A TWIST IN TIME

LOST GENERATION MYSTERIES

BETTIE JANE
Copyright © 2020 by Bettie Jane
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For Alison
 CONTENTS

Note from Bettie Jane

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13

Bettie Jane
Also by Bettie Jane
 NOTE FROM BETTIE JANE

Dear Readers,
I hope you enjoy this genre-bending cozy historical mystery. A Twist in
Time contains the typical elements of a historical cozy mystery and I’ve
also taken the liberty of adding in a fantasy element.
If I did it well enough, you’ll enjoy the historical and mystery elements as
much as the bits of fantasy woven throughout.
Writing this was such a fun passion project. Please understand that other
than the basic caricatures of historical persons, the scenarios the characters
are in and the actions they take are purely fiction.
 1

“A DDY , YOU ’ VE BEEN SEARCHING FOR HOURS AND NOTHING ’ S TURNED UP

yet. Surely you can just buy a new copy, can’t you?”
“You don’t understand, Mags. This isn’t just any book. It’s the last—”. She
took a deep, unsteady breath, feeling the familiar tug of the bottomless ache
she’d been trying in vain to keep at bay since she first noticed the ragged
hardbound, first edition copy of The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway was not
in its usual place. Steeling herself, she tried to speak again. “My father gave
it to me and it’s important. We have to find it. Nothing else matters.”
Even as she said that, she knew it wasn’t true. A lot of things mattered very
much to Adella Blackstone, but nothing mattered more in this moment than
finding her father’s book. She wasn’t superstitious, but she had to find this
book before her event at the bookstore this evening.
Mags was a hardworking assistant and Addy knew she was being overly
harsh tuse such a harsh with her, but finding the book really was all that
mattered right now. She could attempt to repair her best friend-turned-
assistant’s feelings once the book was restored to its rightful place on the
bookshelf across from her desk and she could breathe again. Find the book
first, breathing second. Damage control third.
She’d kept the book in the shop since she’d bought the place right after
college with her inheritance. Somehow, keeping that book from her father
was like having him with her. A sort of magic. It didn’t quite fill the void of
him, but it was somehow a touchstone to a time when she felt a bit safer,
like the world wasn’t such a harsh place.
“Addy,” Maggie said as she glanced nervously at her watch and tried again
to move Adella out of her frenzy. She was fearless, Addy had to admit. “It
must be here somewhere, and I promise I’ll help you find it, but the guests
will be arriving in less than an hour for the author event.” As if on cue, the
bell attached to the front door of her small book shop rang. The tinkling
echo was distant here in the backroom, but it pulled Addy from her
obsession.
Her head was suddenly filled with the face of Jillian Breck, the keynote for
tonight’s event that she was hosting. “Dammit.” She stood abruptly and hit
her head on the next shelf up. “Ugh, dammit again.” Another calming
breath and the significance of this moment caught up to her. “You’re right,
Mags. We’ll find it after. Go ahead and start greeting the guests and I’ll get
myself together and meet you out there.”
“You look perfect and your good luck charm is here, you just can’t see it.
So breathe and keep moving.”
Maggie gave a her a quick smile and raced out of the backroom to the front
of the store, the beads from her 1920s-themed dress tinkling together as she
ran. Addy smoothed her own dress and took a moment to touch up her hair.
The headpiece she wore was a little crooked. She was surprised she looked
as presentable as she did, considering how frantic she felt on the inside.
Suddenly grateful that Maggie insisted they get ready earlier, Addy lifted
her chin and squared her shoulders and went out to meet the author
responsible for the latest buzz in the world of literary notice.
She turned the corner and caught her breath. Jillian Breck was even more
stunning in person than she was in the photos in her press package. What a
fortunate woman to be blessed with her magnificent writing talent, but also
to be so incredibly beautiful.
“Ms. Breck,” Addy said, extending her hand in greeting. “It’s wonderful to
meet you in person. I”m Adella Blackstone. Welcome to my bookshop.”
Jillian shook her hand and smiled stiffly. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you
for hosting this event.”
Addy watched Jillian take in her surroundings and couldn’t tell if she liked
what she saw or not. Her eyebrows were raised in something that looked
like consideration, but could easily have been judgement. The smile she had
forced into place was not a sincere one. Was she nervous or snobby? Addy
desperately hoped she was nervous, because she didn’t want to meet
another one of her literary idols only to discover that they were incorrigible.
The mahogany bookshelves that covered every wall were built in honor of
an older time and there were wooden tables and plush leather chairs
scattered around the room. Addy was especially proud of her design—and
grateful for the inheritance that had paid for it. Every time she was in here,
she could imagine that she was in a French cafe or bar, rubbing shoulders
with the great authors of 1920s France. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Stein, Eliot,
Beach, Faulkner, Woolf, Joyce. It was the ghost of these personal literary
heroes that she’d hoped to summon with every detail she’d incorporated
into her bookshop. She’d been to Paris, looking for inspiration, and though
it was a beautiful city and she could certainly catch echos of a different
time, being in Paris without the literary giants like Hemingway and
Fitzgerald and the painters like Picasso—well, it had just felt sort of
depressing. So she returned from her vacation with a mission to recreate the
version of Paris she hadn’t been fortunate to live in.
The silent study by Jillian kept Addy’s heart in her chest.
She knew she couldn’t have gotten it exactly right, but she imagined that
somehow if one of those giants of history were to walk into her shop, they’d
maybe feel the tiniest bit at home. As a special touch, she’d even gotten her
liquor license so she could serve beer and cocktails.
That came in very handy for tonight’s big celebration. Jillian Breck was
here to promote her book that was a fictional account of Zelda Fitzgerald’s
life. In it, there was controversial speculation that Zelda might have been
involved with the Surrealism movement that was raging in Paris at the time
she lived there with her husband, the famed F. Scott Fitzgerald. Addy was
more than happy to meet the publicist’s request to throw a themed event.
In keeping with the magical elements in Jillian’s book, Mags and Addy had
gone all out decorating the space with candles, herbs, and even a couple of
grimoires the’d found online. Addy didn’t believe in any of that herself, but
she could certainly appreciate the ambience that those accessories would
add to the event.
So Addy found herself watching Jillian Breck eyeing her own tribute to the
same era and wondered if she would feel the camaraderie that Addy felt
when she’d read Breck’s book. They both had such an obvious love for the
time period, how could they not become fast friends? Addy knew she was
being a bit adolescent in her hopes for connection with Jillian, but she
couldn’t help herself. She was giddy at the thought of spending an evening
immersed in her favorite decade in tribute to her favorite subject—
American Ex-Patriate artists fueled by lavish parties and philosophical
musings. She knew, of course, from her obsessive study of all things Lost
Generation that their hedonism was inspired by the ultimate despair for
humanity’s future. She also knew that the hedonism inspired such works of
art that the world had maybe not seen before or since. Despair breeds
hedonism breeds a tenuous hope. And Zelda Fitzgerald’s extravagant yet
tragic life was perhaps the most iconic of all. To consider that she may have
been caught up in an even more controversial movement was doubly
fascinating.
Addy’s mind raced waiting for Jillian’s initial reaction to her bookshop. She
seemed as if she was in a trance, walking around the cozy shop, her eyes
taking in every detail. Her hands lightly traced the tables and the
bookshelves as she wound her way through the stacks. Addy’s anxiety
started to wane as the wonder on Jillian’s face spread from her eyes to her
mouth until her entire body seemed to be energized by what she saw.
“Adella,” she said, out of breath though she’d barely exerted herself, “this is
stunning. Words are my business and I—I don’t have any right now. This is
like taking a step back in time.”
She stood in awe and Addy, so happy that Jillian saw what Addy had tried
to create, finally remembered her manners. “Would you like to sit down for
a few minutes and have a drink with me before your adoring pubic arrives?”
Jillian seemed reluctant to stop looking around, but nodded. “Yes! I can
think of nothing I’d like to do more. Is it too late to cancel the reading?
Instead, we can just sit here and you can tell me every single thing you did
to create this magical place. Also, may I use your bookshop as my office
from this moment forward? I don’t think I can ever write anywhere else
again!”
And just like that they were immediately friends.
They chose a cozy table in the corner lit by a flickering gas light and
Maggie, bless her soul forever, served them tonight’s featured cocktail in
honor of Zelda herself. She called it the French Apothecary and made with
gin and lavender and fresh basil. For the next thirty minutes, the two Zelda
fans forgot what year they were in and spoke of their favorite writers and
their characters as if they were all best friends in real life, rather than just
names on a paper in a history book.
When the public started trickling in, Addy reluctantly tore herself away
from Jillian and began greeting the guests and helping Maggie with last
minute details. Not that there was much to do. Maggie was very thorough.
The tables were set, the lighting was perfect, even the music that played
softly in the background was a delightful mix of enthusiastic jazz and swing
from 1920s Paris.
Once everyone was seated and there were only a few moments before Addy
would introduce Jillian and turn over the lectern to her, she stood in the
back with her eyes closed to soak up the moment. The quiet murmurs of the
crowd, combined with the undertone of the music, filled her so completely
with a sense of existing out of time that she when she opened her eyes, she
was certain she’d see the familiar faces of her historical heroes.
She did eventually open her eyes, and of course, they were not there, but it
didn’t spoil the atmosphere for her. As she walked to the front of the room
to make her introduction, she walked as though their ghosts might be there,
watching her. The energy that moved through her body and soul was like
nothing she’d experienced before. It was like her whole life had led to this
moment and she couldn’t be more grateful. She even imagined her father
sitting in the back of the room holding the currently misplaced copy of The
Sun Also Rises. It was all very overwhelming, but she gained her
composure enough to begin speaking.
“Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to Bookends. As you may be able to tell,
the ambiance of my bookshop was inspired by the literary greats of the
1920s and I’m beyond thrilled to welcome Jillian Breck to our humble shop
so that she can share with you her love of all things Zelda Fitzgerald. I
know that you, as I was, will be so impressed by her knowledge of the time
period as well as her fondness for Zelda. Without further ado, I give you
Jillian Breck, famed author of Zelda: A Joyful, Tragic Life.”
Everyone clapped and Jillian stood from her seated position in the front row
and gave Addy a warm hug before she took her place at the podium.
“Thank you, Adella. I am delighted to be here. I can’t imagine a more
perfect place for us to gather and share our passion for Zelda…”
The next forty-five minutes passed too quickly. Addy was riveted to every
word that came out of Jillian’s mouth. She learned things about Zelda and
her tumultuous relationship with her husband Scott she hadn’t known. Her
possible connection to magical surrealism was fascinating. Before Jillian’s
book, she had no idea the Fitzgeralds as well as some of the other famous
authors of the time perhaps dabbled in some magic.
“Time is a funny thing,” Jillian said toward the end of her presentation. “We
often don’t understand the far-reaching affects of a choice we make until
much time has passed. Like writing this book. I started because I loved
Zelda so much. I had no other intentions or aspirations. But now, here we
all are. I wish Zelda were here to see the tremendous impact she’s had on so
many of us. I’ll close with one of my favorite quotes from Zelda, although I
think she said so many beautiful things it is difficult to select only one.”
“‘By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a
direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which
determined the future.’”
Jillian looked up at her adoring fans with the faintest hint of tears in her
eyes. “Zelda, your magnificent life met a tragic end, but from the ashes of
your life, the most beautiful parts of you live on because you shared
yourself so willingly with the world. Thank you.”
In that final moment, Addy wasn’t sure if Jillian was thanking Zelda or
thanking her faithful readers who’d come out to support her. In the end, it
didn’t really matter because the entire room was filled with an incredible
amount of gratitude. For each other, for the past, for the moment they were
presently in.
The crowd stood and gave a standing ovation to what Addy assumed was in
honor of both Jillian and Zelda. This moment, in the bookshop funded by
her father’s memory, Addy felt complete. Like her life could end now that
she’d fulfilled this purpose of bringing Zelda and the magic that was 1920s
Paris to her own contemporaries.
Once the public had their fill and left, Jillian insisted on staying to help
clean up. Addy tried to refuse, but was eager to spend more time with her so
the author-turned-janitor stayed and once they were done cleaning they
chatted well into the early morning hours. Eventually Jillian made her exit
and after Addy locked up, she sat back down in the original booth where’d
they’d first connected. With her favorite notebook and pen and journaled
every detail she could remember. She wrote and wrote, filling the pages
with details of Jillian, the crowd, the feelings she’d enjoyed all to the sound
of the clocktower bells that kept her company as they chimed away the
hours with their beautiful rich sound echoing through the night. Eventually,
she was aware that she was falling asleep on the open pages. As she drifted
off, she reminded herself to find the book she’d been searching for earlier in
the day. But first just a short nap.
She woke with a start to the sound of the bells pealing and sunlight
streaming in through the window. She was disoriented and confused by the
sounds of conversation drifting around her. She wiped drool from her
mouth and tried to deal with a smudge in her notebook. The memories of
last night came flooding back just as she noticed her copy of The Sun Also
Rises sitting just in front of her.
As she tried to gather herself and decipher where the sounds of people were
coming from, she decided that Maggie must have opened the shop and
decided to let her sleep. She’d found the book and put it where Addy would
see it right away. Mags needed a raise, that was for sure. She thought of
absolutely everything.
Groggy, Addy rubbed her face and looked around the room for the first
time. Her bookshop/pub looked nothing like it had the night before. It was
similar in a lot of ways, except the books were all gone. Confused and
wondering if she was still dreaming, Addy noticed that everyone in the
room was sitting and eating or standing around chatting. They were all
dressed in period clothing and there was a mixture of English and French
floating in the air. Thoroughly disoriented, but not hating the dream she was
having, she decided to just enjoy the dream and watch the people. She
clutched her journal and her dad’s book to her chest as she looked around in
wonder.
Her imagination was getting even more creative, she realized, as she saw
details in the dress and mannerisms of the people here in what had to be
1920s Paris that she’d never considered before. Jillian’s presentation and
the entire evening seemed to have taken hold in Addy’s mind and run away
with itself.
For the first time, she noticed the sound of alarm coming from a few tables
away. “Scott,” a female voice with some kind of southern accent spoke
matter-of-factly, “Somethin’ is not right. I’m tellin’ ya. We should have
heard from her by now.”
“Now, darling,” a rich voice, decidedly not southern in origin, “you know
how your imagination tends to run away with you. Why don’t you get some
sleep. You’ve been up all night. If Marguerite hasn’t turned up by the time
you wake up, I’ll help you find her myself.”
By now, Addy had found the bodies that went along with the voices and
stared in wonder.
The man looked exactly like F. Scott Fitzgerald. She could see his face,
even the twinkle in his eye as he spoke to the blonde woman whose back
was to Addy.
“Don’t be condescending, husband. Marguerite is missing and I’m just
certain that somethin’ terrible has happened to her. I can feel it my bones
and I’m not goin’ to just take a nap.” She stood from the table and turned
around, her eyes locking with Addy’s. When she saw Addy, her eyes lit up.
The blonde woman hesitated for only half a moment before she covered the
distance between her and Addy, extending her hand in greeting to a very
shocked, possibly dreaming, Addy.
“Hello,” the woman said to a confused, over-blinking Addy. “My name is
Zelda. My friend is missin’ and you look like a kind soul. Would you be
willin’ to help me find her? My husband over here is disinclined to believe
me, but I never dismiss my instincts. Not anymore. And my instincts tell me
that you can help me. Whadda ya say?”
Addy stood, her hand locked in a handshake with the Zelda Fitzgerald in
what appeared to be a cafe in Paris sometime in the 1920s. This was either
the best dream ever or she belonged in a mental institution just like the one
she knew the real Zelda would die in many years from now.
“I can try.”
Addy was certain that she was dreaming so it never occurred to her to say
no to Zelda.
 2

