The Book of Lost Fragrances: A Novel of Suspense Read online

  “Could I see the jar?” Fauche asked.

  “I’m sorry, but no. It’s in pieces, and they haven’t all been cataloged yet. I wish you’d been honest with me about the story you were after. You came out on a very wet night for nothing.”

  “I must insist you reconsider.” Fauche’s jaw clenched with barely contained rage. His hand moved to his pocket.

  It was all the warning Robbie needed.

  “No, no, there’s no reason to get upset,” he said. “If it matters that much, I’ll gladly fetch it.” Robbie turned his back on Fauche and slid the beaker over the flame. In the French doors’ reflection, he watched the man who certainly wasn’t a reporter pull out a gun.

  “Hurry up, L’Etoile. Show me the damn pottery.”

  “I just have to get the key to the safe,” Robbie stalled and pretended to look through a small drawer, moving pens and paper clips and droppers around as the liquid in the beaker began to smoke.

  “Ah, here it is,” he exclaimed, turning abruptly.

  The man who called himself Fauche relaxed momentarily, expecting to see the key. When he saw Robbie was empty handed, he started to protest, but his words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t catch his breath. He gasped. And then gasped again.

  Fourteen

  NEW YORK CITY

  TUESDAY, MAY 24, 4:00 A.M.

  Preferring uninterrupted quiet, Jac worked through the night, as she often did when she was editing an episode of her TV show. Before watching her final cut, she needed to clear her head, so she leaned on the windowsill and breathed in the cool air. Through the spaces between buildings, she could see the Hudson River, and for a few minutes, she followed a tugboat until it disappeared behind a warehouse.

  “The Minotaur” was going to be her best episode yet. Her treasure hunt for the myth’s genesis had been difficult and even dangerous, and her conclusions were controversial. When the show aired in the fall, the evidence she and her team had discovered about the kernel of truth that sparked the myth should itself spark a serious debate with scholars, mythologists and archaeologists.

  According to ancient legend, King Minos of Crete constructed an impressive maze to imprison the repulsive product of his wife’s affair with a beautiful white bull that came from the sea. The offspring was the Minotaur—which had the body of a man but the head and tail of a bull—a creature with a monstrous appetite for human flesh.

  The Minotaur caused so much terror and destruction that the architect Daedalus was brought to Crete to build an intricate labyrinth to contain it. Trapped, the beast lived in the maze. Every nine years, seven young men and seven young women from Athens were brought to the labyrinth for it to feed upon.

  The revolting sacrifices were devastating. The loss of life left scars. Engendered fear.

  Finally, Theseus, the son of King Aegeus, declared he would slay the beast and end the cycle of destruction. He volunteered to be one of the victims.

  When Theseus arrived on the island, Minos’s daughter, Ariadne, fell in love with him. The idea she might lose him was intolerable. She gave him a sword and spool of red fleece so that he could kill the bull and then find his way out of the maze. And then marry her.

  Face to face with the monster, Theseus attacked him and killed him. The Minotaur slain, its blood spilled, Theseus returned to Ariadne and took her with him to Athens.

  Was there a real basis for the story? Had there been a monster or a madman imprisoned in a maze?

  Archaeologists had long believed the ruins of Knossos Palace in modern-day Heraklion in Greece bore a resemblance to the fabled labyrinth. And even though no actual evidence was ever found to support the theory, the city benefited financially from the tourists who came to see the palace and its environs for themselves.

  But Jac had learned of a quarry twenty miles away in the village of Gortyn where a team of archaeologists was excavating two and a half miles of tunnels and caves. Was it possible that was the site for King Minos’s labyrinth? She took her production team to Greece to find out.

  Working with the Gortyn archaeologists, they explored the intertwining passages that twisted and tangled into one another. While filming in one of the dead-end chambers, the cameraman’s lights illuminated a faint outline of an archway in what had appeared to be a solid stone wall.

