The Clue L' Indice: SEVEN PARIS MYSTERIES, #4

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. Who knew? Spies Read! A murder has been committed in Paris at an antique store named "L' Indice." The antique store's strange history of unsolved murders and robberies began long before the WWII rumors of masterpieces stolen from castles on the Rhine. Jamie Litton, whose mystery writer's imagination won't let dead men or their secrets rest in peace, moves in upstairs with hopes of discovering the truth for his next bestseller. His best friend Ben Foulof is untangling a mystery of his own in Japan & Australia, where he has sought refuge from an international news organization that has condemned him as a rogue agent. Will either of them understand an ominous warning hidden in a book?

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215406458

Peggy Kopman-Owens

Peggy Kopman-Owens writes suspenseful fiction, gentle mysteries with touches of romance that inspire readers to search for their passports. Her literary properties, reflecting her work in 35 countries, include three series set in Paris. SIMON PENNINGTON MYSTERIES, MRS. DUCHESNEY MYSTERIES, and SEVEN PARIS MYSTERIES now available in eBook, paperback, hardcover, and / or audiobook. (author's photo: © Michael D. Owens)  Cover Art © Roger Kopman. Online gallery at KOPMANPHOTOS.com "My mother wrote stories and songs, becoming my inspiration, teaching that passion and patience are inseparable partners. From my father and mother, both musicians who loved to travel, I learned to embrace a world full of diversity and endless possibilities. I can never thank them enough for bestowing this lovingly unselfish gift of intellectual freedom."

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Chapter 1

CAESAR DIDN’T WANT to leave Montmartre. He complained bitterly, loudly, in his strongest bari­tone voice. I couldn’t blame him, but the lease had expired, and the owner’s notaire (agent) had already signed the papers. The place was sold. A buyer was waiting in the wings, eager to launch into a complete remodel. Everyone wanted us out. I had been able to delay our departure as long as possible, thanks to the French law that protects tenants by preventing property owners from evicting between the months of Octo­ber and March. The humanity of French law still amazed me. Simple citizens are protected from ruthless property owners, tossing them out in the snow. Imagine that! The revolution continues.  

Caesar didn’t care what the law stated. His demands were simply stated. Loudly, he shouted to be liberated from prison. That wasn’t going to happen, at least not until we reached Jacqueline’s apartment. Caesar didn’t know that soon he would be sharing space with Yves and Luciano, but he had no choice. He did not appreciate that this, also, would be a sacrifice on my part. I enjoyed having him around, especially at night, when he slept on my head. However, where I was going, cats weren’t welcomed.

Since Jacqueline and I had gone our separate ways, Caesar had become my only warmth at night. We were coming out of one of the worst winters on record, and although, it was already the first week of April, Parisian nights were still bone-chilling cold. Caesar didn’t know how lucky he was. He was going to the warmth and comfort of Ives’ woolen nest, a special bed snuggly placed in the cor­ner of Jacqueline’s room, right next to her bed. I knew from experience that, with the exception of being next to her in bed, this would be the warmest place in Jacqueline’s house. In addition, he would be sharing it with a charitable-natured, longhaired Persian. For an old, battle scarred alley cat, Caesar was moving up in the world. Tonight, he would fully understand and ap­preciate his new liv­ing arrangement. Perhaps, then, he would forgive me.

I, on the other hand, was heading for an unfurnished apart­ment above a store, where I would be lucky if the heat had been turned on. Most likely, it had not. The store had stood empty for several years. The owner had died. His widow had not wanted the responsibility of running the antique store, which had been his passion, not hers. There were other circumstances surrounding his death, ones, which she hoped to forget by moving to Strasbourg to be nearer her grandchildren.

The apartment on the first floor, situated directly above the store, had been her home for more than forty years. The Alsatian bride had moved in as a newlywed. Little had changed since. It was large, by Parisian standards, where normally closets passed for kitchens, and platforms sus­pended six feet above the floor served as bedrooms. I was thrilled to have the larger space, the equivalent of two modern apart­ments merged, regardless of its ancient décor or room temperature.

Otto, my friend, and a noted Austrian sommelier, who works in a popular restaurant in the eighth Arrondissement, had purchased the building. Who knew that sommeliers made so much money? I did not ask how much, or even How? He had been lucky enough to secure the purchase. That was all that I needed to know. I kept the suspicion to myself that somewhere there was a silent partner.

When Otto heard my sad tale of losing my loft near Mont­martre with its spec­tacular view of Le Sacré Coeur, he took pity and offered the apart­ment above the store. He said that it was a per­fect solution for both of us. He did not wish to leave his cozy apartment in the 8th, so close to where he worked, and so agreeably decorated in the style to which he had become accustomed. He said, unemotionally, that the store’s building had been simply an investment. In addition, he had known the widow. He was trying to help her out financially. He tried to diminish further the generosity of his offer, by insisting that the apartment above the store was drafty, needed a great deal of remodel­ing, and was far too large for him. He added that he didn’t have the time to fix it up. Per­haps, I would. He asked it, as if I would be doing him a favor.