T HIS WAS THE STRANGEST AND MOST MAGNIFICENT DREAM A DDY HAD EVER
had. It was so vivid and realistic, although she had to admit to her dreaming
self that Zelda was a little different than she’d always imagined her. Jillian’s
talk from the night before must have really had more of an affect of Addy’s
sub-conscious imagination than she’d believed was possible in one evening.
Zelda had taken Addy’s agreement to help find this missing person and
grabbed Addy by the hand and pulled her to her feet. Addy gripped her
father’s book and her notebook because even in the dream, she couldn’t
bear to set it down. Zelda was chattering and Addy was desperately trying
to keep up with her while simultaneously willing the memory of this dream
to stick around. Maybe she’d write a book one day about this most epic of
dreams.
“You’ve got smart eyes, I can tell,” Zelda said, her face animated and her
green eyes bright as stars on a pitch black night. “Now, forgive my
manners, but I don’t even know your name. Mine is Zelda. You probably
know that already. You probably have a crush on my Scott like all the rest
but we won’t worry about that right now. Anyway, your name again?”
She barely paused to breathe and Addy was in awe. “I—Uh, my name is
Adella, but you can call me Addy. Most of my friends do.”
Zelda nodded, gripping Addy’s hand and pulling her out the door of
wherever they were and through the curvy streets. “Addy. I like it. I can see
that Adella suits you—those brown eyes of yours are easy to adventure in, I
have a way of knowing this sort of thing you see—but Addy is more fun,
don’t you agree?”
Addy nodded and swallowed hard, still beyond overwhelmed. “More fun,
yes, I suppose it is. You said your friend was missing?” Might as well just
go with the flow of this dream. She thanked the fates for giving her such a
gift as this dream and when she woke up she couldn’t wait to tell Jillian
about it. Maybe she’d write the forward to this dreamy experience with
Zelda. Whatever the case, it guaranteed another evening of conversation
that would entertain them both.
Zelda nodded. “Oh, yes, you do have smarts. I picked well. Sometimes I
think my father, the Judge, would just be tickled to see me here on the
streets of Paris and the way I entertain myself with strangers. I really do
have a sixth sense for people. Anyhow, my friend. Yes, well. You see, she
was with me most of the night and promised to meet me back at the Cafe du
Dome and she always keeps her word. She wasn’t there and I waited a
whole thirty minutes and I just know somethin’ is wrong. Maybe that cad
Marcel she ran off with last night is holding her hostage. I do wish Scott
would take me more seriously. I am more than just a pretty girl. Sometimes
I think he sees it, but other times, well, I just can’t tell if he’s had so much
to drink that he’s forgotten our magical moonlit nights under the Alabama
sky. He always remembers, eventually. I suppose that’s good enough for
me. For now at least. Oh, I am ramblin’, aren’t I?”
Addy opened her mouth to say something—she wasn't sure what—but
Zelda kept going and a grateful Addy just closed her mouth again.
“My friend Marguerite. Yes, back to her. You see her husband is quite a
bossy thing, as arrogant as he is successful—perhaps that goes with the
territory of being a success?—and he often leaves her to own devices.
Normally, she handles herself quite well, but this last evenin’ she seemed
particularly vulnerable to the advances of Marcel who I personally don’t
trust as far as I could throw him. I don’t know him, mind you, but I just get
a feelin’ about him. I am really not not sure where he lives, but Ernest does,
I’m certain of it. Honestly, Scott could have accompanied us to talk to
Ernest and we’d get a lot further a lot quicker, but he’s too drunk this
mornin’ to see the logic so leave it to us, Addy. We’ll find Marguerite and if
that degenerate Marcel has Marguerite caught up in somethin’ horrific we’ll
rescue her. She’s performin’ at Moulin Rouge. It’s openin’ night and she’d
never forgive herself for missin’ that, especially for a boy. That’s what
friends are for, don’t you suppose? And we are friends now, aren’t we?
Since your friends call you Addy.”
Addy smiled in spite of herself. “Sure, we’re friends now.”
“Where are you from Addy?”
“Eh, er, Chicago,” Addy finally found the word. Her brain was having a
difficult time keeping track of anything. The streets of 1920s Paris flew by
in a blur while Addy tried to catalogue everything Zelda was saying. Was
she talking about Ernest Hemingway? And Marguerite? Was she a famous
artist also? She scanned her memory bank but couldn’t remember a
Marguerite referenced. Was it normal to analyze a dream while you were
still dreaming?
“Oh, Chicago,” Zelda rambled on. “I absolutely adore Chicago. Why are
you in Paris, my dear? Only a few more minutes and we should be at
Ernest’s flat.”
This time Zelda waited for Addy to speak. Even Dream Zelda needed to
catch her breath it seemed. It took more than a few seconds for Addy to
compose her thoughts. Why was she in Paris? More importantly, how was
she in Paris? And a hundred years in the past.
“I—I’m sort of fascinated with the culture of Paris and the American ex-
pats who came her to write and paint and compose.” She stopped short of
saying that she was Zelda Fitzgerald’s most enthusiastic fangirl. That would
be awkward.
Zelda nodded, as though she’d heard this explanation a billion times before.
“Are you a writer, too?”
Not before this dream, Addy thought. There was no way she wasn’t going
to write about this the moment she woke up.
“No,” she said, instead of revealing her crazy answer to Dream Zelda. “I do
love books, though. I own a bookshop in Chicago. In the Arts District.” A
hundred years into the future, but hey, details couldn’t matter that much in a
dream like this, she thought to herself.
“Well, next time we’re in Chicago I must see it. How positively charming
that you own a bookshop. What is the name of your shop?”
Addy smiled at her enthusiasm. “Bookends.”
“Oh, how delightful. Maybe my Scott should come do some appearances
for The Great Gatsby at your shop. It’s been out more than a year by now.
I’m sure more promotion would be a good thing. It’s not doing as well as
any of us hoped, I’m afraid. Still well enough, but not like the others. He’s
workin’ on somethin’ else now, but he won’t talk about it. That reminds me
that I need to give Ernest the business when I see him. If he doesn’t lay off
on the all-night drinkin’ with Scott, he’ll never finish.”
Addy wracked her brain from her studies on Zelda and Scott. If he was
done with his work on Gatsby that must mean that Zelda was in the midst of
her ballet studies with the Russian instructor. Addy’s dream must have
dropped her in Paris in 1926.
“Here we are.” They’d arrived in front a brick building that was more
charming than anything Addy could have ever imagined while awake.
“He’ll be sleepin’ like the dead. I think he finally went home around five.
He was dead on his feet then, but I happen to know here he keeps the keys
and I’ll hit him over the head with a bottle of whisky if I have to. He’s the
only one I know who knows where Marcel lives, besides Marguerite.”
Addy watched in confused delight as Zelda pounded on Ernest
Hemingway’s door calling him every name under the sun.
“Ernest, wake up! It’s an emergency, you bag of bones. Your friend, Marcel,
has scooped up my friend and done who knows what with her. Wake up,
you miserable fool, and tell me where he lives. I demand you open this
door, this minute.”
Zelda Fitzgerald, at least Dream Zelda, was quite the force to be reckoned
with. No sound came from inside and Addy wondered how long before
someone came around to complain about these two women who seemed to
be slightly out of their minds. Zelda didn’t seem to be the least bit worried
about the neighbors. Instead, she got down on her hands and knees to look
for a key.
“He used to keep it here under these very dead flowers. Of course, they
didn’t used to be dead. I wonder if he moved them when the flowers when
the way of the do-do bird. Let’s see,” the green-eyed blonde murmured to
no one in particular. “Where would I put the keys to my flat if I was a
bumbling, drunk and arrogant fool?”
Addy giggled. She was so amused by the whirlwind that was Zelda
Fitzgerald. She pinched her skin with a bit of oomph behind it and squealed
when it actually hurt. If this was a dream, she’d not have felt that pinch,
right? Or at least she’d wake up, wouldn’t she? She didn’t actually know.
Maybe all the things she’d heard about dreams were actually myths.
Besides, did she even want to wake up from this? Even if this was some
bizarre alter-ego of Zelda Fitzgerald, it was the most fun she’d had in ages.
She continued to hug her father’s book close to her and realized in this
moment that she was holding a book written by Ernest Hemingway and also
standing in front of his apartment in Paris nearly 100 years in time before
her father had given her that book. If she hadn’t been dreaming, she’d
worry that she’d pass out.
Without a key, Zelda continued pounding on the door. The raucous must
have been audible three streets over. Finally some shuffling from inside
Ernest’s apartment and the door unlocked and swung open.
“Zelda, what? You’ll wake the dead, dear girl.”
Ernest Hemingway stood half-dressed in front of Addy and chided Zelda
for her hell-raising while Addy stared, her jaw hanging open. Again. She
really needed to learn a new reaction or her retelling of this most amazing
dream would reveal how truly unimaginative she was.
“I’m not your dear girl, Ernest. And wakin’ the dead is the point because
you sleep like the dead after you’ve been out drinkin’ all night with my
Scott. Where does Marcel live? He’s absconded with Marguerite and she
must be rescued. Lord knows Scott’s too drunk to be of service this
mornin’. Help me, would you? Or you have you, too, drank the morality
right out of yourself?”
The tone Zelda took with Ernest was one that rang of familiarity. It was
clearly not the first time she’s addressed him with such vigor. It seemed to
not phase him at all.
Ernest glanced at Addy, but quickly turned his attention back to Zelda.
“Come inside and tell me what’s happened. I’m not at all surprised that
Scott is three sheets to the wind. When I left him this morning he was out of
his mind with drink and seemed to just be getting started. Although, if you
yell at him the way you yell at me, then it’s not surprising he must drink in
order to quiet the likes of your tirades.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Ernie.” Her tone was much sweeter now, almost
friendly and Addy followed her into Ernest’s apartment. There were shelves
with books, miscellaneous bottles holding unidentified liquid, and rows and
rows of glass jars herbs and dried flowers. It looked like an old-fashioned
apothecary. Ernest offered them both some tea and Zelda refused.
“There is not nearly the time for that. Marguerite needs rescuin’
immediately. Ernest finally caught a glimpse of the book Addy held and
raised an eyebrow at her.
“And who might you be, clinging to my book as though your life depended
on it. Don’t be afraid, girl. I won’t bite.”
He reached out and took the book which Addy reluctantly handed over. “I
suppose you’d like me to sign it.” He sighed and picked a pen up from the
nearby desk that sat under a window. He opened the book to the page where
her dad’s inscription was and she gasped when she realized the page was
blank.
In the copy her dad gave her, there was a signature from Ernest Hemingway
and then under that, a short message from her father about the magic of
books and some reference to the passage of time. Addy wanted to yank the
book back from him and search for her dad’s inscription but he had signed
it and handed it back to Addy before she could even get the words out. She
looked at the fresh ink and gasped. The signature was exactly the way it had
been in her original copy, with a little extra flourish on the end of the y in
his name.
“Thank you,” Addy said, her mind racing. If she fast-forwarded 100 years,
she knew she’d see her dad’s handwritten note under that very signature. In
this timeline, her father wasn’t even born yet so of course his signature
couldn’t be in it.
Finally, Addy’s cheerful amazement at her dream turned into something
resembling shock. The pinch hadn’t woken her up. She was standing in
Ernest Hemingway’s apartment in Paris, right next to Zelda Fitzgerald and
for the first time, Addy Blackstone wondered if perhaps she wasn’t
dreaming but had somehow in reality dreamt her way into the past and
woken up in another time surrounded by her idols and literature’s royalty.
She didn’t believe in actual magic and she wasn’t superstitious, but she
couldn’t deny that she was currently out of both her time and her space. Her
brain didn’t know what to do with the information.
She’d fallen asleep in her bookshop in 2020 Chicago and when she’d
awakened, it was in 1926 Paris. At least that was her best guess.
Her stomach twisted sourly, she felt sweaty, and the room started to spin.
“My girl, don’t be overcome. It’s simply an autograph and I’m just an
ordinary fellow. No need to go to hysterics.”
His last words faded into a swirling blackness as she collapsed in the
middle of Ernest Hemingway’s apartment.
 3

