The Collector of Dying Breaths (4 page)

“An accidental death then?” she asked.

“No, Jac, not necessarily accidental. Someone might have come to see him and asked him to smell some new fragrance, sold him something tainted. Perhaps switched one of his ingredients with an exotic substance.”

Marcher gestured to the eighteenth-century perfumer’s organ that took up a full quarter of the room. Where every nose in the L’Etoile family had composed fragrances, drop by drop. Lined up on three tiers were more than five hundred bottles filled with essences and absolutes of flowers, plants, spices, woods and chemicals.

“With your permission, we need the lab to come in and take samples of all these ingredients.”

“Of course.”

“If it’s not a substance typically used in perfume making and we can’t prove that your brother purchased it, that will suggest foul play. And in the meantime, I don’t want you using any of these ingredients.”

She told Marcher she had mixed up a fragrance just before Robbie died. And she was fine.

“All right, but don’t mix up any more until the lab runs their tests. Okay?”

Jac nodded.

Marcher drank more of his coffee. The antique cup’s gold rim glinted in the light. Limoges from the late eighteenth century was very valuable. Once she’d asked Robbie if they should be using it as everyday china.

“Never put treasures away in a cabinet,”
he’d said.
“You need to surround yourself with beauty, be aware of it and enjoy it—allow your soul to feed on it—gorge on it.”

“So the case isn’t closed.” Jac had expected this visit to be the detective’s last.

“No, not closed, not at all,” Marcher said and placed the tiny cup in the saucer.

“Would you like more?” Jac asked.

“Yes, perhaps I would.”

She brought the French press over to where he was sitting and poured more of the fragrant brew.

“These findings have me most concerned,” he said as he watched her, “because if it was poison, then your brother’s death mimics the pseudo journalist François Lee’s.”

Jac shivered at hearing the name of the man who had died here almost two years ago.

“And I don’t like coincidences,” Marcher said.

In the midst of pouring herself more coffee, Jac looked up quickly, and a drop spilled onto the desk. She reached for a cloth—there was always a stack of them nearby in the workshop. L’Etoiles sprayed their creations on cloth to test them, not on the cheaper paper strips so many perfumers used.

The coffee leeched into white cotton, staining it.

“Robbie didn’t believe in coincidences either,” Jac mused as she wiped up the rest of the spill. “He always told me—”

The now familiar threat of tears stung her eyes, and she felt her throat constrict. Crying, especially in front of Marcher, was not an option.

The detective sat farther forward in his chair and put his hand on her arm. “Jac, my concern now is for you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“One of the most powerful crime syndicates in the world lost one of its members because of your brother, and the episode didn’t just involve Robbie but—”

“It involved me too,” Jac interrupted. Even though she’d had help from her ex-lover Griffin North, Jac had been the one to save her brother by exposing the spies.

She and Marcher were both silent for a moment.

“I don’t want to scare you, but we need to take precautions,” he said finally.

“Except you are scaring me.” Some part of her was surprised she could feel enough to be scared.

“It’s unlikely you are a target, but until we know more about your brother’s death, I’d like to have someone watching the house and discreetly following you when you go out. Logic tells me that if there was a vendetta, it was with Robbie—” Marcher stopped talking. He was looking out into the courtyard and frowning. Jac followed his glance.

“Ah, you see our ghost,” she said.

“I doubt that. But I did think I saw a man out there.”

“No, it’s just the shadow of a very old tree to the right of that hedge. Robbie and I used to call it our ghost. In certain light, it appears to be a man.”

Marcher got up, walked to the window and peered out.

The wind was blowing. Branches swaying. Some dried, dead leaves scurried across the paths.

The gardens had been planted by the first L’Etoile, who had bought the property in the 1770s. Several generations had grown flowers here that perfumed the air with scents not smelled anywhere else in Paris: rare hybrid roses that had bloomed only here for the last two hundred years.

Jac scanned the barren bushes now. In two months they would be heavy with the deep blood-red roses that her mother had always said smelled like sex.

