Waiting in Paris: SIMON PENNINGTON MYSTERIES

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Cover Art © Roger Kopman. Among the rich of Paris, there are opportunities for thieves and forgers such as Vadim Bergeron, a predator who delights in destroying the reputations of true artists and the naïve women who love them. However, one private detective has spent years recruiting waiters and chefs to build a reliable, although eclectic network of informants. Within days of an art theft, he can count on clues arriving during dinner: a note slipped under his dessert plate, an address scribbled on a receipt, a suggestion of where an object might be fenced, or the name of a potential buyer whispered in his ear along with a…"Will there be anything else, Monsieur?" Catching art thieves has become this Paris sleuth's "raison d'etre" and Simon Pennington is determined Olivette Ferrier will become Vadim Bergeron's last victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Mar 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215628010

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

"Olivette came to Les Quatre Amis every Thursday at 2 p.m. for one glass of Syrah and a piece of bread and butter from the basket the waiter placed on her table alongside a copy of la carte du jour. Although, she carefully studied each item on the menu while licking her lips, she never ordered anything, always cleverly waiting until 2:02 p.m., when she would be told that the kitchen was closed until dinner. Appearing to be sated, with only two small pieces of bread and a glass of the house red, she would pick up her purse, withdraw a small tip to cover the cost of the bread (but not the untouched butter or the empty glass of wine), and depart.

I had observed this routine for several weeks, before realizing she was receiving the glass of wine for free. There was never a bill presented, or one paid. Always, the same waiter served her and this led me to wonder. How intimately did they know each other? Was he serving his lover? Or had he taken pity upon a stranger? It was after all only a glass of the house red, not something reserved in the cellar. What could this vintage possibly cost? Centimes? The bread was yesterday’s leftovers. I knew this from the time of day. The fresh bread went first, gone before noon. The larder was stacked with jars of fresh country butter. Therefore, if they were lovers he was not feeding her well.

Most likely, she was a model for some poor artist who could not feed himself much less the wretch whose portrait he was painting. There were so many in Paris these days, poor artists and poor women. During the years leading up to the Revolution, their numbers would have doubled. Then, with her refined looks, she might have been the best-fed lover outside of Royal bedchambers. However, this was 21st Century Paris and in this era, the rich and poor negotiated the price of tolerance on street corners. What did her circumstance matter to anyone? It would not have mattered to me, had not her father called me to ask for her salvation.

I did not consider her especially pitiful despite her appearance in clothes made thin by too many seasons. My eyesight was better than that and my awareness of fashion deeply blemished by any appreciation for things so transient. What was true was this. To be young and beautiful in Paris was to have the world in one’s hand and prospective lovers at one’s feet. She could have done much better. Though poor, she needed only a mirror to see, undeniably, she was blessed with both youth and beauty. Yet, she seemed woefully unaware the commodity she was selling was perishable.

However, for a few precious hours every week, in this fragile scenario, she was allowed to live her life with a modicum of authentic dignity. By leaving a few centimes on the table in gratitude for the waiter treating her as if she were legitimate, she became legitimate. Thusly, he afforded her an appropriate amount of respect and a place to collect her thoughts each day. Was she contemplating where the rest of the day might lead her and how she would be expected to spend her nights?

Had she left without paying, had she forced the waiter to react differently towards her, this scene would have ended badly. Stop thief! It was not so absurd a thought. Once-upon-a-time in France, a man had been imprisoned for stealing bread. It could happen, again, to this woman. Of course, in my version, he would have failed to catch her and she would have sought out another place, a more compassionate proprietor to begin her charade, again. I saw that he enjoyed her company  looked forward to her daily visits  although his was a silent anticipation – unless one could hear the sound of his heart beating a little faster upon seeing her face.

