A Murder Misstery Epilogue

The following morning, I awoke from a fitful sleep to see the rooftops of Paris peeking through thick gray clouds once again. This time I was not in a private jet, but rather a window seat in the last row of coach on a crowded airbus. Several of the women seated near me had already transformed themselves in the lavatories, shedding their burkas to reveal jeans and high heels, and adding lipstick and mascara to hit the streets of Paris running. I was more circumspect, waiting until the plane was almost empty before retrieving my suitcase from the overhead and making my way into the terminal, down the long corridor to passport control. If my Internet research held up, a French citizen returning from Algeria endured no formalities, and sure enough I was waved through. As soon as I found a ladies room, I removed my dreadful burka and wig and threw them in the trash, a chic chick once more.

When I switched on my cellphone in the taxi on the way back to the apartment, a message from Jacques was waiting. "Cheri, I suppose it would be too much to hope for, but if you are free for lunch today, please surprise me." The note of despair in his voice was encouraging, and I returned the call without delay. His receptionist instructed me to hold, and in a few seconds Jacques was on the line. Once again the conversation was in French, although I can translate it word for word:

"My darling, where have you been?"

"I'll tell you all about it when I see you."

"Le Relais at noon?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

"Please don't disappoint me. We have something important to discuss."

Could the Mistress be on the verge of Le Knockout?

Back in my apartment, I sent a quick email to my mother while the tub was filling with Mistral bain moussant:

You were perfect on the phone! I think we've seen the last of Mutt and Jeff. Don't forget about April in Paris! Love, Maddy

As I luxuriated in the soothing hot bubbles, the events of the past few days played back in my mind. With any luck, the FBI was already on the way to Morocco, where once again Matt McCoy's trail would go cold. How long would they search for me? When I didn't turn up, would they fall for the red herring that I'd been kidnapped as a sex slave? That was almost as plausible as disguising myself as a Muslim woman, taking the terrible risk of crossing the border into Algeria and returning to France in a burka. Anyway, with no extradition treaty between the United States and Morocco, it would be only a matter of time before they closed their file.

Now all that remained was to get Jacques to leave his wife and propose to me. I knew in my heart that he'd fallen for me hook, line and sinker, and all I had to do was reel him in. I suppose I should have felt guilty as I dusted my body with perfumed powder, slithered into my sexiest lingerie and stockings and selected a killer dress to wear for him, but he was clearly trapped in a sexless marriage, why not make an honest man out of him? "Carpe diem!" he'd said to me many times. I ignored Cicero's warning: "Don't ask, it's dangerous to know what end the gods will give you...."

Feeling supremely confident, I stepped into my stilettos and went outside. It was an unseasonably warm winter's day, and the morning clouds had given way to brilliant sunshine. A glance at my diamond watch indicated that I had plenty of time, so on a whim I decided to walk, even if my heels were killing me by the time I'd covered a few blocks. Just one of the joys of being a woman! I consoled myself as I made my way through the charming sidewalks of the Latin Quarter.

The closer I got to Le Relais, the more I began having second thoughts about what I was doing with Jacques. He was a wonderful man, and I loved every minute I spent with him, but did I really want to break up his marriage? I had enough on my conscience...besides, he was so much older! What would life be like for us when he retired, could I endure watching him age gracefully? I was a beautiful young woman with $3,000,000 in her bank account! The last thing I needed was to be tied down....

My worries melted away when I saw him seated there, at our familiar table, with an anxious smile on his face. "You look spectacular," he said.

"Thanks to you," I said, brushing his nose with my finger.

"Where were you, Madeline?"

"Morocco and Algeria."

"You're joking!"

"Au contrare." Jacques sat enthralled as I related the message from my mother about the FBI, the plan I devised to foil them, and my return from North Africa in disguise.

"As I've said many times, you never cease to surprise and delight me," he said, shaking his head. "Although I must say, I was less than delighted when you left."

The sommelier arrived with our customary champagne, and after he filled our glasses Jacques got straight to the point. "Madeline, I have to tell you something, and ask you something."

"Yes?" I asked after gulping down half my glass.

"My wife is leaving me."

"Oh dear, I hope it wasn't anything to do with me."

"Of course it has everything to do with you!"

"Does she know about me?"

"Not in so many words...Madeline, I'm a Frenchman, and I've had many mistresses, whom she has tolerated over the years, as most Frenchwomen do. But you are different."

"Well, that's stating the obvious," I said, a lame attempt to break the tension.

"That's not what I mean, Madeline. The difference is that I've fallen in love with you, deeply in love, and I cannot disguise it from her, any more than you can disguise your beauty."

"So she asked for the divorce?"

"It's all very civilized. There are no children, and the financial settlement will be extremely generous. I'm afraid this means that I will no longer be a wealthy man, and I will have to keep working for the foreseeable future."

"That doesn't sound so bad," I said hopefully, "if you like being a doctor."

"I love my work, and I would be bored to tears with retirement, but it's important for you to know these things, because now I must ask you that question."

I gave him my most encouraging smile as he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and produced a box from Cartier. "My dear Madeline, will you marry me?" he asked as he slipped the ring on my finger.

by the author of Skylord