T HE NEXT TIME A DDY ’ S EYES OPENED , Z ELDA ’ S BIG GREEN EYES PEERED AT
her from under her short blonde bob.
“Wonderful. You’re back. I wondered how you’d be able to help me find
Marguerite if you were unconscious. Now, let me just say that I don’t blame
you one bit for your admiration. He is a talented writer, even Scott says so,
but you really must keep your wits about you—after all he’s only a man,
just like any other.”
“Zelda,” Ernest’s voice chided softly, “give the poor girl a moment to
gather herself.” He helped Addy sit and then stand and before she knew it
she was seated comfortably in a plush, leather armchair. “A stiff drink
should do the drink.”
He walked across the room to a small bar that held crystal decanters of
various sizes and shapes and poured a small bit of amber liquid. “Whiskey,”
he said, as he handed it to her.
Addy didn’t hesitate and drank the contents of the cup in one swallow.
Zelda chuckled. “I suppose you’ll fit right in with this group.”
Addy finally found her voice. “I’m sorry. Could I, that is to say, oh…do you
have a washroom I could use?”
She’d just asked Ernest Hemingway in what was definitely not a dream but
somehow must be, but definitely wasn’t, if she could use his bathroom. Not
her finest hour. This was going to be the first impression of her. A girl so
overcome by sheer proximity to Ernest Hemingway that she fainted. If only
it were that simple. She couldn’t possibly tell them what really overtook
her. The realization that she’d just traveled through time.
He nodded and Zelda led him down the hall. “It’s just in there. Do you need
anything, darling? You do look a touch paler than you did a few minutes
ago.”
Addy smiled at NOT Dream Zelda (Fitzgerald!) and shook her head. “No,
just a few moments to, um, freshen up. It’s been quite a long night for me.”
With that, she disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door firmly
behind her. She saw the toilet and shuffled over to it, certain she would pass
out again if she didn’t sit down—and soon.
Her thoughts were racing. How in the world had this happened? Whatever
this was. When she’d fallen asleep in her bookshop, she was quite firmly
planted in Chicago, 2019. Somehow, someway, she’d woken up in Paris,
somewhere around 1926.
Her skin felt clammy to her touch as she rang her hands together. First there
was the obvious question. How had she traveled across time and space to
wind up in a cafe with Zelda Fitzgerald? There was the perhaps more
pressing questions like how would she get back, how would she
feed/clothe/shelter herself with no money and no knowledge of French, and
not least of all what would she say to these two absolute icons that were
supposed to be long dead but stood in front of her solidly alive in their own
time? Not to mention the question about this missing Marguerite person—
whoever she was. How in the world did Zelda imagine that Addy would be
able to help her, a complete stranger, find a lost woman in Paris when Addy
was completely lost in her own right?
Of course they didn’t know any of that about her. They didn’t know her
dress was a costume, either.
She had no answers to any of these questions. The primary thought in her
mind at this moment was that she couldn’t ruin her experience—quite
arguably a once in a million years type of experience—to interact with these
people because she was hiding in the bathroom. She stood on shaky legs
and willed herself to gather her composure. She looked at herself in the
bubbled mirror, grateful for, yet feeling ridiculous in her costume from the
book gala of the night before. At least she’d made the effort to make the
costume as historically accurate as possible. Still, it was quite obviously
attire for a night on the town. Luckily, Zelda was dressed in a similar getup,
but at some point she would change and Addy became keenly aware of her
lack of outfit changes.
“Great,” she mumbled to herself, “I get to meet Zelda and her impression of
me will be that I’m a ragamuffin. A peasant.”
“What’s that? Are you all right in there, Addy?”
Get yourself together, Addy thought. “Oh, no, I’m fine. Thank you.”
She took a deep breath and pulled open the door. For now, she had no
choice but to go along with Zelda’s scheme. Maybe she’d magically appear
in Chicago just the same way she’d turned up in Paris.
“That’s much better, thank you.” She felt steadier, but inside she was an
anxious mess.
“You do look better,” Zelda said, “but I’d bet Scott’s next royalty check that
you haven’t eaten in a bit. She chewed on her lip. “What to do?” She
seemed to ask herself. “There’s not time for a big feast, but Ernie—that’s
it.” She looked at Ernie as though having made up her mind. “Ernie, be a
dear and prepare a quick meal for my new friend Addy, won’t you?”
She turned to Addy without waiting for a response from the bedraggled,
clearly hungover possibly still drunk, famous American author and asked
Addy, “Eggs are fast. Do you like eggs? I’m sure Ernie has eggs. Do you
have eggs Ernie?”
Addy was feeling a bit queasy trying to keep up with Zelda’s rapid style of
conversation, but she could eat so she nodded. “Eggs would be wonderful,
thank you.”
Ernie had already moved into the kitchen and was clanging pots about and
rummaging around for eggs. Addy resisted the urge to giggle. He didn’t
seem to know his way around the kitchen at all. And Zelda was no help at
all. She’d walked over to the bartop and mixed up a couple of drinks. “One
for you, Addy, to keep you alert, and one for you Ernie for being such a
dear. I don’t care what Gertrude and Scott say about you. You are quite
accommodatin’ when you want to be.”
Addy couldn’t believe the way that Zelda spoke to Ernest Hemingway. It
was positively unreal to her. Not that anything about this situation made
sense.
“So, tell me Addy, what brought you to Paris from Chicago? Are you here
with your husband?”
Addy gulped down a swig of whatever mixed concoction Zelda handed her
to buy herself a second. Here goes, she thought. Time to lie in the most
harmless way possible.
“I’m not married. I’ve always been fascinated with Paris and I, well, I
suppose I always thought it would be fascinating to meet the likes of you. I
never really imagined it possible, then one day, I found myself in Paris
being towed to Ernest Hemingway’s apartment by none other than the Zelda
Fitzgerald.”
Whew. None of that had actually been a lie. Now for the hard part.
“I’m actually a bit embarrassed to admit that in the, uh, wild events of last
night I’ve misplaced my purse.”
“Oh, that’s not a bother,” Zelda said. “I’m sure it will turn up. We’ll add it
to the list of missing things we need to find today. It’s fortuitous that you
didn’t lose Ernie’s book. At least you got your signature out of the deal.
Maybe someday I’ll write a book and you’ll want my signature. Be sure not
to pass out on me though, my new friend, since we are after all friends now.
You’ll be sure not to put me on too much of pedestal.” She winked. “Just
enough of a pedestal to help me sell some novels. Wouldn’t Scott just love
that?”
Ernie, as Addy was getting used to thinking about him somehow,
harrumphed in what could have been amusement or disapproval.
Zelda and Ernie bantered casually back and forth about nothing in particular
as he made Addy’s eggs and Addy had a moment to drift off in her own
thought for a moment.
Zelda’s enthusiasm and optimism was both endearing and also a bit
prophetic when you knew, as Addy did, that Zelda was headed for a mental
breakdown sometime in the next four years. She’d often wondered in her
studies of Zelda how long and how obvious her mental illness had been
over the course of years that the couple had spent living the high life in
Paris. Of course, there was nothing wrong with optimism, but Addy, even
as someone who wasn’t a trained mental health professional, could see that
Zelda was a free spirit who maybe already bordered on the edges of sanity.
She probably seemed more or less crazy depending on the company she
kept. She suspected that in the throws of Scott’s would-be infamous
alcoholism that Zelda may have looked the absolute picture of sanity until
she totally broke.
Addy had a fleeting thought that maybe there was something she could do
to help Zelda. With knowledge about mental illness, as meager as it was for
Addy it would still be volumes more than even the medical professionals
would have known in the 1920s, perhaps she could make a difference in
some way.
Just as quickly as the thought came, she dismissed it. How could she
possibly help when in the present moment she didn’t even know how to
provide for herself. Where would she sleep, where would she eat? She
should definitely worry about her own massive problems before she
starteed meddling in other peoples.
“Oh my,” Addy heard Zelda’s exclamation and forced her thoughts back
into the room. “You look pale all over again.”
Addy forced a smile and tried to wipe any concern from her features. She’d
figure it out eventually.
“No, I’m all right, really. I was just trying to remember where I might have
lost my purse.” It wasn’t a lie, precisely. Obviously it was somewhere in
Chicago and of absolutely no use to her now.
“Yes, I can see that would be very troubling. To be traveling in a foreign
city without the protection and companionship of a husband.” She wore a
look of horror on her face. “I couldn’t even imagine. Don’t you worry about
a thing, Miss Addy Bookshop. Consider yourself under my protection—and
Scott and Ernie’s—until you find your things again. Right, Ernie?”
Ernie smiled at Addy in a very genuine way and nodded. “Of course, Addy.
Starting with you breakfast.” He set the plate in front of Addy and then
looked at Zelda.
“Now, what is it that you were carrying on about Marguerite and Marcel. I
hardly think Marcel is capable of absconding with anyone. He’s quite a
gentleman. And Marguerite is hardly a meek wallflower.”
Zelda nodded. “I agree that Marguerite is certainly stubborn and able to
fend for herself. All of her dancin’ makes her strong. It’s not that I think
that Marcel actually absconded with her physical being. It’s that Marguerite
is actually quite vulnerable to attentions from other men.” She looked at
Addy. “Her husband is an awful creature so it makes sense that she’d want
the attention of other men. And women, if you catch my drift. If her dolt of
a husband would pay more attention to her than any young thing that walks
through the door, she might have more of a solid head on her shoulders, but
the situation is what it is and Marguerite is my friend. I cannot allow her to
destroy her whole life for the temporary affections of a random man.” She
turned her attention back to Ernest. “Besides, and not least of all, isn’t
Marcel married to that Yvette woman? She is a spiteful woman, that one. At
least from what I’ve heard around. I’ve never met her mind, but sometimes
the there is some truth in the gossip. Marguerite should watch her step with
her. Even amongst us heathens, as Mama and the Judge would say, there
must surely be at least the appearance of decorum. Don’t you think, Ernie?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. I don’t know that I agree with your feelings about
the upkeeep of appearances but if you want to speak with Marcel, I’ll give
you his address. I don’t foresee you having any trouble with him.”
Zelda nodded. “I should hope not. In any case, I never really met a man I
couldn’t find a way to maneuver around. You all are quite simple, at the end
of it all.”
He chuckled again, seeming to agree with her. “I suppose we are rather
simple at that, aren’t we?”
She smiled a large, beaming smile that more than reached her eyes. “That is
precisely the reason I prefer men to women—no offense, Addy. It’s just that
in my experience so far, women are much too catty for my personal taste.
With men, well, no offense to you Ernie, but it’s rather easy to be in the
company of men. If you take even a bit of care for your appearance and try
not to be too disagreeable, then you’ll find that they are quite easy to get on
with.”
“Quite simple indeed,” Ernie said. “Tell me, Zelda. How would Scott define
“too disagreeable”? You seem to give him quite a run for his money, if you
don’t mind my saying.”
She shrugged, some of the cheer fading from her eyes. “I’m afraid I might
be a bit too disagreeable for his tastes, but he’s certainly had his share of
difficulties added into the mix. Which reminds me. He is altogether too
difficult to to live with when he’s behind on his writin’. Couldn’t you please
at least try to be a good influence on him? For me, please Ernie?”
Addy watched Zelda turn up her charm as she pled with him. Had she just
batted her eyelashes and managed to blush on command?
“He’s his own man, you must know that by now, Z.”
She nodded. “I know, but perhaps you could encourage a measure of
sobriety on his part. Unless you are hopin’ for his failure in order to solidify
your own success?”
Her voice, first flirty and pleading, had turned on a dime to something like
an accusation but in the form a question. It gave Ernie the chance to
disagree with her but in that disagreement he’d be boxed in to agreeing to
help her.
“Of course not. Certainly I’ll try to convince him to slow down on the
drinks. At least some of the time.”
Zelda Fitzgerald smiled, the full force of her glittering green eyes turned on
Ernie. “Thank you, Ernie. I knew I could count on you to help.”
He glanced at Addy but directed his next comment to Zelda. “Do you want
any other assistance from me?”
Zelda raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps, but not yet. Do you think it would
work?”
Addy had no idea what they were talking about and didn’t feel right asking
so she kept her eyes on her plate.
“It’s worth a try, if things are dire. I don’t think the other, shall we say,
experiment worked, but maybe we missed a step?”
“I’ll let you know if it comes to that.”
She slowly ate her eggs, using the time with her mouth full to think. This
woman was turning out to be even more fascinating than the histories had
managed to paint her. And that was saying something. One thing about the
history that wasn’t making sense at this moment was the supposed
animosity between Ernest Hemingway and Zelda Fitzgerald. Everything
she’d learned about the two suggested they didn’t get on well at all.
Something must have happened after now, 1926, to drive the two of them to
adversity. As of now, they got along quite well. She wondered if perhaps
Zelda would stop seeing Ernest as a resource in aiding Scott after a time
and if that would be a catalyst for the strain that would appear in their
relationship at some future point.
Addy gobbled up the rest of her flavorless eggs—Ernest Hemingway was
no chef, that was clear—and prepared herself for whatever might be coming
next.
It seemed with Zelda that anything was possible.
 4

“N OW WHAT ?” A DDY ASKED Z ELDA . T HEY ’ D JUST LEFT E RNIE ’ S

apartment and Addy clutched his book and her notebook to her chest why
they walked. The tights that she was wearing were beginning to feel
uncomfortable in the warming summer morning, but she tried to ignore it
since there was nothing she could do about it anyway. She turned her
thoughts back to the book from her dad. She felt like if she just held on to
that, she could hold on to whatever remained of her future—or was it her
past?—self. She was grateful her notebook had traveled with her. She’d try
to carve out some time to write down some of the details she was seeing
here. On the off chance she made it back to her own time, she wanted to
Jillian about every single detail. She wondered if Hemingway’s apartment-
turned-ap0thecary was any sort of confirmation of Jillian’s speculation
about the dabbling in magic she’d talked about the night before. Zelda’s
voice brought her back to the moment.
“Now we go to Marcel’s house and demand to see Marguerite. Perhaps I’m
makin’ too much of all of this and creatin’ adventure and mystery where
there isn’t any, but I just know I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t at least lay
my eyes on Marguerite and know that she isn’t too far gone in the throws of
passion with someone. I swear to you, Addy, it is quite the burden to ensure
that my friends and I don’t lose sight of what is really important in life.”
She sounded exhausted just speaking of the burden of friendship and Addy
wondered why Zelda felt such a responsibility to get involved in her friends
personal lives.
“Do you really think she’s in danger?”
“Only from herself, in the end. But isn’t that the worst sort of danger to be
in? If one doesn’t have a confidant to save them from themselves, well, I
feel that would be the biggest crime of all. We all need friends. And
Marguerite has been quite good to me. I’ve cried on her shoulder more than
once when Scott was out on a bender and I hadn’t seen him in days. She
always helped me put things in perspective and keep me from lettin’ my
imagination propel me into some course of action that I would certainly
regret. It’s only right that I repay the favor.”
“And you think she is in a vulnerable state of mind? Vulnerable to the
attentions of other men?”
Zelda nodded, looking at the street signs before finally choosing a direction.
“It’s this way. Probably. Yes, she’s had a particularly rough go of it with her
husband and she won’t admit it but I think money is somethin’ of a struggle
for them. I try to pay her way as often as I can without makin’ a fuss of it in
order to ease her burdens, but she doesn’t let me whenever she catches me.
It’s been a bit of a fun game of tryin’ to outrun her so her tab is all settled
up before she gets around to payin’ it. She beats me at my own game more
often than I’d like to admit.”
“You seem very fond of her. She’s a good friend to you then.”
It was more of a statement that Addy was making, trying to catalogue that
bit of factual information into her historical knowledge of Zelda’s life. Her
recollection was that Zelda hadn’t had many close confidants beyond her
husband and then her doctors later in life. There wasn’t much, at least that
Addy could remember, that documented what her friendships had been like
when they were on the high side of life. From what she was learning about
that side of Zelda here today, she would classify Zelda as a free spirit, but
highly empathetic. She was a protector, under the mask of also being a
constant good time. An interesting personal dilemma.
It must have been difficult trying to take care of her friend’s while being the
life of the party. Addy wondered who it was that took care of Zelda. She
suspected the answer, based on the eventual outcome, was nobody. At least
nobody consistent. Was that part of what ended up driving her mad? It
would be difficult to honor the protector part of herself when she was
caught up in the partying or, after the partying was over, in picking up the
pieces of the wreckage that comes from that lifestyle.
“She is. One of the few women I’ve truly enjoyed bein’ in the presence of.
If there is anythin’ I can do to help her not ruin her life, then I’ll do it. If she
misses openin’ night at the theater, she’ll go on about it for ages as another
reason to slander herself. I don’t know if I’ve ever met another woman who
was so determined to author her own poor reputation. Nobody but her, and
perhaps her ill-mannered husband who is not my favorite person, seem to
have criticism of the great Marguerite. Truth be told, I really think she
should divorce him and be done with it.”
“Well, then I’m happy to help you. What else can you tell me about her and
the relationship she has with this Marcel fellow? And what about him? You
say he’s married. Where’s his wife? What is she like?”
“His wife, Yvette, gives him quite the leash to hang himself, if you know
what I mean. She doesn’t seem to be too bothered by his dalliances, as far
as I’ve heard but who can truly know that for certain? Their money comes
from his side of the family. I think her family lost most of their fortune in
those first few years after the war. Accordin’ to the rumors, she certainly
does her share of livin’ it up and fights with Marcel somethin’ fierce, but
she seems to run in mostly different circles than Marcel does. She travels
quite a lot, from what I understand. It’s rather strange that I’ve never met
her.”
Addy nodded, mulling over what Zelda had said. “Do you suppose that his
wife could have had something to do with Marguerite’s disappearance?”
Zelda shrugged. “Who can say for sure. Hopefully we find Marguerite
snuggled up with Marcel and we can just grag her out of there.” She
stopped on the sidewalk. “There,” she said, looking at the paper where
Ernest had written the address, then pointing at a gated entry. “This must be
it.”
Addy still had so many questions about Marguerite and Marcel and their
lifestyle choices. She knew the Bright Young Things of the 1920s had
openly embraced hedonism, but knowing and watching it unfold in front of
her were two completely different things. She made a note to ask Zelda
more about it once they were done speaking to Marcel.
She pressed the buzzer and no time passed before a uniformed, quite severe
man opened the door. The butler, Addy presumed.
He spoke in French. Addy had no idea what he said.
Zelda rattled off some sort of greeting in French and then pointed at Addy.
“English, please, good sir?”
He sighed as though he though he was very put out by her request and Addy
was maybe just a bit more fond of Zelda than she’d already been. They
most certainly could have carried on an entire conversation in French and
then Zelda could haave caught her up afterward.
“Can I help you?” He looked down his hooked nose with something close
to contempt at Addy. Zelda, since she seemed to speak French beautifully, if
with a bit of a southern American drawl, appeared to be outside the scope of
his derision.
“Is Mr. Blanchet in residence at the moment, good sir? You can tell him
Mrs. Zelda Fitzgerald is here to inquire of him about the Madame
Marguerite Mainard.”
“Just a moment,” and with a quick nod of his head, he turned and
disappeared back into the house.
“You don’t speak French, I assume?”
Addy shook her head. “No, perhaps I should learn.” She giggled at the
notion. She had no idea how long she would be here or how in the world
she’d have the ability to take French lessons. It wasn’t as if the internet was
available to make those resources easily accessible.
Zelda giggled along with Addy, for what must have been clearly different
reasons. Addy wished she could tell Zelda the real story of how she’d
arrived in France, penniless and homeless. Wouldn’t it be something to see
Zelda’s reaction to that? But that certainly wouldn’t help her future mental
condition. Even if she could find a way to tell her, wasn’t their risk
involved? She didn’t want to cause harm to anyone, especially Zelda. Her
life, Addy knew, was going to be hard enough.
The butler returned and ushered them into what was a very fancy, at least to
Addy’s mind, front room. A parlor, perhaps?
They’d barely sat down in two wing-backed chairs when a a well-dressed
and quite handsome man came in and sat down on the sofa opposite them
after her kissed both of their cheeks in greeting.
“Zelda, it is wonderful to see you.” He looked at Addy. “I don’t believe I’ve
had the privilege of meeting your friend. Please, introduce us.”
His smile was warm and his eyes were friendly.
Zelda held her posture in quite a stiff manner, especially compared to how
she’d been with Ernie. An interesting distinction, Addy thought.
“Marcel, this is my friend Addy from Chicago. She owns a bookshop
there.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Addy from Chicago. What brings the two of
you calling today? We didn’t have something scheduled did we, because if
so, I’m afraid it’s completely slipped my mind.”
Zelda shook her head and spoke in a clipped voice. “We’re here to check on
Marguerite, Marcel. Do you know where she is?”
At the mention of Marguerite, his smile bloomed across his face and into
his eyes. “Ah, Marguerite. She is difficult one to pin down, isn’t she? I
spent some time with her last night, but she said her farewells around…oh, I
suppose it must have been around six or so this morning.”
“Were you here? Or somewhere else?” She wasn’t being the slightest bit
conversational, instead opting for direct interrogation. He seemed not to
mind and volunteered the details of his evening quite freely.
“We ended up here after we left you. She is such a lovely thing. I was sorry
to see her go. I have this monstrous house to myself for another week
before Yvette gets back from London and Marguerite would be a lovely
companion for the week. She made some excuses for herself taking leave,
something about her husband. I wasn’t paying that much attention. She said
she’d try to come back this evening, but I won’t be holding my breath. She
is a slippery little eel when she wants to be, isn’t she? Hard to pin her
down.”
“I see. Did anyone see her leave? Any of your staff?”
“I think they’d mostly retired to the servant’s quarters by then.” He gave
Zelda a more pointed look, the questions visible in his eyes. “Has
something happened?”
Zelda shrugged. “I’m not certain. She was supposed to meet me at Cafe du
Dome at seven and didn’t. I really was hopin’ she was with you. It’s not like
her to miss one of our breakfast dates.”
Addy felt a bit self-conscious speaking up when she was the outsider in so
many ways, but she found herself wondering something so she decided to
speak up. She was supposed to be helping, after all, wasn’t she?
“Did she mention anything to you about the show she is in tonight at
Moulin Rouge?”
He nodded, sipping from a teacup that a handsome man had brought in
while they’d been talking.
“In fact, yes. She’s quite excited about it, and a bit nervous. Some sort of
fuss with some of the actors that she was bothered about. She didn’t seem to
care much for her understudy. I think she’s caused her some trouble, but
Marguerite didn’t want to talk about it. I suppose that is par for the course
with thespians. Perhaps all artists. It must be nice that your husband is a
writer. Such a solitary art, surely your life must be free from some of the
dramatic antics of other artists?”
Zelda rolled her eyes and laughed out loud. “I think writers might be the
most dramatic, most prone to existential crisis than all the arts combined.
They are in their head constantly and when they get together with other
writers they try and outdo one another, both in cocktails drank and in
having despair that tops the despair of all the others. They are quite dreadful
company, to be quite honest.”
He smiled a friendly smile. “I suppose I could see the truth in that.” He
paused for a moment and then his face grew quite serious. “How can I help
you find Marguerite?”
Zelda grew serious again. “How long has your wife been out of town?”
“Two weeks. She’ll be home Friday.”
“Is there any possibility she’d have somethin’ to do with Marguerite’s
disappearance? Is there any jealousy between the two women?”
He shook his head. “Certainly not. First off, Yvette is the kindest soul—
she’s not capable of hurting a fly. Secondly, our arrangement is mutually
beneficial. Yvette is quite fond of her freedom and even more fond of
Marguerite. The two are fast friends, actually. I think you can rule Yvette
out if that’s what you are wondering.”
Zelda nodded. Addy marveled at the dynamic but kept quiet. She was
certain she couldn’t embrace that lifestyle herself.
“If there is anything else I can do to assist you, you’ll be sure to let me
know? I’ll be worried about her now.”
Zelda waved her hand. “I’ll let you know if you can be of service.
Hopefully, I’m just makin’ a mountain out of a molehill at this juncture.”
Addy was relieved that nobody seemed to judge her too harshly for joining
in the conjecture about Marguerite so she pressed on.
“Zelda, what did you have in mind next? Should we go to her home and
look for her? Maybe we’ll find her nicely hungover in her own bed.”
Zelda nodded and stood. “Yes, that’s a perfectly reasonable next step.
Thank you, Marcel. I’ll ring once I’ve located her so you won’t worry. We
are goin’ to Moulin Rouge next, on the chance she might be there. Will you
be at her performance tonight?”
He stood and escorted them to the front door. “I will. I could watch
Marguerite doing just about anything. I won’t pass up a chance to watch her
perform. It’s a bit of magic seeing her in that element. It’s too bad her
husband takes such issue with her performing.”
Zelda stepped onto the porch and turned to look over her shoulder at
Marcel. “He’s a bit of an arrogant toad if you ask me.”
He laughed. “I think your description is entirely understating the unsettling
nature of Lucien’s personality. Please do let me know once you’ve located
her.”
Zelda smiled at him in a genuine way and Addy noted how much kinder she
was to Marcel at the end of their visit then she’d been at the beginning.
Based on that and the way he’d been so willing to discuss his activities with
Marguerite the night before, Addy doubted that he’d had anything to do
with her disappearance. If she was even gone.
Now to call on her home. Perhaps the Mystery of Marguerite would be
solved before it truly even began.
Then Addy could focus on how in hell she was in this place to begin with.
Not that she was complaining. She couldn’t have fashioned a more perfect
gift for herself had she tried.
“Come, Addy. Let’s go see about Marguerite. Then I really must get out of
these clothes.”
 5