Had he ever returned her centimes, slipping them into the pocket of her torn sweater when she was not looking? Did his charity stretch so far? Why not 100 or 200 Euros? Enough to buy a hotel room. It was my fantasy. Why not make him more of a hero than he was. I felt he needed her as much as she needed him, although I had no evidence to support any of this nonsense. That was the trouble with romance. In the final analysis much of what we imagine is real is only fiction. Our heads betray us, losing all sense of reason when our hearts take over our thinking. Was that why he had not dared to turn away or berate her for her unfortunate circumstance? Had France’s history of Revolution placed this burden on his shoulders, making him responsible these many years later for liberating the poor and the oppressed of Paris, demanding Égalité for those without a voice?

Oui. I imagined it clearly. To turn her away he would have discredited himself as a Frenchman through whose veins the blood of mutineers still coursed. She was his Marianne, in much the same way that I had allowed Odette to become mine. Yet, I had seen Berndt turn up his nose and reject tourists upon the excuse of having made no reservation when no reservation was required except for the sacred dinner hour. Given  that this was his territory  he could lay down the law of his manor in any way that best suited his desires and in those hours that Olivette lingered here  he desired her  only her. That he allowed me to drink my wine and observe quietly from a darkened corner was altruistic in the truest sense. Then, again, Berndt did owe me a favor. I had found his sister when she ran away from home at fourteen.

Perhaps in Olivette he saw both Marianne and his sister Jeannine and I saw Odette. We were the kind of men who felt compelled to protect all women. Often enough, I had observed him over-charging tourists, so by the end of the night, he was losing no money in giving away daily a glass of the cheap house red to some poor waif. If there were ever other poor visitors enjoying such kindness in his café, I had not seen them. Non. Clearly, Olivette was special. One only had to see the light in his eyes to know the truth of this. My job, to find and keep an eye on Olivette, had been made so much easier by Berndt’s willingness to fill a single glass each day. All I had to do was to sit and wait.

If I had been the one in love with her, would I have done as he was doing, giving her only that which she requested? Would it not be just as easy to pay her rent, bring her food, wine, flowers, or his heart? He had access to a full pantry and yet, he brought her two small pieces of bread, day-old bread. What sort of man was Berndt? Was there a wife somewhere? A mistress? Life was so interesting when an observer’s heart was not invested. My research was not needed in order to carry out this unprofitable investigation, but I began making a routine of visiting different eating establishments every day for a while to answer my own questions. Often, I mirrored Olivette’s scheme,  making that same strategically timed entrance, only to be told the kitchen was closing,  but not until being given adequate time to salivate over an enticing carte du jour and one glass of the vin de la maison.

Such taunting of one’s appetite was cruelty, a blatant display of indifference by those whose larders and stomachs were full. I began sensing what Olivette must feel arriving hungry and leaving hungrier, the wine and bread only feeding the hope of a real meal. Aware that the delicious items would be denied to me, I began regretting not arriving earlier. In not repeating this act twice in the same restaurant, thereby, deliberately appearing ignorant of the proper hours one noshed and the hours that one dined, I was able to complete my research in less than a month. To say my work was finished at that point would be a gross understatement. To admit my budget was finished would not be because sometimes I deliberately did arrive in time for the chef to prepare his spécialité of the day. However, after seeing Olivette, I could no longer enjoy a meal without profound guilt.

A man can deny his stomach only so long, before it begins to protest loudly. So, too, his soul. This was after all Paris where food was more than sustenance for the body. A man was challenged every day to ignore the poverty that lay beneath the wealth dripping from Haussmann balconies, being tasked to feed his humanity. Wasn’t he?

Monsieur Pennington?

Wha... Oui?

S’ il vous plaît, forgive the intrusion.

The tall thin man with the hat from another century and a suit much older waited for my invitation to Sit, Monsieur. Shall I order you a glass? A slight smile tugged upward at the corners of his lips, just as I held up my half-empty glass of the house red. These days, it was within my means to order a more expensive vintage, but this maison sommelier did not offer the worst in the cellar to his most loyal patrons. Would Berndt know or recognize Olivette’s father and serve him better or worse?

