The Haunting of Anna McAlister (21 page)

Why am I rambling on like some idiot?
 

“But you are in a French library,” the man tried not to smile or look too amused.

“Yes, you see I need to find copies of some very old Paris newspapers or periodicals.”

“From what period?”

“From, say, July 1924 through the early part of 1925 or so.”

The man raised his eyebrows.

So beautiful. Anna thought.
 

“May I ask why?”

“Honestly,” Anna touched his arm but then quickly pulled her hand away. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Very well,” the man turned to the librarian and spoke quickly in French.
 

When he finished asking his question, the librarian said in perfect English, “Why didn’t she just say so? The computers and microfilm are on the third floor.”

“
Merci
,” Anna said to the young man, intentionally ignoring the librarian. She then starting walking toward the stairway.
 

“You’re welcome,” the librarian called after her. “And welcome back to Paris.”

Anna stopped. She was going to tell the woman that she had never been here before, but the librarian had already started pushing a cart full of just returned books down between two bookshelves. She saw the man still standing at the desk. He waved. Anna slowly moved her hand through the air before turning back toward the stairs.

Anna walked quickly, partially because she was anxious to get started and also to get away from the man. She had always believed that one of the keys to a successful monogamous relationship was the avoidance of temptation. In this case however, temptation had followed her up the stairs.

“Again, pardon,” the man said as he caught up to her by the fifth step. “I think you might still need my help.”

The two climbed side by side. Anna climbed faster, but he matched her ascent. “No, thank you.” Anna said a little more softly than she had intended. “You’ve been wonderful, and I do appreciate it. But, I think I can take it from here.”

“As you wish,” the man said without stopping his climb. “But now that you know where to find the newspapers you need, how do you intend to read them?”

Anna stopped, as did he.
 

“Unless you can read French much better than you can speak it. . . .” The man paused, knowing that his incomplete sentence told the whole story.
 

When Anna simply shrugged and smiled, the man said. “Permit me to introduce myself, my name is Phillipe Renard.” He held out his hand to Anna.
 

“Anna McAlister.” Anna took his hand in her own. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Shall we, Anna McAlister?” Phillipe gestured up toward the remaining stairs.
 

* * *

Anna knew she needed help. With a silent promise to keep her eyes off Phillipe’s jeans, and to tell him something about Tom at least every ten seconds she said, “We shall.”

* * *

It took time, but they found several reports concerning the murder of Ariene LaMoreau and the trial and death of Renee Desan. Phillipe read the articles without asking a single question. Anna listened and appreciated his discretion.
 

“Society Sweetheart Murdered,”

Phillipe he started with the headline of the first story to appear on the microfilm. He turned toward Anna, hoping she would offer some information about why she wanted to know about this particular case. She said nothing, and he read on.

“A horrible tragedy occurred late last evening at the Hotel Baronette. Mademoiselle Ariene LaMoreau, the daughter of Simon LaMoreau and
the late Claudette (Racine) was found brutally murdered in her suite.
 

Police Inspector Paul Martan revealed only that she had been stabbed many times. Mademoiselle LaMoreau had just celebrated her 20th birthday at a gala party held in her honor in the hotel’s grand ballroom. All of Parisian
society is shocked by this barbaric act of pure evil.”

Phillipe sat back for a moment. “So much for objective journalism, no?”

“No,” Anna sat as if hypnotized by the screen. “Actually, that’s probably about as objective as you can get.”

Phillipe didn’t ask what she meant before continuing to read.
 

No one is presently in custody, but Inspector Martan expects arrests soon. Funeral arrangements are still uncertain, but will be announced within the week.

Without hesitation Phillipe moved on to the next report. It was a short story regarding the arrest of Renee Desan.
 

Police today announced the apprehension of Renee Desan for the sadistic murder of socialite Ariene LaMoreau. Mademoiselle LaMoreau’s body was found two days ago in her suite in the Hotel Baronette.
 

Police Inspector Paul Martan revealed the Monsieur Desan was a long time employee of the LaMoreau family and is suspected of being the victim’s lover. Mademoiselle LaMoreau was viciously assaulted and murdered with a knife. Beyond limited details, police continue to refuse to divulge and specifics regarding how, or why this hideous crime took place.

The next few articles appeared in society columns and tabloids of the day. They covered Ariene’s funeral, which was dubbed the funeral of the century.

Ariene’s black, rose covered coffin was pulled on a small cart by a team of white horses through her favorite streets and parks. Every article discussed the grandeur and beauty of the event. Anna noticed that they each also mentioned how “ill tempered” the horses seemed, and how on several occasions they had attempted to bolt away, almost causing the cart to overturn.
 

The next article was the last Anna or Phillipe could find. It discussed the gruesome suicide of Renee Desan and the official end to the investigation.
 

The final tragic chapter in one of the most bizarre murder cases in years was written late last night in a small jail cell in Paris. Renee Desan, accused of brutally murdering the beautiful Ariene LaMoreau one week ago was found dead as a result of self inflicted wounds to his head.
 

Police inspector Paul Martan said the deranged suspect died from multiple
skull fractures. According to the inspector, shortly after midnight the suspect began ramming his head repeatedly into the bars of his cell. Guards on duty attempted to intervene, but Monsieur Desan refused to follow their orders to stop. By the time the guards were able to enter the cell, the suspect lay bleeding,
soon to die. Inspector Martan said this officially closes the case, “Thank God.”

Phillipe sat back in his chair and stretched. “That’s it. Does that tell you want you need to know?”

