then stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head.

“Don’t I even get a kiss?” he teased.

I leaned against the door and studied him. He was clean-shaven again. He had on faded jeans and a black turtleneck. He still looked very tired. The reunion sex with Claire must have kept him up all night.

“I guess you heard about Monsieur Marcel?”

“I know how much you liked him, Maya. I didn’t want to be right about him.”

“Someone took the fake crucifix from my bag. It was gone when I woke up in the hospital.”

“You gave it to me right before we walked back to the fountain, remember? And I dropped it when we ran after seeing Garland floating in the pond. It’s probably in the bushes somewhere near the Medici Fountain. Seriously—you’re really not going to give me a kiss?”

“Did you hear Garland had drugs and alcohol in his system and couldn’t have shot himself?”

Simon shrugged, unconcerned.

“You don’t care that he probably had a partner?”

“What I care about is that the man who killed my brother is dead. Whether by his own hand or someone else’s makes no difference to me.”

“And the crucifix, the Black Nun of Moret, the
Aurum Liber
and all the rest of it? We didn’t just imagine it all. It was real.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over, Maya. The police have a suicide note, one dead murderer and another in custody. And we’re alive and off the hook. Can’t you just be happy?”

He was right. And more important, he was here.

“What’s that?” I nodded toward the duffel bag on the floor. I was trying not to let him see how happy I was to see him, and trying even harder not to be happy to see him.

“I need a place to hide out for a little while.”

“And you couldn’t go to Max’s?”

“Max is pissed at me because of the gun.”

“Serves you right. And if you’re hiding out from the press, this is the last place you should have come.”

“I’m not hiding from the press and don’t worry, there’re no news vans parked outside waiting to pounce on you. I watched that horrible interview you gave the BBC on TV last night. You’ve got a reputation now.”

“What kind of reputation?” I asked mildly amused.

“Of being a lousy interview subject with the personality of lint.”

“Hmm.” I sat on the edge of the bed. Dangerous territory but the only chair in the room was piled high with my crap. “Is that anything like being a lousy lay?”

“Come over here,
madame,
and I’ll let you know.” He sat up and reached for me. I jumped up, suddenly aware that I was only wearing a white cotton nightshirt. My nipples pebbled and pushed through the thin fabric. I crossed my arms to hide myself. Damn! The man hadn’t even touched me and I was getting wet.

“If you’re not hiding from the press then who are you hiding from?”

“Claire,” he practically spat out.

“Claire? That’s a nice way to treat the woman who bailed you out of jail.”

Simon let out a harsh laugh. “Nothing that woman does is without ulterior motives. One minute she’s bailing me out of jail, the next she’s hired a publicist and is booking me on talk shows. She’s trying to get me an agent and a book deal.” He threw up his hands in disgust.

“I’m sure your girlfriend means well,” I commented dryly.

Simon looked momentarily taken aback. He grinned, sitting up against the headboard. “So that’s why you were so annoyed with me yesterday. You think Claire is my girlfriend?”

“Isn’t she?”

“No. And if she were I’d be in a world of hurt because the only thing besides money and clothes Claire Samuelson loves is herself.”

“What about her daughter?”

“Motherhood cramps Claire’s style. Why do you think Francoise is alone so much?’

“If she’s not your girlfriend then why is she trying to help you cash in?”

“Because she’s a media whore who’ll do anything for attention. The more famous she can make me, the better it looks for her to be seen with me. Were you really jealous?”

“No!” I grabbed my pants from the floor and started to put them on. Simon grabbed me and pulled me on top of him.

“Let me guess. Francoise told you we were a couple. Am I right?”

“She didn’t have to tell me. That was a really cute picture of the three of you at Euro Disney in Francoise’s room.”

“Taken last month on her thirteenth birthday. She’s been trying to push Claire and me together since I moved back from Hong Kong.” He laughed.

“And you’re not interested?”

“Do you want to know why Francoise’s father and I stopped speaking?”

“I’m all ears.”

“It was because of Claire. I dated her first, but when she found out about Marty’s trust fund she dumped me for him. I tried to warn him about how calculating and high maintenance she was. He just thought I was jealous. After I returned to Paris, I found out he’d married her. In the letter I was sent after he died—the one in which he asked me to be there for his daughter, he also admitted that he had found out the hard way Claire was nothing but a gold-digger. I’m crazy about that kid. She’s the apple in my pie. But she has to give up this fantasy about her
maman
and me. It’s never going to happen.”

“It’s the apple of your
eye,
not pie.” I tried to keep a straight face. Simon just looked confused.

“Eye? Why would I have an apple in my eye? That makes no sense.”

“Never mind,” I said with a laugh. “Okay. If Claire’s not your girlfriend, then why is your stuff at her place?”

“Because Claire got stranded in Miami when a hurricane shut down the airports and she couldn’t get home for days. Francoise begged me to come over to stay with her. I packed a bag and went over. I must have left some clothes over there. So stop thinking you’re fooling around with a man with commitments. I’m free and single—just like you.”

He kissed my neck. I could feel his arousal pressing against my stomach. His hands were under my nightshirt, caressing the warm flesh of my back. “Your skin is like silk,” he murmured against my ear as he started to tug the shirt over my head.

My will started to drain away. My body wanted him so badly but my head knew I was just delaying the inevitable. I was going home and needed to be able to put him and Paris behind me and move on with my life.

“Tell me you want me,” he commanded in a husky voice. He didn’t wait for my response and kissed me hard. I squirmed, trying to get away. Not because I wasn’t enjoying what he was doing, but because I’d yet to shower or brush my teeth. Simon didn’t seem to care.