The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (21 page)

He’d have to move like lightning. The auction houses were heavily alarmed, from infrared monitors to detect motion, and ultrasonic detectors inaudible to the human ear, to photoelectric beams, which were exactly like you’d see in the movies. Gustave from Cloutier’s had explained all the technicalities to me a year or so ago when the auction closed for the day for various installations. There were also security guards on site, usually in a stuffy office somewhere watching the CCTV live.

How did he get past them all in sixty seconds? There was usually a delay in the footage arriving on screen for the guards, but only by a few seconds – not enough to get in and out without being seen. Unless the guards slept their shifts away, but then how would the thief know when to strike?

Did he drug their café au laits? Float down from the ceiling like Tom Cruise in
Mission Impossible
? Or worse, pay them off to simply look the other way for sixty measly seconds?

I searched for news about the robberies in Italy. The stories were much the same. All it had taken was sixty seconds and collections of rare jewels were missing. He’d ignored a painting by Picasso, a collection of coins from ancient Egypt, and many fine things that were almost priceless. A painting would be too conspicuous to carry down the street. Coins would be hard to on sell. Jewels he could drop into his pocket and stride away, knowing there’d be many a buyer on the black market.

Anyway, it wasn’t my job to work out the logistics of the robberies, I only had to help catch the thief and that was by getting a confession. If Tristan was innocent then no harm done, but otherwise, it was best I know. The gendarmes could investigate the technical aspect once I had him recorded, bragging about his ability…

With a quick glance at the front door to make sure I was still alone, I hunched over the laptop and typed in Tristan Black into a search engine. My eyebrows shot up when a page rose to greet me.

Black Enterprises.

I’d searched for his name before and had found nothing. And now suddenly he had a website? Suspicious. I clicked the link, reading hastily. Maybe it was lost in translation, but for the life of me, I couldn’t see what Black Enterprises actually did. There were tabs about consulting, but consulting what? It was like it was code for something.

Frowning, I clicked the About tab, and there was his face: his sexy, white-toothed smile, the flirty gaze, and swept-back blond hair.

“Must be fascinating reading.”

I gasped, and banged the laptop closed. “It’s not actually. A whole bunch of gobbledygook.” My heart hammered, and I forced a smile. Tristan stood on the other side of the counter. He couldn’t possibly have known what I was looking at, but the twinkle in his eye suggested he did.

He lifted an eyebrow and gave me a loaded stare. “So you weren’t drooling over a picture of some buff playboy?”

“Of course not,” I snapped, flustered by being caught unawares.

“You should shine that mirror; there’s a few fingerprints smudging it.”

My face flushed scarlet. He’d seen the laptop screen in the reflection of the mirror behind me! Well why wouldn’t I search for him online? Every woman searched the internet first up when they were interested in a guy didn’t they? Checked his Facebook, his photos – it wasn’t stalking, it was living in modern times.

“You’re pale,” he said, running a finger along my cheek. “Like you’ve had a shock.”

If I wanted to catch him I had to act completely normal. “Oui, I got the end of month statements through; that’s enough to shock anyone.”

He laughed. “I’m sorry I had to cancel our date before, but what about dinner later to make it up to you? I’d love to smuggle you outside now, but work calls…”

I gulped. “Sure, sure,” I said, my mind scattered.

“Great.” He kissed the tip of my nose, provoking a blush. It was only after he’d left that my heartbeat returned to normal and the entirety of the situation hit me. What if Tristan really was the thief? Would I warn him to run, or would I tell the gendarmes? Worry sat heavy in my belly. I wasn’t cut out for this. Gilles walked in with his dog Casper, stopping me short. I couldn’t rush him – it was his one social interaction for the day. Forcing a bright smile, I welcomed him in. I’d visit Madame Dupont as soon as he was gone and see what she made of it all.

Chapter Eighteen

After Gilles and Casper ambled from the shop, I locked the front door and careened around the corner to the Time Emporium. Madame Dupont waved, scattering the smoke in all directions.

“Madame! Thank God!”

“You heard about The Bellamy Auction House in the Latin Quarter?”

I gasped – another auction house in under twenty-four hours! “No, I hadn’t! When did this happen?”

