Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery Read online

  “Earth to Gladdy. Earth to Gladdy.” Jack leans over my shoulder.

  “What?” I ask, my mind still floating through this cornucopia of book treasures.

  “May I leave you to your mysteries? Macho guy getting antsy around cozies, will head over to spy thrillers and science fiction. I’ll come back in an hour and pick you up.”

  “Okay,” I say, still poring over book titles.

  He kisses the back of my neck and takes off.

  Jack circumvents the romance section, where he spots Sophie and Bella on a very long book-signing line. They see him and wave happily. He waves back. He passes a sign indicating the nonfiction aisle, with science fiction straight ahead. He continues strolling, glancing now and then at colorful glossy posters with life-size photos of famous authors. He has to admit to himself that it’s pretty interesting seeing how publishing companies introduce their new books. Suddenly he stops sharply and backs up. Something has caught his eye.

  Someone on a poster. A beautiful woman. A familiar woman.

  Jack can’t believe what he’s seeing. Michelle duBois is winking out at him!

  He reads the text below her photo over and over again until his shocked mind can grasp its meaning. It announces the signing for her newest exposé, Bonbon, Non Non! He feels his heart banging against his chest. It can’t be! But it is. The stunning copper redhead he met in Paris eight years ago. His fantasy love. She looks exactly the same. Those piercing emerald eyes. That mysterious smile. That adorable lift of one eyebrow. Those luscious lips.

  It all washes over him; that magical month he spent in Paris that Spring. The way they met and fell in love so quickly. He, a clumsy tourist, standing outside a taxi and trying to explain to the cabbie where he wanted to go. Suddenly a young woman, a vision of beauty, is at his side. In rapid, lilting French she acted as interpreter, rescuing him, at the same time dazzling him with her perfect English. She finally got in the cab with him and directed the driver to the out-of-the way museum. By the time they arrived, Michelle duBois had offered to continue as his guide in the museum. Jack knew he was in love with her the first moment she smiled at him.

  Jack stands in the aisle of the book fair, mesmerized by the poster and his recollections. The Paris days flew by with her guiding him through the city she knew and loved. The memories of their torrid affair keep unrolling in his head. Running in the rain together, kissing and laughing. The unforgettable nights spent together in her glamorous apartment in Vichy. How, with her, he became younger and desired. The movies they saw together that made him pretend, for a few weeks, that he was living in a romantic Claude Lelouch film.

  Oh, God! Last night he’d taken Gladdy to the movie he’d seen with Michelle in France! How could he not have remembered that?

  Michelle had been an investigative reporter for a French newspaper. When he left Paris, she’d just had her first book published, an exposé about the private life of one of the most famous actors in France. Jack read later that her book made the bestseller list, turning her into an instant success all over the world.

  He remembers also how and why he finally fled from her.

  Panic sets in. He must get out of here. Now. Michelle mustn’t see him! No, not ever. As he hurries back to where he left Gladdy, sweat pours down his face even as the air-conditioning chills him.

  He can’t believe how out of control he feels. He tries not to run, but his legs disobey. People are staring. Why would anyone be running?

  He hears footsteps behind him. He turns, terrified. But it’s only Bella and Sophie, tote bags already full, hurrying after him.

  “Where’s the fire?” Sophie calls, puffing, her arms and legs churning to catch up.

  “No fire.” Jack slows down. Everything around him is a blur now. Is it possible he’s having a heart attack? No, he thinks grimly. This is an anxiety attack.

  “Wait for me,” Bella says, gasping.

  Finally the three of them are moving at the same pace.

  “You look like you saw a ghost,” Sophie says, juggling her bags to balance their weight.

  Jack groans inwardly. If she only knew.

  They make their way through the crowds. Jack is trying to come up with an excuse to leave. There’s Gladdy straight ahead, watching a video—an interview with some famous mystery writer. He doesn’t know the writer’s name.

  “Gladdy!” Sophie calls.