Today, I was drinking a delightfully new something from Bordeaux that was making ticklish love to the back of my throat. My tonsils were veritably dancing. Oui I nodded in response to Berndt’s silent tilt towards the stranger, which mimed, Shall I pour the same for your guest? Tout-de-suite, a glass was placed before the man, who barely had taken off his hat to reveal three strands of hair on his tired old head. The skin beneath suggested a hat (more threadbare than this one) had been worn most of his life, a life spent laboring outdoors. Hatless farmers who made pre-dawn visits to the city were easy to spot. That he was here in the afternoon spoke of a recent retirement.

The sudden whiff of mothballs suggested his suit was brought out of the armoire only for weddings and funerals and, as was his task today, an interview with a sleuth who couldn’t decide over the telephone if Monsieur Ferrier’s case deserved more of his time. The direction of the breeze changed and took the smell of mothballs down the street away from me. His nostrils, from which hung long ancient grey hairs, also were twitching. However, I suspected his were picking up the scent of the woman sitting directly behind us at the next table, a damsel of apparent wealth, if her deliciously provocative perfume was to be believed. The scent that carried notes of spice had elicited visions of exotic destinations. I recognized the intriguing eau as Sincerely Yours.

When Monsieur Ferrier had settled in with all his weary bones cracking and creaking, finding temporary comfort for his derrière, I waited for his gnarled fingers to wrap firmly around the stem of the glass for his first sip, before lifting my own to him. À votre santé! (To your health) I said. He smiled and offered a shakier salute to me. I noticed a finger missing and wondered about the story behind the missing digit. I waited longer, before speaking to watch him enjoy the alcohol that might encourage Olivette’s story and his own. No client enjoyed being rushed, not by potion, nor person. To plead one’s secrets were worth hiring a private investigator took courage, so I waited even longer, making idle conversation of the weather and his journey into the city.

Did it rain on you? I thought I spotted a storm in the east.

Non.

You took the train?

Oui.

Well, this was going to be a longer investment of my time than I had planned. Perhaps I should ask poignant questions.

You are well?

Well enough.

Then, to your health!

Again, we toasted. It would begin a series of six such toasts to his health, to mine, to the President of France, to his partner, to his children, to his children’s mothers, and her children’s children. Mon Dieu! The man was patriotic. The wine was too delicious to set aside indefinitely. I began sipping more in between toasts, knowing this would prod him likewise to drink more, and eventually, some semblance of camaraderie would prevail, lulling even this reticent fellow into talking about serious matters. However, Monsieur Ferrier surprised me with his degree of patience, politeness, and tolerance for wine. I began fearing, if these salutes continued much longer, I would become too inebriated to make sense of our meeting. Finally, I had no choice, but to begin.

On the telephone, you mentioned your daughter... I stopped there intentionally.

He put down his glass, but continued staring into the well of blood red courage, as if some ancient sorcerer from beneath the glistening surface might utter his words for him.

I believe you said her name was Odette. The act of ignorance was intentional. I had been following his daughter for so long I already knew her shoe size. It was best that he did not know how well I completed my preliminary research.

Olivette, he immediately corrected me, fearful that this other young woman I mentioned, this someone named Odette, might be in worse trouble, and her predator might mistake his poor misled child for another man’s daughter. That his Olivette was innocent beyond reproach was without question in his words, if not his heart and mind, so I knew the tightrope to be walked during our discussion of what he described as her petite problem. 

You have not been following the wrong woman?!

His furry eyebrows rose when I spoke of the route she traveled regularly through the city. I pulled a photo out of my pocket. This is Olivette? The Pigalle street sign was visible above her head.

Oui. He was crestfallen.

"Then, non. I have not been following the wrong woman. I was simply mistaken for a moment about her name. I blame the wine. I could not jump ahead or cut him short, as I often did in a pre-emptive manner with clients, sometimes to explain why I did not investigate problems of the heart or the home, not in that way some private investigators gainfully harvested the false suspicions of jealous lovers, husbands, or worried fathers. Although there was money to be made in that dangerous and pitiful trough, where rooting out innocent lovers, portraying them as villains, paid handsomely for the sleuths who did not mind getting their hands dirty  I found that work repugnant.

