A Bank in Paris: MRS DUCHESNEY MYSTERIES

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. In Paris, two bodies have been found floating in the river. Two friends appear in tourists' photographs, side-by-side smiling up into the Heavens, as if this had been nothing more than another Saturday spent happily fishing. Later, a third unclaimed body will turn up at the morgue. When the fourth appears, it's time for Paris sleuths Mrs. Duchesney and Louie Bertrand to get involved. Something very fishy has been happening along the banks of the Seine. What could these four deaths have in common and how is a small boy named Cicero involved? "Demandez au Morse," the worm seller tells Mrs. Duchesney. "Ask the Walrus."

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215632376

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

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The Hook

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Louie took the call, which was unusual for him to do at any time, but especially on a Saturday morning when it was most likely, his Friday night had ended only an hour earlier. Mrs. Duchesney was always on call for business on the weekends. Only when her phone had rung seven times was the call forwarded to her disgruntled partner. He argued that she should divert incoming calls to the company voice mail so that they should both be allowed to enjoy their weekends free from business. She argued they were not yet so famous, or so financially comfortable, that they could afford to ignore potential clients.

This time it was his deep REM fog compelling him to change his usual bark Quoi? (What?) To a more cordial Bertrand-Duchesney Investigations.

Vous parlez Français? a woman asked, meekly.

Oui, Louie answered in French, although he could have answered Yes in three other languages and conducted a cursory interview as well. Even in his sleep, he had learned to whisper, You’re beautiful in seven languages. Usually, that was enough to seal the deal. He might not understand a sleepy damsel’s foreign reply, but his effort was always rewarded.

Vous êtes Italiano? She asked, detecting a different accent.

Non, Louie answered, not inclined to reveal any personal information to an anonymous caller. That he was born on Malta and raised in Rome was none of this stranger’s business. Mrs. Duchesney usually handled these occasional inquiries from women, who were intent upon gathering information about him, and so, this was not a totally unfamiliar occurrence. Was this woman yet one more friend of Gabriella? Was his ex-fiancée never going to forgive and forget?

Et vous? He asked, turning the impropriety around, and continuing in French to make a point. She had called him and the onus was on her to explain why she was bothering him.

Pardonez-moi, Monsieur, she said, sounding both apologetic and distracted. Je suis désolé.

And, indeed, she was sorry. The last thing she wanted was to offend the man who might offer her hope in solving the unexplained murder of her uncle, Anton, le pêcheur, she said, nearly in tears. Louie vaguely remembered the story she began recounting of her uncle’s death in the Seine three months earlier, how Anton had been found floating alongside his best friend. He did not recall the final determination in the case, why only one man had been discovered with a bullet wound.

The other, Bernhard, had drowned in what was assumed an attempt to save his friend from drowning. He did not know that Anton was dead, before his body hit the water. Perhaps, Bernhard had not heard the gunshot, had assumed his friend was having a heart attack, a stroke while retrieving his line with a fish on it. Indeed, Anton had been reaching out with his right hand to reel in something. Or...maybe, Bernhard thought his friend had only slipped on the slick cobblestones.

The police had determined that the shot had come from a high-power rifle and from a considerable distance. Fresh bodies, even wet ones, gave up their secrets nearly as readily as dry ones, if they could be fished from the water quickly. To the best of Louie’s recollection, the case remained open. The woman drew a breath and Louie was able to interrupt to ask.

The murderer is still free?

She sobbed, Oui.

This time, he spoke English because the woman was having difficulty continuing in French and her American accent had clearly identified the reason for her struggle.

Do you think it was a professional hit? he asked, unemotionally, as if the woman was not a blood relative needing time to recover from her loss in the telling of it. An assassin?

I cannot say, she answered, quickly, which only confirmed that she already had considered this possibility. But the police do believe the death was intentional.

You say that as if... (Stopping to remind his sleepy self that there were proper protocols to follow) You have not introduced yourself.