  I turn when I hear my name, and immediately become concerned. Why are the three of them hurrying toward me? What’s wrong? Sophie and Bella seem worried. Jack looks pale. I leave the video and hurry to them. Sophie pushes Jack down on a nearby swivel chair. He jumps back up again.

  I reach for his forehead. He seems terribly warm. Sweating as well.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, pulling a clean tissue from my purse to wipe his forehead.

  “Nothing. I just need to go home and rest.”

  “All right,” I say. “We’ll all go home now.”

  “Okay with me,” says Bella. “I can’t hold any more books anyway. And besides, they stamped our hand so we can come back later.”

  “No,” Jack says. “You stay. I don’t want to spoil your day.”

  I can sense him trying to calm himself down. “Nonsense.” I fold his arm into mine. “If you’re coming down with something, I don’t want you driving.”

  The four of us head for the escalator. Jack keeps his head down. He pulls a Marlins cap out of his back pocket and wears it so low it covers his eyes. “Hurry,” he says.

  There’s actually a line for the escalator. People are scurrying out to lunch, I assume. We wait our turn to get on.

  A group gets off at the top. And suddenly one of the women is surrounded by fans. They wave autographed books at her, chattering excitedly.

  “Who is she?” Bella whispers to me.

  “I don’t know. But she must be someone famous.”

  “She sure is gorgeous with that flaming red hair,” Sophie comments. “Is she talking French?”

  With that, I’m aware that Jack’s eyes widen and he groans. He tries to get the down escalator queue to move but it doesn’t budge.

  And at the same moment I see the redhead stare at Jack.

  She immediately takes leave of her fans. To my amazement, she hurries over to us. She practically pulls Jack out of the line just as it starts to move. Instinctively, I get off, too. Sophie and Bella are now pushed forward by the crowd. The escalator is finally moving and they are heading downstairs to the lobby. They look back and they are as astonished as I am to see this incredibly gorgeous woman throw her arms around my guy and kiss him. A very long kiss, I might add.

  “Jacques!” she says in a musical French accent. “Mon cher, I cannot believe it. Is it really you?”

  Mon cher? Is that what she called him? I don’t remember much of my high school French, but I know enough to worry. Her darling?

  Oy.

  3

  THE PAST IS PRESENT

  I am aware of a number of things in a nanosecond. Jack’s face is the color of overcooked beets. His arms dangle stiffly at his sides. The redhead is smiling broadly. And looking him up and down like he’s some luscious chunk of Brie ready to be devoured. Wow! Even I’m blushing. Jack’s redhead is wearing a rather low-cut pale cream silk blouse and skirt with a waist small enough to anger every woman over size five in the crowd. And gasp, with matching stiletto heels! I am guessing she’s about forty, but she looks thirty and is probably fifty. I am also guessing Jack somehow found out this woman was here at this fair and that’s why he was rushing to get out. To avoid what is happening now.

  A mob is forming, with much grinning, much whispering. Cameras and cell phones are snapping merrily away. To end up somewhere on YouTube, something I’ve heard about but never seen. Our little happening is being turned into a media event.

  There is another redhead in the group who looks very much like the famous author, only younger, probably a relative. She whispers in the woman’s ear. The woman whispers
something back and the younger one smiles knowingly.

  Knowing what, I’m afraid to guess, but I sure can imagine.

  I see Sophie and Bella get off at the lobby level and immediately ride the escalator back up. They can’t take their eyes off Jack and the woman. And neither can I.

  I also notice Jack is frozen, unable to either speak or look at me. I move closer to him. The redhead reads me correctly. I lift his seemingly paralyzed arm and put it through mine. We are together, this movement announces.

  She smiles at me, looks down at my ring finger.

  “The fiancée?” she asks with a voice like velvet.

  As a matter of fact, once again, officially as of last night. “Yes,” I manage to whisper. When is Jack going to say something?

  “It was eight years ago when Jacques and I met in Paris,” she informs me and about fifty or so others eagerly standing around. There is a long group sigh. I wonder how many of the wannabe romance writers out there are taking notes.

