Francesca's Story - The Interview: MRS DUCHESNEY MYSTERIES

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. People often ask me, "How did Mrs. Duchesney become a famous Paris sleuth?" I tell them it should have been easy to predict that Francine Robinsworth Duchesney would find success doing something unexpected of a young woman from a small town in the American Midwest. For you see, she had never been what others in that part of the world might call normal. When I came to Paris in search of Mrs. Duchesney, a person described to me as the legendary Paris Sleuth Extraordinaire, I did not imagine her to be the unassuming little woman seated alone on a bench in Parc Montsouris. There was nothing extraordinary about this vaguely fashionable bundle of clothes, whose face was hidden beneath a hat and eyeglasses. Born with an exceptional curiosity, in a small town jam-packed with well-preserved century-old mysteries, where indiscretions lined cellars and attics like jars of last year's apricots, Francine found no lie was so well constructed, no secret so well kept, no treasure so deeply buried that she could not discover it. My interviews with Mrs. Duchesney would be the focus of my first year in Paris. After that, I was completely seduced by the woman and the city, forgetting the reason I had come there and finding new reasons to stay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215099278

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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Author Rights

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The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either, the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Dedication

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In Moma's shadow (2).jpg

The author at work on her first book.

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My mother, whose shadow appears in the photograph above, wrote stories and songs, becoming my inspiration. She taught 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.

Acknowledgment

Please let this be a special Merci! to those of you who have discovered my Paris-based mysteries and an apology to anyone who might have expected better of me. Writing is the best thing I do. That says a little or a lot. I appreciate readers who have discovered that solving a mystery can be just as satisfying as a good cup of coffee and a piece of pie.

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- Peggy Kopman-Owens

Introduction

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People often ask, How did Mrs. Duchesney become a famous Paris sleuth?

I tell them, in retrospect, it should have been easy to predict that Francine Robinsworth Duchesney would find success doing something unexpected of a young woman from a small town in the American Midwest. For you see, she had never been what others in that part of the world might call normal.

Born with an exceptional curiosity, and in spite of her unusually large visually challenged eyes, Francine found no lie was so well constructed, no secret so well kept, no treasure so deeply buried that she could not discover it. In a small town jam-packed with well-preserved century-old mysteries, where indiscretions lined cellars and attics like jars of last year’s apricots, just waiting for an eager young sleuth to pop out their hidden delights – Francine found a perfect training ground. Indeed, her childhood became a dangerous time for everyone living within 50 miles of her family’s farm.

Unfortunately, for all compelled to hide their secrets, they were no match for an exceptionally curious child, adept at getting things to explode right out of their tightly sealed envelopes, chests, or lips, and always, at the most inopportune moments. As one might imagine, her successes were not heralded by applause, but rather cursed in the smothered outrage of unsuspecting victims – (this being a God-fearing sort of community). Cautioned to keep her nose out of other people’s business by both her Minister and her parents, Francine chose to ignore the inherent dangers of amateur sleuthing, until it was too late.

As she neared high school graduation, a summer abroad (hastily arranged upon the heels of yet another scandal) seemed especially well timed. For Francine, time away in Europe would become a dream come true, an opportunity of a lifetime for a girl with an insatiable appetite for mysteries and travelogues. Most of the town’s people greeted her imminent departure as more of a blessed redemption (or a temporary reprieve, if you prefer). For every man, woman, and child, who had suffered mightily from her training experiments, the airplane couldn’t leave the ground soon enough. With her gone, their secrets might remain buried and forgotten for a little while longer, and they might sleep with both eyes closed.

Francine expected travel would unlock all manner of adventures on that other side of the world. If what she had read was true, mysteries grown on foreign soil were far better than the ones left behind in a place where truth hid behind smiles and an over abundance of stretch lace at weddings. That she would find herself in Paris at the tender age of seventeen, tasked with solving a world-class mystery... Well, this came as a surprise to everyone, but none more so than Louie Arnaud Bertrand, who had come to Paris to fulfill dreams of his own, none of which had included becoming Mrs. Duchesney’s partner for the next 30 summers.

And, thus, my pursuit of these two elusive Paris sleuths and my first mystery began.

Chapter 1

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When I came to Paris in search of Mrs. Duchesney, a person described to me as the legendary Paris Sleuth Extraordinaire, I did not imagine her to be an unassuming little woman seated alone on a bench in Parc Montsouris. There was nothing extraordinary about this vaguely fashionable bundle of clothes, whose face was hidden beneath a hat. If I had not been looking, specifically, for this woman, I might have walked right past. For you see, Paris’s 14th Arrondissement is not a tourist destination and Parc Montsouris is not normally filled with suspicious-looking art thieves, but rather with average Parisians seeking sunlight or shade, their choice depending upon the season.