Yes, please Monsieur. I would like to keep it that way. I realize that it is an unusual request, but you see my life may depend upon my anonymity. Will this prevent you from investigating on my behalf? I can pay in cash.

Louie was not at all displeased by her mention of cash, but found her request too unusual to answer without first consulting Mrs. Duchesney, who was a stickler for details. If the woman thought her life was in danger, then, to accept the case, he would be putting Mrs. Duchesney and himself at risk.

First, Madame, you assume that we investigate murders, which we do not. Secondly, you assume that I am accepting your case, which I am not...not without consulting my partner first. Third, you assume that I should care what happens to a total stranger, who refuses to identify herself on the telephone. I suggest you call the police or a private security firm. Louie was putting the receiver down when he heard her plea.

No! Wait! Please! The police will not listen to me.

It was not like him to refuse a woman’s pleas, even on a morning such as this, when he had been caught off guard and in a most distracted state of mind. He had enjoyed less than two hours sleep upon the heels of a very gregariously expended evening. He was having trouble remembering his own name, much less, Mrs. Duchesney’s set rules for interviewing clients.

Yes? He answered, impatient to return to his pillows.

Please, can we meet? She asked. I can tell you everything, but not on the telephone. Someone could be listening. Even now, I think I am being followed.

Well, if that is true, then wherever we agree to meet, they will be waiting. Non?

Do you remember where you were yesterday at 1 p.m.? She asked.

Of course, he did. Well... maybe. He thought for a moment. Yes, he had been at a café not far from his apartment in the Latin Quarter, where he often ate a late breakfast. Was that at one o’clock? Probably. For him, a man ending jazz club haunts at dawn, one o’clock in the afternoon was a perfectly suitable time for eggs. Oui, He said, reverting to French, looking at his watch, and realizing that he was, indeed, hungry. If he wasn’t to be allowed sleep, then, he had to have food. A man could not be expected to live without both.

I will leave you a message with Monsieur Lemoine.

Lemoine? Louie asked, confused. He knew of no Monsieur Lemoine at the café.

Yes. I think you do. He enjoys the Pastis with you. She said, quite frustrated that Louie was not understanding the code she was using.

Louie paused for a moment, trying to make sense of what the woman was attempting to convey, badly. Obviously, she was new at this cloak and dagger game. Lemons, Pastis, Café, 1:00 p.m., Breakfast... Yes, he was definitely getting hungry. Then, Ah! he remembered. The waiter there served a Pastis to a gentleman, who (like Louie) arrived at about this same time every afternoon. The man always sat two tables away and never spoke to anyone, preferring instead to read his newspaper and sip his apéritif. Did she know him? Was his name Monsieur Lemoine?

Then, Louie realized the essence of what she meant. The stranger always ordered one extra slice of lemon for his drink, which the waiter always brought on a separate plate. Yes, a lonely yellow slice on a big white plate. The waiter made the task appear to be an especially difficult one, bothersome really, never remembering to bring the lemon with the glass, although his customer and the request were a daily expectation.

Oui. I understand.

Merci, She said, relieved that he had finally gotten the point. Aujourd ‘hui? (Today) she asked, also reverting to French.

No, Louie answered. Pas aujourd'hui, mais peut-être le vendredi. Je dois une semaine chargée (Not today, but maybe on Friday. I have a busy week.)

He would forego sleep and go immediately to the café, if for no other reason than he was hungry and it was nearby. However, if someone were listening as she suspected, he could not confirm his plan to her over the telephone. No, he would question Monsieur Lemoine first.

Call me tomorrow about 6 p.m. and I can give you a day and time, but as I told you, we don’t investigate murders – just art robberies.

Yes, she said, sounding disappointed, I know. I will call you, tomorrow. OK? Maybe if you sleep on this, you will change your mind.

That does not happen, Madame.

OK. I understand, she said. I apologize for bothering you, Monsieur adding sadly, with my tragedy.

