The Book of Lost Fragrances

Thirty-eight

FRIDAY, MAY 27, 8:30 A.M.

The bellman from L’Hotel delivered Malachai Samuels’s letter to the residence at L’Etoile Parfums the next morning just as Jac and Griffin were leaving. She took the envelope, opened it and glanced at the letter. As she maneuvered Robbie’s Citröen out of the courtyard and onto Rue des Saints-Pères, she told Griffin what it said.

“He believes that the pottery is real; that the fragrance is real,” she said. “He’s a brilliant scientist, but… we’re such a sad, desperate species, aren’t we?”

“That we search for something to believe in?”

She nodded. “Mythology is what we call someone else’s religion.”

“Ah, your old friend Joseph Campbell.”

She laughed, but instead of joy it was with defeat.

“Hope dies last,” Griffin said. Now the defeat was his.

It was an overcast morning, slightly too cool for the end of May. Melancholy. But melancholy fit Paris. The city wore gray skies with the insouciance of a French woman in high couture. Jac rolled down her window. The air smelled of the river a block away, early morning traffic, the buckets of roses in front of the corner florist, and the fresh bread from the baker down the street.

Like different instruments all contributing to a symphony, the strains created a unique odor that was unlike that of any other city-or even this city at any other time of day.

“There’s a dark-blue car following us. It’s been with us since we left,” Griffin said.

“The police?”

“Could they be this bad at surveillance? Don’t worry. We have over an hour to get to a store that’s five minutes from here, right? We’ll lose them.”

At the next corner, the car continued on after Jac made a left.

“Okay, he’s gone,” Griffin told Jac. “And I don’t see anyone else on our tail. At least not yet. Circle this block. Nice and slow.”

“You sound pretty knowledgeable about evasion tactics.”

“Everything I know is from movies on plane trips and books I read when I’m on a dig. I always mean to read the kind of novels that get reviewed in the New York Times, but I can’t help it; I’m drawn to high-octane thrillers. If my favorite authors do decent research, we should be okay. If they don’t… well…”

“That’s not the most reassuring thing you’ve told me.”

“No, I wouldn’t imagine it is.”

They drove for another five minutes in silence and then he said, “There could have been more than one car. Someone might have called for another vehicle to pick us up at another point, but I don’t see anyone on our tail.”

“On our tail. Very dramatic.”

“I’m all you’ve got. Go easy on me. Okay?”

She nodded. “Griffin?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him turn.

“Do you think Robbie’s okay?”

“Yes. He’s resourceful. He’s clever. But more than that, he believes in what he’s doing. If anyone can survive on sheer will, it’s Robbie.”

After another few blocks, he suggested they stop and have breakfast. “We have at least an hour before the stores open. Find someplace where we can sit and watch the street from the window.”

Jac took a left, then a right, and stopped in front of a café.

They got a table by the window with a view of the wide boulevard.

They ordered cafés au lait and croissants. Didn’t talk much while they drank the coffee and picked at the buttery pastries. Even though neither of them brought up what had happened the night before, Jac felt it was being discussed in the silence. She didn’t know if the encounter had been about her and Griffin or an escape from the awful situation. She’d need to sort it out. But after Robbie was back. And safe.

“I have about two hundred euros,” Griffin said. “It should be enough for the supplies. But if it’s not, do you have cash?”

“I have a credit card.”

“We shouldn’t put anything on cards. They’re traceable.”

“Once we get all these supplies, how are we going to get them back into the house without alerting the police that anything suspicious is going on?” she asked.

Griffin took a sip of his coffee. “Did Malachai give you his number in that note?”

Jac fished the letter out of her pocketbook and handed it to him.

Griffin took out his cell phone and punched in the reincarnationist’s number. “Malachai, it’s Griffin. I’m with Jac. We need you to help us.”

An hour and a half later, Jac pulled up in front of the House of L’Etoile and opened the gates to the courtyard. Anyone watching saw her park the car and then saw three people emerge.

Jac. Griffin. And Malachai Samuels, carrying a suitcase. A visitor coming to stay.

He’d taken a taxi from his hotel and met them at the sporting goods store, where they’d filled his empty suitcase with their purchases.

Once inside, Griffin turned on the stereo, then took the suitcase to the kitchen. “Give me a few minutes,” he said. “I have to call Elsie. I’m her wake-up call.”

“You do that every morning?” Jac asked.

“No matter where I am,” Griffin answered and headed out to the living room.

“He’s a good man,” Malachai said. “Robbie’s lucky to have him as a friend.”

Jac nodded. Didn’t trust herself to say anything. Griffin’s dedication to his daughter had moved her.

Jac opened the bag and with Malachai’s help emptied the spelunking equipment on the table.

“Thank you,” Jac said. “You were a great decoy.”

“My pleasure. That’s what I came here for. To help any way I could.”

She picked up a helmet and, using the kitchen scissors, cut off the price tag. “It’s a long way to come. From what Griffin’s been telling me, I don’t think there’s anything you can do to get Robbie to sell you the pottery.”

