à la carte A Cast of Paris Café Characters: SIMON PENNINGTON MYSTERIES, #4

By Peggy Kopman-Owens

Simon Pennington Paris Sleuth is hired by Mrs. Duchesney to find her favorite author, Jamie Litton, a reclusive mystery writer whose best friend Ben Foulof is a spy on the run. Her assignment was meant to be a fun, harmless adventure for the summer, but Simon now suspects he has been duped into playing a role in a far more dangerous game. This unique crossover mystery re-introduces a cast of characters that readers may recognize from this author's three previous Paris mystery series: SEVEN PARIS MYSTERIES (7-book series), MRS DUCHESNEY MYSTERIES (9-book series), SIMON PENNINGTON MYSTERIES (4-book series).This newest title: à la carte A Cast of Paris Café Characters © 2023 Peggy Kopman-Owens. Cover Art © Roger Kopman

• Language: English
• Publisher: PKOBOOKS LLC
• Release date: Sep 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223291473

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

I did not become Simon Pennington overnight. In fact, Pennington is not my real name, but rather, one that better suited my Parisian metamorphosis during which I abandoned my ambition to be a writer and became a professional sleuth. Few people know this, and now, because you are reading this - one more. The name I was given at birth became fodder for jokes at school and I went along, as much as anyone can who wishes to hold his ancestors in high regard, while suffering the abuse that is bound to garner laughter.

Following graduation from university, I did what any reasonable person would do. I changed my name. I trust you will keep my secret, not because we’ve met before you sat down to open this book, but because I pride myself on being a rather good judge of character. That is why I have asked you to become a witness to the strangest case I have ever been asked to investigate. Strange, because my acquired skills lay in solving art thefts and in this case, nothing has been stolen; that is, as far as I can determine, except a man’s identity.

I ask you to judge. Is it a crime for a person to move to Paris and become someone else? In regard to one’s character, what does a name determine? By any other, would you not know me?  

My natural shyness may explain why the detective business was very appealing. The profession allows a sleuth to set his own work schedule, spend endless hours observing others, and other than when he must question witnesses or suspects, to be left to indulge in his own thoughts. For these reasons and more, I feel I have found my place in this world and that place is Paris.

However, I don’t wish to give the wrong impression. I do enjoy being with other people, often long into the night at underground jazz clubs, socializing as one is permitted to do in Paris with my friends set upon bringing me out of my shell, as if I were some sort of lifeless crustacean they’ve discovered on a forgotten beach. Most days or nights, I do not protest being made the subject of their curious grand experiments, their thinly veiled attempts to find for me their idea of my perfect mate, but their best intentions sometimes border on pity and always, inevitably, fail.

Still, I am grateful to have friends at all. In a 21st Century world of clicks, likes, and 8-second sound bytes, I consider myself a lucky man, an optimistic soul, and one who does not mind his solitude, despite friends’ insistence I cannot possibly be happy as a lifelong bachelor. While that may be my destiny, I am not entirely alone. I do have the loyal companionship of my closest ally, Monsieur Xander, who never meets a stranger, which means he has either great expectations or decidedly bad judgment. Despite his grey hairs and growing long in the tooth, he remains a loving old soul worthy of forgiveness for his lack of discretion. We two are bachelors in a city where every street corner café and park tempts even the faint-hearted with romantic encounters, but for us, Cupid remains an acquaintance, not a new best friend.

The longest focus of my affection lives on the southern French coast, where earlier in my sleuthing career, I had been sent to search for Mrs. Duchesney’s missing cousin Rudy, but became quickly blinded from too much liberty and heady scents of perfume. Unprepared for the consequences of both, I fell headlong into the arms of a beautiful woman in uniform and an emotional trap that has impaired my ability to trust my heart ever since. Once bitten, twice shy, I avoid going south in France, that is anywhere near a beautiful beach or azure waters, as their temptations make me weak. What would be the point? My work, my life is in Paris.

