A Paris Melody

Gunner Is Dead

"Madame Amelie! How lovely to see you again!" Jill kissed the old woman's wrinkled cheek, wishing Marc hadn't left her all alone at the museum fundraiser. The smile on her face felt just as tight and uncomfortable as her crisp new Chanel suit and brand new high heels.

"You're looking lovely, my dear. But a little tense!" Marc's aunt always got right to the heart of the matter. Her face was deeply wrinkled, but her bright blue eyes were alert, studying Jill's taut, strained features as she handed her a glass of wine. "Do you think your stolen diamonds are being worn by one of the guests?"

"Aucune chance!" Jill's raucous burst of laughter turned heads left and right. There were quite a few raised eyebrows among the sleepy museum crowd. Everyone in this stuffy chamber seemed decades older than she was, tut-tutting with disapproval at the long-legged blonde. "Marc is just hoping that one of the thieves will turn up, you know, to check out the wealthy museum donors. Maybe we'll get lucky and I'll recognize one of my uncle's friends!"

"Marc's gotten lucky already," Madame Amelie chuckled. Her gaze lingered knowingly on Jill's face, noting the lovely golden tan as well as the slight blush on her cheeks. "Did you have a good time on your little holiday in the Caribbean? My serious policeman nephew says you helped break up a major criminal operation!"

"Oh, that! Mostly luck. Being in the right place at the right time." After they located a couple of chairs in a quiet corner, Jill filled Marc's aunt in on the details, grateful for a chance to escape all the hushed whispers and disapproving stares. After a whole evening in high heels, it felt good to get off her feet and relax.

"Your attention please, ladies and gentlemen! Notre presentation va commencer!"

"This film is about the museum's history, but it's awfully dull." Marc's aunt shot Jill a sly look. "Nowhere near as exciting as your trip to Martinique, or your reunion with Marc last night!"

"Humph!" Jill sat back in her chair and crossed her long legs, grateful for the cool darkness that concealed her blushing cheeks. When Marc picked her up at the airport she'd felt very proud, knowing she'd proved herself in the Caribbean. Over dinner she'd given him a detailed account of nailing Gunner and his gang, highlighting her own leadership and the risks she'd taken. But Marc didn't care about her leadership. All he cared about was having her back in his arms, safe and sound. And back in his bed . . .

"It was a world of luxury and splendor . . ." The film was about all the priceless treasures that were safely stored in the museum. The famous actor narrating the story had a low, soothing voice, as warm and calming as Marc's caress. Jill closed her eyes, remembering the way he'd taken her back to his Paris apartment after dinner. He hadn't budged an inch about keeping her safe, but his gentle words and knowing touch soon quenched her rebellion. It felt so good to be back in his arms, back in his bed . . .

"And so, our mission remains the same. Yesterday's story, told in timeless works of art!"

The lavish documentary film ended on a grandiloquent note of triumph. The music swelled and the lights came on and suddenly everyone in the stuffy little room was clapping. The noise woke Jill and she sat up at once, a bit dazed by all the commotion.

"Splendid, splendid!" Marc's aunt was on her feet, clapping along with the rest. But her eyes twinkled as she glanced at her pretty young companion. "Ah, la jolie biche éblouie par les phares!"

"Huh?" Jill's bewildered expression mirrored her momentary fog. Had she been asleep? She'd only shut her eyes for a second!

Madame Amelie laughed. "I said you look like a deer in the headlights. Come, would you like to meet the museum director? He's a very good friend of mine. Marc knows him too!"

"Oh!" Jill pulled herself together, making a determined effort and banishing the lingering effects of her vivid and unsettling dream. "I'll catch up in a few minutes. I need a little fresh air!"

"Very well, ma cherie." Marc's aunt gazed at her with motherly concern. "You do look as though you need some air." Madame Amelie smiled, her wise old eyes full of mischief. "But don't let some handsome stranger lure you into a romantic embrace!"

Outside in the museum gardens, Jill found a bench in the dark and sat down to think. Romance. It wasn't what she wanted. She'd been fighting too long to maintain her independence. It was ridiculous for Marc's aunt to watch over her every moment like a rebellious teenager. But just then she heard a noise!

"Jill!" The hoarse, scratchy voice came from the bushes. There was a rustling of branches, then another cry. "Baby, is that you?"

"Uncle Simon?" Jill's pulse was racing. Her hand flew to her throat and she watched in stunned disbelief as the pitiful, raggedly dressed figure of a man shambled into view. "What's happened? Your clothes, your face! Oh, Uncle Simon!"

"I'm all right, baby." Uncle Simon hugged her. "Just scratches, that's all. I've been hiding out."

"But the Russians . . . they could have killed you!" Jill kept kissing his face over and over. "Uncle Simon, please let me help you. This has to stop. We've got to go to the Paris police!"

"Can't do that." The fat little man broke away, and sat down heavily on the stone bench. "You did good in Martinique, baby. I was proud of you. But I couldn't let myself get caught. Not after what happened to Gunner."

"Oh, right." Jill sat down next to him on the bench. "Gunner is in jail, and that's where you'll end up if you don't let me help you."

"Gunner is dead." Uncle Simon rubbed his bruised face wearily in the dark. "The Russians got him out of police custody. Then they took him to Miami. His body was found at a construction site. I'm next on the list, Jill. But I've still got one chance." Uncle Simon took out a fat white envelope, heavily stained and creased. "A complete list of stolen jewels and my confession. You've got to get this to Lady Pamela Murdoch."

Jill snatched the envelope. "What's to stop me from giving this to Marc tonight? Surely the French police can use this information!"

"Your boyfriend can make arrests, but he can't investigate the international operators behind this thing. Only Pam can do that. Please, baby. You've got to find her . . . before it's too late."

"But I'm not . . . I can't just . . . Uncle Simon, wait!" Jill wanted to throw her arms around her uncle. She wanted to shake him, over and over. She wanted to scream her head off and bring the French police running into the garden. But she'd gotten other people killed by turning them over to the police. She couldn't make that mistake again. So she watched Uncle Simon melt into the night with her eyes streaming tears and the battered white envelope clutched tight in her hand.