As promised, a picture of my brand new orange couch. Sydney can't wait to try it out.
The rest of the blog is an excerpt from A Hotel in Paris. I started editing A Hotel in Bath, before I hand it over to an editor and re-read Paris. Made me feel as if I were there.
***
The shrill wail echoed in the
hallway, Minola Grey slammed the door to her hotel room and
followed the sound
of distress. She saw the maid dart out of a guest room in sheer panic. Minola
reached her in a few brisk strides and
asked, "Yvonne, what's the matter?"
She didn't detect any sign
of injury, just pure terror in her eyes. This type of behavior was unlike Yvonne, who
was always
steadfast. Nothing ever ruffled her.
"Mademoiselle Grey…body…blood…" she
sobbed.
"Body? Blood?
Whose body? Yvonne, please…please
sit down." Minola led her to the
plush oversized chair near the elevator.
"Tell me what happened," Minola pleaded.
"Lord
Yardleigh. In his room…dead…blood,"
Yvonne said, her voice shook, but the weeping now dwindled to a whimper.
"Yvonne, knock on Dr. LeBrun's door. See if he's in. I'll go to Lord Yardleigh's room." Minola's voice quiet and subdued, she thought
to offer comfort to the distraught maid. “Please call the front desk for help,
and get Security up here, fast."
Lord Yardleigh's open door allowed Minola to walk
in, and what she saw left no doubt in her mind.
Lord Yardleigh was dead. The body
splayed out on the floor did not diminish the quiet elegance of the room. Minola’s stomach twisted in a knot, her
muscles tightened and nausea rose in her throat.
She'd never seen a body, much less in this bloody state. Think!
Don't touch anything. She
shook her head, as if to clear any lingering cobwebs. Get hold of yourself. Where is the gun? I don't see
a gun. Murder? Must be. He didn’t get up and dispose of the gun and then
conveniently lay down and die. Not with that wound. A great fan of the mystery genre, Minola knew enough not
to disturb anything in the room. The
crime scene needed to be preserved.
Reluctantly, Minola looked at the body again and
noted how impeccably dressed he’d been–crisp white linen shirt, gold cuff
links, and an expensive watch still on his wrist–impeccable except for the
bloody stain that had spread beyond the hole in the shirt and created a crimson
river against the achromatic background.
To relieve her queasiness, Minola swiftly glanced at the rest of the
room. As an artist she focused on the de
rigueur hotel furniture, then on the few contemporary canvases displayed on
the walls. These were not hotel issue, and
were good.
The colors and textures of the paintings strangely
complimented the hues of the grim, yet powerful, scene before her. Contemplating
the pieces on the wall gave Minola a much needed reprieve from the ghastly
outline on the floor. Her hands clenched
as she began to shake.
Nothing appeared to have been disturbed in the
quiet, serene room. The curtains were
open, and the sun filtered through to cast a warm dappled glow over the
body. Minola shuddered, turned and
without touching anything walked out of the room.
Back in the hallway, she patiently waited for what
she knew would be a barrage of questions by hotel security and the Police
Nationale de Paris.
This hotel is my home. What happened here? To give her an essential, although temporary,
reprieve from the tragedy, she focused on yesterday’s idyllic day sitting in a
café, in a cozy secluded booth across the street from the Luxembourg Gardens.
Through the gilded wrought-iron fence she gleaned the contemplative and
everyday life of the Parisiens unlike today, where the horror of sudden death
intruded on her contemplation.
As she waited for the police, she relived the
relaxed pace inside the gardens, so peaceful and calm. She remembered the old couple who sat on a
bench and held hands, a woman watched her child play, and on another bench, two
women sat in comfort and rolled the prams containing their precious
cargoes. Their hypnotic movements, back
and forth, back and forth, helped lull Minola
into utter contentment as the mesmerizing and soothing minutes flicked by.
The image of Lord Yardleigh's body intruded on her
thoughts. So peaceful in repose…so
still, so sanguine, except for the blood.
Go back to the gardens. Go back to the gardens.
"Mademoiselle Grey…pardon, Mademoiselle,"
she faintly heard a voice call her back to reality. Art
drew her to Paris, so well represented–not
confined to museums, but present everywhere, and always in the gardens which
peppered this amazing city.
