The Most Mysterious Bookshop in Paris

Book 1: Paris Bookshop Mysteries

by Mark Pryor

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Private Investigators; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Hugo Marston, former head of security at the U.S. embassy in Paris, has retired and is ready to realize his lifelong dream of owning a mystery and antiquarian bookshop. But when a blackmail scheme targeting a chocolatier leads to murder, Hugo is again called to investigate in the first Paris Bookshop Mystery for readers of Charles Finch, Tasha Alexander, and Lev AC Rosen.

Hugo has led an exciting life as an FBI profiler and the US embassy’s head of security, but now he’s ready to embrace a quieter existence as a bookseller in the Marais district of Paris. His former employer, however, has other plans for him. A prominent American citizen is the COO of a boutique chocolate emporium in Paris, where they’ve received a mysterious and threatening note. A blackmailer who goes by the name The Shadow wants half a million euros or else their “darkest secret will be revealed.”

Eclat de Chocolat is housed in a chateau dating back to the 1700s. The building, which served as a convent in the first half of the twentieth century, where the angelic Sister Evangeline and her order of nuns helped countless orphans during World War II, has been beautifully converted into a chocolate factory. So what dark secrets could a chocolatier be hiding? The COO has no idea.

Involving his friend, Lieutenant Camille Lerens, Hugo begins to investigate. But soon a second note appears on the premises, canceling the blackmail threat. The same day, the body of an employee is found in an old graveyard behind the chocolatier. Now Hugo and Lerens have a murder on their hands, but is it connected to the blackmail attempt? As they dig for secrets and motives, it becomes clear The Shadow’s grave work has just begun . . .

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

THE DARKNESS WAS COMPLETE AND, FOR SOMEONE WHO’D NEVER received so much as a parking ticket, the starless night sky and black leafless trees were a protection greatly valued as The Shadow slipped a key into the front door.

It wasn’t a great nickname, for sure, but just fine for a first (and only) misadventure. A safe one, too, as the renovations at the old chateau hadn’t yet included security cameras or even a new alarm system. The existing one worked, but The Shadow knew perfectly well that more than half the time the employees forgot to switch it on. Additionally, to activate the alarm you had to first remember the code and then punch it in after making sure no one else was in the building. Given the size of the place and the way the employees came and went, no one knew who was the last out, and no one ever bothered much to see who else was there when they left.

And in all honesty it wasn’t even that they forgot, they mostly couldn’t be bothered. Although the chateau was pretty much in the middle of Paris, it sat away from any main street, away from the eyes of casual criminals looking for an easy score, surrounded and secreted by trees that blossomed in spring but now stood like dark sentinels aiding The Shadow’s misdeeds.

The heavy door opened with a creak that froze The Shadow’s breath for a few seconds, but the blackness inside was as welcoming as the dark outside. For the first time ever, the dark offered safety and reassurance and light was the enemy. The Shadow stepped quickly into the large reception hall, the front door blessedly closing out the world, and the warm beam of the intruder’s flashlight confirmed the emptiness of the place.

That beam passed over the walls and furniture in the large space, pausing as The Shadow sought the ideal spot to leave the gift. Somewhere it would be quickly noticed, somewhere it would stand out and not get thrown away by the eager hands of someone tidying the next day. And, if at all possible, somewhere with meaning.

There, of course! The Shadow’s heart skipped a beat at recognizing the spot, but then came hesitation. Someone might just burn it. That can’t happen.

The beam of the flashlight passed back around the room, draping itself over the furniture and dipping into the corners, although The Shadow didn’t really know what to look for. A blip of annoyance at someone’s laziness for leaving an empty wine bottle on one of the coffee tables turned quickly to satisfaction.

No one will burn a wine bottle. The Shadow collected it, made sure it was indeed empty, and rolled up the note. The perfect spot was a ledge near the front of the walk-in fireplace, embers still glowing in the grate from the day’s fire, the musty smell of woodsmoke strong and pleasing. The note sat in the neck of the bottle, poking out like a candle, and The Shadow adjusted it two or three times until it was obvious that it was there to be seen, out of place enough to be noticed.

