An Odd Bouquet from Paris: MRS DUCHESNEY MYSTERIES

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. A search for immortality? Did this bring people to Paris in the summer or was their search for something more lasting? Love, romance, the perfect martini? When bouquets show up at Mrs. Duchesney's door four Sundays in a row with no cards attached, something other than a rare flower begins smelling odd to this seasoned Paris sleuth. The mystery is complicated when her newest client delivers an antique bottle of amber-colored liquid for analysis and her partner Louie Bertrand disappears from Paris… again. Is the bottle hidden on her bookshelf as priceless as the 300-year old gossip suggests? Could this be the elixir of eternal youth coveted by French aristocracy and of which poets wrote? If so, solving this mystery could change the perfume industry forever, but is it worth the risk?

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215571798

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

Chapter 1

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Did you hear that?

Lurching forward, jumping out of her chair, Mrs. Duchesney startled her visitor. She was nearly to the door before Rudy on the sofa and Chagall on his feet could react. She fumbled with the old bolt and doing so, lost precious time. When she had succeeded finally in unlocking and throwing open the door, her excited force slammed it against the wall, causing a loud bah-bang and sending echoes down the dark stairs to follow the retreating shadowy figure.

Indeed, he must have felt her hot breath on his neck as she shouted, Get him! over her shoulder to two confused witnesses, now clutching tightly whatever might protect them. Rudy was burying himself deeper beneath a stack of pillows as Chagall crouched behind the paper shredder under Mrs. Duchesney’s desk. Unaware of their retreat, she continued to command an unwilling troop, We must stop him!

Who? Rudy asked, finally rousted out by her insistence and his guilt, but remaining safely behind her small frame in the doorway for protection. Who are you yelling at? He asked, poking his head out, but holding firming onto the doorknob in case he needed to shut the door in a hurry. Scanning the hallway and stairwell, he could see both were empty.

Oh, never mind. I’ll do it myself. A disgruntled Mrs. Duchesney in bedroom slippers leapt over a large object at her feet to slip and slide down the unlit stairs in pursuit of her invisible interloper.

No! Wait! Put on a decent pair of shoes! Rudy scolded from the top of the stairs as her head disappeared down a second landing. At first, other than the slap, slap, slap that her slippers made on the old wooden steps, he heard nothing. Then, he heard what had spurred his cousin into action. She was in pursuit of a man wearing hard leather-soled shoes, the ones he now could hear mimicking her rhythm as if they were a tap dancing duo. However, her dance partner was escaping at a remarkable speed. When silence suddenly followed, Rudy suspected that these same leather shoes had become airborne as their owner attempted to evade capture by sliding down the handrails. The sound of Mrs. Duchesney slippers became barely audible.

Then, there was a solid PLOP! One or both had landed sharply on the centuries-old tile entry floor.

Are you OK? he shouted down the stairs.

One of Mrs. Duchesney’s neighbors opened her door just a crack and stuck her nose out to complain, What is the matter? Have you lost your head?

No, Rudy answered, apologetically, Only Mrs. Duchesney.

S’il vous plaît, the woman reminded him, It is Sunday. We sleep. Have you no respect?

Sorry, Rudy answered. My apologies.

Was Mrs. Duchesney OK? Rudy wondered. Had she caught her prey or had he caught her? Was she lying at the bottom of the stairs, an angry creature crumpled into a small pile of silk kimono? A loud BANG of the building’s heavy front door announced that someone had made it to the finish line. Rudy suspected that it was not Mrs. Duchesney, whose slippers had made it impossible to keep pace. He waited patiently, not wanting to descend to collect what was left of her, until he was certain that all danger had passed.

Down below, she muttered something that would have sounded very close to a curse, if anyone on the ground floor had been awake to hear it. If the building’s concierge had been home and listening, he might have been shocked by the language and the behavior of the normally sedate woman who lived quietly on the fourth floor. Reversing her course, Mrs. Duchesney slowly ascended the stairs and with each step, begrudgingly accepted that further chase would prove futile. She flipped on a light on each landing as she made her way upward, reaching the fourth floor more irritated than breathless. This time, she tiptoed past her neighbors’ doors, being more aware that they might be indulging in the decidedly Parisian luxury of sleeping late on Sundays.

