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The articles about the boating accident were saved on my phone, meaning I reread them regularly and went around and around in circles. My brain chugged away with possibilities of what had happened to my aunt and what she had been doing prior to the accident. An image of Aunt Ada’s meeting with Bella Caron’s disgruntled publisher on the tourist boat replayed in my head. Had she been involved in an altercation? Thinking of her in the freezing cold River Seine, I shivered. No! I wanted to believe she was alive and there was a mistake, so I clung to the idea her possessions had not been on the boat, suggesting perhaps she had not got on in the first place. I fired up my pink laptop and searched for any more updates online and scanned social media. Nothing! But there were emails in my spam folder.

Pages of Other Worlds Blog

The Search: Paris, April 2019

Bonjour mes amis,

There are lovers, workers, tourists, booksellers, schoolchildren, mothers, fathers, gendarmerie, nuns and monks but no sign of Bella here in Paris. We know the next Bella Mystery is set here so I am sure she is hiding in the shadows with her notebook. I will find her.

I visited Bella’s favourite bistro, Chez la Mère Sylvie, named in her autobiography. With a pile of her books beside me, I hoped to engage a local who might be a fan of her books. She is here somewhere; I can feel it. I saved a photo of Bella on my phone to show people during my search.

I ordered a lemon sorbet. The sharp tang made me scowl at the waiter who scarpered into the kitchen to avoid an old lady’s complaint. Watching a young couple share the sorbet, I remembered the sweet taste of romance in my twenties. Only the presence of a lover can sweeten the bitter tang of the lemons. Alas, my lover is not in Paris yet.

When I turned to the mirror at the side of the table, I gazed into the eyes of the mademoiselle I knew long, long ago. The waiter saw the same eyes, framed with laughter lines, and called me madame, yet I am not married.

I showed him a photo of Bella on my phone. He blinked then pointed to the empty table set for one. He showed me the evening menu. I will return to investigate in the evening. The young couple dashed for the door, then with their arms around each other they appeared as one when they walked into the distance.

I paid double the bill and the waiter kissed me once on the cheek. He forced a receipt into my hand and said, ‘Regardez.’

‘Merci,’ I said, noticing the address of Chez la Mère Sylvie was circled on the receipt. When I inspected it more closely, I observed an arrow had been sketched above an illustration of the bistro and 2e was written on the arrow. Bella must live in an apartment on the second floor. Success!

A big close-up of the sorbet, the silhouette of a young couple leaving and my aunt in the bistro were included in the blog. My heart hammered as I stared at the screen and reread the blog post. I pondered whom she had asked to take a photo of her. Who was my aunt’s lover? If only I could speak with them. I made a note of the bistro. Aunt Ada had been caught up in some investigation, so I could present this to the police. My head throbbed with the possibility I could find out she really was dead. The electronic piercing sound of the phone cut through my thoughts.

‘Hello, it’s me, love. Are you OK? Have the bookshelves fallen down?’ The reassuring tone of my dad’s voice on the phone calmed me down.

‘Hi, Dad. Not yet.’

‘Are you OK, love? You sound a bit cheesed off.’

‘Yes. Erm. Well, I’ve been searching through Aunt Ada’s stuff, and she was concerned about the disappearance of an author. She went to Paris to investigate. I’ve just read one of her blog posts. Do you think there’s a chance she’s still alive? Has something happened to her? Should I call the police? Is she …’ I could hardly breathe.

Silence.

‘Dad?

‘It’s wishful thinking, love. We had the meeting with her solicitor, and it all seemed pretty final. There’s a lot of red tape when dealing with a death abroad.’

I heard my mum whisper in the background and knew I was on speaker phone. ‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Hello. Have you been reading those mystery books again? Do you think you’re spending too much time on your own?’

‘I don’t mind being here alone. There’s lots of people to talk to. But how do we know Aunt Ada died? They have presumed she is dead because she was booked on the boat trip, but they haven’t found her body.’ I sat back and twiddled my hair. ‘And I know Camellia is also suspicious. I have a weird feeling.’

I heard Dad cough. ‘Look, love, I know it’s difficult for you and your imagination is working overtime. Maybe you need to write one of your stories. And you know Camellia is probably influenced by the nosy neighbour, Peter, who suspects everything is a potential crime. He fancies himself as a private eye since he retired from the Police.’