“The thief stole a collection of antique watches earlier. The gendarmes have only just released a statement.”

“What time were the robberies?”

She checked her watch. “Oh, about an hour ago…”

Gilles and Casper had visited my shop just after Tristan left…and that was just over two hours ago. Could he really casually wander in and see me, and then go and commit a crime? The time frames fit. And he’d said,
I’d love to smuggle you outside now, but work calls.
I blinked back alarm. It really was him; I could feel it.

“I suppose they were very valuable?” I asked, trying to tamp down the panic.

She gave me a grave nod. “Very. From the family Capulet.” Her eyes clouded. A collection of timepieces owned by nobility now lost just like the precious jewelry collections. It was a travesty. “I was hoping to secure the collection. They were exquisite. And now,
poof
, they’re gone,” she said, her voice gravelly.

She shook her head sadly, and ditched the burnt-out butt of her cigarette into an ashtray by the door before lighting up a fresh Gauloises. “Whoever it is, is clever. They can override complex alarms and get in and out in sixty seconds. No mean feat when some of these auction houses are cavernous. It takes longer than sixty seconds to get through the entrance halls. I suspect by the time the gendarmes have formulated a catch-him-if-you-can plan, he’ll be long gone and with him, everything we hold dear.”

She rattled on and on, and I waited for a break to butt in but finding none grabbed her arms. “Madame, I have bad news. I think the thief is Tristan! I’m sure of it.”

Madame Dupont laughed raucously. “Oh my dear, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” I asked, lowering my voice. I could feel one of Madame’s talks coming on. She was so good at reading people and situations that I usually listened to her advice, but I don’t think she heard the seriousness in my tone. I wasn’t talking about the weather, I was talking about dating a jewel thief!

“You’re purposely sabotaging your love life. Because of the stumble with Joshua you’ve sworn off men, and Tristan managed to creep into your heart and just like that you panic. You’re going to have to trust a man at some point, so don’t ruin it with him. If he’s a thief, I’m Madame Bovary.” She arched a brow.

“Madame, I know what you’re saying but I really do think it’s him! I’m not sabotaging anything. I’m telling you we should be very careful. If you think back, so many things point to him.”

The look she gave me was full of pity. Was I sabotaging myself? I admit, there wasn’t a lot to go on, but when you know,
you
know
.

“Darling, please. Blaming an innocent man isn’t a good idea. Rumors can ruin reputations so tread carefully.”

I pulled a face. “I’m only telling
you
, Madame. You know I wouldn’t blame someone for no good reason. Maybe we can sit down and talk about it at some point?”

“For you, anything. But unless there’s any proof, which I don’t think there will be, promise me you’ll keep your heart open?”

Grudgingly I nodded.

Was Tristan really capable of visiting me at the shop, and an hour later pulling off a heist? Was I his alibi? I needed some time alone to ponder it all.

After saying my goodbyes to Madame Dupont, I locked the shop and went home much earlier than normal.

I nodded hello to the waiters at the bistro below my apartment, as they rushed around serving. Ignoring the delicious scents wafting from the bistro, I headed up to my apartment, taking the stairs, rather than the lift. Laughter echoed down the narrow staircase, and I smiled. Maman’s laughter? Maybe she’d made up with Papa?

Inside the apartment the unmistakable smell of Maman’s cooking floated through the space. I unwound my scarf and followed the smell into the kitchen. Maman was wearing an apron, and patiently explaining to a young man in chef whites the basics of making the perfect bouillabaisse.

I paused waiting for some explanation and found none forthcoming. The young man with a boyish face was writing down everything Maman said like it was gospel.

“You see, the base is the most important step in any recipe. Get that right and you’re halfway there. Think of it like you would when you’re in the early stages of love. That base has to be respected, croon to it, stir gently
gently
, use only the best and freshest ingredients. Anything else is cheating, and we cannot have that.”

The chef continued to scribble in his book.

“Ah, Maman?” I said.

Two surprised gazes flicked to me. They’d been so absorbed they were oblivious to my presence. “Oh, Anouk, this is Luc.”

“Luc,” I said nodding to him. “Luc’s here because…?”

