The Seasons in the Garden: SEVEN PARIS MYSTERIES, #2

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. Who knew? Spies read! "I did not know, that I was being seduced, until it was too late - the faces unknown, the moment unexpected. Is that not the essence of seduction?" Living in a loft in the 18th Arrondissement near Montmartre, mystery writer Jamie Litton has become intoxicated with his life as the newest member of Parisian café society; a group of talented, eccentric artists, musicians, and poets. They have unconditionally embraced their American friend, not knowing that he hides a dangerous secret.His best friend is a spy on the run from a powerful international news organization that wants a rogue agent back, dead or alive. From Paris to the island of Malta, the hunt for Ben Foulof is on. If the bumbling mystery writer Jamie Litton gets in the way, kill him… but bring back his newest manuscript. It holds all the clues.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215830413

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."

Book preview

Question Mark Chapter Heading.jpg

Chapter 1

Le Printemps

Where to plant

Choose your spot wisely.

Gardens are visited by both

strangers and friends.

I CAME TO PARIS TO write.

It was Paris’s history that drew me here, but my personal history that made me stay. I could no longer go home. My footprints had been erased. Only an envelope stuffed with old hotels receipts and an old list of borrowed addresses traced my fading path around the world.

This time, it was my story I was trying to write, not Ben’s. At least, that is what I told myself. To think otherwise, I could not tell it. How much of the story was his? Our lives had been intertwined for so long that it was a struggle to remember what had been his life, what had been mine. What I do remember is that his had no meaning, no focus, and no drama before we met. It was impossible to imagine what his life would have been like without me.

Question Mark Chapter Heading.jpg

Chapter 2

Prepare your garden

Remove last winter’s debris

BEN PROMISED TO VISIT in Paris for a long weekend in the spring, before he re-opened Υπόσχεση (The Promise) for the new season. I told him to bring Ryka. He reminded me that I should always use their new names.

On Corfu, Ryka is called Nora. Ben has become Nick. The restaurant was my wedding present to them. Adela had given it to me in guilt, payment for the pain that she imagined she had caused. It stood as final witness to how far she and I had grown apart since first meeting on the beach at Pelekas so many years ago. She was only a plane ride away. For all the good the thought did, she might as well have been dead.

It seemed appropriate to give the beautiful little bar at the top of the cliff to someone else, someone who already loved it. Ben said that he knew, from the first moment that he saw it, he could spend the rest of his life there. He rarely spoke from the heart, so from these words I suspected that he would share it with someone special. I never imagined that it would be Ryka.

Their first year was slow, which gave Ben  ...I mean Nick... time to sail, to fish, to get to know whom to trust, and whom to avoid on the island. He sent for Ryka within six months of his arrival on the island. Her injuries had prevented her from coming sooner.

Ben quickly gained an audience among the men his age, those who had not traveled in the way that he had. He told them that he had been a former merchant marine. It explained away many of the details of his life, which he might otherwise disclose in careless conversation or let slip over too many beers. His excuse was that he was getting too old to remember the lies. One big lie would do.

Ryka, a chameleon by trade, quickly dissolved into the tapestry of middle-aged women at the markets and on the beach. She knew to listen, not to speak, not to share. As Nora, she toned down her looks, hiding the best parts of her body, saving them for only Ben. Her look became nondescript, non-specific. Without make-up she was only less noticeable, not less attractive. She told the few who did ask that she was Italian. It was a good choice as she had perfected a regional accent, which had become so natural as to vanquish her native Israeli. She loved Italy and had already perfected her Italian cooking skills. It was with these that she had first seduced ... Nick. (Give me time. Eventually, I will be able to call him that without stuttering.) How many times in New York had Ben dragged me to Little Italy for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday dinners? It was no surprise that he had fallen, becoming an easy victim of Ryka’s garlic-laced aphrodisiacs.  

According to Ben, the college backpacker crowd had discovered the hidden beaches of Corfu again this year. The tradition of discovery had begun twenty years earlier, when I had been one of its first explorers. (Or so, it seemed.) Corfu was timeless. So was young love. The island was a paradise, especially for college students lost between semesters. The beautiful little taverna, now in the care of my best friend, hung above the tree line, a compass point leading to a perfect beach for lovers. Word spread rapidly.

The second year proved more work than Ben wanted, but he dug in, knowing that it would generate enough income to provide financial comfort for the winter. Off-season, he planned to spend his days fishing or sailing. He offered to split the profits from summer.

No, thanks, I said. It had never been about the money. Ben and I had a history. Our friendship didn’t have a price tag.

