All the Ways We Said Goodbye Read online

  The woman actually winked at Drew, and I wasn’t sure if I was more embarrassed or jealous. Which was ridiculous, really. Drew and I were certainly not having assignations, in the afternoon or otherwise. “We’re not . . . ,” I began.

  Drew spoke at the same time. “Oh, Gigi—you wound me. Isn’t it natural for a man to admire two intelligent and beautiful women? Especially one who appears to have a folder for me containing the information Mrs. Langford and I are quite interested in.”

  I’m sure Drew had meant the Mrs. part to construe respectability, but instead Gigi raised an already perfectly arched eyebrow as if to imply otherwise. “Anything for you, Andrew. I didn’t mind spending a few extra hours last night scouring those dusty shelves for what you requested. It’s a good thing I love the smell of the ink from the mimeograph machine because I certainly used a lot of it.” She handed Drew the thick folder she’d been carrying.

  “Thank you, Gigi. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint. I owe you another drink—or two—for this.”

  “Just don’t forget. Although I know I won’t.” She winked again before turning back to me. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Langford. Please make sure our Andrew isn’t all work and no play—as that would make him a very dull boy, non?” Her French accent seemed to add so much insinuation to her words that my ears actually felt scorched.

  I took another sip from my tea to avoid answering and just gave a slight nod. “It was nice meeting you,” I said, forcing a smile I hoped didn’t appear too feral.

  Drew returned to his seat and opened up the folder, his expression as enthusiastic as a little boy’s on Christmas morning. The heavy smell of the bright purple ink on the pages crinkled my nose before the coffee scents masked it enough to allow me to lean closer. I squinted, trying to decipher the words.

  “Here,” Drew said, removing his sunglasses and placing them in his shirt pocket. He stood and grabbed the arm of my chair and pulled it and me along with it around the table as if I weighed nothing. “Much better,” he said, his arm pressed against mine as he slid the folder between us. “Looks like some of these are in English, but the rest are in French so I’ll need you to translate.”

  “Yes, of course.” I felt oddly disappointed, which was ridiculous. I carefully slid my cup and saucer in front of me, wondering if it would appear rude if I moved my chair away ever so slightly, but not entirely convinced that I wanted to. “What is all this?” I leaned over his arm, recognizing the header for the newspaper Le Petit Parisien.

  “So yesterday, on the way back to Paris, you and I were discussing what we’d learned at the chapel and from Monsieur Le Curé. You said that we needed to focus on my father’s ‘white wolf with a cross,’ that everything else was circumstantial—but not necessarily meaningless. And I think you’re right. As you pointed out, the coat of arms of the de Courcelles with the white wolf and cross might be circumstantial—or might not be. So I asked Gigi to pull up any news article or piece of information she could possibly find regarding the family, going back as far as she could.”

  He handed me half of the stack of papers. I pushed my teacup out of the way to make room, the pungent smell of the ink assaulting my nose again. “So that we could determine if there might be a connection between the de Courcelles and whoever had the talisman.”

  He grinned that grin again. “Beauty and brains, Babs. Your husband was a very lucky man.” My stomach did funny flipping motions. I squirmed in my seat, hoping I wasn’t getting ill.

  The waiter returned with a fresh cup of coffee and another pitcher of cream, along with more croissants for Drew, whose stomach had begun to rumble again. I focused my attention on the pile in front of me, finding quite a few mimeographs from Le Petit Parisien as well as from Le Figaro and Vogue. The largest article, a full page from the New York Times society page, featured a wedding photograph from 1893.

  Curious, I pulled that one out to start, taking a fortifying sip of tea first. I studied the photograph of the couple, unable to take my eyes away from the bride. She was small in stature, or perhaps it was because the man standing beside her seemed to dominate the photo. He was tall and at least two decades older than his young bride. He wore a dark military uniform with medals and ribbons decorating the front pockets like a Christmas tree, his face angular and stern. Neither was smiling.

