Memories of my time spent in Paris are always with me, and I
thought I’d share the 1st Chapter of A
Hotel in Paris with you. It is the beginning of my ‘hotel’ series. It wasn’t
meant to be a series, but I fell in love with the characters, and continued
their life together.
It is slower in pace, it is dreamy, and evocative. It is about a
woman on the cusp of self discovery, filled with self-doubt and romantic pain.
It is also the first thing I ever wrote, other than office memo.
Chapter
1
The shrill wail echoed in the
hallway, Minola Grey slammed the door to her hotel room and followed the sound
of distress. She saw the maid dart out of a guest room in sheer panic. Minola reached her in a few brisk strides and
asked, "Yvonne, what's the matter?"
She didn't detect any sign of injury, just pure terror in her eyes. This type of behavior was unlike Yvonne, who
was always steadfast. Nothing ever ruffled her.
"Mademoiselle
Grey…body…blood…" she sobbed.
"Body? Blood?
Whose body? Yvonne, please…please
sit down." Minola led her to the
plush oversized chair near the elevator.
"Tell me what happened," Minola pleaded.
"Lord
Yardleigh. In his room…dead…blood,"
Yvonne said, her voice shook, but the weeping now dwindled to a whimper.
"Yvonne,
knock on Dr. Lebrun's door. See if he's
in. I'll go to Lord Yardleigh's
room." Minola's voice quiet and
subdued, she thought to offer comfort to the distraught maid. “Please call the
front desk for help, and get Security up here, fast."
Lord
Yardleigh's open door allowed Minola to walk in, and what she saw left no doubt
in her mind. Lord Yardleigh was
dead. The body splayed out on the floor
did not diminish the quiet elegance of the room. Minola’s stomach twisted in a knot, her
muscles tightened and nausea rose in her throat.
She'd
never seen a body, much less in this bloody state. Think!
Don't touch anything. She
shook her head, as if to clear any lingering cobwebs. Get hold of yourself. Where is the gun? I don't see
a gun. Murder? Must be. He didn’t get up and dispose of the gun and then
conveniently lay down and die. Not with that wound. A great fan of the mystery genre, Minola knew enough not
to disturb anything in the room. The
crime scene needed to be preserved.
Reluctantly,
Minola looked at the body again and noted how impeccably dressed he’d
been–crisp white linen shirt, gold cuff links, and an expensive watch still on
his wrist–impeccable except for the bloody stain that had spread beyond the
hole in the shirt and created a crimson river against the achromatic
background. To relieve her queasiness,
Minola swiftly glanced at the rest of the room.
As an artist she focused on the de rigueur hotel furniture, then
on the few contemporary canvases displayed on the walls. These were not hotel issue, and were good.
The
colors and textures of the paintings strangely complimented the hues of the
grim, yet powerful, scene before her. Contemplating the pieces on the wall gave
Minola a much needed reprieve from the ghastly outline on the floor. Her hands clenched as she began to shake.
Nothing
appeared to have been disturbed in the quiet, serene room. The curtains were open, and the sun filtered
through to cast a warm dappled glow over the body. Minola shuddered, turned and without touching
anything walked out of the room.
Back
in the hallway, she patiently waited for what she knew would be a barrage of
questions by hotel security and the Police Nationale de Paris.
This
hotel is my home. What happened
here? To give her an essential,
although temporary, reprieve from the tragedy, she focused on yesterday’s
idyllic day sitting in a café, in a cozy secluded booth across the street from
the Luxembourg Gardens. Through the gilded wrought-iron
fence she gleaned the contemplative and everyday life of the Parisians unlike
today, where the horror of sudden death intruded on her contemplation.
As
she waited for the police, she relived the relaxed pace inside the gardens, so
peaceful and calm. She remembered the
old couple who sat on a bench and held hands, a woman watched her child play,
and on another bench, two women sat in comfort and rolled the prams containing
their precious cargoes. Their hypnotic
movements, back and forth, back and forth, helped lull Minola
into utter contentment as the mesmerizing and soothing minutes flicked by.
The
image of Lord Yardleigh's body intruded on her thoughts. So peaceful in repose…so still, so sanguine,
except for the blood. Go back to the
gardens. Go back to the gardens.
"Mademoiselle
Grey…pardon, Mademoiselle," she faintly heard a voice call her back to
reality. Art drew her to Paris, so well
represented–not confined to museums, but present everywhere, and always in the
gardens which peppered this amazing city.
"Mademoiselle Grey…Mademoiselle, s'il
vous plait." She heard that voice again, faint but urgent
calling her. Her
serenity shattered, she faced the
certainty of a gruesome murder in her quiet
hotel. Slowly Minola opened her eyes,
and noticed the hallway was filled with police and crime investigators. She recognized
what looked like a solitary pathologist carrying a black medical bag. The police did not block his entry.