It was just a trick of light, a play of shadow. It wasn’t a ghost out in the garden. That was only what she and Robbie had called the odd phenomenon.

Except today it really did look like one.

His curiosity satisfied, Marcher returned to the settee.

“I like to err on the side of being too careful. Organized crime groups do not lose their soldiers lightly. Especially one of François Lee’s standing. If this was retribution, I want to know the score is now settled.”

“So what is your plan?” She turned away from the optical illusion in the courtyard and looked at Marcher.

“I am going to continue to work the case and find out what happened to your brother. And make sure that whatever it was, it doesn’t happen to you.”

Chapter 5

MARCH 11, 1573

BARBIZON, FRANCE

The place where you have willingly worked all of your life takes on very different dimensions and sensibilities when you are imprisoned there. For seven days I was locked inside my mentor’s laboratory, under arrest pending a trial.

Brother Serapino had told me over and over that he longed for death the way a thirsty man yearns for water. That the pain was too much to bear. It is horrible to see a loved one suffering. I thought that I too would find relief once he was gone, knowing that he was no longer in agony.

But in truth I had no idea how it would feel. I had not been apart for him for a single day in more than ten years. I slept in an alcove in the laboratory steps away from his cell. I ate with him. Studied with him. Only when I bathed or relieved myself was I alone. Now he was truly gone, and my loneliness pressed down on me in the darkness of the cell. I shed tears until I had none left. Then I tried to pray. But prayer had never been of much solace to me. I did not truly believe. I had seen too much suffering in my short life. While many of the brothers around me espoused blind faith, Serapino did not.

My mentor felt blessed by the bounty of the garden that allowed him to create the lotions, potions, elixirs and waters that were so coveted both in and out of the monastery. He dutifully went to Mass every morning and matins every afternoon and awoke in the middle of every night to join the others in supplication in the chapel. But once he was back in the laboratory, there was never talk of God. Never prayers. His work was his all. It fed him and energized him and kept him curious. That was what he had imbued me with. His true belief was his faith in alchemy.

And so, alone in the laboratory in those hours after his death, I had no branch to reach for, no promise of solace waiting if only I could dive deeper into prayer and contemplation. Instead I sunk deeper and deeper into the muck and mire of mourning.

When the door opened the morning after Serapino’s death, five monks entered the cell: three to remove Serapino’s body and two to stand watch over me and make sure I didn’t try to—what? Run? Overpower them? What did they think I was going to do? It was in fact their suspicion that ignited my imagination. If they thought me so capable of escaping that I needed watching, then perhaps I was.

Serapino used to tell me that he could see cunning and determination in my eyes and talked to me about using my intelligence for good and not evil. As I grew older, I questioned him about what he thought me capable of. He smiled that secret smile he had, put his hand on my shoulder. “Every man has two souls,” he said. And he was watching mine wage a battle with each other. “You are strong, René. Tragedy has tempered you. Your determination can be either your salvation or your ruin. Go after what you want, but not ruthlessly. Explore the ramifications. Pay attention to cause and effect. Weigh your actions against your desires. It’s critical you understand.”

But I didn’t. How was I any different than he was? How was I any more cunning?

I didn’t know. Not then. Not yet. But as they prepared to remove Serapino’s body, I called upon that part of me that he had warned me about and began to plan.

Brother Leo put his hands under Serapino’s arms. Brother Pietro took him by the feet. Brother Alferius supervised. On his count, the other two lifted the body and carried it gently out toward the door.

Brother Michael, who I knew well and who had often worked with Serapino and me in the garden, looked down on me with sympathetic eyes. “René Bianco, the friar has requested I explain what is going to happen.”

“I was only doing what Serapino asked,” I protested. “You saw how ill he was. You know he was eager for his time to come.”

I had never pleaded before.

Michael shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He held out his hands, palms up, in supplication. “You’ll stay here in this cell until the abbot is ready for the trial.”

“When will that be?”

“No more than a fortnight. There’s never been an inquisition here in his time. He needs to prepare.”