"Mademoiselle Grey…Mademoiselle, s'il
vous plait." She heard that voice again, faint but urgent
calling her. Her
serenity shattered, she faced the certainty
of a gruesome murder in her quiet hotel. Slowly Minola opened her eyes, and noticed
the hallway was filled with police and crime investigators. She recognized
what looked like a solitary pathologist carrying a black medical bag. The police did not block his entry.
"Mademoiselle Grey, are you all right? I need to ask you a few questions." The gentle yet insistent voice persisted
through her hazy reality. "Yes, of course. I am sorry," she replied, and again
clenched her hands to keep them from shaking.
"I'm Luc
Dubois with the Police Nationale.
Mademoiselle, we already have a statement from the maid. She said that you went into the room. Did you touch the body?" he inquired
politely.
"I didn't touch anything…no…nothing at
all. I went in to see if I could
help. Yvonne had said blood…I just
wanted to make sure… I…"
He nodded his head and continued, "Did you
notice anything unusual? Did you see or
hear anyone come up to this floor while you were waiting for the police?"
"The room appeared undisturbed. So clean.
I didn't see or hear anyone, but I closed my eyes because I needed to
escape. I am sorry, but I believe I drifted off a bit. Maybe Yvonne heard or saw something. Not a robbery…" Her calm voice belied her distress. She looked
down and tried to still her quaking hands.
"Yes, I know.
I had a difficult time bringing you out of your reverie,
Mademoiselle. The maid had gone downstairs
to summon help; she could not get the phone to work. I believe she was too agitated. Pourquoi? Why are you so certain that it was not a
robbery?" he queried.
"You must have noticed he wore a gold Rolex. There are also several very worthwhile contemporary
art pieces on the wall. A thief would
have certainly stolen these items. No
self-respecting crook would leave a Rolex on his victim's wrist.” She said. “The
Luxembourg Gardens are a far more delightful escape than seeing a murder
victim." Her voice was wistful as she looked up, her eyes shimmered, but
she refused to let the tears fall.
"There I would agree with you,
Mademoiselle. I am sorry you were a
witness to such a tragedy."
"Merci. Thank you for understanding."
Minola closed her eyes and saw
the sun filter through the pool of blood–a macabre scene, one that would stay
with her forever. She blinked twice and
looked down at her watch. "Pardon, but I am already late for class. May I please go, unless you still need me for
any reason? I will be back this
afternoon. I can leave my passport at
the front desk." As an afterthought
she added, "If necessary."
"That will not be required,
Mademoiselle. You may go. I understand that this is difficult for
you. There will be more questions for you
this afternoon; please do make yourself available. Merci, Mademoiselle." He moved on to speak with another policeman.
* * *
Yves Lanier, of the Police Nationale, was a man
with a mission. His dingy grey office
with matching furniture was so littered with papers and books that he couldn't
find the phone on his desk. It was here
somewhere, he knew. Damn it, I used
it yesterday. He briefly stared at
the mess…then, with quiet efficiency, slid everything off his desk to the floor,
and heard the ping of the phone hit the ground.
He bent down, picked it up, and dialed a London number he knew well. A quiet voice answered: "Peter
Riley."
"Bonjour, Peter. How are you, my friend?"
"I know that tone, Yves. Interpol at your service. What's going
on?"
"Peter, Yardleigh was murdered sometime late
last night or early this morning. I
think your investigation into money laundering just veered off track."
The silence at the other end was palpable. "What the hell happened? He was cooperating. What do you have?"
"We have nothing, mon ami. He was shot once in the chest with a
small-caliber gun. No exit wound–the
lab's still working on that. Purely as
an observation, it looks like he knew his killer. No surprise or fear…there's nothing reflected
on his face. Nothing stolen. Everything, as you English say, was neat and
tidy, save for the corpse on the floor.
We secured the crime scene and did all the lovely things we are supposed
to do. The bastard was not nice enough to leave any
clues." Lanier spoke with the
confidence of a seasoned cop.
"Let me talk to Clivers, my superior. Murder is out of our jurisdiction. I suppose that leaves Scotland Yard in the
game."
"Peter, this started in England."
"Don't I know it. I will call you back." Lanier heard the phone click in his ear.
* * *
Cheers,
Margot Justes
www.mjustes.com
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