  On camera, the archaeological team excavated the area and found a sealed-up entranceway to a hidden cavity. Jac’s director of photography filmed its opening, capturing the first light in thousands of years shining in on the jewel-like hollow.

  The wall was decorated with red figure paintings on a black background, all framed with glowing gilt funeral wreaths. These amazingly fresh paintings of groupings of men and of women covered every inch of space. Some appeared to be planned for; others were squeezed in as if the artist had run out of room.

  Jac counted. There were fourteen to a group. Seven men and seven women. Each time.

  What appeared to be a stone altar sat in the center of the chamber. Six feet long and three feet high. Highly decorated and carved with—were those eye sockets staring at the interlopers? The cameraman shone his light on the ceremonial table. And a terrifying and—to Jac—marvelous fact was revealed.

  The altar wasn’t made of stone at all but of human bones. Hundreds of femurs, tibias, fibulas, ulnas, radiuses and pelvic girdles had been fitted together intricately to form the rectangle.

  Jac was sure, without knowing how she could be certain, that she was standing in the Minotaur’s lair and that testing would prove the bones were from approximately 1300 BCE—the same era as the mythical bull.

  When the lab reports came in, she was the only one not astonished to learn that the human remains and paintings were dated approximately 1300 BCE.

  She shivered now, remembering the feeling she’d had while reviewing the paperwork. Her instincts had been right.

  Now it was time to go back to work.

  Jac crossed her spare, white office, sat down at her desk and hit the Play button. The opening shot was of the entrance to the caves. She turned down the volume. It was always smart to watch an edit once without sound and just focus on the cuts.

  Ten minutes into the episode, her phone rang. No one except her brother ever called this early. If Robbie was excited about something, he was more than capable of forgetting the time difference.

  “Out of area,” intoned the phone’s mechanical voice. The machine never recognized overseas calls; it had to be Robbie. So she answered it.

  Despite the interruption, she was always glad to talk to him, even if they wound up in another argument. But all of that would soon be over. The sale of the two perfumes was all set to go through. Robbie just needed to sign the papers, and then the House of L’Etoile could pay off its debt, and they could go back to being simpatico siblings.

  “Hi, Robbie.”

  “C’est Mademoiselle L’Etoile?” the male voice asked. It clearly wasn’t Robbie.

  “Yes, who’s calling?”

  There was a beep and static. “Hello?” the voice repeated.

  “Yes, I’m here. Who’s calling?”

  “This is Inspector Marcher. I’m calling from Paris. I’m sorry to disturb you. I know it’s very early.”

  “What is it, Inspector?”

  “When was the last time you spoke to your brother?” The urgency in his tone cut through her fatigue.

  “My brother?” Her heart lurched. When Jac had heard it was the police, she’d assumed this would have to do with her father. “Robbie?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle.”

  “He was here about two weeks ago, and—”

  “Have you talked to him since then? On the phone?”

  “Has something happened to him?”

  “Have you heard from him since then?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Yesterday. He emailed me in the morning. Doesn’t Lucille know where he is? She’s the woman who—”

  “Yes, I
know who she is. So you haven’t heard from him since then?”

  “No. What is this about? Isn’t he at the office? Sometimes he goes off on spiritual retreats on the spur of the moment. Maybe he’s—”

  The inspector interrupted again. “No. He’s not at a retreat. And he’s not at home. He had several appointments this morning that he didn’t cancel.”

  Jac reached for her bag. If something had happened to Robbie, she had to get home, pack, get on a plane, get to Paris.

  “What is this about, Inspector?”

  “We have reason to believe your brother is missing, mademoiselle.”

  Fifteen

  PARIS, FRANCE

  TUESDAY, MAY 24, 10:15 A.M.

  Breakfast at Chez Voltaire had become part of Griffin’s morning routine. At lunch and at dinner, the restaurant catered to a well-heeled crowd, but for its simple petit dejeuner, only the basics were offered and only locals stopped in.