Pushing past Rudy, who was still hovering at the top of the landing, focused on the object at his feet, she was not yet ready to accept defeat gracefully. Throwing open one of the heavy drapes, she searched the street below, and muttered her demands, Where is he? Where is that little man? Where did he go? Did you see which direction he went?

Chagall announced, No with his deep Meow.

Rudy did not respond, more curious about the wooden box that had been left in the hallway (over which Mrs. Duchesney had leapt twice) than he was in searching for someone who most likely was two blocks away by now. He bent over to pick up the box when he heard loudly from behind, Don’t touch that!

Startled, he jumped back. Was it a bomb? What?

Nothing happened.

Though she was not a person who gave into fear easily, his cousin had not been herself for more than a month, appearing inexplicably nervous on several occasions. She denied his accusation that she was behaving in any unusual manner, rebuffing his suggestion that she needed more sleep, denying that she was crankier than usual.

It shows in your face, he had announced. Are you coming down with something?

She set aside the jar of beauty cream that he had brought as a gift, saying that she did not believe in the promises of cosmetic companies. Snake oil salesmen she called them. Immortality in a bottle? Eternal youth in a jar. Do I look that stupid?

No, Rudy said, You looked that tired. Give this one a try. Ramon swears by it.

Give Ramon a bottle of Bordeaux and see how he looks in a month.

Francine! Please, stop being so negative. If you are going through the change, could you at least change into someone more pleasant?

Secretly, she had begun worrying over her abnormal sleep patterns and d’ accord, Oui, the wrinkles gathering around her eyes, but revealing to Rudy her obsession with this latest unsolved mystery would only make them both worry more. It would serve no good purpose to tell him anything. She also didn’t need him bringing her any more bottles or jars of whatever elixir some cosmetic salesperson was trying to hawk at his salons.

His earlier suggestion, that she talk to a psychiatrist about what was bothering her, was also not appreciated. She was quite finished with talking with Rudy’s lover about anything of a personal nature. However, that revelation could wait for another day. Rudy thought Franz was infallible and since Franz was away from Paris, there was no need to tell anyone about her plans - at least, not yet.

Your neighbor next door complained, he revealed.

She couldn’t breathe, if she couldn’t complain about something, Mrs. Duchesney said, still focused on the street below.

Every apartment building in Paris was a village and each village had its rules for co-existence. Televisions were to be turned down at 10 p.m. On Sundays, residents were banned from running washers, dryers, mixers, blenders, or vacuum cleaners, until after 2 p.m. In Mrs. Duchesney’s building, the rules were strictly enforced by the no-nonsense concierge on the ground floor.

He moves through the building like a bat at night, she told an amused Rudy. I swear I’ve heard him hovering outside my door, hanging upside down from the rafters. Then, she explained that he listens to how loud the residents play music late at night. If he thinks someone has turned up a radio or a television one decibel too loud for his ears, he reports it to the association’s leader.

The old man still had excellent hearing and was the reason one resident, a musician who dared to rehearse whenever the mood struck him, was evicted less than a month after moving in. Upon returning home late one night, he was struck on the head by his saxophone being tossed from a second floor window. The concierge swore in court that he wasn’t the culprit, suggesting that there was more than one music critic living in the building.

Rudy chuckled. In Montmartre, where he lived, any musician moving in would be treated like a celebrity and his free entertainment would be welcomed. However, in Mrs. Duchesney’s sedate enclave close to tranquil Parc Montsouris, peaceful co-existence of the residents demanded near monastic reverence for silence and solitude, especially on the weekends. She didn’t mind, really. Enforced quiet suited her personality and she appreciated a sense of order, even when not all of the rules made sense.

At Rudy’s insistence, when she was eighteen, Mrs. Duchesney had moved in with him in Montmartre. Having just arrived in Paris, she knew only two people and nothing about the city. Although, her decision to come to Paris was the right one, the choice to live with Rudy was not. After these many years, he did not wish a repeat of their shared misery; neither, did she. They did love each other, truly, madly, deeply, but neither was very tolerant of each other’s idiosyncrasies – when forced to endure them every day and in close quarters.