“I’ve raised over a quarter million dollars.”

She shook her head. “Robbie might have poisoned someone. Killed him. Money’s not going to get him to change his mind.” She shook her head again. “This is all so crazy. Ever since we were kids, he took chances that he shouldn’t have for his ideals. He almost got killed when he went to Tibet in the middle of an uprising to see if he could help the monks save their relics. But this time…”

“He has strong beliefs.”

“In things that can’t matter. In shards of pottery that are part of a made-up fairy tale. Myths are metaphors.”

“The pottery isn’t a myth. It’s real. Reincarnation is real,” Malachai said.

He was ready to fight. Jac wasn’t.

“It’s not worth dying for,” she said.

“Anything worth living for is worth dying for.” There was a longing in Malachai’s voice that made Jac hesitate before responding.

“You sound like him.”

“We share a lot of the same beliefs.”

“I never thought of you as a romantic.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. I got to know you far better than you got to know me.”

“I didn’t get to know you at all.”

“Jac, I desperately want to know what the pot shards say and have there be a fragrance that helps people remember their past lives. But I didn’t come just to acquire a memory tool. I’m here because I’m worried about you. I wanted to be here if you needed help, too. I had a brother once…” His voice drifted off for a few seconds. “I want to help you find your brother.” He put his hand on her wrist.

Bruised from where Griffin had pulled her up out of the hole the night before, she tried not to flinch.

He looked down at the spot he’d touched.

“I hurt myself. It’s nothing.”

As Griffin came back into the room, he snapped his phone off and put it in his pocket. Jac saw a slight frown crease Malachai’s wide forehead.

“How’s Elsie?” she asked.

“Bereft. One of her goldfish died overnight. I had to promise two more to replace it. And an underwater castle.”

Before Jac could respond, the house phone rang. Rushing, she picked it up before the second ring.

It was Inspector Marcher.

Jac’s heart sped up, and she held her breath.

“Do you have news?”

“No. But would it be possible for me to drop by and speak with you?” Marcher asked.

Jac walked out of the kitchen and into the pantry to take the call in private. “Can’t we talk now, over the phone?”

“It will take only a few minutes.”

The smells in the white-tiled room brought back long-forgotten memories. She used to love to cook with her grandmother, who always gave Jac the job of gathering the ingredients. The stored dry goods gave off a warm odor. A corner of her heart hurt.

“Have you made any progress?”

“Nothing substantive, mademoiselle.”

One shelf held a dozen black packages of Mariage Frères Chinese and Japanese green teas. Her brother’s favorites. She ran her finger over the gold writing, spelling out evocative names. Aiguilles de Jade. Bouddha Bleu. Dragon de Feu.

“Then what is there to talk about?”

“I know this is difficult,” Marcher started.

“I don’t want your empathy; I want to know what you are doing to find my brother.”

Jac leaned against the door and shut her eyes. She never would have guessed it would be Robbie’s collection of tea that would make his disappearance the most real to her.

“Mademoiselle L’Etoile, I need to talk to you. Just for a moment?”

“Why are you having me followed?”

“We’re protecting you. Not following you. That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Protecting me from whom?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“Or won’t say?”

“I’m not at liberty at this point-”

“It’s my brother.” Her voice echoed in the small pantry.

“I am well aware of that. And I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. Believe me-if we had any confirmed information about his whereabouts or well-being, you’d know.”

“Have you at least been able to identify the man who died here?”

“Nothing definitive.”

“You think you know who he was?”

“We’re working on a lead.”

“What the hell does that mean? A lead? Do you know who it is or not? Someone died in our boutique.”

“Jac?” Griffin was outside.

She opened the door.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

“We have something, but we’re having a hard time verifying it,” Marcher said.

She didn’t care if she was being rude. Or if she sounded hysterical. “My brother has been missing since Monday night. It’s Friday. Friday. I want to know what you know.”

“I understand this is frustrating, Mademoiselle-”

Jac took a breath. Stared up at the ceiling and the ordinary light fixture. How long had it been there? Forty years? Sixty? A hundred years? It was amazing how some things lasted. Never changed. Others did so quickly. So fast.

“When I know anything that I can tell you, I will. In the meantime, the reason I wanted to talk to you was to ask you to please accept our protection and not go out of your way to avoid us like you and Mr. North did this morning.”

“What kind of danger am I in?”

Instead of making her afraid, Marcher’s warning angered her. She was out of patience.

“We don’t know what incited the original incident. If it was personal… a lover’s quarrel… a business deal gone bad… then no, you’re not.”

She was tired of listening to Marcher.

“But if the intruder was after the pottery shards your brother and Griffin North were working on,” Marcher continued, “then yes, you could be. Very serious danger. As long as your brother is missing, the whereabouts of the pottery are unknown. Whoever wants it might think you know where it is. Or that Robbie hid it on the premises and that if you are incentivized you could help them-or be forced to help them-find the treasure.”

Jac shivered. He’d done it: managed to scare her. Damn him. She wasn’t going to let him distract her. All that mattered now was finding Robbie.