Today was sunny, but cool, a nearly perfect summer day, and as I was soon to learn - a local holiday of sorts. Pram after pram of screaming babies, tethered with balloons to their buggies, met me as I entered the park’s entrance. These were followed by a parade of handholding toddlers closely trailing a Pied-Piper collection of costumed adults, mostly mothers of every size and shape hovering over their gurgling Lilliputians, as if they were themselves airborne floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. This was a monthly fête to celebrate birthdays in the neighborhood because such events could not be held quietly in the close confines of a typical Paris apartment. Based upon the turnout, nine months earlier must have been an exceptionally romantic time for young women or an exceptionally cold autumn for amorous young men.

Off to one side, Mrs. Duchesney (whose grey hair was popping out from all sides of a hat pulled down past the rims of her thick eyeglasses) appeared fixated on someone a few steps away in this carnival. She appeared oddly unaffected by the deafening noise and crowd closing in around her, when I spotted what had left her spellbound. A clown was performing a juggling act nearby, and from her face, I could see that she did not like what he had chosen to toss into the air – a wicked-looking knife! As it came down with a decidedly different trajectory than the previous one, she leapt from her bench, raised her hand high, and caught the point of the knife in the wooden shaft of her cane. It sprung back and forth without release a mere five inches from her hand!

That the blade had embedded deeply, demonstrated to all around how razor sharp was its tip. However, it was what lay beneath the thin wooden savior causing the crowd to gasp - a baby innocently asleep in her pram. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she would have been pierced clean through the chest had the quick acting Mrs. Duchesney with her keen instincts not prevented it.

Like her audience, I was stunned and appalled in the same moment, finding it necessary to take two steps back to catch my breath. Most in attendance did likewise, evidenced by the sound of oxygen being sucked in – in unison. This contracted silence was broken apart by the delayed shrill sound of the child’s mother expelling a hysterical scream. Shock had prevented a more timely reaction, but this call to action served its purpose. An angry chorus launched into chanting simultaneously the French equivalent of Get him!

The disappearing image of the clown was pursued by a swarming buzz of pram-wheeled revolutionaries, racing at record speed ahead of the crowd. He beat a path to the street with amazing agility (given the size of his big red feet), and ensuring an unfettered escape. A flurry of fingers pushed prams, while dialing 119 in between their shouts for the local foot police.

Mrs. Duchesney was remarkably undisturbed by the commotion, slipping quietly back into her place upon the bench to catch her breath and taking a delicately embroidered handkerchief from her purse to dislodge the knife blade from her cane. She was careful not to add her fingerprints to those already upon its handle or blade. Instinctively, she was preserving this evidence for the police, who were already searching for the clown - if the sound of sirens was any sign. She paused, looked up at the sky, and then, returned to her task. Her hearing, I gathered, was still good. Was she contemplating the same question on my mind? Was the clown’s daring act careless or deliberate? Who would set such a charade in motion in order to murder an infant? And for what possible reason?

I noted that before sitting down, she had tottered back and forth a bit, as if a small earthquake had disturbed the delicate balance of her world. Yet, only moments before, I had witnessed the woman perform with the agility and reactions of a 20-year old. Had that been simply the result of an adrenalin rush in the face of danger, an instinct that age cannot diminish, and this tremor – an inevitable deficit of age, to which we all eventually must surrender? Aside from this one minor physical betrayal, she was the healthy portrait of any other French grandmother I might have encountered in the park, one content to sit and watch her grandchildren at play.

However, the file I had been given prior to my flight reported that Mrs. Duchesney had never married, never given birth, and so... I felt safe in assuming that she was alone in the park. Closing in on her, I saw circumstantial evidence of this, a small book lying alongside her on the bench. From its title, I could see that she had planned a quiet afternoon in the park, a chance to read an action adventure, not participate in one.

As if on cue, she picked it up, turned a page or two, and settled into the purpose of her outing. I studied her more intently, deciding that she looked to be quite elderly, although, a later review of her passport information would prove me wrong by revealing a birth date nearly a decade earlier than my calculation. Time had not been especially unkind to her, and indeed, she would later claim to be in the best of health, but in this hour and in this light, I would count the wrinkles in her face as though they were tree rings. When later we would meet face to face, and she would smile, keenly aware of my childish endeavour, hers was as others had written - a pleasant countenance, although, by the stretch of no one’s imagination would I call it beautiful. Pleasant, yes. Beautiful, no. From that point on, out of guilt for these thoughts, I would always do my best to make her smile.