Maman ignored me and handed Luc the spoon. “Come, Luc, try mine and then try yours, and taste the difference.” It was then I noticed the array of pots and pans in the sink. She was teaching him to cook? I was certain he was the sous chef at the bistro downstairs. Surely he knew how to make bouillabaisse?

Luc did as told and murmured to himself in delight. “I recognize my mistakes – I can taste them! It leaves a bitter mouth feel as if I’d poured poison in there. Merci, merci!” he said, expansively. “Can I take yours with me? So the others can taste?”

Maman nodded. “Of course, and come back tomorrow and I’ll show you the right technique for your roux. You’re not quite cooking off the flour when you add it to the butter, but that’s easily fixed.”

“Oui, oui.” Luc lifted the hot pot with a tea towel and kissed Maman’s cheek. He was flushed and hopeful, clearly inspired by whatever had taken place.

I waited until the front door clicked closed before facing Maman. “What was that all about?”

She padded around the kitchen, running a sink full of sudsy water, and soaking the silver pots before answering. “I tried Luc’s bouillabaisse for lunch and it was no good, tasted bitter. I called him over and explained.”

I folded my arms and leaned against the kitchen bench. “And next minute he’s up here having a cooking lesson?”

Steam rose from the sink, fogging up the little window. “Oui. He was missing so many elements, and instead of orange zest and fennel he used lemon and cabbage. He seemed eager to learn; he hasn’t been taught properly. Downstairs caters for the tourist crowd so it’s more about quantity than quality, and that’s just not acceptable. If you cook you do it properly or you don’t do it at all.”

I smiled, struck that Maman was willing to help, not knowing if the young man would be amenable to it, or would take offense to her advice. If you’d asked me what my maman was like I would have tossed around words like reserved, quiet, private. Today had been full of surprises. “It was a lovely gesture, Maman.”

She slipped on rubber gloves and moved to the sink. “It was fun. I can’t remember the last time someone listened to me like that. Like what I said was important.”

I rubbed her arms as she scrubbed the pots, gazing out the fug of the steamy window. “Well, I think Luc is very lucky to have a teacher like you. And even luckier you’re sharing secret family recipes.” Taking a clean tea towel from the drawer, I dried the dishes Maman had washed. It was a scene out of so many of my memories with her, us chatting away in a hot kitchen, getting chores done.

Maman chuckled. “Well, I held a few ingredients back – can’t have the young man knowing all our secrets, can we?”

There was a calmness about Maman whenever she cooked and she poured all her heart into it, making sure each element, each stage was lovingly executed. She claimed rushing, or cooking under duress made the meal taste like stress. Apparently you could tell how a person was feeling by the way they chopped their
mise en plus
. And if you didn’t get the preparation right, then you were on the back foot from the get-go.

“I had a lovely day,” she said. “And I’m going to wander around the 7th arrondissement later. I haven’t seen the Eiffel Tower sparkle at nighttime. What kind of French person am I that I haven’t seen that?”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Non, non, I’m not here to be babysat, Anouk. I’m a grown woman; I can handle myself. I want to breathe in the air, take my time, and see what I stumble on. What a freedom to do exactly as I please.”

“As long as you stay out of the shadows. Keep to the well-lit avenues.”

Life was so complicated at times. But Maman’s peaceful expression showed me that it was never too late to try something new. I only wished Papa could see her now.

***

Henry the couch surfer was getting on my last nerve. Once again, I’d caught him sniffing around my things and this time I was certain he wasn’t tidying. Today it was the armoire in the hallway, nestled between the bedroom doors.

Sneaking up behind him, I tapped his shoulder, causing him to jump in fright. “What exactly are you snooping around for? Money?”

I didn’t trust him one little bit. Lilou saw the best in everyone, but I did not.

Startled, with hand on heart, he said, “I was looking for clean sheets for the chaise longues, God forbid my skin come in contact with the velvet.”

“You put clean sheets on yesterday.”

“Did I? I must have forgotten.”

We faced off against each other, eyes burning, when there was a knock at the door.

I froze. I didn’t want anyone to witness my apartment and the shambles it had become. Bed sheets on furniture, jackets and shoes strewn about. Discarded newspapers on the floor, where Henry had given up job hunting and left them where they lay.