And with the rising thrill of a child who’s about to escape their parents’ watchful eye, The Shadow stood by the front door one more time, spotlighted the night’s work to be sure all was done properly, and slipped out into the fresh air, boots crunching across gravel as the first snowflakes drifted out of the night sky, too new to settle, but suggesting a blanket of white come dawn.

HUGO MARSTON STEPPED OUT OF HIS BUILDING ON RUE JACOB into a quiet, snow-dusted street. Overhead, dawn had begun to dilute the night sky and he could see, as well as feel, large snowflakes drifting down toward his upturned face. He smiled. It was early for snow, mid-November, and would be a cold walk to his new job. But bundled in hat and coat, he’d have the quiet of the morning for company, and the bright white of a fresh snowfall to enjoy.

He also had the deeper excitement of opening his own business, and that feeling hummed through him, kept a smile on his face as he walked. In a week, too, he’d be moving out of the embassy apartment on rue Jacob and into his very own place, a two-bedroom flat on the third floor of a quiet street in the Marais district. The first two floors were his, too, and every time he thought of, let alone saw, the sign in front of the building it gave him a thrill.

Hugo’s

Mystery & Antiquarian

Bookshop

His own shop, filled with the stories he’d loved all this life, books dark and gritty, light and beautiful, and mysteries carrying every twist and turn imaginable. And, of course, his personal collection of rare books that he’d put together over the past twenty years. They’d be on display but he didn’t really expect people to buy them. He just wanted to have them near him and have a good place to keep them when he bought more.

He set off toward the River Seine, passing a few people scurrying along wearing thick coats or hoodies and with their heads down, and decided to cross the river on Pont Royal. There, an elderly couple had stopped and were looking up at the sky, just as he had done, and Hugo wondered if maybe there were two kinds of people: those who turned their faces to the falling snow, and those who turned their heads away from it.

He turned the corner into rue Vieille du Temple just before seven, and was surprised to see someone lurking outside the store. Tall and thin, and wrapped in a heavy coat, with a long wool scarf wrapped around and obscuring their lower face. About all Hugo could see was a halo of platinum blond, almost white, hair under a black beanie.

“Bonjour,” Hugo spoke in French as he got close. “Are you waiting for me?”

“Hi, I’m Blake.” The response was in English, maybe an American accent. “Here for the job interview.”

“Oh, right.” Hugo shook the proffered hand, which was slim but with a reassuringly strong grip. “What time was that?”

“At nine.” Blake smiled. “I don’t sleep much so thought I’d come early, miss the traffic.”

“You drove in from somewhere?”

“No.” Again the smile.

“Well, let’s get inside.” Hugo punched a code and the double doors unlocked. They stepped into a wide hallway, with an entrance to Hugo’s shop on the right and the windowed sides of Café Lefort, not yet open, to the left. The presence of the café was one reason Hugo had settled on this space—he hoped people would be tempted after a good meal to buy a book or, conversely, that those eating alone might want something to read for company. He led Blake to the store’s side entrance and punched in another code, then opened it and gestured for Blake to follow. “Still a bit of a mess. We don’t open for a week.”

“Got it.” Blake looked around. “Nice space. Very cool.”

“Thanks.” Hugo agreed. It was another reason he’d picked the place over two others. The ground floor was where he’d house the mystery novels, he’d decided. It used to be two rooms, but the wall in between had been removed, leaving one impressively large space. A counter opposite you as you walked in would serve as the sales point and where they’d hold books that people had ordered. Eight-foot-high oak shelves lined the walls of the large shop, empty for now but Hugo hoped not for long. The old wooden floors creaked quietly under thick rugs and Hugo had placed half a dozen mismatched but comfy chairs and low tables throughout the room. He wouldn’t mind in the slightest if people spent an hour reading before, or after, buying.

