The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(17)

Hugo came downstairs to tell us, “I taught Jacob how to beatbox. It might not be his calling, though.”

I rubbed Hugo’s head affectionately until he squirmed away. Then we all sat down to a dinner of lamb chops and green beans almondine, finishing the meal with a mousse au chocolat. This dinner Jacob had made with love made me sorry I’d doubted him, and yet I doubted him still.

After dinner had been cleared away, Jacob mooched around the downstairs rooms, watching the news, taking his computer for a spin, effectively blocking the entrance to the cellar, where unread papers called out to me.

Yes, Jacob had said he would tell me about Katherine, but I wanted answers I could verify before having a chat with my Israeli commando uncle.

Harry said he had some thinking and composing to do, and after he secluded himself in the back garden, I climbed the stairs to my room. I opened a closet and found a silk nightgown and matching robe made of cerise silk. As I put it on, the silk drifted over my head and floated around my shoulders like it had been lonely for me. I got into bed and thought about Katherine and Dominick’s doomed love story, and frankly, it didn’t track.

I do believe it’s possible to be rear-ended and not see the vehicle that struck you from behind. I believe it’s possible that in the inferno that followed, other drivers had been shocked and horrified by the flames and had missed seeing the guilty driver who, after rear-ending Dominick’s motorcycle, sped away.

But why had Uncle Pig threatened Dominick?

Why wasn’t he more concerned for Kath’s boyfriend, the other victim in this accident? Why hadn’t he waited for Dominick to recover and maybe helped him pursue legal matters arising from the accident? That would have been humane. And why hadn’t Dominick been allowed to contact my parents and tell them about Katherine’s last days?

That might have been a comfort to us all.

Instead, we’d had Katherine’s funeral without the boy who loved her. What could be sadder than that? Had Peter been at the funeral? I couldn’t remember.

After our parents died, I’d caught Peter smuggling documents out of my father’s office. He had said the papers belonged to Angel Pharmaceuticals and, therefore, to him.

Now I wondered if those papers were all about Katherine. Was there a connection between Katherine’s drug protocols and her death?

I had to find out.

I have a track record of solving crimes, starting with the deaths of our parents and continuing from that day, so that I even get respect from the NYPD.

So I say this not as a snotty teenager, but as a proven investigator: Uncovering the mystery of Katherine’s death would be the most important investigation of my life.

That was my last conscious thought before I dropped into a black hole of sleep.



I had to swim up from the depths of my slumber to finally understand that Jacob was knocking frantically on my door.

“Tandy! Open up. It’s an emergency.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s late. Get dressed, Tandy. Harry is in trouble.”

I bounded out of bed in my borrowed peignoir and threw open the door.

“What is it? What happened?”

“Someone is dead. Harry has been arrested.”





Monsieur Morel surprised me.

I was slammed against the backseat as he floored the Mercedes, cutting through early-morning traffic and whizzing through intersections against lights, without incident or accident.

Hugo clung to me in the backseat as the car lurched and swayed and shot through the streets of Paris.

We couldn’t go fast enough for me.

My heart ached for Harry. Was he terrified? Had the police already decided he was guilty of something heinous? It had happened before, to Matty when his girlfriend had been found stabbed to death. The media had played judge and jury before the trial even started.

Before I could get swamped in bad memories, Monsieur Morel braked the car outside the Commissariat de Police. Car doors flew open, and with Jacob in the lead, Hugo and I nimbly skirted a long row of bike racks and iron fencing, edging through a line of police cars at the curb.

The police station was gray brick, lit from within with a stark, bluish-gray light, looking quite ominous under the circumstances.

Jacob held the glass doors for Hugo and me, saying, “Don’t worry, kids,” in a way that sounded like he was worried sick.

The police station looked like every one I’ve ever seen. There were community notices on the walls and long counters around the perimeter for filling out forms. There was a bank of folding chairs in the middle and one in a corner, and another all the way at the back of the room; a desk was manned by two uniformed officers, a big clock on the wall behind their heads.

In front of the desk were two staggered lines of drunks and thieves, and also parents and loved ones making inquiries.

As I stood in the entrance taking all this in, a man approached from the edge of my vision. He was chubby, bald, and wearing jeans, a gray plaid sports jacket, and a scowl. That was when I recognized him. It was Gram Hilda’s senior attorney, Monsieur Delavergne.

He shook hands with Jacob, nodded hello in the direction of Hugo and me, and then walked us to the cluster of folding chairs in the corner of the room.

Jacob asked him, “Where do things stand?”

Delavergne spoke mainly in English but stopped every now and then to look for the correct word.