Familiarity breeds contempt, she reminded him, when she announced she was moving out. With her gone, Rudy’s friends would be free to come and go at all hours, using this excuse to lessen his disappointment. She didn’t care for unexpected guests showing up in the middle of the night, even those that protested they had been invited. Although concerned for his young cousin as she tested her resolve for living alone in Paris, Rudy understood that both needed some space. A one-bedroom loft in Montmartre was simply not enough room for two people and one cat looking for love in all the wrong places.

Even the felines she had taken in over the years had to pass a cautious vetting process, which included them having no history of clawing furniture, climbing the drapes, or missing their litter boxes. She glanced over to see that both Rudy and Chagall were focused on the box outside her door. It didn’t look like a bomb, but Rudy had moved back a step to stare at it from what he imagined was a safe distance. Chagall, the braver of her two amateur sleuths, was about to bite something. While Mrs. Duchesney gave the matter more thought, they seemed frozen in place, awaiting her instructions.

No, this bundle of tissue and cellophane didn’t look like a bomb, unless the villain possessed an especially unusual sense of humor along with exquisite taste. Looking over his shoulder, Rudy saw that Mrs. Duchesney had refocused her attention on the street below. What was she waiting for? He wondered. When he could wait no longer for her permission, he scooted Chagall aside, and bent over for a closer look. This time it was his nose twitching as a delightful fragrance floated up to meet him. Oooh... He took in another deep breath. Now, his nose was itching. Picking up the box and balancing it on one knee, he struggled to close the door with an elbow just as a sneeze caught him by surprise. Catching the scent of something odd in his domain, Chagall also began sneezing. Mrs. Duchesney glanced at both of them in response to the cascade of sneezes.

Who do you think sent them? Rudy asked, carefully setting the special delivery on Mrs. Duchesney’s desk and ignoring the stacks of file folders and papers.

She turned her head, startled by his disregard for her open case files and for ignoring her earlier warning. I told you not to bring that in here! Get it off my desk at once!  

Yes, Major General, Rudy clicked his heels, but was too fascinated with the box’s contents to comply. Simply stunning, he gushed, before countering her protest. No, you didn’t. You said, ‘Don’t touch that!’ You said nothing about bringing it inside. Then, it was his turn to be terse. And keep your voice down. I’ve heard your neighbor’s voice. I don’t need to see her face.  

What? She demanded.

Don’t think you’re moving in with me, when they throw you out of here! You’ll end up just like that poor saxophone fellow, happily blowing away on his instrument one minute and out on his bony butt the next. 

The elegant bouquet of flowers peeking out from beneath an umbrella of lavender tissue was set securely inside an old wooden delivery box. Beginning ever so delicately, so that none of the fragile blooms might be damaged, Rudy lifted layer after layer of the pale façade, which had hidden an elaborate collection of vibrant blooms. Punctuating his thoughts aloud with ooh’s and ahs, he further annoyed Mrs. Duchesney with his enthusiasm for the object of her ire. Unaware of how his accolades added to an already irritating situation, he continued praising the talented unknown florist for his thoughtfulness. Each stem was surrounded in cleverly designed protective armor.

How unique! I wonder how he does this, Rudy mused.

Mrs. Duchesney fumed. How had the man gotten away, again? Unpacking the excess of protective devices would be time-consuming and the effort served no other purpose than to ward off the potential damage of a clumsy delivery person. However, he had been careful to the extreme, tiptoeing up the stairs, rather than taking the elevator, then, placing the box softly on the wooden floor. Why? Why be so tediously cautious? So quiet? If not for Mrs. Duchesney’s keen hearing detecting his stealth actions, he might had come and gone without anyone noticing him. Indeed, she had not heard the front door of her building being opened. How was it that he had usurped the digital key pad without knowing the entry code? Had someone let him in? Was there an accomplice in the building?