Since surviving this one particularly ill fated affair, I have vowed never, again, to allow my heart to be broken, especially not by anyone who views my unwillingness to commit as arrested adolescence. Albeit, keenly aware of my history with Dominique, my friends continue to prefabricate romantic encounters they believe will force me to give love a second chance. I tell them infatuation is much better than love because it lasts, according to Professor Domino Vassellia, exactly six weeks – much like a bad influenza, from which a person has a chance of recovery. Love, on the other hand, has been known to kill a person according to Monsieur Bruno Lacosta and who, better than the former Chief of Homicide Detectives, could testify to this?

When Mrs. Duchesney called me to her apartment on the excuse of discussing a new case, naturally, I assumed this was yet another attempt to interfere in my private life. Would this candidate for my interest be a distant cousin from America or a neighbor’s niece, who just happened to drop by?

From this point on in the story, you will discover I can be wrong about a great many things. The first of these being, my misinterpretation of Mrs. Duchesney’s intent. On this lovely summer day, she had an entirely different purpose for inviting me to tea. It seems she had been reading a book that she found intriguing and, having convinced herself the characters were not all fictional, but instead real, she now wanted me to investigate and prove this beyond a reasonable doubt.

One character in particular was to become the focus of my search for the truth and after listening to a rather lengthy... Shall I call it a book report? I commented that, if her assumptions were correct, then our fellow Parisians were indeed in danger and in need of an authentic hero. However, I did not see myself in that role and I told her so. To which she answered, I disagree, which was a sure indication she already had decided I was.  

But what has been stolen? I asked, trying to build a defense for why I should not become involved in a ridiculous pursuit outside of my normal genre of crimes.

That is for me to know and you to find out. How childish she sounded and the absurd scheme she proposed did not end there. Had I not been asking the wrong questions, I might have gotten the right answers, but in that omission, I lost control of the entire investigation. Had I stuck with what I do best, which is to find missing and stolen works of art, I would have never gotten myself into this mess.

My father often told me, Success in life rests upon finding one thing you do well and doing just that. My mother said, A King is a king as long as the people need a king. When a king is no longer needed, the man must learn to be something else. These contradicting thoughts lulled me into another long moment of distraction as Mrs. Duchesney’s voice faded away...

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Simon?

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Sorry. I was thinking.

Must Monsieur Xander always drool like that?

Pardon? I looked down to where she was pointing to see Monsieur Xander was passed out on the floor, snoring with his head lying across my right shoe. Yes. I suppose he must.

You said you were thinking. About what?

That no proper biographer would write so short a story. I recalled what little I could remember from her proposed charade, a plan for me to masquerade as a writer in order to gain the trust of her favorite author. I was to interview him on the pretense of ghost writing his autobiography, she said, because I had come to Paris as a writer many years earlier and I should be eager to re-embrace this career.

I’m a private detective, not a writer, not an actor.

Every good sleuth is an actor. You only need to follow the script I’ve written for you.  

I began a litany of objections. Any writer accepting a project of this magnitude would be expected to write no fewer than 20 chapters. Do you know how much work that would be?

Yes, but I’m not asking you to write a book, only to pretend to be writing a book. How much imaginary work is that? You received your diploma in literature, did you not?

Journalism, I corrected her.

See? She refused to be waylaid by semantics. You’re perfect for the job.

If I had known all you wanted was an actor, I wouldn’t have bothered coming to tea. I would have sent Professor Vassellia.

If I had known all you were going to do is complain, I wouldn’t have invited you.

Perhaps, I should stop now and explain that Mrs. Duchesney and I met many years ago, when I first arrived in Paris to interview her as one-half of the famous sleuthing duo, Bertrand & Duchesney. After hitting it off splendidly with both she and her partner Monsieur Louie Bertrand, and being seduced by what the City of Light has to offer, I failed to finish the magazine article.

