Revenge in Paris Read online

  The next morning I took Uber into the city where I fought the Christmas shopping rush and bought a natural hair, blonde shoulder length wig, plus makeup and new clothes. At home I lived in jeans and sweaters and wore pantsuits at work, but for my disguise I purchased a pair of riding-style boots, so in fashion at the moment, three dresses, a stylish raincoat, and a Rick Steves’ book on Paris, all charged to my “stolen” credit card. In a department store restroom, I took over a handicapped stall and changed into my disguise.

  Uber once again took me to my drycleaner rendezvous where at a nearby conveniently located kiosk, owned by the drycleaner, I had my photo taken. By noon, I’d dropped off my envelope with the photo and all the information I wanted on the passport. The next morning it would be ready for pickup.

  That night, I tested out the disguise in the bar of the hotel, a hotel remodeled in “hues and textures of nature with a stylish retro decor,” another popular trend. I hated trendy, but I had to admit that this hotel and the bed were comfortable. I ordered a Manhattan, my new drink, took out pen and notebook, and in minutes, a man at the other end of the bar asked if he could buy me a drink. I politely refused. When my Manhattan came, I pushed a twenty along the bar, but the bartender said, “From the gentleman at that table.” Had my blonde sister always experienced this kind of attention? Being blonde seemed to be catnip to les chats. I told the bartender to thank him, but to tell him I was happily married.

  I opened my journal.

  On the inside cover I wrote my new name “Helen Craig” and remembered the night Sophie and I watched Daniel Craig in “Spectre” and how bitchy I’d been. She’d made a comment about how sexy Gerard was, how much he looked like Daniel Craig. I pressed for details, but nada. I teased her about how mysterious she was about her new flame. She looked like she was going to cry. “I wish he weren’t married,” she said.

  “He’s French,” I said. “They’re used to having mistresses, for Christ sake, so who cares?”

  Now I cared. Big time.

  Now my flippancy made me sick. I remember her face, her downturned eyes, tears coursing down her cheeks. She couldn’t look at me. My sister. God, how I wished I hadn’t been so unkind.

  Sophie, my smart, generous sister, was always kind. And now she was dead, her ashes in a silver urn on my bedroom dresser, sitting next to the coroner’s report that said she was four months pregnant. Sophie would have been the best mom. She’d always wanted a child. She just couldn’t find a decent man.

  Instead of grieving, I burned with an anger I couldn’t shake. My sister and her unborn child had died because some rotten soul hadn’t cared. The Frenchman would never be held responsible even though he might as well have put that noose around my sister’s neck. He would not be punished. He would get away with murder.

  Well, not this time. Not in my personal justice system.

  5

  I found my sister’s body the day after she hung herself. Sophie worked from home, a brilliant nerd in a beautiful body. Because she looked like Marilyn Monroe, people underestimated her. I called her an IT person, which she flatly denied, but she knew all about code and God knows what else. In her spare time, she designed online games for women and fought the abusive male-dominated game establishment. She was discerning, passionate and brave in her virtual world. But not in the real world.

  Sophie had never found real love. She was generous with her love, but not discerning. Hank said she made bad choices and focused too much on the details—the way the man moved, the number of texts he sent in a day, the way the man noticed what she did with her hair, the books the guy read, the movies he picked, whether he ate meat or not. She missed the big picture—he’d failed in three businesses; he was a control freak; he was paying alimony and child support to two ex wives; or he’d never been married or been in a long-term relationship.

  Usually Sophie talked to me about her love life. She’d ask my opinion and from the info she’d given me, I’d tell her what I thought. I’d make suggestions about what to ask him and even at times, if the guy seemed questionable, offer to look him up to see if he had a record. “Oh, Ang,” she’d say. “You’re so cynical.”

  “Damn right. If you worked in the criminal justice system,” I said, “you would be too.”

  The day before her suicide, Sophie and I had lunch at Café Marché. Her low, uncharacteristically quiet mood meant something serious had happened. When I asked, “What’s wrong?” she looked down and let that curtain of striking blonde hair fall forward, hiding her heart-shaped face. I put my hand over hers. She wore no makeup, unusual, and I had commented, but she’d shrugged me off.