Adela and I had a history, too, but when she returned to Singapore as Tatia, where she had never been known as Adela, our history ended. When we first met on the beach at Pelekas, she had been too young for me to love in the traditional sense. When I returned for her, when she was old enough to leave Corfu, she had disappeared. When we met again, years later in New York, she was on too high a pedestal to be reached. She had evolved from the innocent Greek island girl, the obsessive memory from my college summer abroad. Adela had become what the public knew of her, Tatia, a green-eyed, raven-haired Grecian goddess who dazzled the runways of New York and Milan. Now, even that image of her was fading. The public’s latest obsession was with an aquamarine-eyed, flaxen-haired, six-foot Swedish nymph of a fragile fourteen years. Fashion was all about the new season.

Tatia was last season. In truth, too many seasons had passed. Over thirty, Tatia was considered too old. She had, in the luxury of her marriage, turned down too many offers to model. Now, they did not arrive. The phone simply stopped ringing. With the death of her high-profile financier husband, Maurice, the social invitations in New York and Milan also disappeared. The last of her favorite accessories, her personal assistant, disappeared without giving notice.

Her mother, who had begged her daughter to take her to America, died without ever seeing the Statue of Liberty. Sadly, she died about a month after Tatia left the family home in Greece for her widow’s lair in Singapore. The oldest son found his mother on her deathbed with a stack of fashion magazines lying on the nightstand. Tatia’s picture was on most of the covers. He tossed them in the trash. She was no longer his sister, Adela.

Neither Tatia, nor Adela, returned for her mother’s funeral, although the paparazzi were there, waiting. Her brothers and sisters gave interviews, but the famous daughter remained missing. She was, they said, in seclusion. She did not emerge into public life for over a year, when she walked down the street, and no one knew her. It was a relief as well as a disappointment. She stopped wearing makeup and stopped dyeing her hair, choosing instead to hide behind a scarf and glasses. She was in a state of self-imposed exile.  

Ben over-heard one of her brothers talking in the taverna about the family’s dilemma. Her brother said that the family could not understand what had happened to Adela, why she had changed, why she did not return. They probably wondered why her money has stopped coming. I know, but I will never tell them. Even if they knew, they would still not understand. In their estimation, she was beyond forgiveness.

Corfu for me as well, with the exception of an occasional email or note from Ben, was nearly forgotten. The only reminder was a postcard thumb tacked to a small mirror frame near the front door. The card showed the taverna, before it became the now popular Υπόσχεση. They are both old and faded - the taverna and the postcard. Perhaps, Nick is too. I have not seen his face in two years. I knew the day, when I could look at the postcard without any pain, would be the day that I was truly free of her. Every day it grows easier to walk past the tiny reminder without looking. Growth can be painful.

New York still holds memories, too. It was where I came to be with Ben. It had been at his invitation, a promise that we would start new lives together. It held the unspoken promise of adventure and excitement. It tantalized with the possibility of fame and fortune. Time has revealed that the dreams were right. The location was wrong. At that time, we could not have written how our lives might play out in the years ahead, but we imagined great things – for both of us. In different countries, living separate lives, we still share our dreams and our imaginations.

Question Mark Chapter Heading.jpg

Chapter 3

Soil

Feed the earth

Feed it often

MY LIFE NOW IS IN PARIS, a place so synonymous with Le Printemps (spring) that the city landscapers insist upon ownership of the season by planning white blossoms on the trees, timed strategically with the arrival of scarlet red tulips and blue iris on the ground. Their color palette, displayed in every park, shouts, Welcome to France! The fragrances could take one’s breath away, if the blooming masterpieces had not already done so. To walk in the footsteps of so many famous and infamous people – well, that too, has an intoxicating effect. Add to that the vibrant rhythms of modern-day Paris and is it any wonder why so many hearts want to call it home?

With all of my worldly possessions tucked safely away in a small loft off a back street in the 18th Arrondissement, I feel privileged to say, I am a Parisian! I left very little in New York. There was nothing much worth bringing to a place that has everything. There is a bakery on my corner, where nearly every morning I become the first customer of the day. The irresistible aromas from its ovens break the night air, drifting in my windows at about 4:00 a.m. and preventing further sleep. The neighbors are quiet, the street empty after 10:00 p.m., and the dog next door - friendly. There is only one cat in the neighborhood, a large yellow male who stares up from his perch high above the street on the fourth floor balcony of our building. He channels Churchill, and memories of my writer’s nook in London. Churchill knew a lot about life, certainly more than I did. This big, yellow, Parisian cat has not yet revealed his secrets.

In Paris, one’s needs are met simply, but not cheaply. Fresh organic vegetables. Fresh flowers. I never see who delivers these treasures. I enjoy unbroken sleep, uncomplicated people, and unknown contentment. The addiction to alcohol has disappeared, or it has been replaced with other addictions not yet named. Here, one’s appetite is sated in other ways. Oh, yes, and I take two pills a day. I do not know why, but the doctor thinks that one day I will not need them. I do not think that I need them now, but I am not brave or rude enough to argue with him.