Do not misunderstand me. I do not pass judgment on how and where people find love or a reasonable facsimile, but rather on those who make it their business to interfere. I wanted no part of it. There were already too many predators feeding on the remains of their victims’ hearts. There were in Paris private detectives who exhibited no discretion, as to whom they pushed out of their way or injured in the rush to seize clients away from each other. I did not make sport of the unethical hunting schemes that played upon already wounded souls.

Oui, I know what one might be thinking... that clients choose their sleuths, not the other way around. However, this was not entirely true. From none other than the famous sleuths extraordinaire, Mrs. Duchesney and Monsieur Louie Bertrand, to whom I owe a great deal of gratitude, I had learned  Any creature can dig in the dirt and eventually come up with something upon which he might chew. She said, It is true that a loud grunting hog may occasionally find a truffle, but not as often as a well-bred hungry hound. The success or failure of the hunt is put upon the client’s shoulders, not the animal hired for the task.

Monsieur Bertrand would add, Si. However, my dear Francesca, those of us with discerning appetites know what is worth swallowing and what to leave buried in the mud.

That is because, my dear Louie, you are a well-bred hound.

Merci, for knowing the difference.

There were three philosophers in my life. The professor Monsieur Domino Vassellia was only one. Mrs. Duchesney and Monsieur Louie Bertrand could have filled a different sort of textbook with their less than academic dissertations on love and life. I wanted only the truth, plain and simple, and they delivered it with total confidence. However, I had yet to learn the only truth that matters is that, which a man discovers for himself. Already, in my short time as a sleuth, I knew a person spends much of his life trying to convince others his particular situation is far worse than that of someone else; that what he has struggled to obtain is far more valuable than that, which someone else holds dearer. I tell my clients that only a private investigator, one with a developed sense of priorities, can assess the potential of a case. It is with some pride I can say, now, my intellect no longer suffers from clients’ scoffs upon learning how meager my experience. I tell them I may be new to this industry, but I am not without skills and intuition. My successful track record grows longer each year.

As my mother reminds me, Most people are their own worst enemy, stirring up trouble like it was Sunday supper and then, generously serving it to others for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She was referring to a neighbor well skilled at cooking up trouble. Mrs. Duchesney reminds that, Not everyone who tries to cook... can. Her words were a well-intentioned challenge to my attempts to follow in her shoes, encouraging me to see that I had lived long enough, worked in the shadows of two of the worlds’ greatest sleuths long enough, to start making my own mistakes. Mistakes are only stepping stones. There also would be lessons to learn, hard lessons, but I would prove capable of succeeding. How else was I to earn my worth in this world? I had burned all my bridges across the Channel and the pond. I had to succeed here because there was no going home.

The man sitting across from me, coughing and wheezing his way through a small plate of cornichons and olives, and then, washing them down with the best red this house had to offer, did not appear to be at all menacing. I estimated his problem was no more and no less irksome than that of any aging father with a rebellious daughter, who had become immersed in scandal. Olivette would not be the first to choose a scurrilous lover and, unfortunately, not the last. I listened patiently, as I had nowhere else to go, and no other clients waiting. The breeze was still in my favor and the intriguing woman still lingering at the table behind me seemed content to distract my senses and torment my sinuses.

A rare sandalwood, perhaps, with a hint of lily?

Monsieur? His voice broke my concentration as he anticipated a response.

Where was I? Oh, Oui, As I explained on the telephone, I began my familiar refrain, I do not handle affairs of the heart. My specialty is art thefts. I do apologize, if you have been misled. I thought he might cry upon hearing this and so, felt compelled to offer him a bit of bread. I asked, Are you suggesting that your daughter’s... Setting down the basket I balanced precariously for a mere moment on this high wire as I searched for the least offensive word, ...associate has a stolen object in his possession, something which might be of interest to the Paris police?"

