A Paris Melody

Late Night Jitters

Jill McDonald wasn't the nightmare type. She worked nights, and after singing in a seedy Paris jazz club until 3 or 4 AM, she never had the energy for nightmares. At the end of her show she just fell into bed, plunging into a deep, dreamless sleep. She never woke up before noon, and rarely before sunset. Whenever he took her out for an ice cream cone or a stroll along the Seine, Uncle Simon scolded her for her late-night routine. "Baby, you're becoming a vampire!"

Well, she wasn't a vampire. But apparently going to bed early was quite a shock to the system. At Marc's suggestion, Jill enjoyed a light supper in her room, and fell asleep the moment her tray was empty. The next thing she knew, she was dreaming about Paris. Her uncle had discovered a new restaurant, and they were sharing a bowl of soup. It was ratatouille, the same soup she'd been served before bed. But in her dream Jill was much more aware of the flavors, the vibrant combination of peppers, tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini and onions. Uncle Simon was explaining the origins of Provencal cooking, and Jill kept trying good things from his plate. She loved her uncle so much!

Just then a funeral procession passed by in the street. Jill felt as if she knew the weeping mourners, but Uncle Simon insisted they were strangers. Jill ran into the street, hearing her voice echo as she pleaded for them to stop, stop, stop.

Then she was in the midst of the mourners, looking down at the peaceful face of a very young and handsome foreign student. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she heard herself begging for forgiveness. Jill had caused the young man's death. She knew that. But sadness turned to horror as she looked into the coffin and saw not Daoud but Uncle Simon! And behind her lurked the killer. Jill turned around and saw his face and it was someone she knew!

That was when she awoke, sitting up in bed with a loud gasp, shaking all over. For a moment she just sat there trembling, bathed in sweat, with one hand clutching her throat. So much for going to bed early! Jill swung her long legs over the side of the bed and moved unsteadily to the bathroom, thinking she needed to splash some cold water on her fevered face. But while she was bent over the sink she thought she heard voices, Arab voices. Was that the sound of singing?

"Get a grip!" Jill hated having the late night jitters. While the water was running, she thought she heard voices raised in song. But the moment she shut off the gleaming faucet the house was silent. Jill frowned at the pale, slim blonde in the mirror, who scowled right back. Finally she walked back to her lavish bedroom, listening tensely for anything out of the ordinary. All she heard was soft, tranquil summertime silence. Her own ragged breathing was louder than the sound of the crickets.

Jill perched on the edge of the bed, a little wary of going back to sleep. She couldn't work out what was going on inside her head! The sad song she'd heard had only been a holdover from her dream. She had to face the fact that her own guilt had driven her out of Paris, and pushed her to accept Marc's invitation to stay at the family chateau, Havre de Paix. The tough French cop kept a lid on his feelings, but Jill guessed that he too felt responsible for Daoud's death. In a way it was a bond between them, just like the passion they'd shared. Not that she wanted to go back to all that! But what did she want, really? As she lay back at last, resting her hot, bewildered head on the cool soft pillow, Jill reminded herself that tough, sexy Marc was still a cop. And sweet Uncle Simon was still a suspect. That made her a suspect too . . .

Jill was still sound asleep when morning brought her a visitor. The thick and heavy bedroom curtains were yanked open by unseen hands, and she was rocketed back to reality by the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of cheerful greetings in French.

"Ah, elle est enfin réveillée! She is awake at last! DId you sleep well, mademoiselle?"

"Huh? I mean, yes. I guess I slept well. J'ai bien dormi, merci." Jill just managed to recollect her French, but for the life of her she could not recall the name of the bright-eyed and chirpy little old lady. On the drive down from Paris, Marc had mentioned something about a female relative, a very powerful older woman who ruled the family chateau. But that forbidding and almost queenly image didn't quite fit the reality. The small, silver-haired woman smiled at Jill's clumsy French, disdaining all formality and perching on the edge of the big bed. Meanwhile another woman, big and heavy and silent, was busy serving breakfast on a wicker tray. Jill couldn't recall her name either, though she remembered the dinner tray she'd brought last night.

"Bertha says you are settling in well," the elegant lady said, reading the dazed and somewhat bewildered expression on Jill's smooth features. "I beg your pardon, ma cherie. I am Marc's great-aunt, Madame Amelie DuPre. And you must be Jill McDonald, the beautiful and also very talented and promising classical pianist from Paris."

"I'm from Paris." Jill wondered just how much of a build up Marc had given her musical accomplishments. He'd obviously done some talking to his wealthy relative the night before, giving Jill a big build-up as a very refined and artistic young woman. "Actually, I've left the academy. I no longer practice or play classical music. And I'm a working woman. I sing at a little jazz club."

Instead of looking shocked, the old woman's well-lined features showed excitement. "Ah, yes, I know! Marc has told me all about it." Madame DuPre leaned a bit closer, whispering. "You have talent, yes. But you love to play and sing, and that means you are perfect for the little job I have in mind."