Further (contrived) delays allowed me to overstay my visa, but eventually, my editor realized I would not be leaving Paris, unless I was in handcuffs. At various times in my life, serendipity, that cherished angel in the shadows, has stepped in to protect me. On this occasion, she sent Mrs. Duchesney and Monsieur Louie Bertrand in her place and they offered me the irresistible opportunity of becoming their apprentice. Generously, taking me under their wings, they taught me everything they knew about being a private detective, a magnanimous act of which Mrs. Duchesney was now reminding me.

Simon, I’m giving you a chance to revisit your past and test your talents. I’m certain you have regrets about giving up your writing career in order to work for us.

What writing career? I have no regrets, I insisted. She was reading between the lines because I had made no such lament. If I had been any good as a writer, I assured her, you would be reading my books, not those of... I picked up the one lying open in her reading chair, ...this Jamie Litton fellow. I was so disinterested in her newest obsession that I could not remember even the author’s name.

She took the book from my hands and carefully inserted a bright red bookmark, before laying it aside and picking up a folder from her desk. This she handed to me to begin her instructions, as if I had agreed already to launch this investigation.

You must take very precise notes and your questions must be succinct. Don’t let your mind wander.

Me? Wander?

Be serious, Simon. We... that is, I want you to make him think his biography will become a bestseller. Appeal to his ego. Flatter him, she said, now pacing back and forth across the creaking wooden floors of her small fourth-floor apartment. And for Goodness Sake, don’t waste the man’s time by asking the wrong questions.

Why should he believe I’m a writer? If he is a writer, would he not immediately spot a fake?

He’ll believe you, if you’ve done your homework properly, she scolded as a mother might have. The problem was Mrs. Duchesney was not my mother, only my mentor, and I was no longer her apprentice and no longer obligated to listen to her tedious instructions. The favors I did for her now were entirely voluntary, not binding. Yes, of course, I did owe both famous sleuths a great deal, but for her to ask me to waste my time on this silly new passion of hers was pushing the limits. Was my apprenticeship never to end?

"Whatever do you mean by wrong questions and who is this ‘we’ of whom you speak? Is Monsieur Bertrand also behind this scheme?"

No. Louie doesn’t want to become involved, which is just fine with me. From her suddenly haughty tone, quite obviously, it wasn’t fine with her, but she knew when Monsieur Bertrand said No, he meant Never! He had learned the hard way, as I had, Mrs. Duchesney was born with a very stubborn nature, but with him, she had learned when to stop pushing. Apparently, she did not judge me to be immoveable.

You will not be in any danger. She assured me, if that is your concern, regardless of what Louie might think or will tell you. Don’t listen to him. Jamie Litton is a pussycat. He wouldn’t hurt a mouse. Louie has never been much of a reader and he couldn’t identify Jamie Litton if the author were in a police lineup.

Why would the pussycat be in a police lineup?

Oh, stop it. It’s just an expression.  

Not a particularly comforting one. I wanted to pick up the phone and call Monsieur Bertrand, before being forced to make a commitment I was already regretting and to ask his opinion in hopes it would match mine. She wouldn’t listen to me, but she would listen to him. If he insisted, Francesca! Don’t bother Simon with this nonsense! she might relent and return to reading fictional mysteries, rather than feeding her appetite for real ones. 

Monsieur Bertrand, like my former sleuthing partner André Caron, could size up a man within two minutes of meeting him. Both enjoyed their leisure on yachts anchored off the southern shore of France, when they weren’t needed on shore and both had an annoying habit of disappearing at the most inopportune moments.  

He’s in Villefranche-sur-Mer, visiting his cousin, Mrs. Duchesney said, even though I had not mentioned his name.

Did I say I was going to call Monsieur Bertrand?

I saw that look on your face. She went back to her instructions, I’m not asking you to do anything difficult, only to pose as a writer for a few weeks. You’ve taken on far more challenging roles to catch a thief.