In the middle of the space, to the left of the main doors leading to the street and against the wall, was one of the best features: a wide, spiral staircase made of wrought iron. It led up to where Hugo would keep the antiquarian books. A smaller space, still divided into two rooms, he knew there would be fewer rare books and so he’d planned to keep them in the front and use the back of the upstairs rooms for storage and as his office.

Hugo flicked the lights on and gestured to two large chairs that faced each other. They sat, and Hugo said, “So, tell me about yourself, and why you want this job.”

“Well, my name is Blake Holmes and I like books. A lot.”

“Good start. You share a name with my favorite detective.”

“Sherlock?”

“The very one.”

“Awesome, he’s one of mine, too.”

“Even better start.” Hugo smiled. “You’re American?”

“Yes and no. My dad is American and my mom is French. I’m fluent in both, if that helps.”

“For this job it almost certainly will. How old are you?”

Blake smiled. “I don’t think you’re allowed to ask me that.”

“Oh, crap. You’re probably right. I’ve not done this before, I’m sorry—”

“Oh, no problem.” Blake waved a dismissive hand. “But as a guide, don’t ask if I’m married, have kids, want kids, my gender, sexuality, or if I have any disabilities.”

“Duly noted.”

“I do, though.”

“You do … what?” Hugo asked, but cautiously.

“Have a disability.”

“I thought—”

“Oh, it’s fine for me to tell you, you just can’t ask.” Blake sat back, always with that smile. “But don’t worry, I’m pretty anti-authority so won’t turn you in if you do.”

“Well, thank you for that.” Hugo laughed gently. “You don’t mind working for a guy who spent his career as a government authoritarian?”

“I know your background.” Blake waved a hand dismissively. “You’re opening a bookshop. You can’t be anything but a good human being.”

“I’ll take that.” Hugo couldn’t see anything wrong with Blake, but also didn’t want to say so.

“Don’t worry, it’s manageable. My condition. It’s called misophonia.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s OK, most people don’t.” Blake tapped one ear. “It’s not been recognized very long. Basically, I have a physical aversion to certain sounds.”

“Like nails on a chalkboard?” Hugo offered.

“Yes and no. Most people have noises that irritate them. When I hear them, though, my blood pressure literally goes up, my heart beats fast and, this is the worst part, I have kind of an anger response.” That smile made it hard to believe. “I know, this sweet sunny disposition seems permanent, and it kind of is. Except for the misophonia.”

“Can I ask what sounds … trigger you? Is that the right word?”

“It’s perfect. And thank you for asking. There are many, and they vary among people with the condition. For me, it’s things like chewing or popping gum. Pen clicking. Paper rustling. I’m not wild about typing but it’s not the worst. Some people can’t stand the sound of another person breathing, but that’s not one of mine.”

“I’m more than happy to ban gum and pen clicking,” Hugo said. “And I can do all my typing in my office upstairs. Once it’s furnished.”

“Thank you. I’m very aware it’s my issue and I do try not to impose it on others, but it’s only fair that if I’m going to work somewhere I let my boss and colleagues know.” Blake’s head cocked. “Will I have colleagues?”

“Not so far. Me. But if you do, maybe I’ll let you interview them, so you can see what they say about … tell me one more time.”

“Misophonia. And generally people are very kind and considerate, I have to say.”

“I’m delighted to hear that.” Hugo grinned. “Anything else I should know, but can’t ask about?”

“I’m twenty-eight. Unmarried, no kids, don’t want any, and on the autism spectrum, but not by much.”

“Which you can tell me but I can’t ask about. I think I’m there now. So, who do you like to read?”

“Mysteries mostly, which is why I’m here. The classics, of course, Agatha Christie and as we mentioned all the Sherlock Holmes books. I’d say that for modern books, I’m bigger on mysteries than thrillers. And just so you know, if someone wants a recommendation I’d suggest Ed Aymar over John Grisham, and Larry Sweazy over James Patterson. I like supporting lesser-known authors.”