He admonished me for not looking ahead, to when I would need more space for Adela, who was growing bigger every day. With a few improvements, he said, the apartment could be ideal for the two of us. Adela would need a separate bedroom. The apart­ment had two, in addition to an unusually large, country-house sized kitchen. I thought that this alone was what convinced Otto to buy.

Otto described it in minuscule detail. He must have coveted it from the moment he first saw it, imagin­ing one day that he would live there. Otto was an excellent chef, although he did not exercise his talents professionally. I knew that if I took the apartment, he would be a regular dinner guest, as well as chef. That made it all the more attractive an offer. I enjoyed Otto’s cooking, al­most as much as his companionship. Food had brought us together. We first met at a street mar­ket, over fresh artichokes. A discussion en­sued, which led to dinner invitations, and eventually to our friendship.

It seemed from the first moments of Adela’s life, that Otto had become her self-appointed guardian. I appreciated his generous spirit, interest in my daughter’s welfare, and apparent efforts to en­sure that we both enjoyed a good home. In the few years, that he and I had shared, he had proven a good friend, although, he had never hidden that he was not fond of cats or small children. Now, that Adela was growing up, and becoming a proper young lady, he seemed less annoyed by her presence. Caesar, on the other hand, would probably never stop annoying him.

Not to be taken advantage of, by our friendship, Otto said, quite matter-of-factly, that he would expect rent. The amount, how­ever, was embarrassingly low. I agreed to sign a three-year lease, which was standard practice, when renting an unfurnished apartment in Paris. Otto was te­dious in following the letter of the law. He didn’t want any trouble from French housing authorities. He could have adver­tised for, and gotten, three times the amount that he requested. I agreed in re­turn, to contract for the remodel out of my own pocket, which would ensure that, when I departed that the apartment, it would be in better shape than when I moved in. I would be protecting his in­vestment. My remodeling efforts would reward him with an intrinsic form of interest in that he could ask for a great deal more rent from the next tenant.

Knowing that I would be living there appeared to give him peace of mind. I had heard so much about the place. Although, I had not seen the inside yet, I was thrilled at moving into such a grand space. Often, I had walked by the address, close to my old neighbor­hood on the edge of Montmartre. I had become a creature of habit, eating at the same places, buying my baguettes at the same bakery. With the new address, I could maintain my same daily routines. It only required a few extra blocks of walking. A change would be good. My waistline needed the exer­cise. Since return­ing to Paris from Malta, I had given up my gym membership because it was a reminder that I had been exercising for all the wrong reasons.

The only negative of this move to the new apartment, fell on Caesar’s bony old shoulders. He had to live elsewhere. Otto was not fond of cats, and he thought any cat, even one as docile and well trained as Caesar, would destroy the hardwood floors. It was the first time, since we had met, that he had been so unbending, so I didn’t argue. Besides, I could visit Caesar at Jacqueline’s apart­ment, as she had graciously agreed to Caesar joining her growing menagerie. She had to. Adela loved the old cat. In addition to Yves, named after Yves Montand, they had a bird named Luciano, in honor of Luciano Pavarotti. Luciano already complained daily about sharing the apartment with Yves. No one told him Caesar was moving in.

There was a truce between them, the baseball-size bird with the huge voice, and Yves, the fluffy cat, who stared at him hour upon hour. It was, however, a fragile truce, occasionally broken with noisy insults from both sides. Luciano knew how to elicit a vocal response from his foe. If aggra­vated, Yves could raise his voice from a soft meow to a ferocious growl, usually, while in mid leap from the arm of the chair. Luciano always seemed surprised by the assault, having never grasped the cause and effect of his spiteful mocking of Yves. The prospect of having two vocal critics, leaping about his cage from different directions, would do nothing to improve Luciano’s tempera­ment. It would be up to Jacqueline to mediate peace talks. I was a life-long pacifist, not a hostage negotiator. Be­sides, Luciano had often mocked me, usually, when I was naked, and trying to dress in the morn­ings. His opinion did nothing to improve my self-esteem.

It had been almost a year, since Jacqueline and I had decided to live apart, and more than a year, since we each had made our sepa­rate journey back from Malta. We had been forced to re-examine our lives and our relationship. We made a commitment to live under the same roof, again. After such life-threatening adven­tures, we had been so glad to see the other alive that for weeks, we rode the wave of relief and elation without further analyzing our situation, or contemplating our fu­ture. We smothered each other in apologies. Always, better friends than lovers, we turned our late night bed­room conversations into gripping confessions, trading truths for lies. I blamed hers on the wine. She blamed mine on the need to hear my own voice. We both thought that it had been the lies, which first had pushed us apart, destroying our relationship. In fact, it had been more, much more.