“But I have to be allowed out to go to the service for Brother Serapino. I must be at his internment.” When I grabbed the hem of Michael’s rough brown robe, Brother Pius stepped forward, yanked my hands loose and shoved me backward, sending me tumbling.

“They can’t bury him without allowing me to say good-bye,” I begged.

But hearing my own voice, seeing the look of pity on Michael’s face, I was ashamed. Sniveling on the stone floor. Whining like a child. It awakened anger in me.

I didn’t want compassion or sympathy. I was René Bianco, Brother Serapino’s apprentice. I already excelled at creating perfumes and potions. Hadn’t I created the scented water that Catherine de Medici used exclusively? Hadn’t I created the fragrant water that Alessandro de Medici traveled with?

Slowly, I rose to my feet.

“This is not right or just. You both know it. And I will make sure that all the brothers know it.” My voice was calmer now. “Brother Michael, will you please tell the abbot that I request permission to attend the funeral services of Brother Serapino? I am an innocent man who has neither been tried nor proven guilty, so it seems inhumane to prevent me from paying my respects as my mentor prepares to enter the kingdom of heaven.”

Slowly, a plan began to emerge in my mind. The fact was, I was not a monk. Had taken no vows. I was a free man who had willingly stayed here to work with Serapino. If I could escape the monastery during the funeral, there were ways a young man could hide in a city as big as Florence. All I needed was to get out of this cell.

“The abbot was clear: you will not be allowed to leave here until the day of your trial.”

Calculating how best to play this, I bowed my head. “I beg you to tell the abbot how grief-stricken I am and how much this kindness would mean to me.”

They left and soon I heard the far-off chanting that accompanied Serapino to his resting place in the catacomb beneath the basilica of Santa Maria Novella.

As I tried to envision the ceremony, it suddenly occurred to me: If they believed I was guilty, then Brother Serapino could not have taken his own life. Not committed the ultimate sin in the eyes of the Lord. And they could still bury him in hallowed ground. Even if I was innocent in the brothers’ eyes, even if some of them believed me, I was the scapegoat; they needed to sentence me to eternal damnation and protect the holy sanctity and reputation of the monastery.

Such was the power and the glory of the church. Such was the duplicity of these holy men who claimed to care about the human soul but were no less selfish than the princes and noblemen outside the stone walls.

It was two hours after the chanting ended when the key turned in the lock. With a creak the door opened. Two monks stayed at the door, blocking any attempt I might make to escape. One walked inside.

Brother Michael was carrying a wooden tray with a loaf of bread, a jug of water, a wedge of cheese and a meager bunch of grapes. My rations for the next twenty-four hours.

His soft brown eyes were heavy with sorrow as he put the tray down on the table and then from his pocket removed a candle stub. I could smell smoke still clinging to it. He held it out.

“I have candles aplenty,” I said, gesturing to the shelves of supplies in the laboratory.

Or were they going to strip the laboratory of supplies and leave me with just this?

“No, this is not for light,” he whispered. “We buried your mentor this afternoon, and this is the candle I held during the Mass. When it was time to pass by the body and pay our respects, this was the candle I used to drop wax on his lips to seal his soul so it would be delivered intact to God. I thought you would like to have it.”

Stunned by his compassion, I took the candle from his hand. Unable to speak, I looked at the well where the wax had melted and dripped onto Serapino’s lips. They didn’t know they hadn’t sealed his soul inside his body with that last rite. I had his soul in the glass vial that was strapped to my chest. And somehow I would escape this prison and learn how to free it and bring my Serapino back to life.

Chapter 6

THE PRESENT

FRIDAY, MARCH 14

PARIS, FRANCE

During those last days, while Jac sat with her brother as he lay dying, he asked her to write down some things he wanted her to do when he was gone. Now, two weeks after Robbie’s death, she opened her notebook and read down the list. Most items were bequests of art and antiques that Robbie owned and wished her to give away.

