Murder in Montmartre Read Online Free PDF

irritation. “It’s a mess. I couldn’t find a parking place!”
    Someone murdered? Lucien concealed his shaking hands by putting them in his pockets. With his background, he had to steer clear of this.
    “ Nom de Dieu! ” said Félix as a momentary hush filled the salon. “At least it seems under control.” Félix guided Lucien toward the long white-linen-covered table. “Taste the foie gras and let’s catch up in the study.”
    “ Merci, ” Lucien said, conscious of Félix’s practiced finesse as he was marshaled, with a well-loaded Limoges plate, to the study.
    A fire crackled, illuminating minimalist furniture at odds with the ornate ceiling, wood-paneled walls, and curved windows. Old world meets avant-garde.
    A man came out of the door of an adjoining bathroom, toweling his wet hair.
    “Had to splash myself awake,” he said, smiling.
    “You’re still working?” Félix pulled Lucien toward the man, who looked to be in his thirties. He wore a rumpled black suit and scuffed Adidas sneakers. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “Meet Yann, an associate. He does the brain work, I am just the brawn,” Conari joked.
    Yann grinned. ”Not always.” He shook Lucien’s hand. “A pleasure.”
    Lucien felt a moist but strong grip. Then Yann shut down a laptop sitting on the desk. “I promised Félix to mingle and try to improve my social skills. Excuse me.”
    Lucien practiced his smile again. “You’re so kind to invite me, Monsieur Conari.”
    “Call me Félix.”
    Lucien had sent Conari several tapes of his music. But Félix’s invitation to come to his home to discuss them had surprised him. Lucien had no rent money in his pockets. A sleeping bag in the pantry of Anna’s Corsican Communist resto, where he worked for food, was his bedroom now. He prayed this meeting would lead somewhere.
    Lucien’s cousin’s great-aunt had married a distant relation of Félix Conari’s. Félix wasn’t even Corsican, but in Corsica family meant everything. Clan ties and family connections from the thirteenth century still governed the island. The code was strong. The basics still operated in Paris.
    “Have your drink while you listen to my proposal.” Félix gestured Lucien to a curved blond wood sculptural chair. “I’d like you to let me represent you and to introduce your work to the head of SOUNDWERX.”
    SOUNDWERX. The European recording giant! Lucien blinked in surprise.
    “You have a unique sound, haute cool,” Félix told him. “I want to help you.”
    It was an offer Lucien hadn’t even dreamed of. He was almost afraid to believe it was real.
    “You possess the gift, hard to define. As though you concoct words from the air and the stars sing. I’m saying it badly.” A brief sadness crossed the face of this man in a designer suit. “My sister had it, too. She was so gifted, but she passed away.” He looked down, rearranged some papers on his desk. “I couldn’t help her, but I hope you will give me the chance to advance your career.”
    Lucien nodded, excited. So Félix understood his music and admired it, even if he wasn’t Corsican. He explained, “My grandfather, father, and uncle sang polyphony, the seconda, bass, and terza, ninth-century poems in a cappella. At home, our saying is ‘Three singers in harmony make an angel’s voice.’” His heart raced; it always did when he spoke about his music. “Music filled our house. I build on the traditional foundation; I use it as a base and I go on to explore. I want to open our culture to the world.”
    The door opened, letting in the snare drum of a bossa nova and the murmurs of the crowd. Lucien turned. The woman he’d seen in the doorway entered the room. She’d thrown her head back, laughing. That long neck, curved, so familiar. Could it be? She wore a clinging coppery red dress; her straight black hair hit the middle of her bare back. She turned, her face caught in the light, and he recognized Marie-Dominique, his first