After a few months, in the harsh light of day, when the con­fessions had time to sink in and fester, little irritations began bubbling to the surface, and then, the irresolvable disagreements emerged... again. We were both intelligent enough to step back, before these heated up to a boil, emotionally and irrevocably damaging what was left of our relationship. We agreed. We had to let go, if not of the past, then of each other. Whatever we had, as lovers, was now gone.

We had started out as friends. We both voiced the hope that we could remain friends. How­ever, friends don’t betray each other, and remain friends long. We had both been betrayed - she, by my affair with a woman, posing as my psychiatrist, and I, by her affair with a doctor at the hospital, where she worked. As lovers, we should have never shared the details of our misguided trysts. As friends, desperate to recover what we had lost, we could not stop ourselves from purging our souls. As lovers, we could not stay together because of it.

We had mistakenly imagined that our hearts were bigger than they were; that our compas­sion outweighed our egos; that all past sins could be forgiven and forgotten. They were not. We were wrong. We had tried to ignore what was painfully obvious. We were human. To save what was left, we simply stopped in mid-sen­tence, and immediately, that night, stopped living together. After awhile, we stopped calling each other in the middle of night to ask, Are you ok? Somehow, we would have to find our own way home in the dark.

Things are better now for one simple reason. We could not stop caring about the one love in our lives that hadn’t changed, our love for Adela. This little girl has both of our hearts. She also de­pends upon us, both of us. Legally, I am her father. Biologically, I am not. Jacqueline is neither her mother, nor my wife. Adela’s mother died shortly after Adela was born. Jacqueline stepped into the role of Mama by default. Adela’s mother legally ordained my future as Papa in the final hours, before she passed over. Remem­bering that Adela is an orphan makes it easier for us to con­tinue as surrogate parents. One day, when Adela is older, one of us will tell her the truth. In the meantime, we will share custody. There is no need for a legal agreement. A phone call each week suffices. We determine our schedules, discuss it calmly, recruit Bernadette when neces­sary, and so far, it seems to be working.

Otto said, he understood. Otto, innately, too austere an indi­vidual to express it aloud, loves all three of us. While the fact that Jacqueline and I are no longer a couple saddened him, he would remain our friend, equally loyal, equally devoted. We would never again, be exactly Otto’s trinity of souls, who pic­nicked in Jacqueline’s garden on a warm summer night. But, the three of us would continue being con­nected.

One day, Otto flatly announced that I could no longer go on, living my life as a bachelor. The charade must stop. I had other, more important responsibilities. It surprised me. He had neve­r interfered before, never forced his opinion upon me, but I accepted this unexpected judgment without argument. He was right. The loft in Montmartre was best suited for a bachelor. It would have been only a matter of time, before Adela’s needs would have forced my move. Otto’s offer could not have come at a better time.

I could not understand why he would want an antique store, especially one that had been closed for years. It didn’t seem like much of an investment, but then again, I had never been inside. Although, window shades hid what was left of the inventory, the large shop windows had grown so dirty that it was nearly impossible to see inside, anyway. It didn’t appear as though anyone had ventured into the store, with the exception of the French police, since that fateful day the owner had died. However, there was one other small exception. A small framed photo of a man had been placed in the corner of the window by the locked front door, and a thin black ribbon had been draped around it. The owner’s widow had placed it there, before de­parting for Strasbourg, as a small memorial to her late hus­band. She wanted to announce to his cus­tomers that, indeed, he was gone.

I dropped Caesar off at Jacqueline’s, but she was not home. Bernadette was babysitting Adela, who came running at the sound of my voice.

Papa! Papa! she chirped.

She was always happy. It made my heart skip a beat to hear her voice. I picked her up and danced her around in midair. She laughed. Bernadette laughed. Adela had passed her fourth birth­day only a few weeks before, at which time she had received ballet slippers. Dancing was her rai­son d’etre these days.

I asked Bernadette how the dancing lessons were coming along. She said Adela’s instructors called her a natural balle­rina. At the prices that I was paying, it was an expected response from the little group of out-of-work dancers, who would never dis­courage a student, who could pay. I had met the dance school’s head mistress at one of our weekly café society dinners. A guest of Berna­dette, she had been both charming and very persuasive. I agreed to the lessons, more for Berna­dette’s plea­sure, than for Adela. How­ever, so far, it seemed to be benefiting both. With Adela in ballet class twice a week, Bernadette had more time for herself. 