“Ed Aymar, that’s a new one on me.”

“Precisely! He’s one of so many authors who should be best sellers, but people automatically buy the next, well, Patterson or Grisham without looking further afield.”

“I’ll try this Aymar fellow. And I can’t tell you how much I love the idea of promoting good but lesser-known writers,” Hugo said in earnest. “Have you worked in a bookstore before?”

“I have not.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter to me because I’ve never run one before.” A thought struck Hugo. “How did you know I was hiring?”

“Claudia fixed this up.”

“Ah, of course.” Claudia Roux, Hugo’s on-again, off-again love interest, and main financial backer for the shop. She’d given him so much money to get started that he offered to name it after her. But she’d smiled and pointed out, quite correctly, Naming the store for me would raise a lot of questions that you might not know how to answer. Fair enough. “How do you know her?” Hugo asked.

“I did an internship at her newspaper for about a year. Decided I prefer fiction to fact, and so am looking in new directions.”

“Are you wanting full time or part time?”

“You can’t ask that.”

“I can’t, really?”

“Kidding. That would be stupid. And to answer, full time if possible. Like I said, I don’t sleep much so anything else I need to do I can do at night.”

“Right. What kind of hourly rate are you expecting?”

Blake paused, bright blue eyes watching Hugo with amusement. “Are you asking me that because you’re not sure how much to pay?”

“As you may or may not know, Blake, I used to be a profiler for the FBI. For many years, in fact. I’m wondering if you’re more astute than some of my colleagues in the unit.”

“Minimum wage is about twelve euros, if that helps.”

“Why don’t we say fifteen to start with, for forty hours a week?”

“No, sir, afraid that won’t work.”

“No? But you just said the minimum wage is—”

“It’s not that, the pay is great, thank you.”

“Then what?”

“We’re in Paris. Maximum workweek is thirty-five hours. And you have to provide me with free cigarettes and a kitten.”

Hugo laughed again. “I’ll believe the first part of that.”

“What would my job be, exactly?”

“All of it. Whatever’s needed. Man the register, take orders, throw out unruly customers.” Hugo’s eyes settled on the rows of two dozen boxes that sat scattered through the store. “But first, and for the coming week, unpack boxes and shelve books.”

“That I can do.”

“Not exactly rocket science, I hope you won’t get bored.”

“I won’t,” Blake said. “Oh, and I don’t suppose you’ll need them but I also have mad skills doing research online.”

“Research? Like what?”

“Everything. Medical information, sociological, geographical. Rocket science if need be. It’s why Claudia recommended me to you. Or you to me, I guess.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, good to know.”

They both started at a loud knock on the front door. Hugo looked over but couldn’t identify the person behind the thick glass. He checked his watch. Too early for customers even if we were open, which we’re not.

“Excuse me a minute.” Hugo got up and went to the door, peering through the glass square, past the lettering of his own name. “Well, well,” he muttered as he opened it.

“Hugo, sorry to crash your new gig.”

Behind them, Blake was standing. “Holy cow, isn’t that …?”

Hugo was amused by the surprised voice. “Yes,” he said. “It’s the United States ambassador to France.”

“Like, the ambassador to France,” Blake said.

“That’s him.” Hugo smiled and gestured toward his new employee. “And that’s Blake. Who I think, as of now, works for me.”

J. Bradford Taylor stepped past Hugo into the shop and shook Blake’s hand, ever the charming diplomat. “Pleasure to meet you, Hugo will make a fine boss.” Then he turned and went back to Hugo. When he spoke, his tone was earnest. “Can we talk?”

“About what? You remember I quit, right?”

“Very selfishly, yes, of course I remember.”

“Look around, can you blame me?”

Taylor took a moment and did so. “Honestly, no. I can’t imagine a better place for you.” He steered Hugo out through the still-open door and into the deserted entrance hall, his voice low. “And I’m sorry to do this, but I have a friend who needs something and I can’t justify direct embassy involvement.”