It is possible, he said, grasping desperately at this thin straw. His clenched fists suggested he would have thrown his daughter’s lover off one of the bridges crossing the Seine, if only he still possessed the strength. Today, he struggled to find a civil remedy for the cursed plague upon his house.

Oui, all things are possible. I accommodated his last hope, But is this likely? Do you have any proof of such a crime or are you making only an accusation?

Non, Monsieur, his voice and his head dropped a notch, as he dug in the pocket of his jacket for something.

You brought proof? I asked too eagerly. Perhaps there was something here worth investigating.

He brought forth a packet of what appeared to be love letters, proof that a relationship existed, but nothing more pejorative. I was hoping for a photograph of a stolen Picasso or a Braque. I heard the seed of his anger. They had been hidden in his daughter’s lingerie drawer and he had resisted throwing them into the fireplace. Then, I noticed that one on the bottom was singed around the edges, suggesting just such an attempt and a remorseful rescue had been more than considered. Had he suffered guilt for this act of betrayal or had he wisely realized proof of her treachery would be needed later, when he would confront his daughter? Who is he?!

Instead, I heard, She will want them back. The thought was conciliatory from a father not wanting to lose his daughter’s love forever. That he had saved them for her suggested that his ability to forgive would triumph over his disappointment. I stared at the stack of small envelopes tied with blue satin ribbon, which rested on the table between us. Where he first had grasped them from the fire with dirty fingers was clearly visible. He avoided looking at the reminders of the man who had stabbed him (poetically) in his heart by severing the tie with his last daughter. Clearly, this young woman still held her father’s heart tightly in her hand.

The woman I had been following had not lived long enough to understand the strong emotions that tie us to the past. Nothing hurt a father more than the realization his daughter loved another man. This natural, though painful, passage was one of God’s cruelest jokes and Olivette was living unaware of her role in the divine farce. I remembered the look on my own father’s face when my sister came home to announce she had eloped. Disbelief of her betrayal had sent him to his room where he stayed for nearly a week. When he reappeared, my mother said he could not speak my sister’s name for more than a month without tears forming in his eyes and a sudden need for a walk in the woods.

I searched my client’s eyes, but found those once reflecting blue skies had been made dark and dim by age and suffering not yet explained. I would learn, later, that he had six daughters, Olivette being the youngest and last child at home, the one (by tradition) born to care for him in his old age. This pain revealed itself in the deep wrinkles that furrowed his brow and the long sighs that punctuated his occasional bursts of coughing. It was as if the whole of the French countryside resided inside his lungs, although the putrid odor that issued forth was not that of lavender or sunflowers, but rather fresh manure.

My compassion, surging forth from a nearly forgotten wound, caused me to utter without reluctance, Oui. I will take your case.

His eyes grew large and round as he was startled by this unexpected charity. Clearly, he had arrived in Paris expecting me to say, Non. This matter is not worth my time. Sitting straighter in his chair and putting a hand into his coat, he brought out a tattered old wallet that had not seen the light of day in centuries, two pieces of weathered leather that might have occupied Napoleon’s war mantle. He began fumbling for money to ensure I would have no change of mind.

Non, I said, quickly adding, Not here, not now. I will send you my bill when your objective has been achieved. Purposely, I had not said, When your case is solved. Love was not a sport that ever could be won by spectators interfering. Only the players themselves could win or lose a difficult match. That I had been already working for weeks without pay seemed insignificant, so I chose not to mention this. He was visibly relieved by my setting aside this debt and I suspected that, whatever amount he had hidden inside this thin leather vault, was all he had in the world. To him, his daughter’s salvation was priceless and he would have gone willingly into a life of destitution to save her.

I would take no salary for becoming his champion, not because I owed any favor to Monsieur Ferrier, but rather because I owed one to my father.

La Fin du Monde

Chapter 2

I don’t know whatever possessed me to think I would make a good sleuth, but here I am in Paris and there you have it... a beginning and an ending of a very short story... my story. There is no good excuse for why I chose to stay here after my assignment was finished or why I continue alone. I suppose some people do not deserve a partner to shore them up on cold nights with a hand to hold and clever conversation, but forgive me. I move too quickly forward through time and you must have questions of your own.