"Mademoiselle
Grey, are you all right? I need to ask
you a few questions." The gentle
yet insistent voice persisted through her hazy
reality. "Yes, of course. I am sorry," she replied, and again
clenched her hands to keep them from shaking.
"I'm
Luc Dubois with the Police
Nationale. Mademoiselle, we already have
a statement from the maid. She said that
you went into the room. Did you touch
the body?" he inquired politely.
"I
didn't touch anything…no…nothing at all.
I went in to see if I could help.
Yvonne had said blood…I just wanted to make sure… I…"
He
nodded his head and continued, "Did you notice anything unusual? Did you see or hear anyone come up to this
floor while you were waiting for the police?"
"The
room appeared undisturbed. So
clean. I didn't see or hear anyone, but
I closed my eyes because I needed to escape. I am sorry, but I believe I
drifted off a bit. Maybe Yvonne heard or
saw something. Not a robbery…" Her calm voice belied her distress. She
looked down and tried to still her quaking hands.
"Yes,
I know. I had a difficult time bringing
you out of your reverie, Mademoiselle.
The maid had gone downstairs to summon help; she could not get the phone
to work. I believe she was too
agitated. Pourquoi? Why are you so certain that it was not a
robbery?" he queried.
"You
must have noticed he wore a gold Rolex.
There are also several very worthwhile contemporary art pieces on the
wall. A thief would have certainly
stolen these items. No self-respecting
crook would leave a Rolex on his victim's wrist.” She said. “The Luxembourg
Gardens are a far more delightful escape than seeing a murder victim." Her
voice was wistful as she looked up, her eyes shimmered, but she refused to let
the tears fall.
"There
I would agree with you, Mademoiselle. I
am sorry you were a witness to such a tragedy."
"Merci. Thank you for
understanding."
Minola closed her eyes and saw the sun filter through the
pool of blood–a macabre scene, one that would stay with her forever. She blinked twice and looked down at her
watch. "Pardon, but I am already late for class. May I please go, unless you still need me for
any reason? I will be back this
afternoon. I can leave my passport at
the front desk." As an afterthought
she added, "If necessary."
"That will not be required, Mademoiselle. You may go.
I understand that this is difficult for you. There will be more questions for you this
afternoon; please do make yourself available.
Merci, Mademoiselle."
He moved on to speak with another policeman.
* *
*
Yves
Lanier, of the Police Nationale, was a man with a mission. His dingy grey office with matching furniture
was so littered with papers and books that he couldn't find the phone on his
desk. It was here somewhere, he
knew. Damn it, I used it yesterday. He briefly stared at the mess…then, with
quiet efficiency, slid everything off his desk to the floor, and heard the ping
of the phone hit the ground. He bent
down, picked it up, and dialed a London
number he knew well. A quiet voice
answered: "Peter Riley."
"Bonjour,
Peter. How are you, my friend?"
"I
know that tone, Yves. Interpol at your
service. What's
going on?"
"Peter,
Yardleigh was murdered sometime late last night or early this morning. I think your investigation into money
laundering just veered off track."
The
silence at the other end was palpable.
"What the hell happened? He
was cooperating. What do you have?"
"We
have nothing, mon ami. He was
shot once in the chest with a small-caliber gun. No exit wound–the lab's still working on
that. Purely as an observation, it looks
like he knew his killer. No surprise or
fear…there's nothing reflected on his face.
Nothing stolen. Everything, as
you English say, was neat and tidy, save for the corpse on the floor. We secured the crime scene and did all the lovely
things we are supposed to do. The bastard was not nice enough to leave any
clues." Lanier spoke with the
confidence of a seasoned cop.
"Let
me talk to Clivers, my superior. Murder
is out of our jurisdiction. I suppose
that leaves Scotland Yard in the game."
"Peter,
this started in England."
"Don't
I know it. I will call you
back." Lanier heard the phone click
in his ear.
* *
*
Peter
Riley ran a hand through his hair and swore.
As he reached for his phone, it rang.
"Riley," he recognized the brooding voice, "what the hell
is going on?"
"Sir,
I just spoke with Lanier. I assume you
know as much as I do."
"Scotland
Yard just filled me in. As of right now
you are on loan to Scotland Yard. Riley,
get over there…yesterday."
"Sir,
just what am I supposed to do? We can
continue the internal investigation here…"
Peter was cut off again.
"He
was killed in Paris. You will go to Paris, do
I make myself clear?" The voice at
the other end softened perceptibly.
"I can't think of a better man to handle this mess. Keep me posted."
"Yes,
sir, I'm on my way," Peter responded, and hung up the phone. "Bloody hell," he murmured to
himself. He made a couple of phone calls
and prepared to leave for Paris.
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Cheers,
Margot
Justes
Blood Art
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www.mjustes.com