“So, that thing about me quitting.” Hugo crossed his arms in front of him. “I think it means—”

“I know, I know. But you don’t open for a while, right?”

“And in the meantime I have lots to do.”

“And a new employee to do it.”

“Not yet, he’s not. Well OK, maybe he is. But I really don’t want to get in the habit.”

“Of helping me?” Taylor winked, but Hugo suspected he was only half joking.

“You’re the ambassador with an impressively large staff. I suspect y’all can manage without me.”

“Mostly, yes. And I understand wanting to leave all that behind, so I promise this is one and done.”

“One and done, eh?” Hugo shook his head. “I don’t know, like I said—”

“It involves blackmail and chocolate. And potentially a new supervillain.”

“Supervillain?” Hugo did his best not to look intrigued.

“He calls himself … or herself … The Shadow.”

“That’s not very original. But I must admit, that plus blackmail and chocolate is a potentially interesting combination.” Hugo saw the look in his friend’s eye and knew he really needed help. “Hold on.” He turned and went back into the store. “Blake, you have anything else going on this morning?”

“I usually eat a croissant around nine.”

“Reasonable.” Hugo jerked a thumb at the café next door. “You can get one there and eat it here. Expense it.”

“Expense it?”

“Yep. You’re most definitely hired. And one free croissant a day is part of your benefits package. Instead of the kitten.”

“Are you sure? You don’t know anything about me, didn’t even look at my resume. You’re sure I’ll be a good fit, the right person for you?”

“You’re looking for a job in a bookshop,” Hugo reminded him. “You have to be a good person. Anything else, the book stuff, we can figure out together.”

“Cool. I’m in.” He looked past Hugo at Taylor. “You going somewhere with the ambassador?”

“I may be going somewhere for him. He’s too busy, and well-known, to do actual work himself.”

“Do what exactly?”

“Investigate something.”

Blake’s eyes widened. “Like, a murder?”

Hugo laughed softly. “Blackmail and chocolate, apparently.”

“Oh.” A look of confusion fell over Blake’s face, then went away with a shrug. “That’s a good start, I suppose. What do you want me to do?”

They both looked around the store, and spoke at the same time. “Unpack boxes and shelve.”

AS HE GATHERED HIS COAT AND HAT, HUGO FELT A TWINGE OF APPREHENSION. Not about leaving the store, the place wasn’t open to the public and Blake seemed smart and capable. The worst that could happen there would be books shelved wrong.

No, not that, and not even his separation from the embassy and his former boss. He’d wondered before he retired whether he’d miss the job, especially the investigative work, but it’d been barely two weeks and there was no time for that yet. In fact, he had a project of his own he’d planned to look into. A mystery he wanted to solve before leaving his apartment for his new digs, a harmless riddle that could be twenty years old or a hundred. It was something he’d found in his apartment that greatly piqued his interest—a cigarette case that had been lodged behind a brick that made up the front of the apartment’s long-defunct and inoperable fireplace. The silver case had the initials H.V.L. engraved on the lid, and in the months after the discovery Hugo’s curiosity as to who H.V.L. was had grown. Researching the mystery online had proved essentially impossible, simply because he had no starting point and didn’t know if the cigarette case was ten years old or a hundred. Neither did he know whether its owner was a man or a woman, or if the owner of the case had even lived at his apartment. Decades of the place being a rental made it all the more difficult.

But he’d resolved to find out, and had received the previous evening an email response from a lawyer he’d hired to do some administrative digging. Any hope of a quick answer had drained away, but he wasn’t anywhere close to giving up. The email had said:

Salut Hugo—still on the case, housing records take time to get from the authorities. I’m checking the cadastre, which are records kept by the public land registry. I won’t bore you with the details, but I’m also researching tax and land sales records for your building. A house would have been easier, but I will keep looking!

And now here he w. . .