There is personal privacy here, even on the busiest of streets. No one here expects anything from a stranger, especially one who cannot or will not speak the language. That, too, is liberating. In truth, I speak some French, but choose to listen. What one imagines is often better than what one hears. French conversations create libraries of stories to be rewritten in the privacy of the loft. From necessity my French is improving, yet, is used judiciously for fear of public embarrassment.

One might not expect that walking in so busy a city would be relaxing. However, I find it is better than transcendental meditation. Mesmerizing. It is easy to get lost in one of a dozen village-like neighborhoods. It also borders on thrilling... to know you might never be found.

Joyfully, I was found. It happened about six months after arrival, about the time that Ryka ... (I mean Nora) moved to Corfu to be with Ben ... (Nick).

It was a chance encounter, a street market conversation over the choice of artichokes, followed by an introduction, more introductions, and then a weekly invitation to join the inner sanctum of the group for dinner. Make that dinners, for dinner is the centerpiece of French culture. No social intercourse can be shared without a savory, a sweet, a drop, a taste, followed by a long discussion of what it all means. Feeding the body is a metaphor for feeding the soul.

No one understands this better than Otto. He spends his life in a restaurant. Unobtrusively, he overheard my question, What is this vegetable called?

The épicier was not cordial, and did not answer.

Otto, embarrassed by the rudeness of his adopted compatriot, jumped in and interjected in his heavy Austrian accent, It’s called topinambour, or as you say, art-ta-chok. If you say artichoke, they will understand... although, it is spelled a bit differently. To be exact, A-r-t-i-c-h-a-u-t. Then, he pronounced it in French.

I appreciated his politeness. He sent the grocer a look than spoke volumes, and then, extended an invitation to join him for lunch, where the discussion not only continued, but also included nearly all his recipes for artichokes.

At lunch, I was introduced to Jacqueline. Otto told her he would come by later to help in the garden. They both insisted that I join them for dinner two nights later. I have been joining them, and several others, for weekly dinners ever since. It is the highlight of my life.

On Saturdays, I shop for the wine, which each of us is obligated to bring. It is not difficult to choose, as I have enjoyed so many over the years. It is only occasionally difficult, when someone offers a glass and I must refuse. They never ask why, and I never venture an answer. However, I do worry that my refusal might be construed as rude. This is a respectful group of people, and I fear offending them. It is quite obvious that I am both the newest member of the group and the only American. I do pick up their bottles, examine the labels, and compliment the presenter’s choice. They have introduced some vintages that I wish I could still enjoy. However, Pellegrino has become my beverage of choice these days.

Jacqueline is lovely, kind, and quiet. She listens well, always smiles a subtle smile, and asks questions that keep the conversations moving along. Her long brown hair is usually styled down and loose, caressing her long neck. She wears muted colors and very little make-up, and presents herself as the least fussy of the group. I do not know much about her, but I already like her. Otto likes her, too, but it appears that theirs is only a friendship, nothing more. Evidently, she has loaned him part of her garden in which to grow his special varieties of vegetables. Although, Otto is a professional sommelier, he fancies himself something of an amateur chef.

Most of the people I have met are younger, more energetic, and more socially engaged than I remember ever being. My mental batteries recharge with each encounter, curiosity is baited, knowledge challenged. So, too, the waistline. They eat for no less than four hours each time we meet, yet – they never gain a pound. Another challenge. Walking is the most common method of transportation here and I am hopeful that it will knock off a few pounds. I walk every day. Unfortunately, it is usually to a bakery.

A new map for my life is being charted here in Paris. The ultimate destination is unknown, but each time I meet my new friends the route becomes more familiar. The gatherings are filled with heady elixirs of revolutionary ideas held inside centuries old chalices. I am sober, yet, I walk home intoxicated from their words. I did not know that I was being seduced, until it was too late. The faces, unknown. The moment, unexpected. Is that not the essence of seduction?

In retrospect, it is ironic that I, who made a lifetime fantasizing about saving others, even those who did not wish saving, should become unable to save myself. Perhaps it was because this phase of life was not about any one person, but rather about ideas. It was this thought that a small group of people could save the world, which made me pray this small group would save me. They proposed that one refrain, played repeatedly louder and louder by a chorus of joyously unpretentious people, could make a difference. The idea was euphoric. It was naïve. It was what drove me further and further into the depths of their bosoms.