M ARCEL ORDERED THEM A TAXI AND WHILE THEY WAITED , Z ELDA OFFERED
to carry Addy’s books in her oversized satchel. Addy was happy to not have
to carry it. “What do you have in there anyway? It’s giant.”
Zelda giggled and tucked the books inside. “Extra makeup, a hair brush, lip
color, a bottle of champagne—just in case.”
The taxi arrived and Addy and Zelda climbed in for the journey from
Marcel’s house in the Montparnasse quartier of Paris to Marguerite’s
country residence she shared with her husband Lucien.
Once situated in the taxi, Zelda leaned her head against the seat behind her
and closed her eyes. “It’s at least thirty minutes. I feel a headache coming
on so I’ll close my eyes for bit. You should rest too, your eyes look a little
haggard if you don’t mind my saying.”
Addy closed her eyes too, rather eager to have some time to herself to think.
Addy opened her eyes and watched the fringes of the city turn into the
countryside with a few small houses dotting the landscape. If she ever
returned from the past to her own time, she wanted to travel this road again.
It was hard to imagine that it could be any more picturesque and lovely than
it was.
Her mind started to drift into her short term future and she could feel the
panic well up inside her. The anxiety of the unknown was too much. It
threatened to overwhelm her so she pushed it out of her head and forced
herself to focus on anything else. The color of the sky, the wildflowers on
the side of the road. It was something out of a fairy tale.
Before she knew it, the car pulled to a stop in front of a grand two-story
house. Zelda sat up with freshly opened eyes, stifled a yawn, and looked
around.
“That was refreshing. Hopefully, she’ll be here and we can get on with our
day.”
The driver turned to them and said, “Mr. Blanchet hired me for the day to
take you wherever you need. I’ll wait for you.”
Zelda turned the full force of her green-eyed smile on him. “That’s mighty
kind of you. And Mr. Blanchet. Thank you. I doubt we’ll be long.”
They exited the taxi and Addy followed a step behind Zelda as she moved
up the walk. Zelda pushed the button that rung a bell somewhere in the
house and a few moments later an overstuffed gentleman opened the door
with a thin smile.
“Ms. Fitzgerald. How lovely to see you.” His voice was flat and vacant of
expression so Addy couldn’t be sure if he was sincere. She wondered if the
servants were ever really happy to do their job? She couldn’t imagine she
would be happy with a life of bowing and scraping to the gentry and their
compatriots.
“Hello, George. Nice to see you. I’m here to see Marguerite. Is she here?”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe the lady is in this morning.”
Zelda chewed her bottom lip. “Well, I should like to see Mr. Mainard then.
It’s urgent.”
“Urgent? Why, is everything all right?”
Clearly he had a friendly enough relationship with Zelda to ask such a
personal question. Servants, as least as far as she understood from her
reading, weren’t exactly tolerated to inquire as to the business of their
employers.
“I don’t think it is, no. But Mr. Mainard may be able to shed some light on
the situation.”
“Yes, I see. Come in and I’ll fetch him.”
They followed him inside and he pointed to a room of the main foyer.
“Please make yourelves comfortable. I’ll send Colleen with some tea.”
Before they were seated, a thin woman, most likely in her late middle years
based on the white hair growing around her temples and the crinkling at the
corners of her eyes, appeared in a neatly starched uniform holding a small
wooden box.
Addy thought she wouldn’t much like uniforms either.
“What tea would you prefer this morning?”
Zelda was looking around the room and didn’t seem to have heard the
question.
“Peppermint would be wonderful.” Addy answered to fill the awkward
silence.
“Yes, ma’am. For both of you?”
Zelda still had a far away look in her eyes.
“Yes,” Addy said. “For both of us.”
The uniformed woman nodded and turned sharply on her heels and marched
from the room. She was quite efficient. No small talk from this one, it
seemed.
Mr. Mainard came into the room a few moments later, his body tall and
imposing in the small parlor with its delicate furniture. When he sat, the
sofa creaked under his sturdy frame.
“Zelda. How lovely to see you.” His eyes landed on Addy before Zelda
could reply to his greeting. “And who is this? A friend of yours? She’s quite
a lovely thing.”
Ugh. Addy didn’t like the greasy tone in his voice. At all. Zelda’s eyes
flashed with fury and Addy surmised that she wasn’t fond of him either.
“She’s a friend of mine from America, don’t even think about flirtin’ with
her. I promise she’s not interested. Where’s Marguerite?”
He blinked, and then opened his mouth to speak. Addy didn’t like the
hesitation she saw. “Goodness knows where Marguerite’s gotten to. The
woman very much has a mind of her own.”
“She was supposed to meet me for breakfast. It’s not like her to skip that.
When did you see her last?”
Addy was quite aware that Mr. Mainard paid no attention to her besides his
initial lascivious gaze and she was more than grateful for that fact. She
didn’t think she’d like him and now she was definitely positive she didn’t.
He was a creep. She thought she’d have come to that same conclusion even
had she not noticed Zelda’s strong dislike for him.
“She has that ridiculous play tonight. Why she insists on making a laughing
stock of me with her antics is beyond me. But I digress. You can probably
find her at the theater. I’m practically a widower with the time she spends
on her rehearsals and costume design.”
“Somehow I imagine that you manage just fine without her.”
He blinked at her again, but did not acknowledge her accusation with a
verbal response.
“Tell me, Lucien, how does Louise get on with Marguerite? I understand
that she’s quite jealous of your lovely wife. You know how rumors spread.”
Addy was impressed with the nonchalant way that Zelda dropped that bomb
right in the middle of the Mainard’s parlor.
“Keep Louise out of this. Whatever crazy antics Marguerite is playing at,
I’ll not have Louise’s reputation smudged because of it. If you are looking
for someone to blame, I’d suggest you talk to those people down at the
theater. They are trouble. Besides which, Louise is out of town. Regardless
what rumors have led you here, you’ll have to look elsewhere.”
“Like the theater? Is there anyone in particular that Marguerite has had
trouble with?”
“I don’t keep track of them.”
He stood.
Not to be outdone or talked down to, Zelda stood as well. Her face was like
stone and the usually joyful sparkle in her eyes now glinted like steel. When
she spoke, the air itself felt frostier. “You’ll let Marguerite know I called
when she returns?”
He nodded and half-bowed, mocking them with his pleasantries.
“Certainly.” Then, in a louder voice, “Colleen, you may see our guests out.”
Then he turned and vanished around the corner.
So, no love lost between Zelda and Marguerite’s husband. Good to know.
Addy continued to be impressed by Zelda’s assertive, bordering on
agressive, demeanor.
With some amount of apology in the air but unspoken, George, not Colleen,
showed them out front.
Once they were outside and safely out of the hearing, he spoke quietly. “I’ll
let Mrs. Mainard know you were here. Mr. Mainard will never be the
wiser.” He winked at her with the friendliness of a kind old grandfather and
then disappeared back inside.
The staff, at least George, placed their loyalty with Marguerite. Interesting.
Addy wondered what they’d seen over the years.
While they walked toward the taxi that had waited for them, Zelda fumed.
“I’ve always hated that man. Why in the world Marguerite stays with him is
beyond me. There is no amount of fame or wealth that would be worth
living in the shadow of his miserable demeanor.”
“Do you suppose he’s lying about knowing where she is?”
Zelda shrugged, irritation rolling off her body. “I can’t be sure. I wouldn’t
put it past him, but I believe he’d be just as obnoxious either way.”
“And Louise, do you think she had something to do with Marguerite’s
disappearance?”
Zelda shrugged. “I have no idea. I don’t actually know anythin’ about her
other than her name. Marguerite let it slip once when she’d had a few too
many that she’s avoids Louise. She doesn’t like to talk about her husband’s
extracurricular activities. I just wanted to poke him. It seemed to work.”
The driver opened the doors for them and they climbed in the back and
settled in for the ride back to Paris.
“Where will I be taking you now, Madame Fitzgerald?”
“Moulin Rouge, as quickly as possible, please.”
Addy let her eyes linger on the house as the car drove away. Abruptly, she
sat up straight as the car pulled out of the drive, looking back toward the
house. Something in her periphery caught her attention. She turned to look
and there was a woman with flaming red hair standing in one of the
windows upstairs. In the blink of an eye, there was just a slight movement
and then woman was gone. If Addy hadn’t been looking directly at the
window, she wouldn’t have seen her.
“What is it?” Zelda asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Addy didn’t respond. She stared at Zelda with blank eyes, seeing right
through her.
Something about the woman left her unsettled.
“Well, what is it?” Zelda demanded.
“Oh, nothing. I thought I saw something—a woman—in the window on the
second floor of the house. It seemed strange somehow.” Addy shivered
thinking of the encounter with Marguerite’s husband and the disappearing
woman in the upstairs window. “If something has happened to your friend,
I might bet all the gin in Paris that Lucien Mainard had something to do
with it.”
Zelda nodded. “Agreed. He really is quite a terrible human. The woman in
the window—what did she look like?”
“She was dressed in black as far as I could see. It happened so quickly.”
“Their staff wear black. Maybe it was a maid? What color hair did she
have?”
“Her hair was red. The color of flames.”
Zelda nodded, letting out a breath she’d been holding. “It wasn’t Marguerite
then. She has black hair.”
“Must have been a maid, then,” Addy said and let it go. “I guess we’ll
check the theater. Do you think there is any merit to his accusations about
the theater people?”
“I don’t know,” Addy could see the wheels turning behind Zelda’s glittering
green eyes. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I propose the theater be our last
stop for now. After this, we’ll need to sleep and then get cleaned up for her
show. If we haven’t found her by tonight’s performance, we’ll attend as
scheduled and hope we see our darling Marguerite on stage. Maybe she’s
just hiding out before her performance. It wouldn’t be the first time an artist
went a little rogue. I see Scott doin’ crazy things all the time. I do think I’ll
wring her skinny neck for puttin’ me through this heartache. She really
must leave that wretched Lucien. I think I’ll demand it as a condition of our
friendship.” She smiled widely as though amused by her own wickedness.
“Perhaps that will be precisely the boost she needs to finally leave him.
Hopefully we’ll find her at the theater and then we can get on with our day.”
Addy smiled and considered the value of having a good friend such as
Zelda Fitzgerald. Marguerite was lucky.
Idly, she wondered if Jillian would be that kind of friend for her back in her
own time. Thinking of her own time, she started to feel that familiar
clawing of anxiety in her stomach. She couldn’t follow Zelda around Paris
forever. For now, Zelda was amused by Addy, but that wouldn’t last forever.
Especially if she ever discovered the truth about how Addy really got here.
Reality was going to arrive at any moment and she was not ready to face it.
She had to figure out how she got here and how to get back to her own
time. Even if she didn’t want to, it didn’t seem right to choose to remain in
someone else’s time and potentially change the course of history. The
question was whether she’d tell Zelda about her situation or not. She
couldn’t quite visualize what she’d do here in this city completely on her
own, so she leaned toward telling Zelda who seemed like she might be
more understanding than most people of bizarre situations. If Marguerite’s
lifestyle were any indication.
That was a problem for later. First, find Marguerite. Addy hoped they found
her sooner rather than later. She needed to get on with solving her own
problems.
 6