Bernadette had a reason for wanting more free time. She had a new boyfriend. I was about to ask about Gerard, when she began explaining that the hospital had called. They needed Jacque­line to work an additional four hours on the ambulance. There had been a factory fire, so every able body was needed. Jacqueline, an EMT (emergency medical technician), was nothing, if not dedi­cated to her profession. I knew that it would be well after midnight, before she returned. Berna­dette anticipated my question, offering to stay the night. Gratefully, Bernadette had arrived at the apart­ment, when the call came in. She had dropped by, hoping to go to dinner with Jacqueline and Adela. I asked if I could pick up dinner. She thanked me, but said that there was no need. It was already prepared in the kitchen, she said, extending an invitation. I made the excuse that I needed to take inventory at the new apartment. She promised to stop by the next day, in case, I needed an extra set of hands for cleaning the place.

Bernadette was a good friend, always ready to help anyone. I reassured her that Otto had already taken care of everything. She seemed relieved. Gerard had tickets to an exhibition. I was honored that she had put my needs, before his. I still had strong feelings for Berna­dette, but I had never acted upon them. They surfaced at odd mo­ments, usually, when another man was in her life, other­wise, not at all. Somehow, in the back of my mind, I had accepted that if we slept together, Bernadette and I could no longer be friends. I treasured her friendship too much to risk losing it.

The apartment above the antique store L’ Indice was only four blocks from my loft, but getting there meant backtracking across town from Jacqueline’s place in the 16th to the 18th. I de­cided to walk rather than take the Métro, as there was no need to rush. I already had the keys to the new apartment in my pocket, as Otto had proudly presented them at lunch, apologizing that he could not accom­pany me. He had to get to the restaurant early to set up for dinner because Aubrey, the sous chef from Ireland, had gotten married and was still on her honeymoon. I thought Otto might still be harboring feelings for Aubrey. If he was, he was hiding them well.

Although, I had only met her once, I remembered Aubrey from the time, when Otto invited her to one of our weekly café society dinners. Right from the start, she and Bernadette’s British boyfriend Peter hadn’t hit it off. In fact, after the first gathering, Au­brey refused to come to any more, if Peter was invited. It was presumptuous of her to assume that she would be invited back at all. A guest’s first din­ner is always a trial run. Before Otto could inform her of our decision, she interrupted to remind him, with yet another preemptive strike against Peter, that she had no interest in joining our group.

In truth, Bernadette had already blackballed Aubrey from the group. Otto had protested, more to defend his right to choose his own guests, rather than to defend Aubrey. He had found Aubrey’s ability to speak her mind among strangers, in stark contrast to his own stoic manner, ex­citing, but also dis­turbing. He never told her, that she had been silently voted out, before dessert had been served. Instead, he allowed her to think that she had opted out on her own. Otto, a fair-minded fellow, re­luctantly accepted the final decision of the group, and Bernadette. He needed no reminder that in earlier days, he had blackballed one of Bernadette’s dinner guests, a rough-necked football player. That fellow had managed to run the silent gauntlet, to make it through two entire dinners, before we ousted the abrasive loudmouth. Our café society had unwritten rules. No bullies allowed.

Otto treasured his friendship with Bernadette. It had never really been a choice. Otto would always take Bernadette over Aubrey, who even now, after two years, seemed un­able to adjust to Parisian life. Not long after Bernadette’s vote, which made certain that Aubrey’s long legs would not be invited back; the Irish-British disagreement became a moot issue. Bernadette suddenly, per­manently, blackballed Peter from her bed. Détente was assured, once again.

Silently, I cheered. Bernadette was enlightened on a visit to England to meet Peter’s parents, after a chance moment of divine intervention. She over­heard Peter’s mother make the fatal error of describing Bernadette as fat. Peter could not glib his way out of the quagmire, which his mother created. Bernadette did not even bother to pack her bags. She left the normally tight-lipped Episcopalians, standing in the doorway with their mouths hanging open, as she grabbed a cab and the first flight back to Paris.

She arrived in time for dinner with us. Seeing her, confidently enter the room, alone, and not on the arm of her Essex giant, we spontane­ous­ly broke into applause. Even good-natured Bernadette had her limits on tolerating ignorance and the asinine 18th century concept of a perfect waistline. Fortunately, for the rest of us, who enjoyed both Otto and Bernadette, sitting together at our table, the two never let their poor choices of dinner guests, or sex­ual partners, damage their friend­ship, nor the peace of our café society.

I called out to Adela, to say that Papa was leaving, then, bent, and kissed Bernadette on the forehead. It was an awkward sort of ritual because I was nearly a foot taller. She seized the op­portunity to re­mind me of Adela’s parent-teacher meeting, scheduled for next week, then added, Oh, yes, and Monica wants you to call her.

I thanked Bernadette for the reminder and the message, then, told her good­night. I could see Adela in the next room, engrossed in a television program. She