“Not nearly,” Anna said. “There has to be more.”

Phillipe again searched through all of the data banks. He referenced and cross referenced, but he had already read every story related to the incident in the library’s files.
 

“Perhaps we could get more detailed information from the police,” Phillipe suggested.

“Do you think they’d let us look at their old files?”

“I have a friend who works in the records division at the police headquarters. I’m sure we could gain access to those files if they exist.”

Anna looked deeply into Phillipe’s eyes. She saw not a trace of malice or anger. Plus, they stayed their original shade, one which reminded Anna of caramel.
 

“Why are you willing to do all this?” Anna asked.

“You are a beautiful woman in Paris.”

“In Paris with a man I love.”

“
Oui
. Another tragedy.” Phillipe thought for a moment. “Seriously, at first I offered to help as a courtesy. Now? Call it curiosity?”

“Remember what curiosity did to the cat.” Anna said.
 

Phillipe smiled. “I am no pussy.”

Anna turned off the micro film machine. She knew she shouldn’t accept Phillipe’s offer. She had no right to bring him into this and expose him to whatever had killed Duncan, and almost Jeffrey. Still, she needed help, help only he could provide.
 

“No questions asked?” Anna promised herself that as soon as she was finished with the police records she would bid Phillipe a fond, safe, and sexless adieu.

“Of course. Unless you should choose to provide the answers without my asking,” Phillipe winked.
 

Anna found her body responding in ways her mind found to be inappropriate. “How would you like to meet Tom? Why don’t you join Tom and myself for dinner at the hotel?”

“I think that it would be better if I did not.”

“Oh, come on,” Anna said. “It’s the least we can do to say thanks for all you’ve done.”

“Are you sure Tom won’t mind?”

“Not at all. He’ll be delighted that I found someone to help.”

“It that case,” Phillipe rose from his chair next to Anna’s. “How can I resist?”
 

Anna, who remained seated, looked up at him and said, “You can’t.”

Chapter 20

When Anna returned to the hotel room she found Tom lying uncovered on the neatly made bed. He was completely naked and very erect.
 

“Ahh, hi?” Anna was instantly relieved that she had asked Phillipe to wait in the lobby.
 

Tom’s eyes stayed closed, but he was quite obviously up and awake. “Come here, Anna,” he said softly in English, but with an almost perfect French accent. “I have a big surprise for you.”

Anna looked down his body and smiled. “You could have at least wrapped it.”

Tom patted the bed next to where he lay. “Sit,” he ordered. Tom’s voice had lost a bit of its softness and gained a bit of a jagged edge.
 

Anna paid little attention. She was still thinking about all that had happened that day, and about Phillipe waiting downstairs. She reached out and took Tom’s cock in her hand. She slowly stroked it up and down.
 

Anna thought about Phillipe standing next to her as she sat by the microfilm machine. She bend over and licked the head of Tom’s penis, she then took its entire length into her mouth. Anna withdrew her mouth slowly so that she could feel all of his satiny smoothness and he could feel the subtle movements of her lips and tongue.
 

“I’m sorry big fella,” Anna gave the tip of Tom’s cock a quick kiss goodbye. “Dessert will have to wait until after dinner. We have company.”

Anna got up from the bed and walked to the dresser mirror. She started to brush her hair.

“What do you mean, company?” Tom said sharply.

“I wanted to tell you,” Anna said. “There’s someone I want you to meet. His name is Phillipe. I invited him for dinner. Fortunately, he decided to wait downstairs.”

“
Pourquoi
?” Tom asked angrily. “Why did you invite him here? He doesn’t belong here.”

Anna didn’t notice that Tom’s French accent had become the French language. She simply answered his question. “I met him at the library he helped translate all of the old news reports about Ariene. He was really helpful, so I invited him to have dinner with us. I wanted him to meet you and . . .”

What happened next made Anna feel like the surprised prey of a jungle cat. Tom sprang up from the bed and grabbed her roughly by her shoulders. He spun her around and threw her onto the bed.
 

Anna didn’t have time to think. Her head hit hard against the headboard. It dazed her for a moment, long enough for Tom to leap on top of her.

“You did what?” he screamed in French.
 

Tom straddled her chest and slapped Anna’s face first from the left, then the right. He didn’t hit her hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to humiliate.
 

“Tom stop!” Anna struggled to break free but couldn’t move. She assumed that it was Tom’s weight alone that was pinning her in place. She was partially correct.

“Tom, you’re hitting me!” she screamed.

Tom had always told her that he felt any man who hit a woman was a coward and “probably a secret fag.” He said it might sound sexist, but it was just the way he was raised. Men did not, under any circumstances hit women.

“What if she hits him first?” Anna would ask.

“Then he should walk away.”

“Well then,” Anna would punch him in the stomach. “Take a hike.”

The game was, Tom would pretend to punch her back. Then, Anna would call him a fag and he would proceed to prove her wrong. This time, Tom wasn’t playing. Anna looked up at a face that she barely recognized as Tom’s. He looked like some sort of wild animal, or worse. His eyes flared with pure fury and his lips had pulled back to reveal his teeth. Tom was snarling and seemed to enjoy her screams of pain and his acts of punishment.

Anna squirmed and bucked. She pulled her arms free and tried to block Tom’s blows. Tom grabbed her hands and pulled them over her head.
 

“Don’t, Tom. Don’t!”

“Shut up, bitch,” he growled out the words in French, which Anna somehow understood as if it were her first language.