Louie hung up, quite certain that this would not be the last time that they spoke. He could not put his finger on the reason, but there was something in her voice, which said there was much more to her story, other than simply an unresolved murder of a beloved uncle and avid fisherman.

Yes, Louie could hear in her voice, the stranger had inherited some of her uncle’s fishing techniques, and he was hooked. But, was this woman a catch and release sort of pêcheur or was she going to make him struggle for his freedom? The thought bothered him all the way to the café.

Chapter 2

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The Bait

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The man, whom Rudy introduced simply as my friend Kristoph, was more, formally addressed Baron Friedrich Heinrich Bernd Kristoph von Heidenbrocht, fifth in line for a throne somewhere in Europe in a country that no longer recognized Royal bloodlines, except here on the French Riviera, and only to flesh out sagging guest lists. Kristoph loved pretentious hosts and they loved him because he and his mother seemed always available upon short notice.

That Rudy had met the Baron, hovering over a glass case at Van Cleef & Arpels, salivating over a watch, which for Rudy would have demanded a year’s salary, had not sent up any warnings of what was to come. His cousin, Mrs. Duchesney, thought it was an inescapable red flag, an obvious clue as to Kristoph’s real interest in Rudy, but she dared not injure his ego by revealing her suspicions.

As the exquisite timepiece that had captured the Baron’s attention was designed for a woman’s wrist, Rudy had assumed the man was heterosexual, married, soon-to-be, or was hoping to impress a new mistress. After a cursory, but lengthy assessment of the handsome buyer, Rudy moved past with a sigh for his loss. The well-dressed man seemed unaware of Rudy’s presence in the store, masking the nearby sigh with a deeper one of his own when the salesperson handed him a piece of paper upon which was written a price.

Rudy would be wrong about all of his assumptions, wrong about the gentleman’s sexual preferences, marital status, and especially, the man’s ability to pay for so dear a treasure. These errors in judgment would be revealed at a place down the street from the jewelry store, a sidewalk café where Rudy had gone to enjoy a cup of coffee and to pose like a Cannes film festival invitee for a mildly curious audience. The familiar stranger, carrying an even more familiar logo’d gift bag, arrived moments later displaying a distracted look of disappointment.

As he glanced down, Rudy glanced up. From that point forward, Fate would take a hand. Rudy had been counting upon someone taking an interest in him, but even he was surprised that it would be a man bearing gifts for someone else. The new man in his life would arrive without fanfare, but with an unexpected shadow in tow, inviting all manner of trouble. It would mean that a new chapter in his life was about to be written.

Didn’t buy the watch. Rudy said, in a statement rather than a question.

Awkwardly embarrassed by this stranger’s assessment of his predicament, Baron von Heidenbrocht, a tall, broad-chested fellow, answered with an indefinable accent, No. Looking back towards the jewelry store, then at Rudy, Then, you were...?

With his sandaled big toe, Rudy nodded, pushing the chair across from him away from the table and indicating with a quick flourish of his hand that there was a vacancy. Sit? The invitation was indeed a brave gesture and one to be rewarded with surprise, as the man who would prefer to be called Kristoph replied, Merci, and sat down.

Rudy would tell Mrs. Duchesney later, that it was as if he had been waiting at that café... for that matter, all his life... for Baron Friedrich Heinrich Bernd Kristoph von Heidenbrocht, fifth in line for a throne somewhere in Europe. By comparison, every man he had met since moving to Paris had been a poor imitation. For Rudy, this was love at first sight, and second, and every moment since... or so he would have her believe. In retrospect, he confessed to his trusted cousin, he had never been in love, not really, not before this very serendipitous moment at the jewelry counter of Van Cleef & Arpels.

Who would have thought it? Rudy asked. After all the time I wasted in nightclubs... to meet the man of my dreams in broad daylight. Then, his mind drifted off to memories of late nights and early mornings with sad histories of regrets and disappointing love affairs.

