Oblivious to my reaction, the guy tosses me a wave and lifts his phone, taking a few more pictures as he leaves.
Trance-like, I punch in the code, push through the black bars, and enter the apartment on autopilot. I cross gleaming parquet floors, pass the grand piano, and enter the spacious kitchen.
I should be thrilled to stay in this luxurious place, but questions plague me as I set my bags on the counter and put away the groceries.
What happened here? Who died? Was it really a murder?
Though not yet sunset, darkness creeps into every room. Craving more light, I flip on the overheads and notice a business card on the kitchen island. Plain white paper with a typed font, listing basic information for the apartment. Including a WiFi code.
WiFi. Internet.
Maybe there’s more information online. I can research the history of Maison Marteau. A quick search and?—
“No,” I say in a stern voice, refocusing on what’s important. The screenplay. My career. My life.
If my mother were here, I know what she would say.
You can have distraction or you can have your passion. But you can’t have both.
One of her favorite adages. And she’d be right. I can’t afford to be distracted right now, especially by tales of murder.
Murder committed in this house.
But I still need WiFi access, so I slip the card in my pocket. Ready to get to work, I boil water and make a cup of mint tea. The pretty packaging caught my eye in the store and promised the aroma would be an “uplifting experience.”
I’m in dire need of a mood-lift right now, so I take the mug in one hand and the bag with office supplies in the other. With bright papers, pens, and highlighters purchased, the next step is finding a temporary office.
The first floor is laid out for entertaining—kitchen, dining room, main salon, and entry hall. None of the rooms here will do, so I hurry upstairs to the next level, to what I think of as my area. And a familiar space.
On the front side, expensive furniture fillsle petit salon, too stiff and decorative for me to relax. And neither of the corner bedrooms will work. That leaves the unexplored back corridor and whatever waits for me on the top floor.
Rounding the banister, I pass my room and end up facing a long hallway. A door stands ajar halfway down. Creeping closer, I go in and flip on the light. One look and I know I’ve found my spot.
A desk sits near the windows, an antique piece flanked by bookshelves. The rest of the room holds a sitting area, a sofa and two chairs facing a fireplace. Dark wood makes up the mantle and surround, carved with intricate designs. The room is masculine with somber colors but has a rainy-day kind of charm.
Perfect.
Leaving the bag of supplies on the desk, I retrieve my laptop, its charger, and the script from my room. I intend to investigate the third level, but exploration will have to wait. I’m too eager to get back to the screenplay.
Back in the room I now think of asthe study, I turn on a lamp to beat back shadows and check my laptop battery. Sixty percent. I take it and the script to the sofa, tucking my legs beneath me on the plush cushion.
I read the opening scenes again and reacquaint myself with the setup. The heroine is reliving a trauma from childhood. Slivers of backstory introduce her character, while atmosphere and tension keep me turning pages.
A scary old house with a tortured past.
And present-day characters paying the price.
When a line of dialogue mentions a local legend, I glance up from the pages. Didn’t Lin say this was based on a true story? And if so, is the character based on a real person?
Curiosity has me sliding a glance to my laptop. Taking the card from my pocket, I join the WiFi network and open my browser. A French version of my usual search engine greets me with a color photo. Crowds gathered in the streets of Paris, fists raised, mouths open, faces furious.
I don’t need to understand French to know this is a protest. Maybe the transportation strikes that re-routed my flight.
Whatever the problem, I hope the trouble is over by the time I leave. I ignore the article, but as I type the name of the screenplay in the search bar, I keep thinking of the real-life mystery I find myself in.
Not just killed
I freeze, fingers resting on the keyboard.