So, you’re telling me the author is a thief? Ok. Why didn’t you say so in the beginning? That’s entirely different. Her smile revealed the hook had been set. Tell me. What has he stolen? I asked, genuinely interested, ...other than your imagination?

The truth is I had never been a very good writer and so, ending a career already headed for the rubbish bin was welcomed relief. To stay in Paris, I had been willing to work odd jobs, bus tables, wash dishes, until one day, quite unexpectedly, Mrs. Duchesney and Monsieur Bertrand made their generous offer for me to become their apprentice. Necessity is often the mother of invention and I would have done almost anything they asked, even if that required being occasionally humiliated or dressed up in ridiculous costumes.

Another truth is I have never been a very good student, which makes me wonder how well they had vetted me before taking me on. However, after many years under their tutelage, I grew into my long pants and could claim credit for cases solved without their assistance. Almost all of my clients have been satisfied with the sleuth they hired, as my work did produce the results they wanted, which was the safe return of very expensive artwork. When lost or stolen objects arrive home, safely, their owners tend to declare the person who found them the best sleuth in the world. I take this praise lightly because in Paris flattery is in the air we breathe. Without it, our pompous opinions of ourselves would implode. In those rare moments, when others are praising me for simply doing my job, when some might notice a far-away look in my eyes and Mrs. Duchesney accuses me of being distracted, I am not lost. I am praying my life here will never end.

I love Paris.

I love being a sleuth.

I love...

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Simon? Are you listening to me?

My thoughts circled back. Which questions exactly do you consider the wrong ones?  

I know you, she said, in that motherly manner, which foretold I would not like what was coming. You are like a son to me, but like all good sons, your actions do not always demonstrate your very best intentions, and that single flaw in your otherwise stellar character always gets you into trouble. You must not allow it to interfere with this investigation.

Which investigation would that be? I missed seeing her eyes roll as I was too busy relishing the idea I possessed a stellar character. Every man enjoyed hearing the assertion he might be better than he imagines himself to be. Who was I to challenge her generous judgment? After all, she was the expert.  

Stick to the script I’ve written for you and you won’t get into any trouble. Don’t cut to the chase too quickly, as you have done in the past, because from what I’ve learned of Jamie Litton you will only scare him away. You must be patient with him. Only Heaven knows where he will run off to next time or when he will return. We might not be given this opportunity, again.

Scare him? What is he? A child?

No more than you are. She was now as annoyed with me as I was with this ridiculous scheme.

Nothing stolen? I asked, again.

You’re missing the point.

Apparently, I was, as she had never met the man she was enlisting me to interview for reasons she had yet to explain. What was to gain from my finding a man who might not even exist? If this question is so important to you, why don’t you call the author and simply invite him to tea?

Don’t you think I would, if I could? He is as difficult to pin down, as are his friends. He sometimes hides, becoming a total recluse. She continued, How do you suppose an old woman like me could draw out a man like him? I have nothing of interest to offer him, whereas you...

"You’re not that old, I countered. If you were to wear that red dress you...

She blushed, before jumping back into this scrimmage. Old enough to know the difference between the truth and flattery. He sometimes lives quite openly in Paris, going to his favorite restaurants, visiting his favorite art galleries, even occasionally, traveling to the South of France, but then... She snapped her fingers. He disappears like that! Sometimes for months.

She began searching through a pile of papers on her desk. We have been given a small window of opportunity because, recently, he was spotted at a café in Montmartre, near... She meticulously sorted through a tall stack of folders, flipping them open slowly, one by one. Where did I put that address? Oh, yes. Here it is!

She handed me the scrap of paper, which I slipped into my breast pocket without looking at it, as she hadn’t dropped even a half beat where I could fit in an objection. No one seems to know where he goes. She held up a newspaper clipping. This book reviewer wrote Monsieur Litton hides in Paris with the help of disguises designed by his friends in the fashion business.  