  I leaned forward to look at the woman, seeing the spark behind her beauty. And perhaps a bit of defiance in the angle of her jaw, the light in her dark eyes, the way she stood a little in front of her husband. A pale hand rested in the crook of the man’s elbow, looking delicate and helpless. But something about the woman’s face made me quite convinced that she was neither. I sat back studying this odd couple and wondering what had brought these two together.

  “What is it?” Drew was so close I could feel his breath on my neck in a not unpleasant way. “You made a noise in the back of your throat.”

  “Did I?” I said absently as I skimmed the article. “It’s a wedding announcement for the Comte de Courcelles and an American, Wilhelmina Gold of New York.”

  “The Golds of New York? Quite a famous family—I think they owned half of the city and probably still do. Lots of money there. I’m sure that has a lot to do with them getting married. He looks old enough to be her father.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. It wasn’t uncommon for many of the aristocratic families in England and Europe to bolster their sagging coffers with new American money through marriage.”

  “At least she got a beautiful château in the deal.” Drew pulled out a sheet from his own stack from what appeared to be an architectural design book showing the rendering of a fairy-tale castle, complete with banners fluttering from the turrets.

  “Still,” I said, lost in thought, “I can’t imagine marrying for such a reason. I wonder if there could have been something else.”

  “Besides the promise of becoming a wealthy widow while still young?” Drew asked.

  “Possibly. But if the Golds were as wealthy as you suggest, Wilhelmina could have bought her own château. There’s just something about her that makes me think she’d need a better reason.”

  I began flipping through the pile again, trying to sort by date and pulling out the oldest ones to read first. Drew slid a page toward me. “Well, our Comte de Courcelles—Sigismund—wasn’t a complete bore. His horse won the Grand Prix in 1902 so that’s something.”

  “True, but I’m finding much more on Wilhelmina—called Minnie, by the way—than on Sigismund. Lots of photos in the gossip rags coupling her name with men other than her husband.” I skimmed yet another article in Le Figaro about Minnie de Courcelles née Gold then slid it over to Drew. “They had one daughter, Aurélie. She was raised at the Ritz, where her mother apparently lived.” I looked at Drew and immediately wished I hadn’t because my nose narrowly missed his.

  “They were divorced?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I’ve discovered so far. It appears that they might have been living separately since their daughter’s birth. I’m beginning to think that Sigismund preferred to rusticate out in the country, whereas Minnie preferred a more cosmopolitan life.”

  “Ah. That would explain this one,” Drew said. “It’s all in French, but that’s her photograph with the name Comtesse de Courcelles in the caption, and I recognize the word Ritz. And Suite Royale. But that’s about it.”

  I skimmed through the article, presumably from a gossip rag masquerading as a newspaper. “This is from 1938, before the last war, and it’s about the long-term residents at the Ritz. Apparently she lived there prior to the first war. It doesn’t mention her daughter, but there’s something about a granddaughter. A Marguerite Villon. There’s nothing about either woman’s personal life, but according to this, our Minnie liked to redecorate the suite often.”

  Drew flipped through his pile, pausing over one of them. “Here’s another name I recognize—Cartier.” He pronounced the final r, but I was beginning to find his imperfect French rath
er endearing.

  I glanced over at his page and nodded before returning to my own stack. “Yes, I’m finding a lot of material connecting Minnie to jewels. She must have had a fondness for them. And lucky for her, the funds to support her habit.” I flipped over the page and went to the next, skimming as I was quickly losing hope of finding anything connecting the de Courcelles with the talisman and La Fleur. “Apparently after Sigismund and Minnie were married, Minnie spent a small fortune in jewels that caused quite a stir according to many articles written about it. Minnie transformed an important de Courcelles family heirloom into a gaudy trinket that was ridiculed by many. One would think that such an old French family would have enough jewels . . .” I flipped a page and stopped.

  “You made that sound again. What is it?” Drew leaned over my shoulder and made his own sound. “Oh.”

