The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(20)

Meanwhile, downstairs in the dining room, Jacob was having coffee and cake with Monsieur Delavergne. After my sunburst of love for Gram Hilda’s lawyer, I now had to see things as they actually were. And reality sucked.

Harry had left home without permission.

He’d gone to a wild party, where his “date” had died of an ecstasy overdose. And probably even more disgraceful—the press had videotaped Harry Angel’s arrest, his release, and his fall in front of the police station. Now everything that had ever been said, filmed, or written about our family was being regurgitated for a whole new audience.

Most of our recorded history was pretty disgraceful, to say the least.

I went to the kitchen and washed the dinner dishes, soaking them in hot water and scrubbing vigorously while the meeting that might turn Harry’s inheritance to crap rumbled along out of earshot. I was totally terrified for Harry.

On the other hand—and wasn’t there always another hand?—I understood why Harry was rebelling.

Harry’s paintings, in my humble estimation, were brilliant. He also composed music and could really, really play the piano.

Our parents hadn’t appreciated these talents; they thought his brand of creativity was weak. Or they didn’t see a financial advantage to painting and music. Or they really didn’t like Harry, which was his opinion. He was the unloved child.

Whatever, because of Harry’s epic press coverage, reporters had learned of his debut at Carnegie Hall and that he’d written music for other musicians.

They’d figured out their angle, which was also the truth: Harry was an oppressed musical giant. Now there was interest in Harry, all right. Big-money interest.

I took a few swigs of cooking sherry, nearly dropping the bottle when my phone suddenly rang.

Could it be James?

I leapt for my phone, which was on the kitchen table a mile away. I grabbed it and eyeballed the caller ID.

It wasn’t James.

But a thrill shot through me anyway.

I was almost as excited as if James was actually calling me. I clicked the phone, put my mouth to the speaker, and screamed.





She screamed, too.

She was Claudia Portman, aka C.P., my best friend from school—really my only friend from school. C.P. is a bold dresser, a loud talker, and like me, she tends to color outside the lines. I’m her “only,” too.

When I last saw C.P. a week ago, my family was fleeing New York, probably for good. We were about to cab it down to the docks and within hours board the Queen Mary 2 and sail to France, our future unknown. I also hadn’t known until C.P. told me on the street that day that she had spent the night in Harry’s room.

Why did this feel bad? I don’t know, but I’d made her promise to never, under any circumstance, even if we hated each other, even if I pointed a gun at her head, tell me about having sex with my brother. Vom.

So I don’t know anything about that, and I buried this tidbit under a wrinkle in my cerebral cortex and moved on.

Now—C.P. was screaming into my ear, and then she said, “Tandy! Why didn’t you call me back?”

“You called?” I said. “When?”

“Yesterday. And—two days ago. And the day after you left me in New York—all by myself!”

I laughed loud and hard. God, it felt good to laugh from my belly, especially great because she was laughing now, too.

I gasped for air. And then I said, “Sorry, C.P. I didn’t have the satellite hookup when we were on the ship, and then I was at school—no phone, and then Jacob took all our phones away, and then Harry was in the hospital—”

“Hospital? What’s wrong with Harry?”

I skipped the part about his date with Lulu Ferrara—Harry could tell C.P. about that if he wanted to—but I did say he’d had some heart palpitations and that he was okay.

But I wasn’t done. I had to backtrack to tell C.P. about Gram Hilda’s “gifts and challenges.”

“It’s like, ‘Don’t disgrace the family, or bread crusts for you.’ And you know, C.P., my brothers and I do tend to ruffle feathers.”

C.P. laughed again and said, “I think it’s still hashtag lucky bitch.”

“Maybe, but I’m talking too much. What’s up with you? Any new guys to fill me in on?”

“Nooooooooo, don’t stop now. What happened with James? Did you ever hear from him?”

Whomp. C.P.’s question was a huge gut punch, one that just about laid me out. I swallowed a few times, took in a lot of air and let it out, and then said, “Better than hearing from James, C.P. I saw him.”

There was more shrieking in my right ear, and this time, I held the phone away. Truth is, I didn’t want to have to talk about James, and that was why I hadn’t called her right away.

“You really saw him?” C.P. asked. “Oh my God. Tell me everything.”

I was evasive at first, edging around the corners of the thing. Then I started talking for real, telling her almost everything—and couldn’t stop until the end of the entire sick story when I found James’s note on the floor of his room.

“Tell me word for word what he wrote,” C.P. said, “and don’t tell me you don’t remember. You have a photographic memory. We both know that.”

So I swallowed and then quoted the letter, including the last line James had written: