The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(7)

Well, I’ve never met a mystery I didn’t want to solve.

I climbed down out of the big bed of many pillows and rooted around in my suitcase. I dressed in a pair of jeans, an NYPD T-shirt, and low-top Converse. Just in case, I grabbed my handy glow-in-the dark LED flashlight.

Jacob had told me that Gram Hilda’s house had been kept just the way she had left it, the maintenance being borne by the estate. When Hugo turned twenty-one, we could direct the board to keep the house or sell it.

Meanwhile, we could use the place as we chose, except for Gram Hilda’s private workroom. That was totally off-limits.

My door opened silently. I left my room, paused a moment, then stepped out into the large hallway. There was a bedroom door in the middle of each of the four walls and a narrow staircase running right through the center of the hall. Satisfied that I was the only one wandering through the house, I took the stairs up to the third floor.

The staircase ended there, emptying into a smaller hallway just under the mansard roof.

There was only one door on this floor, and when I tried the knob, it was solidly, profoundly locked. But for every lock, there’s gotta be a key.

I scampered downstairs to the main foyer and found Jacob’s jacket hanging in a closet. I rummaged in his pockets until I found a set of keys, then—a little bit shocked at myself, and a lot exhilarated—I darted back up to the locked door. I picked through the key ring and finally found one key that appeared to be the right size for the lock.

I was wrong, so I pawed through the keys again. My second choice fit perfectly, and when I turned the key a few times, the tumblers tripped.

I opened the door, and I’ve got one word for what I saw: Whoa.





As soon as the door swung open, I was hit with a powerful wave of something I can only call wonder. It was almost as if a celestial choir had burst into a drawn-out “Ahhhhhhhhhhh.” That’s how dazed and amazed I was.

The long, airy room was white, with a beamed cathedral ceiling and tall windows on three sides. And through the window directly ahead of me, I could see a church spire behind the back garden. I smelled flowers, an amazing blend of them, and I saw silhouetted shapes of heavy furniture arrayed throughout the large room.

Gram Hilda’s private workroom felt astonishing in the dark.

What had she done here? Why was it off-limits? I closed the door behind me and shot the bolt.

Once the door was locked, I patted the wall until I found the light switch. Four beautiful standing lamps flashed on, all of them topped with hat-shaped amber silk shades. Honestly, it was as though the sun had risen out of the darkness of the last heartbreaking day and night and thrown a handful of sunbeams right in front of me.

I stood with my back to the door, simply stunned by the sight of what could only be Gram Hilda’s favorite things. Yeah. This room was a Hilda Angel museum.

I took a panoramic tour without moving an inch. To my left on an easel was an oil painting of a man and woman making love in a great four-poster bed. They were ecstatic. Bedding had been tossed and thrown to the floor, and their faces just radiated pleasure. I gasped a little bit, even covered my mouth. I was starting to think that maybe Gram Hilda wasn’t your typical old granny.

I could hardly wait to see more.

I looked straight ahead, all the way down the length of the room to the far window. On both sides of an irregular aisle were casual groupings of upholstered chairs and exotic painted screens. To my right, lined up against the wall, were armoires, closed cabinets holding who knew what—but definitely secrets I was born to uncover.

I was suddenly struck by a powerful feeling of déjà vu, but it was as elusive as the first notes of a song you haven’t heard in a long time.

I searched my mind for that ephemeral memory, and then it clicked. The scent in the air reminded me of my older sister, Katherine, who had died years ago.

And Katherine would have loved this room. Like me, she would have wanted to explore every drawer and cubbyhole.

I walked softly down the aisle of furniture so I could better see a gallery of photographs that had been hung on either side of the window.

They were breathtaking.

My gram Hilda was pictured arm in arm with a string of celebrities: Sting and Harrison Ford and Elton John. She was glamorous and beautiful, and the way these famous people looked at her, I could tell that they, too, thought Hilda Angel was a star.

There was a huge framed photo of Hilda and my grandpa Max in a formal French rose garden bounded by boxwood, and in a collection by themselves were six, no, seven photos, each of a gorgeous man wearing nothing but a smile or a satisfied look.

Gram Hilda. Were these men models? Or were they your lovers? Oh, man, oh, man. Didn’t you worry you would bring disgrace upon the family name? I couldn’t help laughing.

Giggling still, I tore my eyes away from the photographs, and my gaze fell on a corner cabinet that left me breathless. The cabinet was made of gleaming hardwood carved with the most adorable depictions of nude young women—nymphs, maybe—holding flowers in their arms and as parasols above their heads.

I realized that the floral fragrance was coming from this cabinet, and it freaking begged to be opened.

I flung the doors wide and ran my eyes across rows and more rows of apothecary bottles, each with a label printed with the name BELLAIRE. And beneath that, handwritten, were the names of precious oils and floral scents: myrrh, ambergris, tincture of tea rose.