  With Hank gone, I was looking forward to spending the holidays with Sophie. Neither of us were religious, so we made holidays fun—shopping at the Holiday Market craft fair, late night indie movies at the Broadway Metro, Thai take out from Sabai or deliveries of pizza from Dough Company, streaming movies.

  But at lunch she didn’t want to talk about the holidays, or the Frenchman. Inane subjects came up like an ongoing problem with a client. She asked how Hank was and I told her about his jaunt into the China hinterlands to find a place for a factory near an agricultural area that would work with his vegetable-based polyals. She nodded and asked about my job. She was so distracted, I said, “And then I killed the mailman,” just to see if she was listening. She wasn’t.

  I reached for her hand. She pulled away.

  “Listen, I don’t want to talk about it, OK?” Her hands shook. Then she looked up. “Can I have one of your anti-anxiety pills?”

  I had to take meds for anxiety or I would have never been able to practice law. I’d taken them since college and this was the first time, ever, that Sophie had asked for one. She was not a pill popper.

  “Is it the Frenchman?” I asked, fuming. I knew she was booty-over-brains about him, but this time she seemed distraught, almost frantic.

  “Forget it,” she said.

  I took out one of my pills and pushed it across the table.

  She pushed it back and looked up. “I said forget it.” Then she drained her wine glass.

  Now I was really concerned.

  6

  Sophie had shown me a photo of the Frenchman. She carried it in her purse. In the photo, the two of them stood in front of a classy sign for the Miami Business Fair, an exhibit of professionals who peacock to attract investors. One of Sophie’s friends had created a collagen product that promised to replace Botox and, knowing the value of having a gorgeous woman to lure people to the booth, had paid Sophie a generous fee and all her expenses to model at their booth. In the photo, Gerard, tall, gracefully graying, good bone structure, a weak chin, smiled down at Sophie. He wasn’t bad looking, but he was no Daniel Craig.

  At lunch that day, after Sophie refused to take my anxiety pill, I sipped my scotch, ate my fried oysters, and waited, hoping on one hand she’d tell me what happened and on the other she wouldn’t. I’d heard it all before.

  Sophie brought a fork full of tofu terrine to her mouth then set it down, untouched. “I love him, Ang,” she finally said. She folded and refolded her napkin. “I love him with all my heart. Like no one I’ve ever been with before. I just want you to know that.”

  “OK,” I said. “Does he love you?” She nodded. Emphatically. More tears. “Do you have a plan?” She nodded again. “What about his wife and son?”

  She snapped, “Enough with the cross exam.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time a love affair had caused her this much pain. Or when she’d ever been this nasty. Usually, when one of her affairs ended, she’d be upset and declare she’d never fall in love again.

  “It’s killing me,” she said. “Him, too.”

  That wasn’t good.

  “Don’t get mad, or make a face, or roll your eyes.” She paused. “He’s going to get a divorce.”

  I swallowed the rest of my scotch and sat back. Just fucking great. How cliché. How stupid. I kept my mouth shut though. I needed to know ev
erything.

  Sophie let out a long noisy sigh and looked down at her lap. “It’s really complicated, Ang. Really messy. You have no idea. I hate myself.”

  “Don’t say that, Sophie.” I rose, squatted next to her chair, and took her hands. When she burst into tears, I said, “What can I do?”

  She choked on a sob and coughed, her cheeks flushing red, snot dripping from her nose and falling on her dress. I tried to hand her the linen napkin.

  Sophie rose, forcing me to stand, grabbed her stylish black trench coat, the one my husband called hot, and said, “I have to go.” I wanted to kill this Gerard. I hoped Sophie would call me in the morning and tell me everything. She needed to “process,” a word I found comfortable and compatible with my working life. I paid for our uneaten lunches and took her home.

  When I dropped her off, I walked her to the door, and she threw her arms around me. “I don’t know what to do. I’m at the end of my rope,” she mumbled into my neck. I held her, patted her back, and reassured her that she would do the right thing, that she needed to focus on whatever was right for her, not this Gerard character.