Z ELDA EYED THE DIAMOND - COVERED WATCH . “D RIVER , I NEED TO MAKE A

stop on the way to the theater if you are amenable?”
Zelda’s voice was suddenly as sweet as a Mint Julip, her charming southern
drawl dripping from her lips. Addy imagined that it must sound quite
magical to the French, but couldn’t tell by the driver’s simple nod.
“Very good. Please take us to 27 rue de Fleurus. On the Left Bank.”
Another nod and then silence.
“What stop are we making?” Addy asked.
“We are going to stop by Gertrude’s salon. Scott has a meeting there in
about twenty minutes. I need to see if he’s heard anything about Marguerite.
Heaven knows what he’ll get up to once he’s started gallivanting about
Paris with the boys. This may be my last chance to speak to him while he is
somewhat clearheaded.”
“Gertrude Stein?” Addy practically choked out the words.
“Mhm,” nodded Zelda. She didn’t seem to notice Addy’s excitement at
merely the mention of the name. Addy supposed that Ms. Stein must have
already had quite a reputation around Paris in certain artistic circles.
Everyone must have known who Gertrude Stein was.
Addy’s skin felt clammy, another wave of exhaustion and confusion taking
hold.
“What time is it?” Addy’s sense of time was completely off. She’d been
following Zelda around Paris since this morning, but just 24 hours ago
she’d been preparing for the book event for Jillian Breck. Twenty-four
hours in the past and nearly one-hundred years into the future. She really
was quite worried that her mind would snap, split as she was between two
realities. She felt like she was nowhere, neither then or now.
“Nearly eleven. Even with our stop at the theater, we should be back to my
rooms by one which will give us a chance to rest and get ready for
Marguerite’s play.”
A nap sounded lovely to Addy’s bone weary spirit. Like a brief escape from
the mind-melting situation she was currently in. Everything after the nap
sounded a little bit terrifying, but if she could just make it until they got
back to Zelda’s place, she’d at least have time to rest and try to get her
bearings.
Addy caught Zelda staring at her, concern obvious in her eyes. “Are you
well? You don’t think you will pass out again, do you? If so, we can skip all
of this for now and get you situated in my rooms.”
“No, no. That’s okay. I’ll be all right. I’m looking forward to help you in
your search. The rest you mention will certainly do me some good.”
Zelda nodded, but didn’t look totally convinced. “At any rate, we won’t be
terribly long at Gertrude’s. Assumin’ Scott even woke up in time to attend
to his business affairs.”
“Who is he meeting with?” On the one hand, Addy felt strange asking about
their personal life. On the other, she needed to think about something else
besides her own hopeless predicament.
“His publisher, Maxwell Perkins. He’s supposed to have some pages to
show him, but I sincerely doubt that he does.”
This was a fascinating conversation that Addy was more than willing to
have. When or if she returned to her own time, what knowledge would she
have because of this encounter with the literary heros of the past? She took
a swan dive into her curiosity.
“Does he have trouble writing?”
Zelda snorted. “That is an understatement. He’s a true genius, he really is,
and most of the time he knows it. The predicament arises when he expects
genius at every turn rather than having patience. When the words don’t
appear, he drinks more to escape the feelin’ of failure and the more he
drinks the less he writes. The less he writes, the further he gets from his
genius. And from me, quite frankly.”
“That must be a difficult cycle for you to observe.” Of course Addy knew
exactly where Zelda was headed and it wasn’t pretty. It was hard to believe
in the presence of Zelda’s aliveness.
Zelda nodded, a slight frown turning down the corners of her mouth. “It is.
Quite difficult.”
Silence hung in the air between them for a few minutes while they bumped
along the twisty cobblestone roads of Paris.
“Have you met Gertrude?” Zelda asked.
“No, but I’ve heard a lot of wonderful things about her. She’s quite an
accomplished novelist, isn’t she?”
“She is, indeed. I’ll take you around her Salon some Saturday night. You’ll
meet some very interesting people. Pablo Picasso is a hoot, you know. If
you are looking for a gentleman—that might be too strong a word for the
painter—I understand he’s quite the lover. I’ll never find out, of course. As
liberal as Scott is with such things, I think he’d never recover from the
insecurities that would arise should I become his lover. Besides, Picasso
seems to make more enemies of women than not. No point in drinkin’ that
poison.”
“Your marriage isn’t quite the traditional American relationship, is it?”
Zelda laughed. “No, not quite. It’s much more French than American. I’m
really not certain if I prefer that or not, but I do love to flirt and it seems that
it’s better to accept the way things are rather than pine over the way things
are supposed to be. Honestly, accordin’ to who? Certainly my parents
would not approve of our arrangementss, but it’s not their marriage, now is
it?”
“I suppose not,” Addy said, knowing that even when one-hundred years had
passed, the arrangement that Zelda spoke of would still be non-traditional in
American culture. Europe would always be looser with their sexual
relationships than their American counterparts. Was that the reason so many
American Ex-Pats came to Paris to begin with? She imagined that it was at
least so in part.
Addy knew that by now, Gertrude had already published novels about
female sexuality and lesbian romances. She was years and miles ahead of
her time. Lesbians in the twenty-first century would still revere Stein’s
work so many years later. Addy wondered briefly why it was that
alternative lifestyles took so long back in the States. Why weren’t these
artists more influential when they returned home—as she knew that most of
them would, including Stein?
So many questions. Definitely more questions than answers, as seemed to
be very typical for the day.
The car slowed to a stop and Zelda threw the door open rather than waiting
for the driver. She jumped out and called over her shoulder to the driver,
“We’ll be just a moment. Please wait?”
He nodded, but said nothing.
Addy raced to catch up with Zelda and followed her into a dark, elegant
space that looked just exactly how she would have imagined Stein’s writer’s
salon to look.
For all it’s elegance, there seemed to be quite a casual feel to the Parisian
art house. No butler answered the door, Zelda just let herself in.
“Hi, Alice,” Zelda cried out as she passed by a woman doing needlework on
the sofa. “Have you seen Scott today?”
“Hi Zelda. Yes, he’s in the backroom with Maxwell Perkins.”
Zelda nodded but said nothing, continuing her progress through the house.
Addy, unsure what else to do, ran to keep up with her eccentric friend.
Zelda took no care to wait up for Addy. Perhaps she was supposed to wait
in the car? Too late now, she supposed, and even if it weren’t, would she
really willingly give up the opportunity to see Gertrude Stein, F. Scott
Fitzgerald, and his publisher?
Obviously the answer was a hearty no.
The Alice that Zelda had spoken too must have been Gertrude’s life partner.
If she remembered correctly, Stein had written an autobiography of Alice’s
life. Addy made a mental note to check that out…whether in this time or in
the future. Either way.
Addy skidded to a halt, just missing smashing into the back of Zelda who
had stopped abruptly and immediately began interrogating Scott. She
seemed to have little to no regard that he was in the middle of a
conversation with someone else.
“Scott, have you heard any news of Marguerite? Her husband is a dreadful
man and I can’t seem to track her down.”
Scott, who was in mid-sentence with a man that must have been Maxwell
Perkins, his publisher, let out a sigh and then turned to face his wife.
“Zelda, I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.” He looked pointedly at Mr.
Perkins and then back to Zelda. “And no, I’ve heard nothing of Marguerite
today. And yes I know. Lucien is loathsome.”
Zelda pouted, obviously hoping for a different answer from her husband.
“Drat. I’m really starting to worry about her. I’ll let you get back to your
meetin’. You’ll be comin’ along to the openin’ night at Moulin Rouge,
won’t you?”
Addy’s heart skipped a beat. She’d been hearing mention of it all day, but
now she was just moments from seeing it for real. The Moulin Rouge! She
couldn’t have planned a more perfect tour of 1920s Paris had she tried.
Gertrude’s salon, the French countryside, now this most iconic of theaters.
She tried to keep her enthusiasm contained and focused instead on the
conversation between Zelda and Scott.
“Yes, Zelda,” he said, slightly exasperated. “If you’ll leave me to finish this
meeting. It’s not as though Maxwell gets to Paris all that frequently and I do
need his assistance.”
“Certainly,” she smiled brightly at the American editor. “Mr. Perkins, lovely
to see you again.” Then she turned her attention back to Scott. “Addy and I
will be ready by six. You can pick us up.”
She kissed him on the cheek and then grabbed Addy’s hand and dragged her
from the room.
Addy peeked back over her shoulder and noticed that Scott seemed relieved
when Zelda walked away from him. Maxwell Perkins seemed amused, if
the crinkle around his eyes was any clue. Addy supposed that the things
about Zelda that frustrated her husband would have been simply endearing
if one wasn’t too close to the situation. She remembered from history that
Scott’s alcoholism would take its toll on his relationship with the famous
Scribner editor, but that even with the tension between the two, Mr. Perkin’s
influence for the better on Scott’s writing would continue for many years.
Once more Addy felt an insistent tug to try and change the outcome of
some of these failed dynamics, but she dismissed the thought as quickly as
it came. She couldn’t even manage her own life at this particular moment in
time, she had no business whatsoever trying to influence others.
Once back outside, Addy addressed Zelda. “Now to the theater?”
She was more excited than she wanted to let on to see Moulin Rouge.
Another dream coming true in the strangest of ways.
Zelda nodded. “I do hope she’s there. I’m simply exhausted and need to
rest.”
“I hope so too.”
Addy wanted to tell Zelda what was happening. That she’d fallen asleep in
her bookshop in Chicago nearly one hundred years in the future and had
woken up in Paris amongst her literary idols. Unfortunately, she simply had
no idea how to bring it up. This didn’t seem like the time given the situation
with Marguerite. Since Zelda was the only friend she had at the moment, it
didn’t seem wise to alienate her. She hoped for that nap as much as Zelda
did, hoping that she’d be able to think more clearly with some rest. Maybe
once they found Marguerite, then she could figure out how to tell Zelda
Fitzgerald that she was from the future.
 7

A DDY FELT LIKE HER EYES WERE GOING TO POP OUT OF HER HEAD WHEN SHE
saw the famous windmill perched atop the famous cabaret. She truly did
hope that Zelda’s friend Marguerite was okay, but she couldn’t bring herself
to regret this amazing historical tour she was on. In spite of her efforts to
keep her cool, Zelda giggled when Addy let out an audible squeal at the
sight of the building.
Zelda advised the driver to wait for them again and smiled at Addy. “I
suppose by your reaction that you’ve not been here before.”
Shaking her head, Addy replied in barely a whisper. “I’ve only read about
it.” She knew she sounded like a naive tourist, but she was too
overwhelmed to care.
Another giggle from Zelda. “Well, let’s not delay, then. Close your mouth
and follow me inside. You are really gonna lose your marbles when you see
the inside.”
Zelda looped her arm through Addy’s and led her inside.
Nobody seemed to care that they were there. Zelda wound them through the
auditorium and through the side door that took them backstage without so
much as a word of unwelcome from the theater’s staff. The energy back
stage was like nothing Addy had experienced before. Actresses and actors
milled about, most not in costume or makeup, but some had begun the
process of changing.
Zelda stopped in front of a young brunette woman. “I’m lookin’ for
Marguerite. It’s urgent. Have you seen her?”
“I haven’t, but her dressing room is that way. She usually keeps to herself in
the hours before we go on.”
“Thank you,” Zelda said and then plodded down the dark, bustling hallway
in the direction the woman had indicated.
As they passed through the dark hallway getting deeper into the bowels of
the theater, Addy heard a man’s voice yelling.
“What do you mean you don’t know where she is? She’s the lead actress.
Find her.”
Zelda and Addy exchanged looks. Once again, Addy was grateful that most
people they’d encountered today defaulted to English.
“I guess she’s not here either,” Zelda frowned. They kept walking but their
steps slowed.
More bellows from the man. “Where’s Mia? If Marguerite doesn’t show,
her understudy better be ready to step up. I need to see her immediately.”
“Yes sir,” a small female voice squeaked back.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” the man shrieked and then there was a
tiny woman with short black hair half-running down the hallway away from
the blustering man’s voice that followed her.
Zelda pointed to a door with Marguerite’s name written on it. “I see
Marguerite’s dressin’ room…just there. Follow me. Maybe we can learn
somethin’ in there.”
They opened the unlocked door and quickly moved inside, closing it softly
behind them.
A woman sat in front of a lighted vanity. She was doing her makeup and
seemed to already be in full costume.
She turned at the sound of their entrance.
“What are you doing in here?” She spoke English, which surprised Addy,
but with a heavy French accent.
Zelda’s eyebrow arched in question. “I might ask you the same thing. This
is Marguerite’s dressing room and you are definitely not Marguerite.”
The costumed woman blushed at Zelda’s statement, but she seemed to
gather her wits and stood, extending her hand in greeting.
“Yes, of course, I am not Marguerite. She is not here and I am her
understudy. My name is Mia.”
Zelda and Mia had a bit of a staring contest, neither willing to blink first.
Addy took the moment of silence to ask a question. “The director only just
found out that Marguerite isn’t here. How is that you’ve known long
enough to already be in full costume and halfway through your makeup?”
Perhaps there was something to Lucien’s accusations after all?
She surprised herself with her directness, but Zelda smiled.
“Yes, Mia. How is it that you came to know Marguerite wouldn’t be here
tonight?”
The woman lifted her chin defiantly and stared back at Zelda, occasionally
sparing a glance in Addy’s direction.
“My manager phoned me.”
“When?” Addy asked, somehow enjoying the interrogation. She felt a little
heady in the process.
“About an hour ago. Now if you’ll excuse me. If she doesn’t turn up, I need
to be ready.”
“What exactly did your manager say to you?” Addy felt the tone in her
voice soften. She needed to relax. This wasn’t like her.
As Addy’s voice calmed, so did Mia’s attitude and her posture. She sat back
down in her chair and looked at them through the mirror. “He said
Marguerite wouldn’t make her role tonight and that I needed to come to
Moulin Rouge at once to prepare. It’s opening night. Why wouldn’t she
show up? I was thrilled to be understudy, just to work in her shadow. I’m
not ready for this. Certainly not with only hours of warning. I’ll kill her
when she turns up.”
Addy noticed Mia’s hands were shaking as she applied mascara in several
coats.
“Who is your manager?”
“Claude-Pierre Dupont.”
Zelda snorted. “He’s slimy. You should find a new manager.” Addy
wondered how Zelda knew that.
Mia rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows his reputation with the talent. We all
also know that he knows his business and is serious about finding work for
us.”
Addy wondered about Marguerite’s manager. “Is Claude-Pierre
Marguerite’s manager as well? Would she have called him if she knew she
was going to be delayed for some reason?”
“No!” Zelda and Mia answered in unison.
Zelda continued. “Marguerite would not work with him again. She had a
horrific experience with him early in her career. He might be the last person
on earth that she’d call. Besides, why would she call him and not me or her
husband or at least Marcel? Or the director. It seems odd that he’d find out
after Claude-Pierre and Mia.”
“I can think of a few reasons Marguerite wouldn’t call her husband. Those
reasons would look a lot like bruises, if you know what I mean.”
“He beats her?” Addy asked, her eyebrows climbing her forehead in
suprise. Zelda hadn’t mentioned that and it seemed odd that she wouldn’t
have known about that given the apparent intimacy of their friendship.
“Yes,” Zelda and Mia answered in concert again.
“Oh.” Addy had nothing else to say. Her head was spinning. Lucien was
more and more hideous to her all the time.
Awkward silence hung between them for a bit and then Addy thought of a
question.
“Do you have any idea where she might be? Did she have a favorite cafe or
some other place to hideaway?”
Something flashed in Mia’s eyes at that question and the edge was back in
her voice. “It is not as though we were friends outside of this place. She
wasn’t very warm to me. If you don’t mind, I need to finish getting ready so
I can go rehearse.”
Zelda made no effort to move. “You’ve never overheard any of the other
cast members mention a cafe or other place they gather?”
“No. I mind my own business.”
Addy decided to try since Zelda wasn’t getting anywhere. “Can you think
of anyone who would want harm to come to Marguerite?”
Mia let out a long, irritated sigh. “I can think of many people. She was a
primadonna. But I would start with her husband.”
“Who else besides her husband?”
Another irritated sigh. “Marguerite had a new lover nearly every week. If
not her husband than maybe one of those. Now, if you don’t mind, I really
need to get ready.”
“Certainly,” Addy said. “Thank you. Good luck tonight.”
Zelda spoke up on her way out the door. “If you see her, will you tell her
I’m lookin’ for her? You may not like her, but she’s my friend and
something’s happened to her.”
She turned on her heel and stomped out the door. Addy followed suit.
“A woman with short black hair is looking for you, by the way,” Addy said
on her way out the door.
Mia grumbled under her breath and was silenced when Addy pulled the
door closed.
“She’s a dear,” Zelda said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
“You don’t suppose Mia had something to do with Marguerite’s
disappearance? A leading part in a production at Moulin Rouge could be
enough motivation to drive someone to act rashly.”
Zelda shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past her, but she does seem genuinely
upset to be performin’ tonight. Perhaps she’s pretendin’ to be upset about it,
though. If she had done somethin’ untoward, she’d hardly admit it.”
“I still think her husband is our most likely suspect at this point. Of all the
people we’ve spoken with, his character seems the most in question.”
“Maybe. Lucien is certainly awful, but I want to know how Mia’s manager
knew about Mia.”
Addy nodded. “I agree. Zelda, you knew he was hitting her? Lucien, I
mean? Doesn’t that put him at the highest level of suspicion.”
“I suppose it does. That’s why I’m so worried. All day I’ve been tryin’ to
believe that it wasn’t possible that he’d hurt her more than usual. I should
have stopped it somehow.”
She teared up and her voice shook.
“Addy, what if—what if he’s killed her and I could have stopped it?”
Addy put her arms around her new friend who felt like an old friend thanks
to the history books and offered comfort. “Right now she’s only missing.
Let’s not assume the worst. But I do think we should track down that
manager. He’s our best clue if he heard from Marguerite directly. And if he
heard it through the grapevine, well, we’ll just keep following the grapevine
until it leads us to Marguerite.”
Zelda sniffled and dried her eyes. “You won’t get your nap.”
Addy chuckled. “Neither will you. We can sleep later. You asked me to help
you find her and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
They passed back through the dark and fascinating halls of Moulin Rouge,
but this time instead of being in awe at her surroundings, Addy was haunted
by the image of the woman in the second floor window at Lucien’s house.
Could it have been Marguerite? Maybe she should have been more adamant
about what she’d seene—and most importantly felt. But that had occurred
when she only thought that Lucien was a philanderer. Now she knew he
was physically abusive. If she’d known then what she knew now, she’d
have been much firmer.
Why had Zelda not mentioned that vital detail about Lucien and
Marguerite’s toxic relationship? Zelda was having similar thoughts by the
looks of it. Her eyes were filled with tears and it seemed to take every
ounce of control that Zelda had to not let them run over the rims of her
eyes.
Addy got straight to down to business to distract her. “Do you know where
we can find Claude?”
Zelda sniffled again and shook her head. “No, but I can find out. Follow
me.”
Addy watched with a pleased smile as Zelda squared her shoulders and
turned to march through the halls of the Moulin Rouge like she owned the
place. Not for the first time, she really wished Zelda could have been her
friend for real instead of in this alternate version of reality. Still, she’d take
every moment she could get and cherish it forever.
 8