Rudy’s interest in the flowers was delaying his departure and she had a busy day planned. Stop fiddling with those. She scolded him.

Oh stop it, yourself, and come here and look. They’re beautiful!

She was thinking that the sender was probably a regular customer, someone deserving more than a cardboard box and a few pages of newspaper stuffed in the corners, had placed this order. He must have an account, which meant there was a paper trail somewhere in Paris. Someone other than the purchaser knew that the bouquet was being delivered to an F.R. Duchesney. Did he also know that the F.R. stood for Francine Robinsworth or that she was a private detective?

Just look at this! Amazing, Rudy continued, as the eyes of his host kept returning to the street below. He wanted her to embrace the joy of the unexpected gift, as any normal woman would, but something or someone on the street below had her attention. Are you expecting him to return for the tip you denied him?

I’ll give him a tip, alright, she muttered, making her hand into a fist. Let him show up at my door again.

The whole creation was as delicate as it was uniquely structured. The design suggested it was the vision of an architect or an engineer, rather than a florist. Whoever the artist was, Rudy now wanted to meet him. Then, he saw one particularly unusual bloom, not blue, not purple, somewhere in between, but unlike any other seen before. What was this strange flower? Its fragrance was positively heady. Suddenly, he had as many questions as Mrs. Duchesney. Hmmm... he murmured.

Hmmm... what? She answered, her thoughts still chasing the delivery person. Frightened of the woman on the fourth floor, he had preferred to escape interrogation, rather than to wait for a cursory tip. Why would anyone be so afraid of her that he would forego a reward for climbing four flights of stairs? He had to have known her reputation. He had to have known the flowers were for one of Paris’s most celebrated private detectives. Any normal delivery person, after discovering the elevator broken, would have left the flowers downstairs with the concierge or outside his door so that he might stumble across them and find their rightful owner.

No, this fellow had to make certain the flowers were outside her door. If he was frightened of Mrs. Duchesney, he was more frightened of losing his job. His employer had told him, Make certain these flowers get to the right person. Why? Who had placed the order?

Mrs. Duchesney now wore an expression that could whither a rose. Rudy looked up, then, quickly looked away. She really had not been herself lately. On a normal day, she was not nearly so tense. Nor was she so stingy that a delivery person would not wait. Too often, he had cautioned her for being too generous and too quick in rewarding bad service. Had this flower delivery person hovered for even a mere moment at her door, Rudy was certain Mrs. Duchesney would have rewarded him nicely. 

Unveiling another breathtaking blossom, Rudy gasped, Simply stunning! Turning around, he asked, Are you going to tell me who your secret admirer is or are you going to make me guess? Because this is no ordinary -‘Thank you’ bouquet. This, my dear woman, is a ‘Thank you for last night bouquet."

Let it go, Rudy. I told you... nothing happened. I only had a martini.

You said it was two.

OK. Two martinis, but nothing happened. Let it go. I have.

He ignored her and began searching the box for a card, but finding nothing there, not a business card or the misplaced receipt, something showing her address alongside that of the sender, he frowned. How odd - no card. But, then, I do love a mystery, he chirped, almost as much as I love a man of mystery. However, this seems strange, even for you. Does your Monsieur Bertrand know you’re seeing someone else?

Stop it! Mrs. Duchesney chastised him. I’m not seeing someone else... not like you’re implying. I’m doing research. And... besides he has never been my Monsieur Bertrand and ‘NO’ he does not know about... about anything and you aren’t going to tell him. She gave him the look he had come to know so well. As you very well know, I’m involved in a case. My methods of investigating are really none of your business.

Scanning the street below one last time, she let the drapes fall slowly closed, but could not resist sending a louder than necessary benediction out the window, OK, little man, you got away, again, but you won’t next time!

Francine! Rudy chastised. Keep your voice down.

She turned around and finally gave Rudy the attention his warning demanded. Louie doesn’t need to know about the flowers or the martinis.

Ah ha! So! They are from another man! I thought so. Rudy said, before catching the meaning of what she had shouted out the window. What do you mean next time? He’s been here before?