  She choked out, “I’m so sorry.”

  I figured she was sorry because we’d been through this before. Many times.

  But I wish I’d listened to my gut. This affair was different. I should have stayed with her that afternoon, insisted, but I went home instead. I really thought she’d call.

  7

  Instead, Sophie took a stepladder to the living room, unhooked her hanging plant, made a noose at one end of thick jute rope, and tied the other end to the hook.

  The next day, a Monday, I called her from work but her cell was turned off. I left a message and sent a text. I figured she’d had a bad night, had stayed up late bingeing on a television series as she did sometimes, and was now sleeping in. I popped one of my meds.

  By noon, I had what I can only describe as a choking feeling. I couldn’t seem to get enough air. I left work and drove to her house. She didn’t answer. My nerves were so shredded, I searched my purse three times before finding Sophie’s extra apartment key. Then I struggled to get the key in the lock. When I opened the door, I knew I was too late.

  From the hallway, I headed to the kitchen, then the living room. Sophie hung there, profiled in the filtered light of her curtains. I didn’t scream. I’ve never understood people who scream—at a rat, a spider, or a dead person.

  I drew closer, my body turning icy to the point where I almost couldn’t move. In my head, a message repeatedly sounded: that’s not my sister, that’s not my sister, that’s not my sister. I didn’t look up at her face. I knew what faces looked like from hanging. Instead, I stared at her perfect feet with those perfect toes painted light coral. Sophie never went for bright colors. I knew I had to call the police. Or was it the coroner? I touched Sophie’s feet. Two of her toes were clenched like a fist. Then I pressed her feet together, those feet that had often rubbed mine while we snuggled under a blanket watching a movie at her place while we drank cherry colas and ate buttery popcorn. Her feet were like little animals, seeking contact, warmth, and protection.

  But I hadn’t protected them—or her. I leaned in and pressed my face against her ankle, smelled the rose-scented body cream she used every night, and stifled a sob, thinking she’d done all her usual nighttime regimens for what? To kill herself?

  I was about to lose it when I noticed the hem of her dress. I stepped back. The blue dress Gerard brought from Paris as a gift to celebrate their four months together. It fit her perfectly, from her wide gorgeous shoulders to her small waist. It fell just above her knees. I’d never seen it on her. I turned away. A hot, sweaty flush broke out all over my body. I had to wipe my hands on my coat before shakily calling 911. Before the police arrived, I searched her purse, found the photo of her and Gerard, and his business card. When I checked her phone and laptop, I found she had changed her passcode.

  Part II

  8

  The morning after arriving in Paris, I woke with swollen eyes and that half-drugged, jetlag hangover. Outside, horns honked, machinery clanked, and voices drifted up from below. When I looked in the mirror, yesterday’s eye makeup had melted down my face. My sister never let this happen. Sophie had read that Stevie Nicks always removed her makeup before bed and Sophie followed suit.

  That was my sister. Taking advice from a rock star.

  I removed the makeup, made coffee, stumbled to the dining room French doors, and pulled back the curtains.

  Reminders of Sophie were everywhere, even in Paris. Across Grenelle was a Biocoop, an organics store. Sophie ate only organic vegetarian, making meals from scratch while Hank and I ate frozen dinners and junk food, unless we dined out, of course. Her kitchen looked like the set of a cooking show with utensils, pans and surfaces for every need. She hung garlic upside down like a bouquet and grew herbs—probably dead by now—on her sill. She even stuck miniature signs in each pot with the name of the herb. We often joked with each other that she paid so much attention to detail she couldn’t see the big picture. She would tease me back, saying I often missed what was in front of my proverbial nose.

  Whenever I thought of her, my chest felt crushed. We’d never share one of her homemade pizzas again. I’d never feel her warm, strong hugs, or smell her hair. I’d never see her walk into my office and turn all the staff’s heads. I’d never hear her voice on the phone, saying, “Hey, Sis, wait ‘till you hear this!” Over time, would I stop hearing her voice? Would it fade into forever?

