A Jazz Club in Paris: MRS DUCHESNEY MYSTERIES

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. A person could not boast of visiting Paris without one night at Caveau des Trésors. The century-old underground jazz club and quintessential address for the best jazz musicians in the world, where famous and infamous mingle freely, has been Louie Bertrand's favorite hideaway for 30 years. So, when the famous sleuth's table remains empty for too many nights in a row, the club's owner suspects foul play and contacts Louie's  partner Mrs. Duchesney to begin a private investigation. When Mrs. Duchesney's cousin Rudy also goes missing, she must enlist the help of Chief Homicide Detective Monsieur Bruno Lacosta, recruit a reporter by the name of  Simon Pennington, and  lastly, make peace with the one woman in Paris she does not trust – the famously seductive owner of the most popular jazz club in Paris.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215650493

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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Rudy was late returning from Saint-Tropez, not by hours, which she could blame on railroad maintenance, but by weeks. Monsieur Mouris’ suggestion that the lights were on in Rudy’s house occasionally was not at all reassuring.

But did you actually see Monsieur Rudy?

None.

Then, how do you know it was not a burglar?

Because I checked the doors and windows in the daylight. Nothing is broken.

How many times were the cats’ bowls empty this week?

Six, Madame.

Six!?

Oui. But there are now nine cats.

Nine!?

Oui, and I think one Mama, she is pregnant.

Oh my God!

Exactement.

I will send you money to feed them, if Monsieur Rudy does not return home by the weekend.

Merci, Madame. I have only a few cans of cat food remaining from the four crates Monsieur Rudy gave me.

He gave you four crates of cat food?

Oui, Madame.

For three cats?

Oui, Madame.

She hung up, confused by what she had learned. Wherever Rudy had gone, he had intended to be gone a long time. Four crates would have fed three cats for months. Rudy had left behind 144 cans of cat food! Where? Where in the world had he gone and why wouldn’t he have shared his plan with her? She was, in addition to being his oldest friend in France, his cousin. In an emergency, she was the only one listed as next of kin on his identification papers.

When another hour passed, she was angrier than she was worried. This was so unlike him. Certainly, he might get miffed at her for her honesty and unsolicited opinions, but he had never avoided her for more than a week – even after their worse disagreement. That he had planned to be gone was evident from his instructions to Monsieur Mouris. She had to assume he had left Saint-Tropez voluntarily. Had he mentioned someplace to her that he wanted to visit - someone he wanted to visit? Her head hurt from trying to remember any little bit of their conversations from months earlier, which she might have dismissed then as unimportant, but was crucial now.  

Rudy lived his life on his own terms, ignoring the French tradition of taking six weeks off in late summer. Instead, he departed Paris nearly every weekend on the speed train to the south of France, staying - if not in his small house near Saint-Tropez – then, with friends in Saint- Raphaël or Sainte-Maxime Valescure or elsewhere along the southern coast. He loved being in the south and near the water, as he complained more and more about weather in the north of France, the pollution in Paris, the noise in Montmartre, and the politics of the current President. The only thing he complained about more was being without a special companion. Mrs. Duchesney knew the names of some of his friends outside of Paris and had already called many of them.

Would my cousin Rudy happen to be staying with you? She asked.

Non! Monsieur Rudy is not here, all had said.

Non! I had not seen Monsieur Rudy in weeks.

Non! Monsieur Rudy missed my birthday party.

Non, they had not seen Rudy anywhere, none of their usual haunts, none of the usual clubs on the Riviera, the Côte d’Azur, or the spa in Provence."

Have you checked the Costa Blanca?

Spain? she asked incredulously.

Oui.

Rudy doesn’t go to Spain. He hates Spanish food.

Non. I do not think so. He loves my Spanish food.

Monsieur Rudy loves you, she argued. He would eat anything you fed him.

Harrumph! the insulted chef remarked.

She probably should not have been quite so honest. Rudy would have some explaining to do, next time he was invited to dinner. Her cousin’s disparaging remarks about his beloved Paris had grown tedious over the years and more and more, she ignored these tangents. He had become like New Yorkers who complain about New York City, but would never entertain the idea of moving away. Like them, Rudy was not looking for solutions, just a sympathetic ear.