In the course of our many interviews, I would learn that she had never fallen victim to that sort of vanity, which held so many French women captives to their stylists and plastic surgeons. She said French women would never admit to undergoing the knife, as that would dispel any illusion that their beauty was not a natural gift. After that, I began looking at all women, regardless of age, differently. Was it the curse of women everywhere, to spend a lifetime and a fortune fighting this enemy that knew no mercy?

Mrs. Duchesney, a pragmatic person, thought the whole matter quite silly, saying that a woman’s worth was not calculated by the weight of the cosmetics she wore or the Euros she spent fighting time. She finished her oratory with a declaration of surrender. I can’t change who I am and a person could make better use of her money and her time. She said that she was not responsible for her looks. God was. Rudy, her doctor (who was not a cosmetic surgeon), Monique, the cosmetic sales person at Le Bon Marché, were in charge of whatever image they forced her to wear for the public’s benefit. I wrote down Rudy’s name and Monique’s with the intention of interviewing them later. I wasn’t certain where I might find God, or if He would have time to be interviewed by a rookie reporter.

No one needed to remind Mrs. Duchesney that her chosen career, a spy-like existence with all manner of inconveniences and odd hours, had taken its toll over the past 30 years. This evidence was easily detectable for even this uninitiated reporter. When one day, a strange scar that she did not care to discuss revealed itself just beneath the cuff of her blouse, my eyes refused to stay away. Without a word, she pulled down the edge of her sleeve to hide it from my spying eyes and to indicate some things were not fodder for my readers. Here was a story, perhaps, the story that needed telling. Yet, I would be denied. Of course, it only piqued my curiosity. (How did it get there and how far up her arm did it travel?)

This was proof of more than a personal rebellion against Paris fashion experts, who debated in magazines over the elusive Mrs. Duchesney’s choices. Holding closely to her conservative style, which they claimed was her celebrity brand, had been the catalyst for more than one hurtful headline reading:

Sleuth 24-7? What does Mrs. Duchesney wear to bed?

A photo followed showing a slinky, thin model’s torso draped in plaid flannel, but with Mrs. Duchesney’s head imposed, revealing only her very thick lenses peaking from beneath a knitted stocking cap, and the model’s naked legs provocatively displayed further south. Although, crucial parts were covered by shadows, the artistry of its creator enticed the viewer into thinking much more had been revealed.

It was a cruel joke on anyone with Mrs. Duchesney’s sensitivities, even though she claimed to have become quite liberal in her views since moving to Paris. In her infinite wisdom, she chose to ignore requests for comments. Her eyesight had always been a challenge for her, and suggesting that the thick lenses on her glasses were a contrived fashion statement showed how very little the Paris community actually knew about her. They had been respectful enough not to reveal her face to the public, for to do so would have presented a security risk to her, a person who counted on anonymity in order to conduct private investigations. An interesting sidebar to this unexpected publicity was that inquiries at the Bertrand & Duchesney Agence increased tenfold in the following month. Of course, not all were requests for her particular brand of undercover expertise.

I dared to bring this up at a subsequent meeting, but not until Mrs. Duchesney had had time to warm to my peculiar style of questioning. By then, she knew I was harmless, accepting that it was more my own curiosity needing satisfaction and not that of my editor. She confessed the irony of the fashion article. (She sleeps in the nude!) It had taken her nearly 20 years to adopt this habit, adding, You know, it takes a little practice to become truly French. One doesn’t accomplish this overnight, when not born to the custom.

I admit that this revelation came with a surprising jolt, as I had been making a number of wrong assumptions about her, all based upon the dated file in my briefcase and a decade of newspaper articles researched six months prior to my arrival in Paris. Hearing that she slept in the nude was like hearing my mother confess that she had sex with my father. I knew it, but I did not want to hear of it. I still do not know what to make of Mrs. Duchesney, now - anymore than I did, then, except to say, she was always a work in progress on so very many levels.

Years later, when I would board the plane at Charles DeGaulle to return to the States, I would depart knowing that I had come to Paris with the assignment to interview one Mrs. Duchesney, but instead, had discovered three.

However, I get ahead of myself in telling her story.

Today, I had come to Parc Montsouris for what was to be our first day together, and I had not introduced myself. Given the remarkable situation just witnessed in the park, my task seemed inappropriately timed. I wondered how receptive she might be to my request for an interview. Yes, I should have called ahead. The element of surprise was a tactic best suited for interviewing unsuspecting politicians, not sweet old ladies. I should return on another day, when she was adequately rested, when she was not recovering from such excitement. How much time might a woman her age need after experiencing such a breathtaking moment?