The important thing is that you’re happy now, Mrs. Duchesney interrupted to point out. She would not allow Rudy another lengthy critique of his life or spoil his latest chance at happiness by indulging his melancholy. No, she would not remind him how many times she had heard these very same words. He’s the one. She had heard a similarly passionate declaration too many times and she cherished her cousin’s friendship too much to shine too bright a light on his fickle heart.

Also, after meeting and spending some time with him, she actually liked Baron von Heidenbrocht in that non-committal way she liked strangers she met for the first time. He was to her surprise, as Rudy insisted, quite different from the other men brought home like abandoned cats. This one, this Kristoph was more of a pedigreed puppy, a fallen star, a disrobed Royal who was learning to live as a peasant... abandoned in France through no fault of his own. Although, none of this she had heard from his lips. Rudy confessed all behind his lover’s back, knowing that no one could keep a secret better than his cousin and dearest ally.

The Baron, on the other hand, was stoically reserved about his past, his present, or his future. On those rare occasions, when she had ventured a question about his life, it was usually batted about, before being answered with a question. Something along the lines of And you find this interesting, why? would be said with such a droll smile that she often dropped the subject, rather than risk seeming foolish enough to expect a serious answer. It seemed to her that one of the luxuries of being a royal lay in ignoring scrutiny by the proletariat.

She would give Rudy’s misplaced lover his due, that his unfortunate circumstance was, indeed, a trick of fate, an ill-timed revolution in a fatherland that no longer wanted to see children, grandchildren, or even great grandchildren wearing centuries-old crowns and tiaras. The Baron and his mother were now little more than two forgotten footnotes in a history book, leading pretentious lives on the French Riviera because the weather and the ambiance reminded them of better days and better lives, and truly because it was all that they could afford. The family’s other homes had been taken over long ago by the State. What little else remained, that could be sold, had been. With some restraint, they would survive.

In time, Kristoph would confess to Rudy that he had worked desperately to ensure that his mother’s expenses were covered, while keeping her naively unaware of how very difficult the task had become. Quietly, he admitted, he had fallen to the low level of accepting modeling jobs in Paris and Milan. Worse still, in desperation for an advance of quick cash, he had sold the family’s story to a publisher, who promised not to publish it, until after Kristoph’s mother was a ghost and even more happily unaware of her son’s treachery. Kristoph had made the publisher swear to this on the royal family’s ancient Bible, and then, coldly assured the shocked literary giant that he would use it to beat him senseless, if the man dared to violate their agreement. Perhaps, it was Kristoph’s size, which served as the greatest assurance against betrayal. Shortly afterwards, Kristoph sold the Bible to a university library with the stipulation that he could check the Bible out of the library one day a year. If the publisher ever broke his word, Kristoph would need to borrow the family treasure only once.

The mother, nearly translucently alabaster, was as rich in contradictions as she had once been in diamonds and rubies, and as hard as the priceless porcelains once generously filling her china cabinets. Although, not fired at 1300 degrees like them, her delicate body had withstood the fires of revolution and war to witness the horrifying burning of her parents’ home. The physical proof of this remained in an inescapably visible wound, the scars stitched together like a rose-colored cord along one arm and up her shoulder. It was as if ancient baby roses had found their way around the trellis of flesh and blood, refusing to be separated from it. This had prevented her younger self from wearing strapless gowns. Later, when she did, she draped something across one shoulder to create what would become her signature fashion statement. Young women of a now lost society, contemporaries who enviously had mimicked her style, had no idea what secrets lay beneath the silk and satin camouflage.

With each tragedy survived, each unexpected loss, each attempt at rebuilding from the ashes, and by Fate’s own pate-sur-pate (layering) design, the woman’s life had evolved into this now cameo image. Even at her advanced age, she was a masterpiece not quite finished.

When she stands in front of a sunlit window, Kristoph insists that he can see right through her. Rudy said, She’s there, but not there.