  Maybe it was because of the close call with the car the night before, but Griffin was hyperaware of everything that morning. How buttery the croissants tasted. How the homemade jam smelled of just-picked strawberries. And as he lingered over a second perfect café au crème, he tried not to relive what had happened. But he kept seeing the car nick the lamppost and skid. Hearing the sound of tires on wet pavement. The rain was in his eyes. Barely able to see, he jumped behind the stop sign. Tripped. Fell onto the cobblestones. Scraped the palms of his hands. Ripped his trousers.

  He paid the bill. Walked outside. Breathed in the morning. Paris awoke with the same flair and elegance with which she did everything else, he thought. It was something that he wished he could take home with him.

  There it was again—home. At the core of all his thoughts. The knowledge that this was only a respite. Waiting for him in New York were failures he had to face, sadnesses he had to own. What the possibility of divorce had already done to Therese—and what its reality would do to Elsie—made his heart ache. But why put it off? Eventually he disappointed people. He always had. Why should this be any different?

  Strolling along the banks of the Seine, watching a tourist boat float by, he tried to convince himself that everything would be all right. By the time he reached the corner of Rue des Saints-Pères, he almost believed it. Then he saw the police cars.

  What was going on?

  “La rue ici est ferme,” the policeman said when Griffin reached the barricade.

  “Mais j’ai un rendezvous avec Monsieur L’Etoile,” Griffin answered in his best high school French.

  “With Monsieur L’Etoile?” the policeman asked, switching to English. “This morning?”

  “Yes, this morning. Now.”

  “You will wait, yes? I will find someone.”

  The policeman returned, saying that the inspector wanted to speak with him, and ushered Griffin inside the store. Lucille was already there, seated at one of the antique tables. Her eyes were red, and she clutched a rumpled handkerchief so tightly in her hand her knuckles were bone white.

  “What’s wrong?” Griffin asked. “What’s happened here?”

  “The store wasn’t locked when I arrived.” She looked around the boutique. “But nothing seemed out of place.” As if reenacting what she’d gone through earlier, she turned and stared at the glass shelves lined with bottles of liquids. “I thought Monsieur L’Etoile had left the door open for me and then had been called to the workshop. It’s happened before. So I did all the things I normally do. With no idea. I don’t go back to the workshop. I never do. Monsieur L’Etoile always comes to say good morning at nine thirty when I order us both coffee. He doesn’t enter though the front.” She pointed to the street entrance. “He comes from the house to the workshop to here.”

  As she spoke, officials and police officers came and went, silent and serious. Some murmured to one another or talked on the phone. Others took photographs, dusted for fingerprints, picked fibers out of the rug.

  “When Monsieur L’Etoile didn’t arrive, I waited. I don’t like to disturb him even though he says he doesn’t mind. He’s so thoughtful—” She broke off and closed her eyes.

  “A call came that he was expecting, and so I buzzed him on the intercom. When he didn’t answer, I went back and knocked on the door. I never go in if he doesn’t answer, but he’d told me the day before how important this call was. I knocked again . . . I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have gone in . . . should have left it for the police . . . now I won’t ever forget. It will be in my eyes forever.”

  “Please Lucille, tell me what happened to Robbie.”

  Lucille shook her head. “I don’t know. He wasn’t there. And he’s not at home. And he doesn’t have his cell phone with him. It’s on his desk.”

  “But surely all this”—he gestured to the police activity—“can’t be about him just not being here?”

  “There was a man—on the floor.” She was talking in a staccato rhythm as if she could only get the words out a few at a time.

  “I didn’t know what to do. He looked like he was sick. I touched him—” Again she broke off. Griffin saw her body shudder. “He was cold. The man was . . . he was . . . I didn’t even have to check . . . I knew . . . he was dead.” She was crying now, with full-out sobs. Griffin pulled his chair up so that he could put his arm around her and hold her, this woman he barely knew, who was scared and alone and reliving a nightmare that would surely plague her for the rest of her life.