  We both stared at the mimeographed photograph, the purple hue doing nothing to disguise a picture of the white wolf and cross of the de Courcelles coat of arms engraved in what appeared to be a medallion. Next to it was the other side of the medallion, a small circle of crystal set in the middle and large jewels, the size of small rocks, encircling the edge, their actual color hidden in purple ink. I cleared my throat and read the caption out loud. “‘A holy relic, a remnant of fabric dipped in the blood of St. Jeanne, is contained within a gold pendant surrounded by rubies and diamonds. The comtesse purchased the relic, previously lost as a gambling debt, thus restoring it to the de Courcelles family through their marriage.’

  “It’s the talisman,” I said quietly. “It must be.” I looked at the petite bride. “It’s why she married him, I think. As a sort of bribe.” Turning back to Drew, I said, “What was it that Monsieur le Curé said?”

  “Hang on.” Drew frantically reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pad of legal paper. “I made notes last night in the hotel so I wouldn’t forget anything.” He quickly flipped through the pages. “Here it is. He said that the de Courcelles talisman is very powerful, but only if held in the hands of the demoiselle. The legend dictates that it can only be passed down by the females in the family, and that France will never fall as long as the demoiselle holds the talisman.”

  He looked at the article in front of me. “Does it say anything else?”

  “Not this particular one, but there’s this.” I pulled another article from the pile and quickly scanned it. “The talisman was stolen back in 1942. Minnie accused the Germans—who were at that time using the Ritz for quarters for the Luftwaffe—of stealing it.” I tapped a line of text with my finger. “It says here that the granddaughter, Marguerite Villon, was interviewed as well, but neither she nor the Germans confessed to any wrongdoing or any knowledge as to its whereabouts.”

  “So where is it now?” Drew asked, sounding not a little desperate.

  “Monsieur le Curé said it disappeared during the last war. Which could also include being stolen.”

  “Or maybe it didn’t disappear. My father said to look for the white wolf and the cross.” He scratched the back of his head, making the hair stand straight up in an attractively disheveled way. “He must have been talking about the talisman. There are too many coincidences to say it couldn’t be.” He looked at me, his eyes wild, as if trying to convince himself more than me. “It must have been the talisman.”

  I slid another mimeographed page from the pile. I’d almost overlooked it as half of the page must have been torn or missing because only a picture and its caption had been copied. But I stopped now, staring at the picture. It had been taken from an article from 1915 in the Paris-Midi and showed a young woman, tall and slender with a cloud of light-colored hair surrounding her face, wearing a white dress with a tricolore pinned to her chest. It was impossible to see her expression, but it wasn’t her face that drew my attention. The picture was small, but on the woman’s narrow chest, dangling from a thin chain, hung a medallion surrounded by large jewels.

  I must have made a noise. I heard Drew’s intake of breath as he looked over my shoulder. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the talisman.”

  I quickly translated the caption. “‘The Demoiselle de Courcelles, a heroine for France and the woman who routed an entire command of German officers and liberated a French national treasure.’”

  We regarded each other in stunned silence before Drew let out a shout then lifted me from my chair, swirling me around regardless of the stares of sidewalk passersby and the occupants at the nearby tables. “My father was right! The wolf and the cross are real!” Before either one of us knew what he was doing, he kissed me soundly on the lips and then did it again, which did all sorts of interesting things to my knees.

  I tried my best to speak over him, but his words tumbled over each other like newborn lambs in a pasture. “This is it—I’m sure of it, Babs. The talisman is what my father was sent to retrieve from La Fleur. This means there must be a connection between the de Courcelles and La Fleur. Do you see?”

  “I’m not sure . . . ,” I began, but he wasn’t listening. He grasped my arms and I had the stray—and not unwelcome— thought that he might kiss me again. “So what do we do now?”

  His face became serious. “Well, we go back to the Ritz and find out if they ever discovered who stole the talisman.”

  “But surely they won’t know!” I protested. “It’s been over twenty years. Surely no one who worked there then will still be there now.”