  I walked into the bedroom and forgot what I was looking for. In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth and while brushing, I stepped into the kitchen to put water on the stove. When the noise of a passing ambulance jangled my nerves, I remembered my pills. Then my mouth went dry. I’d forgotten my anxiety pills. Damn. Not that. I rummaged through my suitcase just in case, but they weren’t there. I searched my pill case in my purse. I had two left.

  My brain would not slow down, it was all over the place, and I wondered how I would make it through to New Years. I would need one of those pills for the day I murdered Gerard.

  I struggled into my clothes and wig. My stomach growled. Food. I needed food. I needed to keep myself regularly fed and take it easy on the alcohol. I had to keep up my energy and not stress out. If I was going to do what I planned to do without meds, I had to keep a firm grip on myself.

  Once outside, I hurried to the Franprix. Shivering, I realized I’d forgotten to wear my coat. Jesus. Get it together. I have to seduce and murder someone, for Christ’s sake. That’s what I came here for, wasn’t it?

  Picking out coffee, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Frenchman. Was he a charmer who knew how to manipulate? Or a regular guy, smitten with my sister, who realized he’d made a mistake? More likely he was in it for the sex and when he found out she was pregnant, dumped her. I’d known men at trial who could convince you of their innocence while thrusting a knife into your ribcage.

  This Frenchman might as well have done the same, only into Sophie’s heart. Whatever her reason for killing herself, he was to blame. I might never find out exactly what happened, but I’d try. After administering the poison to Gerard, I’d have a few minutes to pump him for a confession. Maybe he’d tell me. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. Justice would be served.

  I grabbed a bottle of scotch, paid for my purchases, and headed back.

  At the apartment, I made coffee again, ate a slice of baguette with butter, added a few slices of salami, turned on the TV, turned off the TV, paced, and paced some more, filling time.

  I sat down at the dining room table, faced the meager contents of my file on Gerard, and this time I added a photo of Sophie and me. We are dressed for a New Year’s fête, Sophie in a stunning bright white dress with that blond hair, dazzling. She grins, her eyes sparkle, her heart-shaped face perfect. A diamond ring on her finger she would later cash in after the fun-loving “adventurer” she was engaged to left for Cambodia and later wrote he was never
coming back.

  I pressed my palms against my eyelids. I had lost a sister and a niece or nephew. It made me so sick to think of that. Hank and I had made a deal—no children. We were both career fixated, and we figured Sophie could find a man and have a family, and we would enjoy her brood. Both of us agreed—Sophie would have made a wonderful mother.

  This time lover-boy not only broke her heart. He’d destroyed our family.

  9

  By noon, I’d mapped out the neighborhood and located Le Suffren where I’d meet the Frenchman at 7:00. He hadn’t given me an exact address, but said he lived on Avenue de la Motte-Picquet off Grenelle near the restaurant, so I decided to check out his neighborhood, including the Eiffel Tower area. One thing I knew—without my pills, I needed to stay active, keep moving.

  A cold sharp wind blew up from the river. I pulled my coat around me and walked faster. The thin blue sky gave no warmth. I darted around dog shit. Cigarette butts filled gutters, clearly a result of the no smoking ban in public places. I passed a Muslim woman, begging.

  When I looked up, four soldiers holding automatic weapons passed by, startling me. Since the terrorist attacks a month ago, ten thousand soldiers walked Paris streets, or so I’d heard. At least I wasn’t going to violently shoot the Frenchman. The poison would give him a quick and painless end. He should thank me for that. I took a deep breath.

  In front of cafés, men arranged boxes of oysters for sale, fresh for Christmas Eve dinner. Patisserie windows displayed les Buches de Noel. I wondered if the Frenchman’s wife waited in line for her order. Or was she picking up cheeses and fois gras? When I reached the intersection of Grenelle and La Motte-Picquet, I watched women dressed in quilted parkas carrying cloth bags full of groceries and wondered if one of them was her. My head ached. My stomach roiled, and not with hunger.