The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(5)

He took out a pen and a notepad from his briefcase. He said, “The grandchildren’s trusts are equal. You four will each inherit”—scratching of pen on paper—“this amount.”

He held up the pad so we could all see.

We four kids sucked up all the air on our side of the table. I had hoped there would be enough money in Gram Hilda’s bank account to pay for our food and housing and maybe college tuition for me, Harry, and Hugo.

My most extreme wish hadn’t even been close.

Delavergne went on, “But your grandmother was a careful woman. You won’t get this money all at once. In fact, your inheritance will be divided into monthly payments and distributed to each of you over the next, uhh, forty-two years. Your uncle will be your executor until you each reach your majority.”

“Wait,” I said. “You’re saying I’ll get a monthly allowance until I’m fifty-eight years old?”

“Exactly,” said Gram Hilda’s most trusted senior attorney, “unless you disgrace the family name.” He tapped the stack of papers the four of us had to sign.

“The degree of ‘disgrace’ will be determined by the five of us: Messieurs Portsmith, Simone, and Bourgogne; your uncle Jacob; and me, of course.”

Really? I would be responsible to four strangers and Jacob for the next forty-two years?

By the way, our family was not exactly famous for following rules. So what, exactly, was their definition of disgrace?

“Your inheritance represents both a gift and a challenge,” Delavergne continued, brightening for the first time in three hours. “That was your grandmother’s guiding principle, and we expect it will become yours as well.”

Once again, thoughts of James seeped into my unwilling mind. What we had was a gift and a challenge from the very beginning. And I was never one to back down from a challenge.





We celebrated Gram Hilda’s awesome yet mysterious gifts and challenges at Alain Ducasse au Plaza Athénée, a world-class restaurant that had been awarded the maximum number of Michelin stars, and it might have rated more.

I’ve been to top restaurants before. I’m from New York. But this place was at the pinnacle of its own category.

My instant impression was that the ornate Louis XV–style dining room was like the inside of a jewelry box. The room was lined with embroidered screens. Crystals hung from wires above our heads, and there was table art on the ivory linens.

I noticed everything, but my mind was in a James Rampling death spiral, thinking over everything we had said and done, wondering again how James could have made so many promises and then abandoned me—entirely.

Truth is, this wasn’t my first collision with the unexpected and incomprehensible. My life history is shot through with bizarre events, tricks of fate, blind alleys, rabbit holes, and bonus rounds, but yesterday I had been with someone who I thought loved me unconditionally. A partner.

I thought my life had changed.

And now it had changed in a totally different way. We were financially secure, and this was such a relief, I doubt my brothers even noticed that I was underwater, drowning.

Hugo, for instance, a wildly uninhibited eater, ordered one of everything on the astonishing menu of exquisite dishes.

He confided to our waiter, “I’m very rich.”

Our waiter, very smooth in a black jacket, white shirt, and bow tie, laughed and suggested to Hugo that he come to the chef’s table in the kitchen, where he would be served a portion of everything he wanted.

The rest of us stayed in our seats, and over the next hour we were served outrageous delights: caviar, steamed langoustines, guinea-fowl pie, dishes flavored with “precious herbs and spices.”

I merely picked at the delicacies, but I forgot about James for a few exquisite moments when I tasted the OMG wine. A Lafon Montrachet, it only cost about two thousand dollars a bottle.

“Cheers, Tandy,” said my twin brother, holding up his crystal wineglass. “I really mean it. Cheers, not tears. Please let go and enjoy this spectacular night. Nothing will ever be exactly like this again.”

I was wrong when I said my brothers didn’t know I was suffering. Harry, sitting on my left, knew. I touched my glass to his and said, “Write me a song.”

“I can only write what I’m feeling. And that’s happy.”

“That could work,” I told Harry.

Matthew was sitting to my right. Fresh out of jail after being accused of double murder—an accusation I’d had a pretty big role in disproving—he was beaming. I made the mistake of wondering out loud what it would be like to live in Paris, and in true big-brother fashion, he doggedly staked out the opposing position.

“Tandy, you wouldn’t like it here. I’d even say you’d be miserable. You’d have to wear black all the time and diet constantly, like all Parisian women do. And have you seen the young French men? Messy. Scruffy. And they smoke. All of them.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Matty,” I growled. “And now you’re making me mad.”

Matthew laughed and held up his hands, saying, “Don’t get mad, Tandy, please. Oh, listen up. I have an announcement.”

As he spoke, dessert was served, and Hugo flew back to our table. Matthew clinked a silver fork against a wineglass, and when we were all staring at him over little pots of chocolate, he said, “Uncle Jacob, Tandy, little bros. My contract with the Giants has been renewed. So woo-hoo, right, guys? I’m playing football again! I’m going back to New York—”