Are you telling me men experience menopause just like women? she asked her doctor.

Oui, the young woman said, unequivocally.

Then, Mrs. Duchesney remarked, I have two men in my life that need immediate help. What shall I do?

Listen, Madame, she replied.

Mrs. Duchesney leaned forward to hear what stellar advice the young woman with the stethoscope hanging around her neck was about to offer, but she remained silent, staring. When a painfully long silence bored her, she encouraged her, Oui? I am listening.

Non! You listen.

I am listening, she was growing frustrated with the ambiguous answer lost in translation.

Oui. But listen more.

Oh! So, that was the young professional’s brilliant answer? Listen? That’s it? She had heard all she cared to hear from Louie and Rudy in the past year. Nothing in their lives pleased them, except to hear their own voices ranting about this inconvenience or that one. Isn’t there anything else you could prescribe? A pill? A treatment?"

I recommend a Superior from Bordeaux, but if the condition lasts longer than dinner, a glass of Calvados at bedtime sometimes helps.

Calvados? Mrs. Duchesney was a bit shocked that a doctor would recommend alcohol as a cure for a medical condition. However, this was France and perhaps, helping vintners was more important than helping patients.

I come from Caen in Basse-Normandie. My colleague recommends Guignolet, but that is understandable.

Mrs. Duchesney noted that the young doctor had shaken her head in disapproval. Guignolet? the confused sleuth asked.

Exactement! The young woman was pleased to see her patient understood and agreed, although (in truth) Mrs. Duchesney had no idea what they were discussing. But what can one do? The doctor pursed her lips and blew out in that now familiar French manner that said silently. (Why do I argue with unsophisticated idiots?) Instead, she said, He comes from Beaucouzé. 

Ah! Now, Mrs. Duchesney understood. This was a professional competition. She and the young woman might as well have been engaged in a discussion of regional football as in quibbling over which popular liqueuer made people forget about their aches and malaise. In fact, for men, a rousing football match might have had more success in raising their testosterone levels than a glass of something less challenging. She let the young woman continue her lecture on the changes that one might expect to see in men at this point in their lives. Then, she realized the doctor’s lecture was also meant for the woman sitting in the chair across from her.

Moi? Her eyebrows rose.

Menopause is a normal phase of our lives, not an illness. Some of my patients, men in particular, wish to go back to the beginning of their lives and start over. I tell them to look for a new automobile. Women, on the other hand, often attempt to skip to other cures. I tell them to look for a new lover, but I tell you, Madame, the truth is the middle of our lives can be the most enjoyable, if we simply learn to relax and enjoy the pleasures still available to us. I myself relax every night with a glass of Fumé Blanc and René.

Mrs. Duchesney wanted to ask if René was another brand of liquor, a man, a woman, or a cat, but she did not. She did not tell the young doctor (who could not be more than 25 years old) her wisdom would be more appreciated, if she did not look young enough to be a daughter. The young woman’s makeup was also too perfect and the sleuth wanted to ask which brand of cosmetics she bought. Instead, she remarked, Curious. I thought you preferred red wine.

For my menopausal patients, oui, but for me, non! she said in that way that said, silently, (I will not argue with unsophisticated idiots.)

As Mrs. Duchesney prepared to depart, she was thinking (Well, that was a wasted 30 minutes of my life.) The doctor appointment wasn’t for her, although, perhaps it had been wise to get her blood pressure checked. Since Louie’s unexplained disappearance and Rudy’s apparent refusal to end his summer holidays, her pulse reminded her of the seconds ticking by without a look at her watch. Men! she harrumphed on her way down the stairs from the medical office.

The young doctor’s office looked more like a holiday rental apartment than a professional clinic, which made Mrs. Duchesney want to check the framed credentials hanging on the back of the office door, which someone might see only on her way out. The younger generation of family practitioners was erring on the side of patient-friendly and she had not hesitated to air her opinion with the doctor. She preferred the old days, when doctor offices were positively frightening examples of what might happen to you there, with the stinging odor of formaldehyde emanating from a variety of jars filled with pickled body parts and where there was nothing for patients to read, but medical journals describing horrific experiments. Doctor Methuen’s office looked like a geriatric day care center with bright orange plastic chairs and books about knitting or hobby woodworking scattered on the floor. What could this young upstart possibly know about medicine?