A S IT TURNED OUT , C LAUDE -P IERRE ’ S OFFICE WAS WELL WITHIN WALKING

distance from Moulin Rouge so they let the taxi driver wait where he was.
After a brisk five minute walk, they stood in the lobby of a very old, very
fancy Parisian building with wide open ceilings and extensive stained glass.
It was more French Gothic than the French Provincial style of both
Marcel’s city home and Marguerite’s country home. Chicago, with all of it’s
interesting architecture, couldn’t hold a candle to the ornate details on even
the most basic French buildings.
“We are here to see Claude-Pierre,” Zelda said. “It is most urgent.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“We do not. He will not mind, though. Tell him I have information about
one of his actresses that could ruin his career.”
“I see,” the woman said, glaring down the length of her skinny nose. She
turned without another word and stomped through a doorway, presumably
to Claude-Pierre’s office.
They only had to wait for a few minutes before a secretary took them back
to Claude-Pierre’s office.
“Ladies,” he said once they were seated across the desk from him, “what
information do you have that is so urgent?” He had a glimmer in his eyes
that belied the serious tone of his voice.
“What do you know of Marguerite Mainard’s whereabouts?”
Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. His eyes widened and he began
tapping the desktop with his ink pen.
“I’m sure I have no idea where she is. Why would you think I do?”
“Your client Mia, Marguerite’s understudy is taking over her role in
tonight’s openin’ performance at the Moulin Rouge. She said you were the
one to inform her that Marguerite would not be there to play her part. How
did you know this information?”
Zelda just got right to the point. Addy was impressed by her direct
approach. She’d not imagined that women could have gotten away with
being so direct and outspoken a hundred years ago. Of course, it wasn’t
really all that surprising when she thought about how outside the bounds of
mainstream culture this group seemed to function. Still, Addy worried that
the frenchman would react poorly to her tactic.
She chewed her bottom lip while she waited for his response.
“I see.” He took a drink of his tea and looked between Addy and Zelda,
searching for something in their eyes or in their countenance. What he
searched for, Addy couldn’t be sure.
He cleared his throat after a few moments and began to speak.
“I received a phone call this morning. From Marguerite. She sounded
distressed and with some urgency told me that Mia would need to fill in for
her at tonight’s performance. I tried to press, to understand why, but she
wouldn’t say. She only insisted that I let Mia know right away. I asked her
why she called me instead of speaking directly to the director, but she
refused to answer. It was a very brief call. I let Mia know immediately and
didn’t really think of it again.”
Zelda looked skeptical. “You are certain it was her?”
He nodded. “As certain as one could be, I suppose. She didn’t sound quite
like herself, her voice was strained, but I’d bet Mia’s career that the woman
I spoke to was Marguerite Mainard.”
“Did she say anythin’ else, anythin’ at all that might give away where she
was callin’ from?”
“She said nothing else. Only what I’ve told you. I assume she was home. I
heard her husband speaking in the background.”
That detail got Addy’s attention. “What time was that? What time did she
call?”
He looked at the clock on his desk. “Well, it’s nearly one now. I suppose it
must have been around ten this morning.”
Zelda looked at Addy, confirmation of something terrible in her eyes. “We
were there at eleven. He lied to us when he said he hadn’t seen her this
mornin’.”
Addy nodded. “Claude-Pierre, do you know anything about Lucien Mainard
and his opinion of Marguerite’s career in theater?”
“Oh, he’s quite opposed to it. It was surprising to me that she’d talked him
into letting her perform for this production. It is quite a high priority. He
fired me as her manager years ago but she was getting roles that were, in his
opinion, much to public for his taste.”
“I see. And you are certain she called this morning before eleven?”
“Yes, I’m positive. I take my mid-morning tea at ten-thirty and today that
was just after we spoke to Mia about tonight’s production. It was definitely
between ten and ten-thirty.”
“Claude-Pierre,” Addy decided to go for it. “What would you say your
relationship with Marguerite is like?”
“Oh, she hates me. That made the phone call especially odd. I haven’t
spoken to her since her husband fired me.”
“Why does she hate you?”
He took a deep breath and gave Addy a penetrating gaze. Seeming to make
his mind up about something he nodded to himself. “She was quite
offended that I noticed and spoke of the bruises that her husband left on her
body. I offered to help her leave him, but she refused. I think she thought I
was suggesting some sort of affair with me. I wasn’t, for the record. Still,
she stormed out of my office and I never spoke to her again. Until today.”
They thanked Claude-Pierre for his time and scurried out of his office and
out onto the street. Zelda pointed to a cafe and they found a table and sat. It
wasn’t until they’d ordered coffee and a pastry that they spoke.
Addy went first.
“It seems as though there a quite a few people who could have something to
do with this. But despite what motive Claude-Pierre—who didn’t seem
nearly as slimy as you and Mia suggested—or Mia might have or even
Lucien’s lover, given what we’ve heard about her jealousy of Marguerite, I
really think Lucien has something to do with Marguerite’s disappearance,
Zelda. He must. Between the physical abuse, the lies he told us this
morning, plus his generally distasteful character, I’m convinced he’s behind
this. When you factor in how embarrassed he was about her performing, it
makes perfect sense.”
Zelda stared into her coffee cup for a long moment before she raised her
shimmering, damp eyes to Addy. She gave the slightest nod and one tiny
tear fell over the edge of her lower lash.
“Do you think he’s killed her, Addy?” Her voice was barely loud enough
for Addy to hear and it sounded like a grave.
“I don’t think we need to rush to that conclusion, after all she made a phone
call a few minutes before we visited their home so we know she was still
very much with us just a couple of hours ago. We can hope that he’s simply
got her locked away at home to prevent her from embarrassing him with her
performance. There is definitely something going on here, though and I
think maybe it’s time we get the police involved. Now that we understand
what he’s capable of, I don’t think it’s safe for us to go on with this search
alone. The next step would be to go back to his home and confront him. But
doing so on our own—I don’t think we should risk it.”
“Addy, I keep thinking about the woman with red hair that you saw in the
window.”
“A maid, we thought.”
Zelda nodded. “Perhaps.”
Silence filled the space for a few minutes while they both sipped from their
mugs and nibbled on their chocolate scone.
“What are you thinking?” Addy asked.
Zelda looked doubtful. “I don’t know about the police here.”
“Maybe Scott could help us?”
Zelda shook her head with very sad eyes.
“You don’t think he would help?” Addy didn’t get that sort of heartless
sentiment when she considered Scott’s character. Not in the little bit she’d
seen with her own eyes or with what she knew of him from history.
“No, it’s not that. Of course he’d help. I don’t want to trouble him…his
editor’s here.”
“But surely, for something like this, he’d understand?”
Zelda shrugged. “Maybe, but I want to handle this without disturbing him.”
Her eyes lit up and she took a big sip of her drink. “Wait, I know what to
do.”
“Marcel. He’ll help us. Remember, he said to let him know if there was a
way he could help us. I think this qualifies. Plus, I want to know if he knew
about Lucien’s violent temper. Hurry, finish your drink, Addy. Marcel will
know what to do.”
Addy was a bit irritated with Zelda’s response, not understanding her
hesitancy to reach out to her husband or the police for such an obvious,
legitimate emergency. Still, she chugged the rest of her coffee while Zelda
paid the waiter. She agreed that having Marcel’s help would be useful. They
hailed down a taxi and made their way back to Marcel’s home in
Montparnasse quartier of Paris.
 9

T HE TAXI RIDE TO M ARCEL ’ S GAVE A DDY TIME TO REVIEW ALL THEY ’ D

learned in the last several hours.
“I think it is safe to say that we can rule out a few people that we suspected
up until now, don’t you?”
Zelda played with her hair and stared out the window. “Hmhm, yes I
suppose that’s right.” Her voice sounded lifeless and flat which concerned
Addy. She’d try to keep her talking to distract her from what must be
nerves.
“For instance, you were certain Marcel might have been the reason she
missed your breakfast date, but you feel good about his involvement at this
point?”
“Yes, I suppose that could be considered naive, but once we met with him I
liked him immediately. Plus, he also hates Lucien so he’s got that goin’ for
him. Besides, he seemed broken up that Marguerite wasn’t going to be
around and enthusiastic to see her perform tonight.”
“Right, I agree with your assessment. We both disliked Lucien and it seems
for good reason. Have we given enough of a look at his lover Louise?”
“He said she was out of town. I suppose we could try to verify that, but I’m
not sure how.”
Addy nodded, her eyes in a soft gaze looking out the window but not really
seeing anything except what was in her mind’s eye. “Assuming she really
was out of town, then she’s out of the picture. And if for some reason
Lucien isn’t guilty—rather hard to believe given what we know about him
so far—then who else remains on our radar?”
Zelda crinkled her eyebrows’ in confusion. “What is radar?”
Addy froze, realizing her mistake. Had radar been invented yet? Probably,
but she doubted it was in the common vernacular yet. “Oh, I, um, I heard
about in Chicago. It’s a way the military uses radio waves to detect things at
a great distance. I don’t know much about it. I guess I just mean…who else
might we need to pay attention to about Marguerite’s disappearance?
“Oh,” Zelda said. “Well, I’ve never heard of radar before but I do still
wonder if Mia had somethin’ to do with it. More importantly, where is
Marguerite. Regardless of who did this, but I want to find my friend. I want
to find her alive.”
“Of course. What we know about her timeline right now is that she left
Marcel’s house at six this morning and she called Claude-Pierre,
presumably from home, around ten this morning. We don’t know what her
movements were in the hours between and we don’t know what happened
to her after, but it is possible Lucien is holding her captive at their
countryside estate, don’t you think?”
Zelda nodded. “Yes. It’s our best guess based on what we know about her
whereabouts. We’ll convince Marcel to come with us and we’ll simply
demand that Lucien release her. I’m going to insist that she divorce him.
There’s no going back now. If he will beat her and kidnap her—I hesitate to
think what else he might be capable of.”
Just as Zelda finished her proclamation about Marguerite’s marriage, the
taxi slowed in front of Marcel’s home. “Thank you for driving us today, sir.
I think we are no longer in need of your services.”
“My pleasure, Madame.”
Zelda and Addy both walked at a brisk pace to the door of Marcel’s home.
On the way, Addy remembered something from before.
“Zelda, you and Ernest were talking about something earlier. Something he
said he could try if we didn’t have luck finding Marguerite. What was he
talking about?”
Zelda missed a step at the question and took a moment to recover her
balance. She looked at Addy and said, “It’s complicated. If we don’t find
her at Lucien’s, I’ll tell you because I think we won’t have any options left
to us.”
Addy nodded, her curiosity climbing.
Once they were seated in his parlor, Zelda jumped right into what had
happened.
“Marcel, I have an update for you and you simply must help. You said you
would help, yes? And I’m afraid for Marguerite’s safety.”
“Come in, come in. Have a seat and tell me everything. I’ve been fretting
about her since you left. When I didn’t hear back, I’d hoped you’d found
her and had forgotten to update me.”
Marcel sat and Addy joined him, but Zelda paced back and forth across the
small parlor while she updated him.
“We went to visit Lucien and he’s as awful as we both remember him to be.
We were there about eleven and he said he hadn’t seen her but Claude-
Pierre said he heard Lucien in the background when Marguerite called him.
So he lied to us.”
“Wait—slow down. Who is Claude-Pierre and when did Marguerite call
him? What did she say to him?”
“Oh. Sorry. Claude-Pierre is Mia’s manager.”
Marcel’s questioning expression stopped Zelda from pacing. “Oh, bother.
I’ll catch you up on all of it. Be patient and I’ll get to it. After we spoke
with Lucien, we went to Moulin Rouge to see if Marguerite was there.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t and we heard the director yellin’ his head off
about havin’ to call Marguerite’s understudy—Mia. Except, Mia was
already there gettin’ ready. She was in full costume already and half way
done with her makeup. Which didn’t make any sense at all because the
director was just barely learnin’ that Mia was needed in the first place.”
Just then a woman came in a with a serving tray. It was loaded with small
sandwiches and tea. Zelda, without waiting for an invitation, grabbed a
sandwich off the tray. She smiled apologetically at Marcel, shoved a bite in
her mouth, and proceeded to talk around the food while she paced.
“When we spoke to Mia, we learned that she had heard from her manager
more than an hour before that Marguerite wouldn’t be performing and Mia
would need to get ready for tonight’s show.”
“That would be Claude-Pierre.”
“Yes, exactly. So, naturally we tracked down Claude and discovered that
Marguerite had called him directly to notify him that Mia would be needed
to take her place tonight.”
Addy decided to interject when Zelda took another bite and began pouring
herself a cup of tea.
“Which doesn’t make any sense because Zelda and Mia both confirmed that
Marguerite and Claude didn’t get along. Apparently they had a falling out
years ago when Lucien fired Claude.”
“What did they disagree about?”
Zelda interjected again. “He objected to Lucien beating her and she didn’t
like his objecting. So she fired him.”
At that declaration, Marcel winced. Whether it was because he was just
hearing about Lucien’s abuse for the first time or because he already knew
but was uncomfortable to hear it discussed so directly, Addy couldn’t be
sure. She was determined to find out.
She stared at him. “Did you know he beat her?”
He ran his hand through his hair and started tapping his foot on the carpet.
“Not precisely. I suspected it, but she didn’t really want to spend our time
together talking about her life with him. I should have pressed it. Maybe we
wouldn’t be in this predicament if I’d said something.”
“Don’t beat yourself up too badly,” Zelda said. “I did know for certain and
though I tried to convince her to leave him, I should have been much more
adamant about it.”
Addy watched the two of them sink into their despair and guilt about the
situation, but understood it would do Marguerite no good for them to sit
here and wring their hands about what had already happened. She noticed
for the first time that Marcel had a similar collection of herbs and crystals
and books. She walked over to a shelf to get a closer look while the other
two were lost in thought. She might not have thought anything of his
collection if it wasn’t so similar to Ernest’s. That and the speculation that
Jillian had made about these writers potentially being involved in magic
gave her reason to look a bit more closely.
She reached out to pick up a book that looked especially interesting and
quite aged. Just as she was about to touch it, Marcel intercepted her.
“Pardon me, if you would please not touch that. It is quite old and subject to
falling apart.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It just looked so interesting.” She looked at Zelda and
noticed that she was still lost in thought, appearing to sink deeper into
herself and Addy returned her focus back to Marguerite.
“The important thing to do now,” Addy said, addressing both of them, “is to
find Marguerite. We think Lucien might be holding her hostage in their
countryside estate and we are hoping you might accompany us to confront
him. I suggested that we go to the police, but Zelda didn’t seem to think that
was a good idea.”
“Ah yes, the police are very corrupt. We avoid them when we can.”
“Would you, please?”
“Certainly, let’s go. I may choose to murder Lucien where he stands and of
course I’ll need you to swear an oath not to try and stop me.”
“Stop you? We’d more likely help you.”
They were all three in agreement that Lucien, whatever happened to
Marguerite, was deserving of some inconvenience. Preferably painful.
 10