Mrs. Duchesney asked, You mean mentally?

No, no, Rudy assured her. She’s quite in charge of her mind, an impressive library of information. I doubt that there is a subject upon which she has not studied at one time or another. However, as I understand it, royalty... (As that was how Rudy viewed her) ...the females in her family were prevented from studying at universities, but private tutors taught her five languages, the graces of entertaining, the proper ways to dress, how to present herself at court, and of course, the arts... music, etc. But, she did not learn science or math or anything that her father considered... He searched for the right words. ...coarser.

Not that unusual in public schools in my day, Mrs. Duchesney noted.

Rudy nodded in agreement, preferring to return to his analysis of Kristoph’s mother. Like most teenagers, she rebelled by learning everything she could discover on her own. Kristoph said one time she dressed up in one of the male servant’s clothes and spent an entire day wandering the streets to find out what it would be like to be a boy. She’s a fascinating woman, but she scares the hell out of me. I’m afraid to ask her anything.

You? Mrs. Duchesney sputtered. This was more than a mere footnote in the story developing because she knew Rudy better than anyone else in Paris knew him. His natural curiosity was insatiable, and more importantly, his lack of discretion had resulted in many an awkward conversation. Like a curious child, he did not hesitate to ask a stranger the most embarrassing of questions. Upon numerous occasions, when witnessing this, she had been compelled to walk away shaking her head – thinking, How could a grown man be so tactless?

However, Rudy’s intent was never malicious. Unlike her, he had not been blessed with a grandmother who could explain in detail the difference between those questions, which were acceptable, and those, which were not. Without a roadmap or a heavy hand on his shoulder, he had freewheeled his way through life. So, for her cousin Rudy to admit he was suddenly and inexplicably speechless in the presence of Kristoph’s mother? Well, this was revealing something significant about the woman. His admission tempted Mrs. Duchesney to concoct a reason to meet the woman, if only to evaluate her cousin’s assessment of her and solve a bit of this newest mystery.

She asked Rudy to arrange it for her, and after overcoming his initial reluctance, he agreed. There would be an obvious benefit to him, if the two most important women in his life could spend a bit of time together. Mrs. Duchesney could ask the questions that he had not yet found the courage to ask. One was in regard to why Kristoph could never spend a night in Paris without his mother in tow. Did she really expect him to be both son and bodyguard? This short tether to his mother was becoming a real source of irritation to Rudy, who was hoping for more one-on-one time with his newest lover. Mrs. Duchesney might be the perfect answer, a woman who knew which questions to ask and when. Who better than an experienced sleuth to ask such things? Yes, she might fix everything.

Rudy was already investigating (without Kristoph’s knowledge) the plethora of retirement homes available in the south of France, focusing on those that catered particularly to the rich and famous. Upon learning this, Mrs. Duchesney felt compelled to point out that Kristoph was simply being a devoted son, acting in his mother’s best interest. Based upon the clues collected so far from Rudy’s babbling about antique markets, consignment jewelry stores, and frequent trips to various banks along the Côte d’ Azur, she suspected that Kristoph could no longer afford the cost of 24-7 security personnel. Stories about the frozen assets of exiles were common rumors in France and Rudy could not be totally unaware. Perhaps, it had not occurred to him, or yet to the Baron, that he and his mother were not so important as to need such close protection. Had Rudy not crowed about Kristoph’s status on the world stage, she would not have known. Probably, only a handful of people knew and, of those, an even smaller number might care. 

Perhaps, a convent would prove a better choice, Mrs. Duchesney suggested. Queens had for centuries lived out their golden years in the quiet company of those who could not refuse them shelter nor answer their complaints aloud. Given what little she knew of Kristoph’s mother, it seemed a viable solution. Rudy only Hmmm’d, which told her – he was considering it.