The first was a perfume bottle in the shape of a rose that Robbie wanted given to his friend and fellow perfumer Dmitri Distas. Next a Tibetan prayer necklace he wanted given to Mark Solage, who had been his lover for years and had remained his friend. Jac smiled, thinking about how Robbie’s lovers always remained his friends. One of the wondrous things about her brother was his ability to bring people into his life, care for them and keep them close.

Number three was for Malachai.

“I want to give him something special,”
Robbie had said.
“My jade Buddha. That’s something he’d like.”

And he would. Dr. Malachai Samuels was the therapist who had helped Jac out of her childhood crisis and had continued to watch over her. He and Robbie had gotten to know each other well over the years and shared a deep belief in reincarnation.

Jac’s eyes rested on the fourth item, a bequest for Griffin North.

Griffin. Her first lover and first love and one of Robbie’s closest friends. Griffin, whose imprint she wore on her very soul. She remembered the horrific accident almost two years ago. He had almost died saving her. How still and pale he’d looked lying in the hospital bed. Hour after hour, he remained unconscious, his breaths so shallow, his color so bad, the only way she knew he was still alive was by staring at the machines recording his vital signs. She remembered how it had felt to sit beside him, holding his limp, unresponsive hand. It seemed impossible that these were the same fingers that could set off sparks when he touched her skin.

Over and over she wondered how she would be able to live if he died, knowing his death was her fault.

Griffin had come to Paris to work with Robbie on the translation of the ancient Egyptian pottery he’d found. During that brief time, she and Griffin had reunited, and her strange and awful fugue states had started up again. Jac experienced two sets of hallucinations—or, as Robbie and Malachai believed, past-life regressions. In both, each of the men she’d seen in her visions had died tragically because of the love they had for a woman.

If Jac was having hallucinations, it didn’t matter—but if she accepted Robbie and Malachai’s interpretation of her memory lurches,
she
was the incarnation of those women and Griffin was the men.

She hadn’t wanted to give the theory any credence until Griffin had almost died while saving her life.

Once he’d gotten out of the hospital, she became obsessed by the idea that she’d almost been responsible for his death. She didn’t really want to believe in reincarnation, but what if her brother and Malachai and thousands of years of traditions were right? What if reincarnation was real? She could not be responsible for Griffin’s death a third time. She had to give him up.

She told him it was because she was worried about the effects of his impending divorce on his six-year-old daughter. Jac encouraged him to try and save his marriage.

Weeks after he left, Jac discovered she was pregnant. Even before she’d figured out what to do about it, or how to tell Griffin, she miscarried. She never told him. What was the point? He was where he belonged. Safe in New York with his wife and his child.

She hadn’t been in contact with him since.

Griffin had called the day before Robbie’s memorial service, but she hadn’t talked to him. He’d called the day after the service and the day after that. She hadn’t returned any of his calls, and finally he’d stopped trying. What was there to say? What was there to hear? Everyone had said everything to her already and nothing made any difference.

Jac returned to the list. Knowing Robbie, she wondered if there was some meaning in the order of the things he’d asked of her. Did he want her to visit or speak to these people as they appeared? She continued reading down. She came to the last item.

10. Call Melinoe Cypros/Barbizon.

Yes, she’d forgotten about this till now. On his deathbed, Robbie had pressed Jac to go retrieve the books he’d taken there from their own library here in Paris.

Barbizon was only an hour-and-a-half drive out of Paris. Suddenly the idea of going away was attractive. She wasn’t sure if it was losing Robbie—the one constant in her life—or Marcher’s concern, or a combination of both, but Jac hadn’t been comfortable since the detective’s visit. It might be good to get away and escape her extended family’s well-meaning but overwhelming kindnesses for a day or two.

It was also a chance to escape from the silver box containing her brother’s ashes, which she’d hidden away in the armoire in Robbie’s bedroom. Even there, in a room she never entered, behind a closed door, they haunted her. She needed to find a resting place for them—but then she’d have to let him go. Accept that he really was gone. And she couldn’t do that yet.