He’s brought me flowers three weeks in a row. This makes the fourth. I want this nonsense to stop! This place smells like a funeral parlor. No matter how many windows I open, the odor won’t go away. I can hardly breathe.

Fragrance, not odor. Goodness, Francine. What’s wrong with you? Most people would love receiving these flowers. They’re expensive blooms. This is a work of art. Get your nose over here. They’re divine. She did not move, so Rudy pursued. And you say, four weeks in a row? Why didn’t you mention it sooner? Why are you suddenly keeping secrets from me... and from Louie? The fragrance was overtaking his senses. Francine, have you no appreciation at all for the time it took someone to make this? He started to lift the flowers out of the wooden box so she could have a closer inspection.

Keep those away from me! She reacted.

They have to be from your new friend.

Stop it! I mean it, Rudy. Not one-step closer. They’re not staying here. A loud sneeze punctuated her insistence.

Frannie! Really! Whatever is wrong with you? Rudy continued to ignore her protests and despite her sneeze, moved closer. These are beautiful and you’re being simply ridiculous.

Get away from me with those! I don’t care what they cost. I don’t want them. I’ll toss them in the trash, just like I tossed the others. This time, the sneezes came three in a row, which startled Rudy into surrendering. He set the bouquet down on her desk, again.

With a dinner guest coming, a spontaneous gift would be welcomed, she decided. You want them? You can have them. I insist. Take them!

Her words quickly changed Rudy’s mood. Delighted with the idea, he went to work reassembling the lavender tissues for the transport home to Montmartre.

She grew exasperated with his dallying. Stop fiddling with those! Just take the box and get out of here, before I change my mind.

You must be coming down with something. You’re not allergic to flowers. You buy them all the time for yourself.

No, I buy a small bouquet of daisies every other Saturday at the flower market and one single red rose from the florist on the corner every Tuesday. I don’t receive or accept elaborate bouquets from perfect strangers and I don’t’ need my desk looking like the top of a coffin.

Well! Now, you’re just being rude. I’d be thrilled if a secret admirer sent me something so beautiful and for four weeks in a row, you say... Well, I’d know the man was seriously affected after two. Evidently, yours is out of his head with passion, you lucky woman. Aren’t you going to tell me who he is? Please? Rudy begged.

Well, I’m not you and I have no secret admirers, so just get that idea out of your head. I’m too old for that kind of nonsense.

Too old? When did you start admitting your age? You know that isn’t done here in France. Rudy could not hide his surprise. If you’re going to start talking like that, DO NOT tell people we know that you’re a year younger than me.

When are you going to confess your age? she asked. I don’t care if you do own three beauty salons, you can’t stay young forever.

As long as I can afford it, I can, Rudy screwed his lips into a pout.

Mrs. Duchesney’s eyebrows flew up. Given that this is Sunday, aren’t you afraid God might freeze your face like that? Have you forgotten everything your mother taught you?

And you apparently can’t appreciate perfection, when you see it, Rudy shot back. How perfect is this stranger of yours... You know? The one with exquisite taste and a large...

Rudy! Mrs. Duchesney warned.

...bank account. Rudy smirked in an exaggerated, seductive manner, refusing to relent on his assumption that her research had paid off nicely.

I don’t know who is sending them. Honestly, Rudy, I don’t, so just let it go... but if I find out who he is, he’s going become a missing person.

Well, now, that IS rude.

You’d make a dreadful sleuth. Don’t you see what this means? For a month, one of two things has been happening. Someone has been playing a joke or he has sent me a veiled threat. Either way, I don’t like it and, obviously, she said, sneezing again, "neither does my nose. Quite literally, even if his intent was harmless, his peculiar idea of a silly charade smells to high Heaven. That he hasn’t chosen to write a note or reveal his name, suggests he expects to turn this into a mystery. Well... I simply don’t have the time.

You’re not assuming that the fellow you and Louie helped send to prison last year is somehow involved?

Rudy, you know I don’t assume. When I have the evidence to prove his identity, you will be the second person to know.

Need I guess who the first you call will be?

She frowned, before returning to the window and pulling open the drape. If I ever get my hands on that little man...

