Murder in Montmartre Read Online Free PDF Page B

woman. She still wore the scent of roses.
    He froze. Four years . . .
    “Aah, Lucien, meet my wife,” Félix said. “Forgive me for not introducing you.
    Marie-Dominique, Félix’s wife?
    He couldn’t pull his eyes away. Marie-Dominique’s gaze caught his as she inhaled briefly.
    “Lucien,” she breathed out. “I’m happy to meet you.”
    The world stopped. In Lucien’s mind the cicadas were buzzing, their loud cacophony a wall of sound in the dry heat.
    The leaning pines sheltered by granite formations, the parched oleander, and withered, browning myrtle were all around them on the hill where he’d last seen her.
    “Hasn’t Félix shown you around? You look lost,” she said.
    Lost in the past, he thought. And pining for a future they’d never had.
    “How long have you lived in Paris?” What he meant was how long had she been this sophisticated Parisienne, married to a wealthy man.
    She looked down, curling a black strand of her hair around her finger. Just as he remembered her doing when she was thinking.
    “Long enough,” she said.
    “Marie-Dominique,” Félix said putting his arm around her, “find Lucien a seat at the table next to us. Persuade him to play something after dinner.”
    Lucien knew he should thank Félix for his hospitality and leave before he made the biggest mistake of his life. But Marie-Dominique’s scent and his memories paralyzed him.
    Amusement glimmered in Félix’s eyes as he said, “Lucien, you’ll let me help you?”
    Lucien nodded, tongue-tied.
    “As long as you’re not involved in Corsican political causes or these Separatist groups. Are you?” Félix asked.
    Should he reveal his past? But how could he tell the truth? He was an unknown; he played in Corsican restaurants to eat. SOUNDWERX would make him.
    “Félix, I’m just a musician!”
    “Good. Monsieur Kouros of SOUNDWERX wants to meet you. He’s a personal friend, Lucien,” Félix said. “Connections are what count in this world. Forgive me if I assumed too much, but I’ve already given him my word that you’d sign an exclusive contract.”
    Lucien’s mouth felt dry. Should he ask to read the contract, he wondered. Seeing Marie-Dominique while listening to Félix’s proposal had his mind reeling.
    Félix rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You look unsure. After you meet Kouros you’ll understand.”
    Out in the salon, Lucien’s collar felt damp. He’d been perspiring. All about him, couples chatted, and everyone seemed to know one another. His awkwardness increased as he observed the well-dressed strangers surrounding him.
    A waiter in a white coat stared at him. He had black eyes and an olive complexion that were at odds with his bleached-blond curly hair. A Corse, like himself, Lucien figured, trying to get by.
    Lucien summoned a smile. “What village do you come from?” he asked, the question Corsicans always put to a fellow countryman. It was a way to pinpoint their place on the social map, to discover who their friends were, what power they had access to, or even if they were by chance related. Or, worst scenario, if they were involved in a complex vendetta against his clan, one that might have arisen from the defense of the honor of a twice-removed murdered cousin from the last century. These things had to be explored.
    “Monsieur?” The waiter addressed him as if Lucien hadn’t spoken. “Monsieur Conari said to tell you that dinner’s served in the other salon.” Then he edged closer and responded, “I’m from Bastia.”
    An Italian , as people from his rock-perched village would say. To them, all coastal people were descended from Italian fisherman. Even if their ancestors had reached Corsica five centuries earlier.
    “And you?”
    “Vescovatis,” Lucien said.
    A look of recognition flashed in the waiter’s eye. Already Lucien was one up, hailing from a mountainous inland valley. A more pure Corsican.
    Félix came up behind him, clapping him on the back, and