I stood at a comfortable distance for a few minutes longer, and observed an anxious mother directing a uniformed policeman towards Mrs. Duchesney’s bench. He introduced himself, flashed a badge, asked a few questions, made notes in a little book, spoke into a tiny microphone attached to his shoulder pad, received a business card retrieved by Mrs. Duchesney from her sweater pocket, shook her hand, and then, walked away with the knife clearly visible in a proper evidence bag. Mrs. Duchesney, looking no worse for the wear, folded up her handkerchief and put it away in her purse. Gazing peacefully around the now nearly empty park, she made it seem as if this were a day no different from the one before.

My better self emerged and I walked away, knowing that this was no time to bother the dear woman because, today, she needed her peace and privacy. If I were being completely honest, I would add that I needed mine. It was difficult admitting I was the one who needed time to collect his thoughts, adjust his assumptions, and re-do his homework. Today, I had come very close to witnessing my first murder! Or had I? My knees, now unexpectedly shaking, seem to think so.

Would that be my first question to her... tomorrow? Had this been an attempted murder? If so, did she have any theories? And why was she there at so precisely a time as to thwart the criminal? Was this a case? Did she know the clown was not who he portrayed himself to be? How candid might I expect this woman to be in answering the questions of a complete stranger? Would she answer this question, or any of the more intimate ones I planned to ask? What about the ones focused upon her personal life?

I had arrived prepared to meet a far more exotic creature, one hardened by 30 years of private detective work in one of the world’s most remarkable cities. My preconceived vision was of an aging Mata Hari, but this little old lady could have passed for my great aunt Hattie! The incident in Parc Montsouris told me that this would not, could not, be an ordinary interview. The list of questions prepared onboard my flight would be tossed as soon as I returned to my hotel room. This reporter had a lot to learn and it was only my first day!

Chapter 2

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Returning the next day to make a properly rehearsed introduction, I asked if I might sit down, before boldly assuming that I might be permitted to stay. She looked nothing like the woman I had seen the previous day, and I thought at first – I had approached the wrong woman.

Graciously, Mrs. Duchesney said, Oui. Sit. Please.

The gray hair was gone; a wig replaced by what I assumed now was her natural hair. It, too, spiraled out in all directions from under her hat, but it was a lovely shade of red. She wore a more stylish ensemble, subtracting 20 years from yesterday’s apparition. However, she wore the same thick lenses in tortoise shell frames. I gathered from this that her eyesight had not improved in the past 24 hours and the glasses had not been a disguise.

To sound somewhat intelligent, I had planned to open my interview with a few simple questions about her childhood in America, and in that way, I anticipated we would ease into a friendly conversation. Where did you grow up? Do you have brothers or sisters? Instead, I blurted out, What made you leave the United States? immediately shooting myself in the foot and announcing myself a novice. After that sophomoric burst of energy, I went blank for what seemed an eternity.

She blinked three times, then, glared at me for a full 90 seconds, appearing as surprised by my bravado as I was. Her eyes, already magnified by her thick lenses, continued to grow larger and larger. After this prolonged and sickening silence, I attempted a recovery by correcting myself, I meant to say... Why did you choose to leave the United States? Her answer came back at me like a backhanded tennis ball, hit so hard and so fast that there was no chance of a return.

You were correct the first time, she said succinctly. Whatever made you think, young man, that the life of a sleuth is a choice?

Wow. Didn’t see that coming. I expected her invitation for my departure to be issued immediately. Instead, she began a detailed explanation that would take up most of the afternoon, but I did not mind. After all, I was in Paris and sharing a bench with the indomitable Mrs. Duchesney, Paris Sleuth Extraordinaire.

But, once again, I am getting ahead of my readers. My interviews with Mrs. Duchesney were conducted during the first six months of my first year in Paris. After that, I was completely seduced by the woman and the city, forgetting the reason I had come there, and finding new reasons to stay. But, then, that would be my story. Why don’t I let a much younger Mrs. Duchesney tell you her story?

Chapter 3

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The last Sunday before setting off on her first summer abroad, Francine heard the very succinct commandment Thou Shalt Not Kill! shot from the Minister’s lips like fiery bullets from a twelve-gauge shotgun. He loved his own colorful references to weaponry, and so, injected them into his sermons whenever he could find room and that was quite often. Such incendiary phrasing held the attention of men in the Protestant congregation, who no longer paid attention to psalms and songs, but would listen to a good hunting story.

The Minister had told this same story every Memorial Day weekend for ten years, telling it as if everyone was hearing his sermon for the first time. Francine had grown tired of hearing it, finding the suggestion - Jesus wanted his followers armed and dangerous - most disconcerting. Over the years, her distress was not relieved, not even diminished