Jac called ahead and made arrangements with the contact her brother had given her—Serge Grise—to come to Barbizon the next morning. She also called a hotel in town and booked a room for that evening.

In the garage downstairs, the sight of Robbie’s car gave her a fresh pang. He’d bought and restored the sleek 1964 silver Mercedes when he was eighteen, and had never owned another car. This vehicle was one of the few things that tested his Zen-like attitude toward objects. He adored it and fussed over it and worried about every scratch.

She opened the door. His smell overwhelmed her. Intense and powerful. As if he’d just gotten out of the car himself. Jac tossed her overnight bag on the back seat, slipped inside, and adjusted the seat to fit her shorter frame. She put her hands on the wheel and caressed the smooth wood. Suddenly she sensed Robbie, right there beside her.

She listened, sure he was going to talk to her, and when she felt the air beside her vibrate a little, she shivered. Instead of upsetting her, it made her comfortable to think that she wasn’t quite alone. With a relief she hadn’t felt for weeks, she put the key in the ignition and started up her beautiful brother’s beautiful car.

Driving away from Paris was liberating. As if she were leaving part of her intolerable sadness behind her. No matter that she was venturing out to collect Robbie’s belongings—the freedom of the road was invigorating. As soon as she was out of the city proper and driving through the countryside, she opened all the windows and let the damp early spring air in.

After an hour she reached her destination. The “village of painters,” as Barbizon was known, consisted of a long curving street lined with gray stone buildings and ancient trees. A bit bleak on this March day, but still charming. It seemed time had not touched the town. Jac imagined it had looked exactly like this in the early nineteenth century when a group of painters rebelling against the Romantic movement came here to form an art colony. They availed themselves of the wondrous forest of Fontainebleau, where they worked from nature—a hallmark of their movement.

It was before lunch and there weren’t many people on the street, so Jac could imagine that when she did see the villagers they were going to be dressed in nineteenth-century garb.

“No wonder you were so enchanted with this place,” she said out loud, unconsciously, to Robbie. She wondered if that was a bad sign, and then decided it didn’t matter. She wanted to talk to him. It made her less sad to think he was hovering and could hear her.

Jac reached the end of the road and the inn. After checking in, she spent a quiet afternoon exploring the town and then having a simple dinner of salad and coq au vin in one of the small restaurants lining the street. It was filled with locals who were treated more like family by the host than guests. The atmosphere was easygoing and the food was delicious, and Jac felt less lonely here than she had at home. She was used to being away, on her own, traveling in search of mythological stories to tell. Used to being by herself.

In the morning, following the directions Serge Grise had given her, she turned out of the inn, onto the main street and then turned right, then left and then, after another stretch, came to the next turnoff. The town disappeared, and she began driving through the woods. Twice she passed a gate but never saw any houses. After another ten minutes she came to the stone well Serge had given her as a landmark. She turned right and took that road almost a kilometer until she reached a set of ornate gates decorated with a coat of arms featuring roses, fleurs-de-lis, a flag and a shield.

She rolled down the window and pressed the intercom button.

“Qui est là?” a disembodied female voice asked.

“Jac L’Etoile.”

“Entrez.”

The gate opened. In the distance the château came into view. Planted in the middle of the woods, it was encircled by a moat, complete with an old-fashioned drawbridge.

Jac was surprised how familiar the château looked, from the elaborately carved limestone facade to the multiple towers and chimneys gracefully rising out of the slate roofs and into the clouds.

Only the woods seemed wrong. They were too close to the house.

Why did she think she’d seen this place before? She’d never been to Barbizon. Had Robbie described it?
She didn’t think so. Perhaps there was a famous landscape that featured the château that she’d seen. She’d ask the owner.

As she approached the driveway, Jac thought she saw a man in period dress—a tunic and leggings—and sporting long hair. Then the clouds shifted and she realized there wasn’t anyone there at all. It must have been light playing on one of the columns flanking the front door. No one was waiting for her. It was just her imagination.