Bon chance! Mon derrière! the grumpy sleuth grumbled as she stomped down the stairs to the street, reminding herself with each step of the young woman’s last words. What kind of answer was that coming from a so-called expert on aging? Non. This sleuth needed more than good luck and a different kind of expert on the subject of men and their problems, if she were to discover what was keeping Louie and Rudy away from Paris for so many weeks. Were the men in her life doing this deliberately only to frustrate her? Because if they were, it was working.

The doctor had confirmed it. You need to learn how to relax, or I must prescribe blood pressure medicine and you have already told me how much you hate taking pills. So, listen. Seeing that Mrs. Duchesney knew what she meant this time by listen. I will give you one month to think about this and to do what I tell you. À bientôt et bon chance!

Mrs. Duchesney barely had stood up, before the doctor shouted towards the waiting room. Next!

As she passed an older man on her way in as she was on her way out, Mrs. Duchesney muttered to him, Bon chance!

The senior gave her a surprised look. Pardonez-moi?  

Trust me, Mrs. Duchesney sniffed.

Trust you? Madame? I do not know you. Do I?

Go home and pour yourself a glass of red wine. It will save you a lot of time and money.

Pardonez-moi?

Your wife will thank me, later.

Mrs. Duchesney did not bother to explain as she held up her hand and shouted, loudly, Taxi!

Collapsing at home on the sofa, she dialed her mother and asked how the family was doing, attempting to sound only casually interested, when she asked, Has cousin Rudy’s mother called you recently?

Non, her mother answered. Why?

Non particular reason. I just wondered if Rudy was being honest with me, when he says he calls his mother regularly.

Oh. Well, I don’t think he calls home every week, like you do, she praised her daughter.

Mrs. Duchesney was hoping that she would say Rudy had checked in with his own mother only a few days earlier and that he was in some place she hadn’t yet looked for him.

You sure everything is OK there? her mother asked.

Oui, why?

Your voice sounds funny.

Funny Ha-Ha. Or funny odd?

Don’t be rude, Francine. You know exactly what I mean.

I’m fine, but I need to hang up now. It’s bedtime in Paris.

But it’s only lunch time here.

Oui, I know.

She hung up. Rudy hadn’t check in with his mother. He hadn’t checked in with his friends in Paris or Saint-Tropez. He must have fallen in love with someone she did not yet know. That had to be it. When Rudy was in love, the rest of the world no longer existed.

She no longer existed.

Chapter 2

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I first met Louie Bertrand and Mrs. Duchesney in Paris as a young reporter sent there with an assignment. Find out what made two famous sleuths extraordinary, my boss said, thinking the duo would make a great story for his popular magazine. It did, but spending time with the famous private detectives in this city made me rethink my own story. I sent my six-page article and my resignation to New York on the same day; then I called my landlord and cancelled my lease. I’ve not had a single moment of regret. My plan was to find a small studio apartment, sell a few freelance articles each month to keep food on the table, and stretch my savings for at least a year, during which time I would attempt to shadow them and learn how to become a sleuth. They gave me small assignments at first, to test me, nothing very exciting, then, told me my help was no longer needed.

Mrs. Duchesney had come to Paris with no experience, being only a young woman of 18 at the time, and Monsieur Bertrand, a decade older, had been and still is an artist. What I am telling you is that even these two amazingly successful investigators were once novices, so I did not give up hope. However, the subjects of my interview did not think I was ready to join their agency after a few months of testing me and, quite frankly, they did not need my help. There was nothing that I could do for them that they were not already doing for themselves.

I stayed in Paris anyway and waited, quite certain that one day, they might change their minds. I did not consider what I was doing especially brave, because I had an advantage they had not had. When the day came that one or both of them needed me, I would start my career under the tutelage of the best minds in the business, and so, when I did receive that long-awaited telephone call, it was with great anticipation that I accepted Mrs. Duchesney’s invitation.

Could you join me for coffee at my apartment to discuss the possibility of a career with the agency of Bertrand & Duchesney?

I could hardly believe my own ears. She had used the c word - career, not job. Then, my heart skipped a beat, when she asked, How soon could you start?

