“You know him?”
“He is Fabrice Clement, the grandson of Yves Clement.”
“So he’s a cousin of yours.”
“A distant one, yes. It’s a moot point, in any case. Fabrice is—how do you say?—dédaigneux? Ah, ‘disdainful’ of family history. The only reason I had access to the photos was because they were in a package of effects left with my grandfather.”
“And Fabrice Clement still lives at the château? Madame Martin made it sound like the place was a ruin.”
“It’s pretty close to that. Fabrice was once a well-known novelist. He retreated there decades ago, supposedly to write his next great novel. I believe he’s still working on it.”
“Have you seen the carousel?”
He shook his head. “It was said to be destroyed in a fire. Would you like another drink? Or perhaps you are hungry?”
“No, thank you. The carousel burned down?”
“It was powered by a steam engine, which used a type of kerosene. If the pressure wasn’t carefully monitored...”
“It would blow up.” She sat back in her chair with a sigh.
“You look disappointed.”
“I am, of course.”
“There are a couple of Bayol carousels here in Paris. Have you seen them?”
“Not yet.”
“You must. After all, that is why you are here, no? To photograph the famous carousels of Paris?” He gestured to the waiter for the check. “Come, I will show you.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Show a lovely American tourist the highlights of Paris? Why would I not?”
The waiter brought the check, and Cady earned a disdainful—dédaigneux, she recalled—glance from the waiter when she dove for it.
“The drinks are on me,” she said to Jean-Paul. “You’re a business expense.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PRESENT DAY
PARIS
Cady
Jean-Paul was a charming—and knowledgeable—tour guide. He had insisted on carrying her heavy camera bag as he led her into the Métro, along the avenues, and through the woods that housed the carousel. As they strolled through the Bois de Vincennes, he explained that the vast green space was a former hunting preserve. At the turn of the twentieth century an experimental tropical garden had been established at the far eastern end of the park, where rubber trees, coffee trees, banana trees, and other tropical plants were grown and studied.
“And during the First World War, the Dutch spy Mata Hari was imprisoned here in the fortress of Vincennes before being executed by firing squad. According to legend, she blew a kiss at the firing squad.”
“That’s some weighty history for a children’s carousel.”
Jean-Paul smiled. “With history comes drama, and tragedy.”
After so many days of navigating the city by herself, it was fun to explore with a handsome, courteous escort. Still, Cady couldn’t figure out what Jean-Paul was doing here, much less what he wanted from her. Was he after Gus? Could the rabbit be valuable after all?
Or was she just being paranoid? Cady was painfully aware sheoften perceived threats where there were none, while—in the next moment—trusting the wrong people. Maxine had called it her “curse.”
