go,
chérie
. There’s no ice cream on such a cold day, and I don’t like the way all these men are looking at you.” He pulled her up tight against him, pressing a soft, damp, open-mouthed kiss against her chilled lips.
It was too cold to respond, though she did her best. When he released her they started back toward the street. She looked about her curiously, wondering which of the busy policemen had offended Marc with his importunate eyes. They all seemed intent, unaware of the well-dressed couple heading out of the park. Marc’s paranoia, she thought, dismissing it. She should never have responded to his teasing.
Still, she could feel the eyes on her. She turned to say something to Marc, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder.
The American was there, surrounded by a handful of shorter Parisians. He was looking straight at her, and his blue eyes were mournful.
Tom, his name was. Thomas Jefferson Parkhurst, she thought. And Marc had noticed him. Damn, and double damn.
“Let’s take a taxi,” she said, huddling closer to him.
Marc’s eyes clouded in surprise. “Why, darling? We’ve only a short walk.”
“Because I can’t wait to get home with you,” she said in a low voice.
He kissed her again, and she put all her enthusiasm into it, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her hips against his. When they drew apart she was breathless, and if Marc had had suspicions she’d managed to banish them. “I doubt we’ll find a taxi,” he said, “but we can always run.”
She laughed, suddenly happy. “Or at least walk very fast,” she said.
“You always do.” They hurried from the park, in perfect amity.
Louis Malgreave watched them leave. A good-looking couple, he thought. Not the sort who usually frequented this park, not the sort he ran into in the course of his days. Their kind didn’t murder, their kind didn’t rape or deal drugs. The man looked vaguely familiar, and it only took him a minute to place him. He was a mime. Marie had grown more interested in the theater, and he’d taken her to a performance of Le Théâtre du Mime last fall. He recognized the man even without the whiteface and baggy costume, recognized the bone structure and the graceful carriage. Malgreave prided himself on never forgetting anyone. In his job he couldn’t afford to.
The woman had been a question mark. English, perhaps, or American, though she didn’t have the brassy, self-assured look he associated with American women who slept with French men. Not married, he guessed. His assessing gray eyes slid over to the tall, unhappy-looking man down by the little pond. And perhaps not faithful.
That was the least of his worries. They had nothing to do with Marcelle Boisrond’s death. For the moment that was all he could allow himself to think about, not Marie at home alone on a Sunday when he’d promised to take her to see Margritte. Not curious couples walking the icy streets of Paris. Only murder.
CHAPTER 5
Thomas Jefferson Parkhurst didn’t go straight home from the old people’s park. He stopped first at a bistro and drank too much wine, comfortably anesthetizing himself before he made his way back up to his artist’s garret. The wine was smooth and dry and a hundred times better than the vinegary substance produced by his own bankrupt vineyard, but for the first time in twenty-two months he longed for something harder. The smooth bourbon of his younger years, of his native Kentucky, would have blurred the edges much more effectively. Wine soured his stomach and gave him diarrhea.
He ducked in out of the wind and started the lengthy climb to his sixth-floor apartment, stumbling just slightly. The question was, why did he need his edges blurred today? Granted, he was cold as hell, and his apartment wasn’t going to be much of an improvement from the icy streets below. But the sun was shining, the sky was dazzlingly blue, and Paris was magnificent as always.
He hated the fact that another
chérie
. There’s no ice cream on such a cold day, and I don’t like the way all these men are looking at you.” He pulled her up tight against him, pressing a soft, damp, open-mouthed kiss against her chilled lips.
It was too cold to respond, though she did her best. When he released her they started back toward the street. She looked about her curiously, wondering which of the busy policemen had offended Marc with his importunate eyes. They all seemed intent, unaware of the well-dressed couple heading out of the park. Marc’s paranoia, she thought, dismissing it. She should never have responded to his teasing.
Still, she could feel the eyes on her. She turned to say something to Marc, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder.
The American was there, surrounded by a handful of shorter Parisians. He was looking straight at her, and his blue eyes were mournful.
Tom, his name was. Thomas Jefferson Parkhurst, she thought. And Marc had noticed him. Damn, and double damn.
“Let’s take a taxi,” she said, huddling closer to him.
Marc’s eyes clouded in surprise. “Why, darling? We’ve only a short walk.”
“Because I can’t wait to get home with you,” she said in a low voice.
He kissed her again, and she put all her enthusiasm into it, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her hips against his. When they drew apart she was breathless, and if Marc had had suspicions she’d managed to banish them. “I doubt we’ll find a taxi,” he said, “but we can always run.”
She laughed, suddenly happy. “Or at least walk very fast,” she said.
“You always do.” They hurried from the park, in perfect amity.
Louis Malgreave watched them leave. A good-looking couple, he thought. Not the sort who usually frequented this park, not the sort he ran into in the course of his days. Their kind didn’t murder, their kind didn’t rape or deal drugs. The man looked vaguely familiar, and it only took him a minute to place him. He was a mime. Marie had grown more interested in the theater, and he’d taken her to a performance of Le Théâtre du Mime last fall. He recognized the man even without the whiteface and baggy costume, recognized the bone structure and the graceful carriage. Malgreave prided himself on never forgetting anyone. In his job he couldn’t afford to.
The woman had been a question mark. English, perhaps, or American, though she didn’t have the brassy, self-assured look he associated with American women who slept with French men. Not married, he guessed. His assessing gray eyes slid over to the tall, unhappy-looking man down by the little pond. And perhaps not faithful.
That was the least of his worries. They had nothing to do with Marcelle Boisrond’s death. For the moment that was all he could allow himself to think about, not Marie at home alone on a Sunday when he’d promised to take her to see Margritte. Not curious couples walking the icy streets of Paris. Only murder.
CHAPTER 5
Thomas Jefferson Parkhurst didn’t go straight home from the old people’s park. He stopped first at a bistro and drank too much wine, comfortably anesthetizing himself before he made his way back up to his artist’s garret. The wine was smooth and dry and a hundred times better than the vinegary substance produced by his own bankrupt vineyard, but for the first time in twenty-two months he longed for something harder. The smooth bourbon of his younger years, of his native Kentucky, would have blurred the edges much more effectively. Wine soured his stomach and gave him diarrhea.
He ducked in out of the wind and started the lengthy climb to his sixth-floor apartment, stumbling just slightly. The question was, why did he need his edges blurred today? Granted, he was cold as hell, and his apartment wasn’t going to be much of an improvement from the icy streets below. But the sun was shining, the sky was dazzlingly blue, and Paris was magnificent as always.
He hated the fact that another
Similar Books