So, you’re saying you haven’t actually seen or met the person bringing you the flowers?

No.

So how can you be certain it is a man?

I’ve only seen his backside, so... so the answer is - No, I can’t be absolutely certain.

And you haven’t a clue about the florist.

Obviously not, or we wouldn’t be discussing it.

And you’re certain the delivery person is a man?

I’ve seen him from my window. Not the first time, but the second, and his body language is irrefutably male.

Oh, really? Rudy smirked. I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.

Rudy, if you’ve got something useful to say - Say it! I have a busy day ahead of me.

From a distance, you can’t be certain of anything. From what you’ve told me, there could be three different delivery people. I’ve lived too long to make naïve assumptions. He might have been a she in men’s clothing. Really, Francine, you shouldn’t assume. Henris come into my salons all the time and leave as Henriettas. This is Paris, dear girl, not Omaha.

Women don’t wear the sort of shoes he wore. The sound is unmistakable, the same on the stairs every time. Leather soles. Handmade. American. Size ten. Men’s size ten.

Size ten? American? How can you be so exact? You have to be kidding me.

Do I joke ever about my investigative methods? she stared through thick lens that magnified her unusually large eyes.

No, I don’t suppose you would. He was admiring the flowers, again, drawn to them by their unusual scent. Come here and smell. They’re divine, but I don’t recognize this particular fragrance. What is it? He held up the unusual bloom that attracted his attention.

I’m not moving a step closer. Forget it, Rudy.

Dare I think it, that the brilliantly sophisticated Mrs. Duchesney does not recognize this dreamy scent or the odd source? I thought you knew everything. I expected you would tell me what day the flower first bloomed and the brand of scissors used to snip it!

Then, you would be wrong on all counts. Botany has never been my forté.

And you call yourself a sleuth? Did you soak up nothing from your childhood on the farm? Are you confessing that there is one discipline left for the great and powerful Mrs. Duchesney to study? You already spend more time in a library than do most librarians. Surely, you’re not going there simply to nap in the afternoons.

Enough abuse! Mrs. Duchesney put up a hand. You can take your sarcasm and the flowers and hit the road, Monsieur. I’ve too much to do today to waste time being insulted by someone who no longer owns a library card.

Someone needs a cookie, Rudy taunted. She’s getting cranky.

Take the flowers and go!  

Rudy shot back, There are strangers who treat me with greater respect.

Yes, but you pay them. I’m not on your payroll, she retorted.

Rudy worried she might change her mind, given that she was in such a contrary mood this morning. Are you sure you don’t want them? I mean, really, they’re divine.  

Rudy, take them and get out or I swear I will throw them out the window... maybe you, too. She made a false move as if to reach for the box. I have a ton of work to do and... However, coming too near the flowers and their fragrance, initiated yet another sneeze. Ah, ah, ah, AH CHOO! She moved quickly aside to grab for a tissue, but instead her hands blindly found a piece of lavender paper from the bouquet and she blew her nose into it, which caused a second, mightier sneeze. Ah, ah, ah, AH CHOO! Seeing what she had mistakenly grabbed was still in her hand, she dropped it and ran in search of a proper cloth handkerchief. Good Heavens! She was sneezing on her way to the bedroom. What kind of poisonous weed is that?

Rudy furiously repacked the flowers to execute an even quicker exit. Ok. Ok. Call me, when you’re ready to unmask your phantom lover. Keep your secrets, if you must. You always have attracted odd creatures. What’s one more? What do I care who buys you martinis.

What did you say? Mrs. Duchesney asked, returning in time to see Rudy slipping out the door, happily clutching the box to his chest.

Caught in his escape, he thanked her one more time, Merci, you ungrateful wench! Franz will love these!

She blew her nose, before blowing air kisses to him down the stairs. He tripped and caught himself as well as the box of flowers, before either hit the floor. Grumbling a curse she could not hear, he continued the descent as he heard her double-bolt her door.

She muttered something to her sleuthing partner, who was away from Paris on his latest unexplained adventure, "Monsieur Bertrand, this better not