M ARCEL DROVE TO THE M AINARD COUNTRY ESTATE AND WHAT HAD TAKEN
them thirty full minutes in the taxi this morning only took twenty. On the
way, they discussed strategy.
First Zelda asked, “Do you suppose he’ll make it easy for us? That we can
simply walk in and demand to know what happened to Marguerite?”
“Perhaps if we let him know that we know she called Claude-Pierre from
their house at ten he would give up the ghost?”
Addy regretted the statement as soon as she said it. They didn’t know if
Marguerite was even alive and even though she didn’t mean ghost in the
literal sense of the word, it was definitely not the right time to use that
phrasing.
Zelda shook her head. “I don’t suppose a liar stops lyin’ simply because
those around him know him to be dishonest. Don’t you suspect that he’ll
double down on his lies?”
“You ladies presume much when you consider he’ll have time to speak
before I pummel him. That is why you brought me along, is it not?”
Addy smiled, wanting to say yes but also wanting to say no.
Zelda sat up straighter in her seat, her tiny frame still looking very small but
her eyes had a fierceness and her voice was steel. “If anyone is pummelin’
Lucien, it’ll be me. You can have him when I’ve finished with him. But we
can’t start out that way. We need him to tell us where Marguerite is.”
“Certainly, Madame Zelda. I’ll be sure to save his mouth and vocal chords
from injury. A broken leg or two shouldn’t prevent him from talking.”
At that, even Zelda giggled. It did feel good, Addy had to admit to herself,
thinking about bringing justice to Lucien with physical violence.
Colleen greeted the new arrivals and though she was as polite as she’d been
earlier in the day, there was a strain behind her eyes that hadn’t been there
before. Rather than ask her about it, Zelda demanded to see Lucien. It was a
polite demand, but still a demand.
“Mr. Mainard, we need to speak with him at once.”
“Yes, of course, Madame Fitzgerald. I’ll let him know you are here.” She
led them back to the parlor, ordered another servant to prepare tea, and
walked with a great deal of purpose down the hall.
It took only a couple of minutes for Lucien to join them in the parlor.
“Ladies, you’ve returned. I’m assuming you still haven’t located my wife?”
The forced smile he wore on his face fell when he saw Marcel, who’d stood
when Lucien entered the room. Before Addy could even register what was
happening, Marcel was across the room and had Lucien pinned against the
bookcase that lined the wall. He pushed him against the bookcase with
enough force to knock a couple of books off the shelf.
“What have you done with her, Mainard?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Lucien said, attempting too muster a strength in
his voice but failing to accomplish it. His voice was strained and his
breathing rough. “Get your hands off me. How dare you come into my
home and assault me. I’ll call the police. Don’t think I won’t.”
With one free hand, Marcel held Lucien by the neck and with his obstinate
remark, Marcel squeezed harder. “The only reason you aren’t dead already
is because we need to know what you know. If you aren’t going to speak, I
have no use for you. Zelda, may I kill him now?”
“He’ll speak, won’t you Lucien? You’ve been so worried about your
reputation with Marguerite’s performance tonight but your own actions
have done more to your reputation than she ever could. Tell me, did you
start hittin’ her before you got married or was that a gift you waited to
bestow on her for a newlywed gift?”
Addy could see the red flush of anger move up his face as Zelda’s
accusation became clear.
“Where is she?” Marcel demanded. “Speak if you want to live.”
Addy wasn’t sure he was bluffing and she didn’t blame him.
“All right, all right. I’ll talk. I know I shouldn’t have hit her. I just—it’s just
that I lose my temper sometime. She’s not an easy woman.”
He grunted when Marcel squeezed his neck just a little harder at the
comment.
Marcel growled at him. “I’m sure you are as pure as the driven snow and
that your abuse of Marguerite was all her fault. Still, tell me where she is or
die right here in your own home.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know where she is. I don’t know why you think I
do. I told you this morning—”
“You lied to us this mornin’,” Zelda said. “We know that because
Marguerite spoke with someone on the phone this mornin’ at ten and they
heard you in the background.”
Zelda crossed her arms over her chest and waited for a response from him.
“At ten? Today? That can’t be—I’m telling you I haven’t seen her today.”
“Where were you around ten this morning, Lucien?” Addy asked.
“Home, I already told you. You both saw me here, for God’s sake.”
“Where in the house?”
“I was in the library. I read in the mornings. Marguerite wasn’t here. If she
were, she must have kept out of sight. I swear I didn’t see her.”
Addy continued her interrogation, while Marcel held Lucien in place and
Zelda paced the floor nervously. “What other rooms are near the library? If
you are telling the truth and you haven’t seen her, and yet she was here to
make the call to Claude-Pierre you would have to have been near enough a
room with a telephone. And speaking to someone.”
“The study is only a few doors down from the library and there’s a phone in
that room.”
Zelda stopped in front of Lucien and demanded, “Can you think of a reason
she would have called to quit her performance tonight? She was excited and
ready for opening night.”
He shook his head as much as he could with Marcel still gripping his neck.
“I don’t know. I thought it was a foolish endeavor but I couldn’t have made
her quite if I’d tried. And I did try, believe me.”
“For heaven’s sake, Marcel. I think you can let him go now. I hate to say it,
but I believe him. I don’t think he has anything to do with her
disappearance.”
Marcel grunted, “There’s still the matter of retribution for the things he’s
done to her in the past, yes?”
“First we find Marguerite. That’s more important than punishin’ Lucien.
We’ll get to him. I promise.”
Marcel studied Zelda’s eyes for a moment and then let him go.
Lucien sagged against the bookshelf, gulping in large breaths of air.
“Back to the drawing board?” Zelda asked, looking at Addy.
Addy looked pointedly at Lucien. “How could she have been here, just
down the hall, without you noticing that she was here?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, I don’t think she could have been. I
haven’t seen her since last night.”
“I think we need to search your house, Lucien. If you really don’t know
where she is, you’d certainly be willing to cooperate, yes?”
Lucien massaged his neck, red marks appearing where Marcel’s grip had
been. “Yes, yes. Search it. She’s not here.”
“I think we should talk to you staff as well.”
“Fine,” he said. “There’s only Colleen and Lottie working today. And
George.
Addy remembered the woman in the window. “Mr. Mainard, does Lottie
have red hair?”
He looked confused. “No, it’s brown. Like muddy water. Why do you ask?”
Zelda and Addy exchanged looks.
“I don’t know what to make of that,” Zelda said.
“Me either,” Addy said.
“Can you clue me in?” Marcel asked.
“Lucien, there was woman in your house this morning. Upstairs. When we
drove away I saw her in the window. She had flaming red hair. If it wasn’t
one of your staff, who was it?”
Lucien paled at the mention of the woman. Marcel let out a small gasp.
Addy and Zelda exchanged a look.
“What?” Addy asked finally.”
“Why did you both react to that information?”
Lucien and Marcel eyed each other suspiciously.
“One of you better tell us what’s going on,” Zelda said with ice in her voice.
“My friend is still missin’ and the two of you both seem to know somethin’
we don’t. So let’s have it.”
“You first,” Marcel said to Lucien.
Lucien nodded, reluctance in his eyes. “Louise. She’s got red hair.”
“I thought she was out of town,” Addy said, the irritation obvious in her
voice.
“Well?” Zelda demanded.
“She told me she was going to London. That was yesterday and I didn’t
expect her back for a couple of weeks.”
Addy’s mind raced while she listened to Zelda and Lucien banter back and
forth. She also noticed that Marcel was quiet and seemed paler himself the
more Lucien spoke.
“Would she have done somethin’ to Marguerite? You were very incensed
when we asked you that this morning. You acted as though that would be
impossible.”
“I wouldn’t have thought such a thing was possible, but what other
explanation is there?”
Addy spoke again. “We need to talk to the staff and determine if any of
them have seen Louise around. Call for Colleen and Lottie. Surely one of
them saw something. Or heard something. If Louise had done something to
Marguerite, surely someone would have heard or seen something. Or heard
Marguerite make her phone call to Claude-Pierre. It still makes no sense
why she would have placed that call.”
“I don’t understand it either. She wouldn’t have given up that performance
of her own accord. That much I can say for sure,” Lucien agreed. He then
called out for Colleen who must have been standing nearby because she
presented herself immediately. “Colleen, please get Lottie and George. We
need to ask you some questions.”
Colleen nodded and left the room quickly, concern etched in her face.
“Can you think of a reason Louise would have forced her hand?”
He thought for a moment and then let out a sigh that sounded an awful lot
like resignation. “She was a bit jealous of Marguerite. She told me that
she’d always wanted to perform at Moulin Rouge. I’m being a hundred
percent truthful when I tell you that I had no idea she was capable of
something like this or even that the Moulin Rouge bit was that big of deal. I
knew it frustrated her. That’s all.”
“How could she have convinced Marguerite to quit? Is Louise very strong?
Could she have overpowered her? Marguerite is not exactly a waif. I think
she could fend for herself against most women and some men.”
“I don’t think she could have physically overpowered Marguerite.
Something else would have caused her to quit but I can’t think for the life
of me what it would be.”
“I might be able to shed a little light on the subject,” Marcel said. He
seemed defeated somehow.
Addy and Zelda both stared at Marcel with open mouths.
“What could you possible have to add about Louise?” Zelda demanded, her
goodwill for Marcel apparently evaporating by the moment.
He didn’t answer Zelda, but instead looked at Lucien. “Tell me, Lucien.
You said that Louise wanted to perform at Moulin Rouge. It was her
childhood dream, is that right?”
Lucien nodded. “That’s right. Before the war, she saw an operetta there.”
“And she is a dancer, not a singer, correct?”
“Yes, a dancer. How did you know this?”
“Before Louise supposedly left for London, when did you see her last?”
“I saw her nearly every night for about two weeks.”
“And where was your usual meeting place when it wasn’t here?”
Addy thought she was catching an inkling of the truth here but it seemed
too impossible to be true.
“She has a flat.”
“Let me guess, on the Left Bank?”
“Why, yes. How could you possibly know that? Have you been having an
affair with my wife?”
Addy looked at Marcel, whose face was haunted, with sympathetic eyes.
“Marcel, does Yvette have red hair?”
Zelda gasped and Lucien found a way to become even paler.
Just then Colleen rushed back into the room. “Monsieur Mainard, please
come at once. Lottie’s been tied up in a linen closet.”
They all raced up the stairs behind Colleen and found Lottie. George was in
the process of untying her. Lottie looked terrified. And cold. She had no
clothes on. Zelda pulled a sheet off the shelf and covered the poor thing up.
“What happened?” Lucien demanded.
Addy thought perhaps given the circumstances he could have been a little
less gruff with Lottie, but he wasn’t. The young girl spoke softly, “Madame
Louise, she tricked me. She said she needed help in here and then she
pulled a gun on me. Made me take off my clothes and left me tied here. She
said if I was quiet, I would not be harmed so I stayed quiet. Thank you,
Mademoiselle Colleen.” At that her voice broke and she started sobbing.
“There, there, dear girl. It is quite all right. You’re safe now.”
 11

M ARCEL NODDED . “Y ES , SHE DOES .”

“I think I know where we might be able to find Marguerite,” Addy said.

Zelda found her words. “Addy, are you saying what I think you’re saying?
Are Louise and Yvette the same person? The woman you saw in the
window?”
“I’m afraid so. Lucien’s lover Louise is the same person as Yvette, Marcel’s
wife.
Marcel practically fell into the sofa, reeling from the revelation that he had
already know but was still processing.
Zelda plopped down next to him.
“You mean your wife was havin’ an affair with your lover’s husband? Is
that what you are saying Marcel?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” His face sagged with the
acknowledgement and it seemed to Addy like he’d aged many years in the
space of heartbeat. She truly felt bad for him. Not for Lucien, though.
Addy kept at it. “You mentioned that Yvette got on well with Marguerite.
Why would she kidnap her—or God knows what else?”
Marcel nodded. “They did get on just fine. I suppose I was fooling myself
when I said they were good friends. They were, don’t get me wrong, at one
time great friends. When Yvette found out about Marguerite’s role at the
Moulin Rouge and I saw her jealousy. Mind you, I had no idea she was that
overcome. I thought maybe she just was feeling some regret about her own
life’s path. I couldn’t have imagined her capable of such an atrocity.”
Addy looked at Lucien. “Marguerite couldn’t have ever met Louise, then, is
that right? Or she’d have known. Do you think she discovered Yvette’s
secret?”
“Louise made a big deal about never meeting my wife. I always thought she
was just uncomfortable with our arrangment. I could not have imagined
something like this.”
“And the flat on the Left Bank?” Zelda asked the room.
Marcel nodded. “Yes, Yvette owns that. It was really all that survived from
her family’s estate after the war. She uses it as an art studio.”
“Let’s go,” Zelda cried out. “Maybe Yvette or Louise, whatever her name
is, is holding her there.”
On the short drive to Yvette’s flat, Addy thought a lot about what she’d
discovered about this woman and her two identities. To Marcel, she was
Yvette. To Lucien, she was Louise. Marguerite had known Yvette—had
spent a fair amount of time with her. She’d never met Louise.
“How do you suppose Marguerite discovered Yvette’s secret? Perhaps she
came home this morning when she left Marcel’s and discovered Louise still
here? You said she left last night, is there any reason she’d have come back
this morning?” Addy posed the question to Marcel and Zelda. Lucien had
chosen to take his own car which was just fine with all the occupants of this
vehicle.
Zelda nodded. “Maybe. I suppose she could have threatened to expose
Yvette and her double life. But why would she have come back to the
Mainard estates this morning?”
Addy exhaled. “We’ll have to ask her when we see her.”
Marcel grunted. “She didn’t think it through very well. Her involvement in
Marguerite’s disappearance led straight to the heart of her secret.”
“I’m so sorry, Marcel,” Zelda softly and touched his arm. “What a terrible
realization for you to have.”
“I just don’t understand why she would need to lead a double life. We had
arrangements that gave both of us the freedom to see other people. There
was no reason for her to do any of this. Mostly I just hope that Marguerite is
all right. If Yvette has hurt her, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“I hope so, too,” Zelda said in a whisper.
The tension in the air was palpable as they pulled into the parking space and
followed Marcel to the flat. Lucien, who had been right behind them, joined
their unlikely group.
Marcel knocked on the door. “I don’t have a key with me and I didn’t want
to take the time to go home and get it. If she doesn’t answer, I’ll break
down the door.”
“Yvette, it’s me, Marcel. Open the door.” Addy was impressed by how well
he kept the strain out of his voice. He must be a nervous wreck.
A few moments passed with no sound from the inside.
“I guess we’ll do this the hard way,” Marcel said softly. He looked so
defeated. Addy just wanted to hug him.
Just as he moved to force his shoulder, there was a shuffling of feet on the
other side of the door and the sound of the chain lock being removed from
the door.
Standing in the doorway was the redhead from Lucien’s second floor
window. Louise. Yvette.
Her bright blue eyes looked at Marcel and then Lucien and then she
immediately moved to shut the door on them. Marcel was quicker and put
himself in the way.
Everything happened quickly from there. One moment they were standing
outside staring at the woman with two lives and the next they were all
standing inside the flat with the door closed behind them.
Yvette had run inside and now she pointed a revolver at Marcel with
shaking hands.
“Marcel, I can explain.”
“I don’t want your explanation. Where’s Marguerite, Yvette? That’s all that
matters right now. And that’s your grandfather’s revolver, it doesn’t even
work so don’t bother trying to intimidate any of us with it.”
Yvette chewed her lip nervously and her eyes danced between Lucien and
Marcel.
“Lucien, I’m so sorry.”
Before anyone could stop him, Lucien had Yvette pinned against the
opposite wall, much as Marcel had done to him only minutes before..
“Where is my wife, Louise. Excuse me, Yvette. Where is Marguerite? If
you want to live, I suggest you start talking.”
Marcel crossed the room and took up a position next to Lucien. He put his
hand on Lucien’s back. “Back away from her, Lucien. We will get the
information we came for without violence. Yvette will more than get what
is coming to her. Trust me.”
From the steel in his voice and the acid in his gaze, Addy knew she
definitely did not want to be on the receiving end of that anger. She
somehow knew instinctively that Marcel wouldn’t lay a hand on her, but
Yvette’s life was about to change in some significant and very unpleasant
ways.
“Where is she, Yvette? I swear to God you tell me where she is or I’ll let
Lucien have you. And that I promise you’ll regret much more than telling
me the truth. Assuming the truth is something you know how to speak.”
“Is she hurt, Yvette?” Addy spoke. Of all the people in the room, she was
arguably the most objective. “Tell us where we can find her.”
Yvette’s frantic eyes searched the room, Addy guessed looking for some
sort of safety. Or an exit. She would find none, Addy knew without even
looking around. When her eyes focused back on Addy, she slumped in
Lucien’s grasp and nodded her head to her left.
“She’s in the guest room.”
Marcel was across the room and moving down the hall before Yvette had
finished her sentence. Addy watched Lucien loosen his grip on her, turn to
follow Marcel, and then thought better of it and tightened his grip on
Yvette’s neck. Addy wanted to oppose him, but didn’t actually object.
Zelda followed Marcel and Addy, once she was certain that Lucien wasn’t
going to kill Yvette, followed Zelda.
Marguerite was laying on her side, hog tied, on a bed with the most
beautiful comforter Addy had ever seen. The juxtaposition of the tied up
woman on the gorgeous bedding was disconcerting.
Marcel worked on untying her and Marguerite, who was very much alive,
was sobbing with what must have been tears of relief.
 12