  The redhead gestures lavishly. “How do you call it en anglais? A romance of the summer?”

  More moans from the onlookers.

  I’ve had it. I nudge Jack to say something.

  He looks toward me but he is staring blindly at some point over my head. “Gladdy, this is Michelle, I mean, Michelle duBois.” His voice is a croak. You know, the way adolescent boys sound when they first get those raging hormones.

  “Michelle, Gladdy Gold … ”

  I manage a polite nod.

  Now Sophie pokes Jack and says, “And her very closest friends, Sophie and Bella.” The girls preen. They are having the time of their lives. I am having a reflux choking up of the throat.

  Michelle inclines her head toward the woman next to her. “My niece, Colette Marie.”

  Colette adds, “Named after the famous writer.”

  Michelle smiles. “She is also my assistant, my PR person, and—how you say—my Jill of all trades.” The younger woman bows politely. “Come away to someplace more privé,” Michelle suggests, motioning to us.

  Without waiting for me to agree, she strolls away from the crowd to the nearest room, expecting us to follow. And we do. This woman is used to having her way.

  There is another collective sigh, now that the French farce is over, and the onlookers disperse to continue on their merry way.

  Michelle uses a key card to open a door marked VIP Lounge. Empty. And now we are inside. Colette immediately gives Michelle a water bottle from her large bulging carryall.

  The girls quickly sit together on a floral love seat, their eyes like saucers.

  Jack finally manages to come to himself. “Michelle, it’s very good to see you again.”

  “And for me, too. I hoped we might meet, but this city is rather large, n’est-ce pas? Such a wonderful coincidence.” She makes a small moue with her lips. “Even though I should not be kind to you—the way you left me so abruptly.”

  Jack jumps in, I assume to stop her from saying anything too personal. “Congratulations on your book. When I met you, your first book was about to be published. And now, I see, this is your fifth. You must be very proud of your success.”

  Colette speaks for her. “And she leads a very exciting life because of it.”

  It’s obvious the niece is very proud of her aunt and Michelle is content to let the young woman extol her successes. Michelle puts her arms lovingly around her niece, but Colette suddenly blurts, “And because of what she writes, her life is very dangerous, too.”

  Michelle interrupts. “Now now, we’ll have none of that.”

  “But you have so many enemies!” Colette insists.

  Michelle pats the young woman on the head. “My niece worries too much.”

  Jack, finally in his element, lets the cop in him come out. “Has something been happening to make you fearful?”

  “There have been incidents … ” Michelle admits.

  “More than just incidents. Threats—” Colette inserts.

  Michelle puts her hand gently on Colette’s lips. “I am not afraid.” But her eyes belie her words. Jack catches it as well. This woman is frightened and trying to hide it.

  Michelle looks at her thin diamond wristwatch. “Ma petite,” she says to her niece, “you should have been paying attention.” She starts to move to the door. “We are expected at my publisher’s booth on the third floor. Au revoir, Jacques.” She takes his hand in hers and as far as I’m concerned, she holds on too long. And Jack takes too long to remove his hand from hers.

  She turns to me with a lovely practiced smile. “It was très pleasant meeting you, Mme. Gold. And your friends. I will be here this week. Perhaps we might have tea one afternoon.”

  “That sounds lovely,” I answer equally politely, knowing that isn’t going to happen. The girls’ heads swing up and down in their excitement. I smile up at Jack. “Don’t you agree?”

  He manages a half nod. As we leave the room he glances back. Michelle looks as worried as Colette.

  Walking through the parking lot, Jack, who hasn’t said a word since we left the hotel, suddenly hands me his car keys. “You go on home,” he tells me. “I’ll grab a cab later.”

  “Where are you going?” But I know what he’s going to say.

  “They’re frightened. I think I ought to find out more. They may need police protection.”