The group (for lack of a better name) did not think I had lost my mind, by throwing away my past in New York for an unpredictable future in Paris. They welcomed me with open arms. Age was of no concern. Here, a person’s past had no bearing. Here, a résumé, or as they say- the CV - is for wrapping fish. They savored saying that the person driving the taxi knows more about art and opera than does the CEO on Wall Street.

What matters, at least what mattered to them, and eventually came to matter to me, is the depth of a person’s commitment to the group concept. My desire for an unfettered future was fed at every opportunity, and in return, I fed theirs. I encouraged, applauded, cheered, then toasted (with Pellegrino) in celebration. When they cooed, I cooed. When they ranted, I ranted. When they silently rolled their eyes, I instinctively acknowledged their disdain. What we thought, what we felt, what we shared as a group, mattered. In the end, I would come to know that we did not. I did not. What mattered was the survival of the group. It fed us when our souls were starving. Our responsibility was to future members, to those still unaware of their hunger.

Otto explained that there are many ways to cook an artichoke. Jacqueline explained the best way to plant and to harvest them. Max argued with Otto over the best wine to serve with them, while Genie spoon-fed them to him. Raphael told a funny story about the first time he ate one. Bernadette was too busy eating to comment. Through a smoky fog of cigarettes, Jean-Pierre complained about the main course being served with artichokes. Monica sat quietly and composed a poem about them.

I observed and listened to them all and laughed, when they laughed. Every week, these people feed my heart as well as my stomach. And then, there is Gunter, who also observes and listens, but is sad. Later, in private, he will tell me. He has never liked artichokes.

Question Mark Chapter Heading.jpg

Chapter 4

Seeds

Plant when the earth

Warms to the touch

SEDUCTION COMES IN many forms. Anything that attracts our senses can seduce... food, drink, aromas, music, moonlight, and the unexpected touch of a stranger’s hand, a warm and whispered plea in the ear. But, an idea painted carefully and gently by an artist, for instance... an artist of words? Well... That is the most seductive. Whatever you crave is limited only by your imagination.

My appetite for Paris was whetted once before in my youth, and I had been wholly seduced. It had not disappointed. A warm spring night requires no imagination. It needed no words to seduce. There were no limits, then. Yvonne. A jazz club. Calvados. My first cigar. My first everything. Youth is inexhaustible.

This time, however, my seduction would be different. It should have come as no surprise, that middle age would make one even more susceptible to illusion. The predator, for that is how I can now best characterize him in cold bitter retrospect, was someone I trusted. Is that not always, how it starts? One allows oneself closeness to a person, someone who does not present a threat. The snare? Not needed. One traps oneself.  

Gunter was only an occasional member of our group, the quiet one, the one who never drew attention to himself. He said that he had already attended two weeks of dinners, before I noticed him and spoke. Really? Both dinners, attended by twenty or more guests, were in crowded apartments in the 1st Arrondissement. I am a wall hugger, one who gathers strength by not mingling. I never knew that he was there, until he mentioned it casually, revealing that he had noticed me from the moment I entered. It was my American accent, heard when I greeted the host, and then later my mood, dark and brooding, which had intrigued him.

Truthfully, I thought my accent fairly sophisticated for an American, devoid of twangs and dreadful punctuations of aahs and you knows. My mood? Well, perhaps since drying out, I do appear a bit glum. The thought of imbibing a well-aged port, Syrah, or a recent Fumé is missing from my life. Perhaps, it shows in my face. Truly, I do not miss the pain in my gut or the buzz in my head, but it makes me wonder, Do my outer expressions negatively reflect the saner, less-manic person that I have become? The weekly soirées had become the first true tests of my resolve to remain alcohol free. Studying my face in the mirror by the door, I wondered, if Gunter had simply not spent much time with someone my age, or perhaps, he had never been around someone who was recovering from an addiction, or maybe it was less complicated. Maybe, he had simply misread my lines and wrinkles, interpreting them as shared signs of boredom and disenchantment.

I noticed the postcard by the front door, and reached up to touch the old and faded image. It stopped me from thinking about my wrinkles. The door next door SLAMMED shut and a dog BARKED. The sounds brought my thoughts back to the present. The conversation in the hallway continued for a few moments.

Gunter’s observations of my new friends crowded out any memories of old ones. He was the designated second chair violin in an orchestra visiting from Germany. The musicians would be seated in Paris for a month, while the resident Paris orchestra was on tour in North America. Gunter’s orchestra was made up mostly of Germans, but he did introduce me to a musician from Prague and another from Budapest, who were both much older. Gunter did not seem to have any friends his own age, and so, spent much time alone by choice. His reasons for distancing himself from the rest of the musicians, during their tenure in Paris, were never clear.

Gunter had been to Paris already once this year, although, he did not tell me so. I overheard it said at one of our