M ARGUERITE WAS SAFE AND Y VETTE , WHOSE MIDDLE NAME TURNED OUT TO
be Louise, was visiting a healer in Alicante, Spain. The healer, who was
probably more witch than doctor, had a retreat in the Mediterranean port on
the Iberian peninsula. Marguerite, who turned out to be more than
reasonable, had suggested they find a way to help Yvette, rather than just
punish her. This outcome helped Addy come to terms with having not
involved the police. Marcel accompanied her to get her situated and had
made it back in time to watch Marguerite perform in her role at Moulin
Rouge.
In a surprising turn of events, Ernest had volunteered to assist Scott in
helping Lucien with his anger issues. Marguerite’s perspective was again
crucial in choosing a therapeutic response rather than one grounded in
punishment. She insisted that her husband, who unquestionably had some
violent tendencies, was truly a good man and had simply lost his way.
Addy, with her perspective from the future, was impressed with the
outcome. It felt very forward thinking for the time, but not all that unusual
given the other different ways that these Ex-pat American’s had chosen to
live their lives.
Addy watched these people—Zelda, Marcel, Ernest, and Scott— who had
become her friends in a bizarre twist of fate that she had yet to understand.
The group had come together in a very unique, very special way to help
Yvette Louise and Lucien. She observed the compassion, their strange, yet
lovable breed of madness, and the power of their community. As she
considered their mindset, she felt like she might be able to tell Zelda what
was happening. Still, it felt like a risk she wasn’t sure she should take.
Zelda and Addy sat in the living area of Zelda’s rooms at an expensive
Parisian hotel and recounted the last few days.
Zelda smiled at Addy. “I thank you for your help, Addy.”
Addy smiled back. “I’m so glad Marguerite is safe. I still can’t believe that
Yvette held her at gunpoint and made her call Claude-Pierre. Did you ever
ask her why she called him instead of you, or Lucien, or even the director?”
Zelda nodded. “She thought that Claude-Pierre would find it strange and
report it. She had no idea at the time what Louise was planning to do with
her.”
“Now that Marguerite is safe,” Addy said, “I can say that it was quite clever
how Yvette managed to sneak Marguerite out of the house in Lottie’s
clothes.”
“She managed quite a lot with an antique revolver, didn’t she?”
They both laughed. It was just slightly funny now.
“Zelda?” Addy asked, her tone changing to a more serious one. “What was
Ernest prepared to do if we couldn’t find Marguerite on our own.”
Zelda grew very still. “I’ll tell you but you must promise me two things.
One, keep an open mind. Two, you cannot talk about it with anyone. It is
quite controversial and there are those in the city who would cause much
trouble for us.”
“After everything you’ve done for me, a complete stranger, I can easily
agree to your terms.”
Zelda took a deep breath. “Some of us have been experimenting with spells
and ceremonies.”
She got up and walked across the room and pulled a book from the shelf.
She handed it to Addy.
First Manifesto of Surrealism
So Jillian was right! This was Addy’s first thought. What she actually said
out loud was much calmer and more reserved. “Oh, is that all.”
“All? That doesn’t make you nervous or afraid of us?”
“Not at all. What was Ernest going to do then?”
“He was going to perform a locator spell. It’s a bit risky. The only way he
knows to do it is to journey to the spirit world using a form of meditation
and it doesn’t always work out. Although there are other spells he could
have tried. We are very new at this and quite amateur in our abilities so it’s
not a risk worth taking if we could have found her by other methods.
Luckily, we did find her. By the next morning, we’d have had a ceremony.”
She waited, looking at Addy with questioning eyes.
Addy smiled. “I have something I’d like to tell you.”
Addy poured out the details of how she’d fallen asleep a hundred years in
the future and woke up in Zelda’s time. She spoke about the confusion—
and wonder—of being in this time that she’d studied for so long and how
grateful she was to be able to have this experience. She very carefully
avoided speaking about anything regarding Zelda, Scott, or Ernest’s
personal future. That felt very dangerous, somehow. She confessed that she
had no idea how to get home or how she’d gotten here and that she was
essentially trapped in a foreign place and time with nothing and nobody to
lean on. Zelda listened quietly, with a very still face, during Addy’s entire
confession. Eventually, Addy stopped talking because Zelda’s lack of
reaction was terrifying. Zelda had, by studying surrealism, an open mind
about the place for dreams and imagination. How much magic her and her
friends blended with the first Addy didn’t know. Addy didn’t know if
science or magic was what brought her to her present location, but she did
know that it wasn’t something she could explain even with her 21 st century
perspective.
Still, it could have been a miscalculation for Addy to have told her about
her experience. She could admit that if the roles had been reversed and
Zelda Fitzgerald had shown up in her Chicago bookshop, claiming to have
travelled from the past, Addy wouldn’t have taken that well.
“Zelda, please say something,” Addy implored.
There was a silence in the air for a time and then Zelda said breathlessly, “It
worked. It actually worked. Ernest is going to be ecstatic.”
“Wait, what? What worked? What are you talking about Zelda?”
“Ernest will have to explain it. I didn't’ really understand what he was
doing, but I think you are here because of something that we did.”
Addy burst into tears, surprising even herself with the rapid onset of
emotion.
Zelda sat next to Addy. “Oh, please don’t be sad. I’m really sorry. We didn’t
think it would work.”
Addy tried to gather herself. She wasn’t mad at all. She was relieved to
know that she wasn’t losing her mind. That what had happened to her was
real, if still inexplicable.
She still didn’t believe in superstition or magic, but she did believe in time
travel. Maybe Zelda and her friends would be able to help her understand
what had happened.
Zelda continued to attempt to offer solace. “I promise as soon as Ernie gets
back, he’ll explain everything.”
“No, you misunderstand my tears. I’m not sad. I mean, I am. It’s confusing.
I’m happy to know that I’m not losing my mind and that there is some
explanation involved. I’m a little sad because I just miss home….or
something. ” Her mind raced. These last few days have just been, well, a lot
to take in. I guess it’s all just catching up with me.” She had a flash of
memory and blurted out, “You know what it is, I miss the ocean. I’m
homesick and I miss the water.”
“You have ocean in Chicago? Oh, no, you are talking about Lake
Michigan?”
Addy nodded. “Yes, we have the lake in Chicago but when I was a little girl
my father used to take me out to dive in the ocean. I don’t know. Maybe I’m
just so far from home that any little thing that reminds me of it seems
comforting somehow.”
“You used to dive? In the ocean? How incredibly exciting. This is an
adventure that sounds perfectly lovely. Maybe we should have one.”
It was an off handed comment and Addy knew she didn’t really mean it but
it helped to have the offer and the comfort of a friend who cared.
Addy started crying all over again. “I think you would really appreciate
diving, Zelda,” she said through wet eyes and a runny nose. She took a
breath and tried to regain her composure. The time for falling apart was not
right now.
“You are a good friend. I’m happy fate brought us together. Being homesick
is a childish indulgence. Forgive me, I’m quite over my little display.”
Zelda shook her head.
“It’s nothing. Addy, you are a delightful, if slightly troubled, soul. I might
know a thing or two about that. I can see that you are missing home and that
you are confused. Believe me, I’m confused too. You’ve been such a good
sport about helping me with all of this Marguerite business. I think I have a
perfect idea to help distract you from your troubles—at least for a little
while. Will you humor me?”
Addy sat in front of Zelda and blew her nose, too distressed to care about
what a blithering mess she was in her own distress, and tried to get herself
together. She’d had a complete meltdown about being out of her own time
and with nowhere to go and nobody to talk to about it. Now that she’d
trusted Zelda with her secret, the angst of all of it finally caught up to her.
She sniffled and nodded at Zelda. “Yes, I’ll humor you. You really are too
kind to me. I’m just a stray human. Thank you.”
Zelda gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and jumped up from the sofa she’d
been sitting on.
“You aren’t a stray. You are one of our family, for as long as you are here.
Don’t consider yourself without family. I’ve decided I’m adopting you. I’ll
be back in a few minutes. Help yourself to whatever food you want, there
are more books in the library if you’d like to read something other than that
manifesto while you wait. Scott won’t be home for hours so you’ll have the
place to yourself. Nap if you like. Back in a lightning flash.”
Addy gaped at Zelda’s retreating figure. She grabbed her hat and placed it
on her head in a very determined manner and pulled the door closed behind
her.
 13

A DDY REFLECTED ON THE MEMORY OF Z ELDA THAT DAY , SO INTENT ON

helping her new friend and was amazed that in only two days she had
pulled together a diving trip in the French Riviera for her.
She’d asked Addy to humor her and to let her do something for her. She’d
never expected something like this, but she suspected it would be just the
healing she needed.
Now they sat on a boat with a guide, looking quite ridiculous in the diving
gear that was available in the 1920s. It wasn’t the first time Addy had
marveled at the difference a century made. This was so much more
rudimentary than the diving trips she’d made as a kid with her dad.
But sitting here, moments away from going into the water, she was
overcome with excitement. Being underwater and getting to see the marine
life was probably the closest Addy would get to a comfortable environment
that reminded her of home as long as she was in a different time. Oceans
were reliable across time for getting Addy back into a good perspective.
She felt such a wave of gratitude fill her. The familiar motion of the boat
sloshing in the water, the mist that would spray her face, and the wind that
surrounded her and blew her hair around. All these sensations that grounded
her in her own skin, in her own body. In this moment, it didn’t matter where
or when she was. Because when she was present in the moment like she
was right now, she was already home.
That was a reminder that she definitely needed to experience. Whether Paris
or Chicago, last century, this century, or next century, she was home
wherever she was.
The guide’s voice pulled her out of her reverie. “Your turn. Do you
remember what to do?”
Addy nodded, feeling truly happy for the first time since she’d arrived in
Paris. “Lean back and fall into the water and let the weight belt take care of
the rest.”
He nodded but his eyes were surprised and Addy recalled that all the other
women on the tour had either opted to stay on the beach or, if they’d
decided to dive, had been so nervous and asked a bazillion questions
looking for reassurance. A hundred years ago, she remembered that it
wasn’t necessarily prevailing knowledge that most everything a man could
do, a woman could also do. And sometimes better.
Well, this was a good opportunity to lead by example.
“Do you think we’ll see any Octopus? They are my favorite.” Addy smiled
at the guide.
“There are plenty of Octopus and other sea life here in the Mediterranean. If
you get close enough to the coral, you should be able to see some. Are you
a regular diver?”
“I haven’t beeen in a couple of years, but I used to dive all the time. My
father taught me.”
“Really? Where is your favorite spot to dive?”
“So many beautiful places. It’s hard to choose. My top favorites are Maui
and South Africa, though. If I had to choose. The Great Barrier Reef is also
so lovely.”
His eyes grew big as saucers and she just realized that she probably had
much more experience diving than this fellow did. She smiled inwardly,
reminding herself again that she was always home within herself.
Sometimes it took the perspective of a stranger to really see that.
Zelda, who’d been chatting with another guide, turned and stared at Addy.
“You’ve been divin’ to all of those places? We must do more of this.
Assumin’ I don’t hate it, of course. Water makes me a little nervous.”
“Don’t be nervous,” Addy said calmly. “I’ll go in first and then I’ll be right
with you the whole time. I can’t tell you enough how grateful I am that you
were able to arrange this.”
“Well,” Zelda said, blushing a bit. “I do believe it’s going to be very much
my pleasure. Besides, I owe you. You are only here because of me and my
friends. The least we can do is entertain you.”
“When does Ernest get back?” Addy asked, eager to talk to him about
whatever it was that brought her here.
“Next week!”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.”
“You think I’ll enjoy this?” Zelda asked, her bright eyes glancing at the
water nervously. “I want to like it, I truly do. But desire isn’t always
enough.”
Addy smiled. “I really think you will. It’s like being in another world when
you are underwater. It’s quiet and calm and everything just moves at a
slower pace. At first, it will feel a little strange to be breathing under water
and your breath will sound quite loud, but just take slow, deep breaths and
remember that you perfectly safe. I’m a very good swimmer. I hope you get
to see an Octopus, Zelda. They are such smart creatures. Very quick witted.
I think you’d be quite fascinated by them.”
Zelda looked enraptured by Addy’s description, but the fear was still
obvious in her eyes and in her nervous mannerisms.
“What does this knob do again?” Her voice was shaky, but bright.
Addy looked to the guide this time, knowing she was a bit out of her depth
here with this antiquated equipment.
“It’s been long enough that I’m not very familiar with the equipment. Can
you quickly remind us what is what here?”
That was truly her only anxiety about this particular dive. She’d never dived
with this equipment. She definitely missed the more light weight
technologically advanced gear of the 21 st century.
He spent a few minutes explaining and then she was ready to go.
She was going in just before Zelda so she’d be in the water to greet Zelda.
Addy was really eager to share some of the peace of the underwater world
with Zelda.
With a thumbs up to the guide, she fell backward off the boat and into the
warm, crystal blue waters of the mediterranean. She felt the joy of the initial
splash and then she rolled over onto her stomach so she could see into the
waters below. The dive helmet and suit were much heavier and bulkier so
her movements felt awkward. And strangely restricted from what she was
used to.
Once she’d had a few moments to get acclimated to the difference in the
suit, she really looked at her surroundings for the first time.
She’d never dived in the Mediterranean before so she didn’t have a direct
comparison to what it looked like now versus a hundred years in the future,
but what she did see took her breath away.
It seemed like her visibility was limitless. And the bright colors of the fish
that swam around her against the background of the bright blue water was
gorgeous.
Besides the time she’d seen the whale swim just past her off Maui and the
time when the South African octopus had reached out and held her hand,
this was maybe the most exhilarating under sea experience she’d ever had.
She wondered if the 21 st century Mediterranean had as many fish as the
20 th century version and sadly thought it probably did not. She resigned to
make the most of her experience here in the 1920s version of Paris for as
long as she was here, realizing that she was ultimately having the
opportunity to see things that would never have been possible otherwise.
But she put that thought out of her mind and focused on the brightly striped
school of fish that were swimming just in front of her face. They seemed
almost playful in their movements.
Right. What a good reminder. Playful was an important way to be in the
world. The ocean and the life that lived here always taught her so much
about her own life and how to be in the world.
She’d have to do something really wonderful for Zelda as a repayment. This
experience was priceless to her.
It was so quiet down here that somehow she couldn’t even hear her own
anxiety when she was submerged. Chicago, her own time—they both
existed somewhere in the back of her brain but neither was a source of
sadness or fear. They were just…out there somewhere. She swam about for
a few more minutes until the splash above marked Zelda’s entrance into the
water.
Addy swam to her and reached for her hand. Zelda’s eyes were the size of
dinner plates behind the glass of the helmet and she was breathing quickly.
Addy gave her a big smile to hopefully communicate that all was as it was
supposed to be.
Addy motioned to her through the glass and placed her hand on her own
chest and very dramatically showed her to take slow, deep breaths. Zelda
began breathing in time with Addy and slowly, moment by moment, her
eyes returned to normal size and her breathing returned to a natural pace.
Addy saw Zelda notice the fish for the first time. She started to move away
away when one approached her helmet, but Addy held a firm grip on
Zelda’s hand. With her free hand, Addy reached out and gently wiggled her
fingers in the water.
Several of the small fish came over and danced around Addy’s hand and
when Addy looked at Zelda, she saw a giant smile lighting up her face.
Perfect. This is exactly what Addy had hoped for when she learned Zelda
was coming into the water with them. For her to connect with the animals
and to breathe in the moment of the experience. She’d have to ask her later
if she felt as peaceful down her as Addy did.
They spent another thirty minutes, half-swimming, half-floating through the
plethora of fish and even went a little deeper to experience the close-up of
the coral reef they were just above. Zelda got a little nervous as they got
further down, but she managed to stay actively engaged in the experience
until the guides tugged on their oxygen tube to signal that it was time to
come up.
Just before they started their ascent to the surface, moving slowly and
taking in the last sights of the fish, Addy saw what she’d been looking for.
An octopus, just moving along the sea floor and back to the safety of the
coral. She only caught a glimpse of it, but somehow, it was just enough.
She’d gotten what she’d needed and more and knew that somehow,
someway, Addy Blackstone was going to be all right whenever in the world
she was.
 BETTIE JANE

Bettie Jane's story is one about the love between a young girl and her grandmother. When I was a
young teen, my grandmother and I would sit in her living room and over a cuppa tea in the desert of
northern Arizona, she'd tell me wild tales of her and my grandfather's families. I took copious notes
about who immigrated from where and what the dynamics were like in different generations. From
those many hours and days of those precious conversations, love for my own family history and my
fascination with world history forever became part of my DNA.

I wanted to be an author since I was nine years old. I couldn't think of anything more worthy of
aspiration than to write books. Like what happens with a lot of young girl dreams, it took nearly 30
years for me to realize the title of published author. Since 2012, I've published 27 different titles
under three different pen names.

Writing cozy historical mysteries under Bettie Jane (an iteration of my beloved grandmother's name)
is both the realization of my childhood dreams and a loving tribute to my grandmother who I said
goodbye to in 2006.

I've felt the void from her absence since she passed on, and writing these books feels like I'm back in
her living room with her. In the last conversation I had with her she said, "I'm just really sad". She
knew she was dying and that her days were few.

Every time I create these stories, I send a silent wish that wherever she is, she finds just a bit of joy
knowing that she lives on in my memory. She didn't live long enough to see me realize my dreams,
but I hope she knows somehow.

Every time you read one of Bettie Jane's books, take a moment to think of a grandmother sharing
stories with her granddaughter; stories that would sustain the latter long after the former bid her final
farewell.
ALSO BY BETTIE JANE
Piccadilly Ladies Club Mysteries
Hyde Park Heist
Suffragette Sabotage
Fleet Street Felony
Marble Arch Murder
Covent Garden Caper
Tower Bridge Trespass
Double-Decker Murder
Blackmail at Brunel
Murder at the Masquerade