  I am too stunned to protest. Bella, Sophie, and I pile into his car and drive off. By the time I search for him in my rearview mirror, he’s already gone. I’m fuming.

  Sophie, in the front passenger seat, kicks off her high heels. “So, what’s he gonna do now?”

  “Quiet!” The girls are dying to talk about it, but I nip them in the bud. “Not a word. You hear? I do not want any discussion.”

  They cower in the face of my anger. I can’t deal with this right now. In fact, I don’t want to think about anything now. I want utter silence. My mind wants to shut down until I can be alone and figure out what really just happened and how it might possibly affect my life.

  Police protection indeed. And then I remember she just happened to mention what floor she’d be on. Red flag! She knew he would come back.

  Making his way through the hotel, Jack wonders how he will find Michelle again in this crowd. Then he recalls she had a meeting at her publisher’s. Third floor. Right. He follows in the direction she was heading. Old cop abilities, like a good memory for details, die hard. He also remembers the publisher’s name from the poster.

  A decorative gate made of wicker and covered with a trellis of shiny fake leaves leads him to PIP—Paris International Publishing, Ltd. Jack suddenly finds himself in a contained area intended to remind one of France. The partitions are covered with photos of French scenery. Large posters with author photos and book titles are spread about the area. There are small booths for meetings. And young people, dressed in waiter apparel, hand out champagne.

  The two redheads are easy to spot. Michelle and Colette are standing with a woman who reminds him of pictures he’s seen of Edith Piaf, the famous French singer of sad songs—tiny, dark, intense, dressed all in black. Everyone is speaking in rapid-fire French.

  Colette spots him and pokes Michelle. Michelle waves. She says a few hurried words to the Piaf-like woman. They kiss cheek to cheek and Michelle takes her leave.

  She hurries over to Jack. “I was hoping you would return.”

  “Are you busy? I could come back later.”

  “For you, mon cher, I am not busy. I have completed my editor’s petite meeting.”

  His heart is pounding again. He wonders if it’s excitement about seeing her, or guilt. What must Gladdy be thinking? He’s behaving like a schoolboy. He remembers how often Michelle made him feel this way. Awkward. Fearful of making mistakes. Was I ever as comfortable with her as I am with Gladdy?

  Her loveliness makes him catch his breath. But then, any man would react to her beauty. He gives her a quick hug. She hugs back. He pulls away first.

  “It is such a l
ucky coincidence seeing you at this book fair. What about a brief stroll around the nearby shops, that would be nice. It’s a beautiful day. Away from the crowds, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Much better,” Jack says.

  “And we shall find a café and we’ll chat. And you will tell me how you have managed to live so long without me.” She laughs out loud, enjoying Jack’s discomfort at her teasing. “Colette,” she calls out, dismissing her. “À bientôt.”

  They stroll along the beach-cluttered T-shirt tourist avenue. “Not quite Montmartre,” he comments.

  “Ah, you are remembering our many strolls around my city.”

  “How could I forget? It was a magical time.”

  “Real for me. Fantasy for you?” Her eyebrows rise.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you. But I did anyway.”

  “That is, how shall I say it—water under le pont.” She smiles. “I did think to look you up when I arrived, but I wished to avoid another rejection.”

  Jack reddens. Guilty.

  She puts her arm through his and leans into him. “But we found each other again. Perhaps fate meant us to meet again.”

  Uh-oh. What has he gotten himself into? he wonders.

  They reach a coffee shop and Jack suggests they go in. When they are seated, he changes the subject. “Tell me about the threats. And don’t make light of this.”

  “Alors. My worrywart little niece. Something to shrug off.”

  “Details. Come on.”

  “There were letters. Telling me to stop writing my books. If I do not, I will be killed.”

  “And you don’t think that’s serious?”

  She shrugs. “Over these years, after each book there have been many … complainers. Threats about lawsuits. Getting even with me—like that. Much name-calling. How you say—it goes with the territory.”

  “I don’t suppose you kept the letters?”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “Colette seems particularly frightened. Why?”