Chapter 3

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His name was Ernesto Reynosa-Santiago de Rosa. He claimed that an important work of art had been stolen from his home in hills above Cannes. Unfortunately, he said, I allowed a friend of a friend to stay in my home for the summer. One cannot trust those who lease villas any more. In the old days, a vase might be broken, but no one stole anything.

She wondered how he had lived in the world so long with so little cynicism. Perhaps, he had been lucky, as she could see he was a likeable man, friendly, but evidently in this case - gullible. While he was conveniently away in South America, the summer revelers had helped themselves to his wine cellar, his collection of record albums, and a small 15th Century painting.

Were these the only things missing?

Si. He hesitated, but attempted to reassure her, My butler completed an inventory, as he handed her a list of the missing items and she could see for herself that he had penciled in one more item. Religious relic.

This last item?

The most valuable, he sighed.

But not valuable enough for your butler to notice it missing?

Evidently.

"Seems a bit odd, don’t you think?

He simply shrugged and nodded his agreement.

Why come to me? Surely, there is a private detective in Barcelona who can assist you in this matter. She wanted him to say he came to her because of the stellar reputation that the Bertrand & Duchesney agency enjoyed. They had never taken on a case they could not solve. There record was perfect and she credited this to her decision to scrutinize clients, before they signed a contract. What was the point of taking on an unsolvable mystery?

As he was enjoying the southern Hemisphere’s cooler weather, he had no reason to doubt the word of his friend, who had acquired the tenants.

And he met them where? She pursued.

At a tennis tournament in Monte Carlo.

They had been staying in Monaco? She hoped they had because the police there were fastidious in keeping track of visitors to their country. There were more security cameras in Monaco than in the whole of the Vatican, perhaps, the whole of Paris! Louie had joked that a person couldn’t pee in Monte Carlo without being on someone’s TV screen. I wait until I am back across the border or at sea. He laughed.

She stared at the piece of paper in her hand. I see that date on this. Of course, you also took an inventory before they moved in?

Of course, he said. That is... my butler did... I think. He must have.

She studied his face, deciding he did not appear to be lying. After all these years, she was an expert detecting tics and tells. The only person better was Louie. She wished he had been here for the initial meeting with Señor Reynosa-Santiago de Rosa.

And the departure of your tenants was sudden and unexpected?

Oui. How did you know?

Typical. In many cases, the thief is someone who has made friends with the owner a bit too easily, she added as a gentle chastisement. Perhaps, someone was hastily invited to dinner; someone wandered about the place; admired a priceless object a little too much; pretended not to know anything about such things, but then asked many questions. His host might notice that his guest cannot keep his eyes away. Sometimes, an overnight visitor pockets something small, a silver cigarette case, what seems to be an inexpensive souvenir. It must be terribly difficult for the rich to know whom to trust.

Oui. It is, he finally admitted to having been a mark for such people in the past. I have not known who my true friends were since the age of twelve, when my grandfather died and left me his business. However, I want to believe the best of people. It was how I was taught to believe.

You inherited your grandfather’s business at age twelve?

Si, my father was already gone, and I was the oldest son.

How many times have you been robbed, Señor Reynosa-Santiago de Rosa?

Please, call me Ernesto.

Oui, he was too friendly. That was part of his problem. Not hiring a security company to install proper locks on his windows and doors was not the problem. He was the type who invited thieves to dinner and criminals to church. How many times have you been robbed, Señor?

Six.

Six!

He waved off the idea that this was too many. Small things only, hardly worth mentioning, but this time... this time I need the two most expensive items returned. You see...

Non. I don’t see. Perhaps, you should explain why only two when there are seven items listed as missing. She pointed to the list.

The company has been a miserable inheritance. I make more money than I can spend and everyone wants to cheat me of what - I would give him willingly, if only someone were honest and shared his desires. Non one is honest anymore, he lamented in stark contrast to his earlier desire to believe everyone was saintly. 

And your business is?

Mining.

I see, she said, although, she knew nothing about the mining industry in South America.

Silver, copper?

Emeralds, he answered.

Mon Dieu! She sighed, seeing now why the miserably rich man was so targeted. However, she hoped he was not going to offer payment in fake gems or stock in a bogus gold mine. This might be a good time to set her terms up front. I deal only in cash, she reminded him of the standard terms of her proposed