Now, she was just babbling and my mind had no choice, but to wander. This happens, especially, when I am hungry or bored or in this instance, both. My stomach had been making loud sounds for more than an hour, as she refused to serve me even one tiny tea sandwich, until I agreed to her terms. This time my gut howled, drowning out the sound of her fading voice, until she snapped her fingers, again, this time to get my attention. I bristled with the irritating sound.

I’m not a dog, I said, reaching down to pet Monsieur Xander on the head. If I did that to him, he’d have a perfect right to bite me. I had never witnessed Mrs. Duchesney using this insulting method of hailing a waiter and used only by tourists unaware of how offensive the bad habit was to the professionals serving them.

She screwed her mouth into a small rosebud of wrinkles as she exhaled, Humph! in response to my objection.

I’m quite familiar with your moods, I said. This is a particularly unpleasant one. Perhaps, Monsieur Xander and I should go.

Perhaps, you should, she grumbled a second time.

It’s not that I mind doing you the odd favor, now and again, but this latest request of yours is... I saw that, in all likelihood, she had not blinked since last I looked up. This was her tried-and-true method of making a difficult suspect confess, with silence and a stare, which was horrifically magnified by thick glasses.

It came as no surprise to her that I caved and began confessing my true feelings. Quite honestly, I’m not the best qualified person for your assignment. I know virtually nothing about the man and I haven’t read a single word he’s written.

Have you read not one thing I’ve given you? You’ve had his dossier and two books for more than three days.

True, but I was not the speed-reader that she was, so I had skimmed a few pages of one book, but having grown bored, put it down alongside Jamie Litton’s carefully prepared dossier. There was nothing in either that grabbed my attention, nothing about stolen art or art thieves that demanded my skills. What was the point? Why should I devote my time to chasing characters in a book, when a real client might need my services?

I am a private detective who finds missing artwork, not a book reviewer for the London Times. She was asking me to interview one of her favorite authors without providing any proper motivation for doing so. What is more, she had made no mention of money, and therefore, I had to assume she expected my services would be offered pro-bono. How was I to pay my bills? A man and his dog had to eat, didn’t they?

Granted, she and her sleuthing partner Louie Bertrand had groomed me for this profession and upon their retirement, had gifted me freely their client list, which was worth a fortune to anyone in the private detective business. Ok, yes, I admit it; they had set me up nicely and given me everything I needed to succeed, so I did owe them both a great deal, but...

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Simon?

I was defeated by my own reasoning. There was no defensible but. I was indebted to them and that was that. I had not anticipated, however, that this debt might outlive me. Tell me, again, what it is you hope I will accomplish.

While I did not have the extravagant tastes of her sleuthing partner, Louie Bertrand, I did enjoy occasionally eating out and eating well. How much have you set aside for this project? I dared to ask. Taking even a day away from my normal obligations could impact significantly my ability to keep up appearances and meet my financial obligations. Unlike most everyone in Paris, my creditors did not take les grand vacances, nor did they offer freely any of their goods and services.

You expect to be paid? She sounded offended, as if the idea of paying me had never occurred to her.

Well, yes. Were you thinking of a different sort of arrangement?

She reminded me, not so subtly, A debt is a debt, Simon.

I know, but I... What was the point? I had never before won an argument with her and today would be no exception. Never mind.

Virtue is its own reward, she chirped, observing my surrender reflected in the way my body slumped in the chair.  

Not since the 14th Century, I muttered.

Perhaps, if I dug in and began immediately the pretense of being a biographer, this project would not take the full six weeks she was proposing. Her whim and my debt could both be satisfied in less time than most Parisians were away on summer vacations. I looked at my watch. She had said, earlier, I did not need to write an entire book, only pretend to write a rough draft. Pretense was one of the few things I could do quite well, as in pretending to listen to this ludicrous scheme of hers.