Could he be unaware that the world has moved on; that he and his mother are simply not that interesting or relevant in today’s world? She asked Rudy, who bristled at the suggestion his royal friend had become somehow more common than Hollywood celebrities. Exile, Rudy insisted, did not diminish the richness of royal bloodlines. It only made them less accessible.

The need for protection was, as Mrs. Duchesney suspected, residue from an earlier time. Maybe it was the last of their luxuries and for that reason, the most difficult to abandon. The idea that they needed protection. From what? From whom? This sort of paranoia and xenophobia was a constant natural companion for Kristoph, she sensed. He had memories of an early childhood, cast in the shadows of armed guards. Bedtime stories were filled with brave little soldiers, who had been killed fighting historically accurate revolutions. As a result, well into his adulthood, Kristoph suffered from nightmares and the need to protect a fairytale princess.

It did not matter that this princess happened to be his mother and this fairytale foretold no happy ending. To his credit, Mrs. Duchesney would concede, his familiarity with the damsel in distress in no way lessened the degree of his chivalry or the extent of his bravery. Had their country survived intact, he would have sworn on his 18th birthday to die for her, should the need arise.

History had spared Kristoph from proving his valor in battle, but it had not stopped him from risking everything else to shield her against the harsh realities of their vanishing wealth and diminished social status. This was a slower death and in many ways a more painful one. He walked past windows that displayed what had once been seen only by special guests in his father’s library and on his grandmother’s dinner table. He watched his mother dress and undress in robes that now suffered from too much wear and too few seamstresses. He saw her tears when a piece of jewelry was discovered missing. He could not suffer her reproach to confess he had sold it.

His personal life had suffered, too his self-respect, as was demonstrated by the number of times he had reserved a penthouse suite at a five star hotel for her, while hiding the humiliation of accepting a domestic’s room for himself. Kristoph had grown accustomed to an often red-faced hotel manager, forced to apologize for what was a regrettable mistake by his reservation staff. The titled guest would make no effort to alleviate the man’s embarrassment or correct the assumption because the guest knew the truth that gnawed at his gut. Kristoph could afford only one suite and had executed this ruse many times before. He now counted on the scenario playing out exactly as it had, the magic of his performance now perfected. A frightened little Kristoph had become a man of steel forged in the fires of revolution and hardened by living in a cold new world.

As he told Rudy, If you walk into a place, acting as if you own it, most people will believe it, too frightened to challenge the truth... but then, the truth has always been a moving target. Illusions are far more tangible. Sometimes... I must become a magician.

He said that? Mrs. Duchesney asked, thinking that it was another red flag, which should have alerted Rudy’s better instincts. How much of what Rudy believed about Kristoph had been nothing more than a well-constructed lie? How much was the truth? When a person acted in this manner long enough, he might no longer care or know that others were being dragged onto the stage.

Rudy continued to defend his greatest love from the pointed scrutiny of his closest friend, who often fell into her most comfortable role of sleuth. Mrs. Duchesney knew from her cousin’s history, the intensity of his passion only spoke of trouble. Kristoph satisfied a need in Rudy’s life. That much was obvious, but could his love be a potion or a poison? It was Rudy’s stubbornly held belief that Kristoph was the one, regardless of any inconvenient truths to the contrary, and when he was like this – it was pointless to argue. That Kristoph had stayed a willing fixture in Rudy’s life for more than a year, apparently finding him more than a passing fancy, was indisputable. What she questioned was his reasons.

Rudy was not rich, nor could he improve the man’s social status in Paris. Introduce him to a few friends? Share the underground club scene? Give him a free haircut? Yes. Rudy could do that, but not much more... that is, other than love the man unconditionally. Surely, Mrs. Duchesney thought, Kristoph had experienced this sort of ridiculous adulation in his childhood, before the reality of revolution. Who should know better the dangers of it?

Why then would he encourage this behavior in Rudy? Was the boy in Kristoph longing for his place on the balcony before a crowd of loyal followers? Why did the story of this