  “You called the police then?”

  “Yes. And they came right away. But still Monsieur L’Etoile is nowhere.”

  “He has to be somewhere, Lucille. Was it possible the front door wasn’t left open but forced? Was there a break-in? Was anything stolen?”

  Before she could answer, a man interrupted. “Are you Monsieur North?” He was fairly short: five foot seven and slim. His navy suit fit him well, and his white shirt looked fresh. His black hair was slicked back, and he wore stylish wire-rimmed glasses. Where his right eyebrow should have been was a ragged white scar, like a crack in an otherwise fine piece of glazed pottery.

  “I’m Inspector Pierre Marcher; I would like to ask you some questions.” When he spoke, the area around his right eye didn’t animate at all. His English was almost perfect.

  “Of course.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind leaving us, Mademoiselle Lucille?”

  “Pas de probleme,” she said as she got up and the inspector took her seat. Pulling a miniature tape recorder out of his pocket, he placed it on the table between them. “It is all right to record our conversation? I find it easier than taking notes.”

  Griffin nodded.

  “Can you tell me why you are in Paris?”

  After he explained the reason for his trip, Marcher asked where he was staying.

  “At the Montalembert Hotel. A few blocks from here.”

  “Very nice hotel. Can you tell me what you did yesterday?”

  “I worked here all day on the pottery and left at about seven and returned to my hotel.”

  “So you left in the middle of a blackout—in the storm?”

  Griffin noted the incredulous tone. “The hotel is only a few blocks away,” he repeated. As he explained, he flashed on the image of the car coming around the corner too fast, seemingly out of nowhere.

  “What is it, Monsieur North?”

  Griffin told him.

  “The car did not hit you?”

  “Just missed me.”

  “Do you remember anything about it?”

  “It was a dark sedan.”

  “Anything other than that it was a dark sedan? Anything from the license plate? The make of the car?”

  Griffin shook his head. “No, it was raining too hard. The car was moving too fast.”

  “Have there been any other incidents like that while you have been in Paris?”

  “Accidents? Close calls?”

  “Whatever you choose to call them.”

  “No. Nothing. My stay has been uneventful until no
w.”

  Marcher looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he needed to process that. “Last night when you left here, Monsieur L’Etoile didn’t leave with you? It was dark, was it not? There was no electricity.”

  “No, there wasn’t, but he’d lit a bunch of candles.”

  “Did he go back to the house when you left?”

  “I don’t know. When I left, he was still in the workshop. Robbie said he had an appointment with a journalist.”

  “Did the journalist arrive before you left?”

  “No.”

  “No one was with Monsieur L’Etoile when you left?”

  “No one.”

  “On his desk,” Marcher said, “we found a jeweler’s tray. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Yes. That’s where Robbie keeps the pottery shards we were working on.”

  “And they were in the tray the last time you saw them?”

  “Yes, of course. They’re ancient. Fragile. I’m trying to fit them together so we can read the legend on the side of the pottery—but I don’t take them out of the tray.”

  The inspector had not broken eye contact with Griffin once. His voice had been even-keeled and curious. Not accusatory. But Griffin knew he was being interrogated and that something was coming. He just didn’t know what.

  “So you’d be surprised to know the tray is empty?”

  Griffin was stunned. “Empty?”

  “You are certain Monsieur L’Etoile would not have taken them out of the tray and put them away somewhere else at the end of the day?”

  “No, he’s kept them in the tray the whole time I’ve been working on them. At night he locked the tray up in a wall safe. But I don’t know what he did last night. I left before he did.”

  “So when you left, Monsieur L’Etoile was alone. When we arrived about fourteen hours later, we found a dead man on the floor, the tray on the desk, its contents missing, and your friend nowhere to be seen. Would you mind if we searched your hotel room?”

  “You actually think that I had something to with this? Would I have come back here of my own volition if I had?”