What was taxing my patience was my inability to win an argument and her refusal to explain why any of this was so terribly important. I was left to assume retired sleuths simply had too much time on their hands and with no new clients knocking on their doors, they were left to make up their own mysteries.

I sighed. Why had she not gone to one of the author’s book signings and left me out of this? What author would deny a sweet little old lady his answer to her one simple question?

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Is Ben Foulof still alive?

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Once a bestselling author, Jamie Litton had not written a new book in decades, which urged my next question. How had he survived in Paris all these many years on mere royalties, when most writers could not pay their first month’s rent? Even a recluse had bills to pay.

If you had read my list of questions, you would see that question is number 12, she scolded.  

One had to imagine all sorts of ways a man might support himself, not the least of which was by soliciting a wealthy sponsor. Indeed, a young and charming Louie Bertrand had enjoyed many such patrons of the arts during his early years as both artist and gigolo, often bragging to me that his studios were generously financed and his liquor cabinet stocked by rich women with too much time on their hands. His stories had filled many of our nights spent in underground jazz clubs.  

However, it was my own ignorance and, yes, arrogance that caused me to dismiss the thought that Monsieur Litton had ever been young or attractive enough to enjoy Monsieur Bertrand’s luck and luxury. He must have some hidden source of revenue that Mrs. Duchesney overlooked in compiling her dossier on him. Perhaps, he was engaged in some sort of illegal activity that was bankrolling his lifestyle. If so, this prospect would make investigating him ever more interesting.

Yes. This was beginning to make more sense. Did Mrs. Duchesney suspect the author traded in stolen works of art and therein, his personal life had become more interesting to her than the books he wrote? I felt she was keeping the real reason for her interest in him hidden, that she was not telling me everything she knew or suspected. Certainly, the possibility he was aiding and abetting an art thief would be more than enough reason for my becoming engaged in her odd investigation. Yes, definitely, this would make the assignment worth my time. I might even consider calling a few informants and offering one or two an incentive for leads on this premise. I began running down a list of names in my head, wondering how many were already planning to be away from Paris for the summer.

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Then, we are agreed? she asked a second time.

D’ accord, I said, extending my hand to seal what was only a verbal agreement. I will await your contract.

No paperwork will be exchanged on this one.

But why? I must show the tax department something for this period of time.

Tell them you were on vacation, she said. Take enough money from your personal savings account to cover six weeks of expenses and I will see that you are reimbursed by the first week of September.

But we have not discussed my fees.

No. Make that eight weeks, enough to cover what appears to be a nice, long holiday.

You think I have two months of savings sitting in the bank doing nothing?

More than that and earning interest, I hope, she answered. Have you learned nothing I’ve taught you?

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Before my next meeting with Mrs. Duchesney, I made a visit to the American Library in Paris, having discovered from my research online that their archives held a rare copy of Monsieur Litton’s first book ever published. The edition had been printed by one of his professors to test the popularity of his protégé’s writing, but the number of copies was so limited, I could track down only three existing printed editions, two in the United States, and this one.

I departed the library amused that this unusually thin book had gathered so much dust from having never been checked out that my trusted archivist Lillian the librarian had trouble finding it. That evening, I discovered between pages 43 and 44 a spider turned to dust and this find was the most profound thing about the book. In my humble opinion, the rest of it was not worth the paper on which it had been printed. Obviously, at that point in his life, Jamie Litton had not yet met the person or hit upon the idea that would inspire his future bestsellers.

The book was not a mystery, not even a contemporary work of fiction, but rather a collection of archaic-sounding prose and poetry, which would not have won him a token nod from a reclusive monk 400 years ago. What had this novice writer been thinking when he wrote it or the English professor who had spent good money on publishing it?  

I dropped the copy off at her apartment with my apologies for being too busy to stay and a reminder that the book needed to be returned by a certain date. My borrowed gift surprised her and she was grateful, but this time, my reluctance to stay and listen to any more lectures suited her fine. She had an important errand to run, she said.

Off to the market?