Let me start by saying, were it not true that I have an inexplicable and over-whelming desire to remain in this City of Light, with an irrational anticipation of meeting someone who appears to me only in dreams, I might have returned to the United States or England years ago. However, neither of those places I once called home appeal to me after five years, which when viewed through a glass of something amusing can seem a lifetime.

My friends or those I dare to call Mes amis, mostly chefs and those who make their livings in the honorable profession of waiting on others, insist the city is a feast for all manner of appetites, and that outsiders (such as myself) cannot possibly prevent becoming addicted to exotic aromas. Every bistro and café’s open doorway calls temptingly, Come hither, stranger. My other acquaintances, devotees of haunted underground jazz venues, argue that the city is itself a living  breathing creature, who with every note inhales an exhilaration of our youthful abandon and exhales the melancholy of ancient reverie, thereby, infusing both into the very marrow of our bones.

I ask them, How can you be so very certain that the ghostly beast is male? Could not a spirit so powerful also be a female? Or neither?

Then, the look that silently pities me appears. You poor fool! I’ve become accustomed to my French acquaintances shrugging off many of my enigmatic and unanswerable questions, especially, any that my contrary nature designs only to provoke such sneering judgments. The professor would remind that the French language defaults to the masculine, even when there are females present. If the saxophonist from Rome is to be believed, that the ether above Paris is filled with mythical beings spouting steamy protests , then, their very existence might provide a reason for the unexpected cramps that assault my toes and jar me awake just as sleep beckons. What devious revenge is theirs? Is it true that some legendary figure from the 17th Century is demanding an audience with me? Perhaps the he of whom I am so sure grows frustrated by my need for sleep, when he offers clues from an invisible hand. Maybe he... or, as I prefer, she... knows I believe in ghosts, Heavenly hosts, and all who populate the uncharted paths between.

While I am grateful for my friends’ delightfully playful and seductive explanations for my addiction to Paris and therefore, the reason why I cannot leave, I bless most often my enigmatic duo of mentors for sharing their hope I might one day follow successfully in their footsteps. Both Bertrand & Duchesney suggest that I could become as spectacularly adept at catching art thieves, as once they were in their glory days, but this is a grand leap indeed, given I have not yet proven myself worthy of such faith. Their encouraging hope that I might solve one notorious cold case and thereby, stake my claim, has kept me tethered here...  kept me sometimes hidden in the shadowy alleyways and other times... beneath Paris’ many bridges, although always with enough slack in the rope to wander randomly, dangerously, on my own.  

Again, forgive me. It is the Syrah, which has me speaking, so freely, of those things that should be kept to oneself. Whom do I hope to meet? Myself, if I foolishly believe as Mrs. Duchesney’s friend does. A dubious professor of philosophy with a wicked sense of humour insists we all go in search of ourselves and that this is the one and only purpose of our Earthly existence. One may assume he’s a bit narcissist and provocative for no purpose other than being so amuses him. I insist that I am looking for that someone whose presence in my life will define me as a man for all time. The good professor dismisses my ardent prayer as a symptom of naivety, ancient romanticism. He insists, if I ever embrace metaphorically and categorically a reliable sexual partner, my fragile hold on reality would firm up considerably. He enjoys speaking with double entendres, expressions that have had me persistently turning pages in my French dictionary at night.

Mon Dieu! The French do seem to enjoy comparing everything to food. A stranger to this new land does not arrive quite so ready to hear such earthy, homegrown expressions,  which suggest peasant and aristocrat are not nearly so defined by wealth as they are by what’s on their plate. I tell the taxi driver to slow down and he berates me soundly, calling me what sounds like a curse, but could be a description of his lunch. I retort, King Louie spoke thusly? and he tells me where to stuff my attitude and my aristocratic eggplant. That a typical