Sensing the strain in his voice, I tried to make my tone upbeat. ‘But Aunt Ada released a blog post in April about searching for a missing author in Paris. What if something happened to her?’

‘Well, you know technology baffles me. I’m not sure what blog means,’ he said, words fading. ‘And what do you mean by posted?’

‘It means you write something and send it out on the internet for people to read. It’s a bit like sending an email. She went to Paris to search for a missing author called Bella Caron - her favourite author. Listen, I’ll read the post to you.’ I read quickly before they interrupted me.

‘It does sound very mysterious. Ada was very eccentric. It makes you wonder what’s going on,’ said Mum.

‘Stop getting her hopes up,’ whispered Dad. I knew he was frowning at her while she considered possibilities. ‘Anyway, we’re thinking of coming over soon to help you get started with stripping the wallpaper. Your mum’s got a stripper in the garage.’ Dad was ending the conversation about Ada and knew Mum would take the bait.

Mum giggled. ‘I have. He’s been locked in the garage for years.’

‘Mum, what am I going to do with you? But…’

Dad said, ‘We’ll introduce you to your mother’s stripper when we arrive and let’s hope he doesn’t drive you up the wall.’ He chuckled at himself. ‘Bye, love.’

When I put the phone down a fawn coloured dog with black ears dashed past me in the hall and Nora stood in front of me.

‘Hello, Maisie dear. It’s only us,’ chirped Nora. Her shoes clip clopped on the wooden floor. ‘Bronte, my love, come back here. Sit!’

Bronte halted next to the island in the kitchen, then jumped up, scratching my legs with her claws. ‘Ouch. Hello, lass.’ Her bushy tail swished furiously on the kitchen floor until I stroked the sides of her face. Bronte raced towards the kitchen door and waited on the doormat.

‘Naughty girl! This is your new mummy,’ said Nora, wagging her finger. ‘She raced down the path, and I couldn’t stop her. The only time I’ve seen her rush into the house like this is when Ada returned from one of her trips.’ She folded her arms and waited. ‘Anyone would think your aunt was still …’

Before I could respond, Bronte tapped the kitchen door with her paws, yelping at me when it did not budge. I unlocked the door to let her outside and she wriggled on her back in the middle of the lawn and then sniffed around the potting shed.

Nora called her several times and tears shone in her eyes. ‘Come along, Bronte. Ada’s not here anymore, love,’ glaring at me like a teacher waiting for a confession from a pupil.

Bronte grabbed the lead from Nora’s hand, then she returned to me and nudged my hand with her nose.

‘I get the message, Bronte. You’ve chosen Maisie. She’s young and can run faster than me.’ Nora blew her nose with a white embroidered handkerchief, ‘I’m sure she could sense someone in the potting shed.’ Her tone was sharp. ‘It’s as if she sensed erm…’

‘There’s no one in the potting shed.’ I folded my arms and waited for an explanation.

Her eyes watered again. ‘I’m sorry. I miss Ada.’

‘So do I, Nora. It’s really difficult for me to live here, wondering…’ My artful silence gained Nora’s attention. I hoped to move her in the direction of my questions, rather than her own skewed investigation.

She pounced on me. ‘What are you wondering?’

‘Oh.’ I sighed. ‘I never knew about Aunt Ada’s lover in Paris.’ I moved closer to her. ‘You were her friend, but she didn’t confide in me.’

‘It happened a long time ago but I think he might’ve come back into her life.’ Placing her hand on her heart, she added, ‘You can’t beat a good love story.’

‘Do you know the name of her lover?’

Screwing up her eyes, she studied me. ‘It’s not for me to say. If she didn’t tell you then…’

Bronte rested her paw on Nora’s lap, making her face beam with delight. ‘Oh, so you haven’t forgotten me.’

‘You can see Bronte as often as you want.’

A smile lit up her face, removing the worry lines on her forehead. ‘Anytime? Really? So kind of you to let me see Bronte. I always get too attached. Story of my life. And if there’s anything you want to tell me, I’m a good listener.’ Now she looked pointedly at the potting shed.

‘Nora, is there something in the potting shed?’

‘Your aunt was always in there, and I could have sworn I saw a light on in there this week. Have you been in there?’

‘No. I can’t even find the key.’