No, it’s blue cheese day at the Fromagerie! She said, excitedly anticipating free samples. Monsieur Gauguin loves cheese. Shall I also bring home some samples for Monsieur Xander?

No, Merci. He hates blue cheese.

Since when?

Since our last trip to the Fromagerie, he has developed an annoying problem - lactose intolerance.

Poor dog.

I could walk you there, I offered.

No, no, she insisted. Domino has called a taxi for us.

Us? I looked past her and into the apartment, seeing no Professor Vassellia.

He’s in the bedroom, she confessed without embarrassment, but upon seeing my one raised eyebrow, added, fixing the shelf above my bed.

It broke?

Things break, dear.

You might have told me when I was here yesterday.

It wasn’t broken yesterday.

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Monsieur Xander’s medical condition was only speculation on my part, but the evidence was more than circumstantial. He loved cheese, but since he ate almost anything offered to him, cheese was only the latest to give him digestive problems. His insatiable appetite sometimes embarrassed me when visiting restaurants because he would put on his pitiful face, until I had no choice but to share whatever was on my plate. Those nearby felt compelled to display the same expression, asking, Don’t you feed that dog at home?

Yes. I do, generously. The problem is Monsieur Xander is a dog born in France with an inherent appreciation for anything eatable, if prepared correctly. Thusly, he has high expectations of what should appear in his food bowl, preferably in courses, and in his discerning opinion not whatever is on sale at the local pet store. Had he been born in England, he might have been happy with fish and chips, but being French... Well, somethings are not negotiable, if he and I are to live together.

Unfortunately, with more than 400 types of cheese being produced in France, he holds in his French doggy brain the added expectation that he should be given every opportunity to sample each and all of them. However, the tiniest morsel gives him horrendously bad breath and an involuntary propensity to expel copious amounts of gas after falling asleep on my bed. Today, I was exhausted, after having been awakened yet another night, gasping for fresh air, and forced from my bed at 3 a.m. to open wider an already open window.

"I really should withhold dairy from his diet, until I’ve found time to speak to his veterinarian about this.

Poor, poor dog, Mrs. Duchesney said. I couldn’t live a day without cheese.

Yes, I know, I said, then, zipped my mouth on the subject. Mrs. Duchesney and Monsieur Xander shared many of the same ailments, arthritis, aching feet, and more recently, the unfortunate consequences of an insatiable love of cheese. Fortunately, for her guests, she always kept her windows open.

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The next day, I made a call to Monsieur Xander’s veterinarian, which ended with his uncontrollable laughter, but no cure. I reported this to Mrs. Duchesney who had met Monsieur Xander at the door of her apartment with a morsel of what would become his next favorite cheese, despite my objections; this one made with goat’s milk.

Let’s see if goat’s milk makes a difference, she suggested.

Cheese is cheese.  

You really should read this, she said, shoving a book about the cheese regions of France under my nose. In fact, I insist you take it home with you.

I stuck it in my bag with a mumbled Merci, and quickly forgot about it. When I reached home, I tossed the book into a basket of other books she had insisted I read, most of which were crime novels or biographies of famous artists. The cheese book would lay there unopened, until it began growing mold.   

F. Scott Fitzgerald was one of Mrs. Duchesney’s favorite writers, but she had not asked me to go in pursuit of any of his characters or their secrets, which would have been a search I could have enjoyed. Hunting down anyone who might have known Scott and Zelda would not have lasted more than a day, because most, if not all, were lying in their graves. I confess I had a special fondness for Zelda, who, despite her many challenges, had not wasted a sober or inebriated moment of what others condemned as madness. What genius had not wandered brilliantly out of his or her mind?

In Paris, Madame Fitzgerald built upon her hidden passions as writer and artist. A secret unfulfilled quest of mine was to track down one of her previously unknown paintings, which I knew would set the art world on fire and be more than worth my time. This was one of those other things I had planned to do this summer, before Mrs. Duchesney insisted I assist her to find, not the ghost of someone who once had been alive, but rather the ghost of someone who had never lived, except on the pages of a book.    