  “It’s the Ritz, Babs. Why would a person ever want to leave?” He pulled out his wallet and placed several bills on the table before quickly gathering up all the papers and shoving them into his briefcase.

  I opened my mouth to explain that being a guest at the Ritz was not the same as actually working there, but found myself pulled by the hand down the sidewalk back toward the hotel.

  Drew bristled with so much excitement his skin should have been glowing. I was happy for him, for getting nearer to granting his father’s last wish and discovering what had really happened that night in 1942. Perhaps even finding the elusive La Fleur.

  But I seemed to be dragging my feet, making him slow periodically so I could catch up. Eventually he took my hand, the warm strength of his fingers doing nothing to stanch the chill that had invaded my body. I knew the closer we came to discovering the truth, the closer I came to having to confess to Drew that La Fleur had sent Kit a letter, and I had kept it from him. My reasons at the time had been sound, heroic, and done in Kit’s best interests. At least I’d thought so then. But now, imagining how it would sound to Drew in the telling, I appeared to be a vindictive, spiteful woman who kept the love of Kit’s life away from him for my own selfish gain. The whole scenario made me want to pack my bags and leave now, before I had to confess my shame and endure Drew’s look of disappointment and reproach. As if I didn’t see it enough in my own reflection each time I looked in a mirror.

  The sound of a clacking typewriter met us as we entered the hotel. Drew pulled me behind a line of potted palms to be out of Prunella Schuyler’s line of vision, stopping as he surveyed the hotel’s entry points undetected. “Shouldn’t we be going to the administration offices?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Gigi said the best person to talk to is the hallman—this guy.” He showed me a scrap of paper with the name André Deneaux written on it. “He started here in 1937 as a page and moved on to taking telephone messages in 1942 and still does. He apparently has a perfect memory and is the epitome of discretion.”

  “So he probably won’t tell us anything,” I said, trying to keep the hopeful tone from my voice.

  “Not necessarily. We’re not asking for state secrets, after all. We just want to know if the talisman was ever found, and where it might be now. We’re looking for facts. He might be able to tell us who the likely suspects were, too. According to Gigi, he probably remembers each person who’s come through the doors since 1937.”

  “Shouldn’t we do this in a more formal way? Like in a letter?”

  Drew sent me an odd l
ook before grabbing my hand again, approaching a man I’d seen several times since the beginning of my stay. “Monshur Doonox,” Drew called out as our prey emerged from the lift.

  The dapper, bespectacled gentleman smiled as we approached, unperturbed by the butchering of his name. “Madame, monsieur.” He nodded to us in greeting. “How may I be of service?”

  Drew smiled. “I understand you have been at the Ritz for nearly thirty years. Is that correct?”

  The man bowed his head. His English was perfect, of course, his French accent gently coloring his words. “It is indeed. And it has always been an honor and a pleasure.”

  “So you’d remember the Comtesse de Courcelles? I understand she lived here for nearly six decades.”

  “Of course. I remember her well. A lovely, vibrant woman. She was well-known for her salons, attracting the best and the brightest intellectuals and writers Paris had to offer throughout the years of her residency. She is greatly missed.”

  Drew nodded eagerly while he listened to the answer, ready to ask his next question. “When she lived here, do you remember her ever saying anything about the de Courcelles talisman?”

  The man’s brown eyes widened behind his glasses. “The talisman? Mais oui. Every true Frenchman knows of the talisman. The comtesse had it displayed in a case in her suite. I even saw it a time or two. Of course, the original talisman is just a piece of cloth, a holy relic, but the comtesse had more, shall we say, extravagant tastes and added many priceless jewels. But the true value of it was always the relic.”

  Drew reached into his briefcase and pulled out the mimeographed photo. “Is this it?”

  Monsieur Deneaux lowered the glasses on his nose, examining the photo. “Yes. This is what I remember being in the case. It wasn’t purple, of course.”

  “Of course,” Drew said, taking back the proffered page. “It says in the article that it was stolen from the Ritz in 1942. Do you remember that?”