"If you can step back into your former career, as gingerly as you abandoned it and forget for a few days that you are Simon Pennington, you might very well succeed at completing this simple task.

Everything you’ve ever asked me to do has sounded simple in the beginning, I reminded her.

When did you become so cynical? She peered at me through her thick glasses and scrunched her nose, like something in the room smelled.

It’s just that... Well, it is summer and I did have other things planned.

Things like what?

I prefer not to reveal my plans at this time.

Surely, you weren’t thinking of leaving Paris for the summer. You never take a vacation.

True, but that doesn’t imply I don’t need a diversion from private investigations. My work is so... mundane.

Simon? Are you seeing someone?

Me? Don’t be silly.

So... not a woman, hmmm?

No.

Well, even if you do have a new love interest, this won’t take long, she insisted. Not if you really put your mind to it. After all, you were once a writer. If you can convince Monsieur Litton you are still a writer...

Journalist, I interrupted.

Humph. Finally, she sat down. If you had read the dossier I gave you, you would know that he and his best friend were both journalism students at the same university. Call yourself whatever you will, but I expect he will discover in short order exactly what you are.

My point exactly. What sort of reaction do you think he will have, when he finds out he’s been played for a fool?

If you do your job properly, he won’t find out, but if he should... Let me say, he has an unpredictable personality or so, I’ve been told.

You said he was a pussycat!

Even a cat can have a bad day, she said, before dismissing my concern. Let us not go too far down that road yet and so, focus only on the task at hand. The test of your success will be met if the two of you become comrades in arms, not immediate enemies. It would serve our purposes better if you foster and fed his belief that you and he have much in common.

I know what you and I have done in the past, all our charades, the costumes, the whole of it, but deceiving an innocent stranger for no good reason seems... I searched for a word, settling upon unethical. When was she going to tell me her suspicions, that this man was guilty of hoarding stolen art or some other such crime, which might justify her scheme?

Unethical? You’ve been visiting with Domino, again, haven’t you? I can always tell when he’s had access to your mind.

We play chess. We talk. There’s no harm in that.

He delights in confusing you for sport. You do know that. Right?

"He would prefer to say he enlightens me."

He talks to hear himself speak. You know, he was nothing more than an out-of-work actor, when I met him.

Well, when I met him he was already a well-respected, tenured professor of philosophy. I’d hate to think that 50 years from now, the world will judge me by the person I was before I moved to Paris. I wanted her to think long and hard about this because she, herself, had come to Paris at age 18 with nothing to put on a C.V. (résumé), and less in her purse. If her cousin Rudy had not already left America to establish himself in Montmartre, where he lived in a cheap apartment and washed hair for centimes, she would have had no place to rest her weary head or arse.

I’ll speak to him, later, she said, as a woman with a new mission.

Why? Have the two of you broken another shelf in your bedroom?

Simon! Really!

Poor Professor Vassellia, I thought, as she returned to reciting from the dossier I had only briefly skimmed. After graduation, Jamie Litton and Ben Foulof became roommates in New York City... But the minds of sleuths rarely embrace only one stream of consciousness and so eventually, herself bored, she muttered, Never mind. She must have realized making this assignment more tedious was not going to change my lack of enthusiasm. The point I am trying to make is, if he thinks you are there to investigate him, he’ll run.

Then, she busied her fingers with straightening a circle of lace upon which sat a potted violet. I understand your question of ethics. No one enjoys being lied to or lying to others, but I have no choice. Who knows when he might surface again? We have this opportunity for the two of you to meet and I have walked on water to make this happen. I ask only that you do not undo all my best efforts.

You know me. I’ll do my best.

She stared at me with a confused look. "I do know you. That is the problem. If I had anyone else to send on this assignment, I’d