Chapter 4 Chicago—Remy #2
Below the photograph sat a charger for Bastien’s prosthesis, its cord neatly coiled. The sight hit close. Remy went to Bastien’s computer case, unzipped it, and searched with practiced efficiency. He found the backup battery, set it gently onto the charger, and plugged it in.
A small, useless kindness—but he did it anyway.
Clay’s voice broke the silence. “These are all books about jazz musicians and the history of jazz.” He scanned the floor-to-ceiling shelves, fingers trailing along spines. “Is that what she teaches?”
Remy shrugged, though his eyes remained on the photograph. “Seems like it.”
They returned to the foyer and moved down the hall toward the back of the townhouse.
Warmth filled the primary bedroom—cheerful yellow walls, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains. Quilts, blankets, and pillows covered the bed.
Something uninvited flickered through Remy’s mind.
An image—unbidden, vivid—of himself curled into that bed with a raven-black-haired woman with dark-brown doe eyes. Heat. Breath. A softness he didn’t recognize in himself. The vision pulsed like a strobe, intimate and unsettling, before—
Ring.
The sound snapped him back to the present.
Remy exhaled and pulled out his phone. He tapped the green icon, lifting it just as the video connected. David filled the screen, bouncing a handball off the cinderblock wall of his office, the rhythmic thud grounding and infuriatingly normal.
Remy straightened instinctively, shoulders squaring.
Whatever they were walking into, the house had already told him one thing clearly. The people who belonged here hadn’t left by choice.
“Are ye there?” David asked.
“Yeah. We’re here. No bodies. No blood. But there’s a strong peat odor.”
“Damn,” David said. “What else do ye see?”
Remy scanned the room. “We’re in Marcelle’s bedroom.
The peat smell is stronger here. There’s a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, socks, and running shoes on the floor, along with an empty shopping bag on the chaise lounge.
Bastien’s open suitcase is in the guest bedroom, and his Dopp kit is in the bathroom. Nothing suspicious.”
“Marcelle’s purse, keys, and cell phone are on the dresser,” Clay added. “Do you know any women who would go off without them?”
“Not without a phone.” David bounced the ball against the wall again.
Trainer Ted had suggested that David and Elliott play handball for a full-body workout. So far, they hadn’t invited anyone to join them, which made Remy wonder if they’d told people they were going to play a match and instead went out for coffee.
Remy picked up a sales receipt from the dresser and read through the list of items. “I found a sales receipt dated yesterday,” he told David. “Marcelle purchased a wrap, shoes, a purse, and jewelry. It doesn’t specify the jewelry. What are the odds she bought a brooch at a local shop?”
The ball smacked against the wall, bounced, and shattered a glass.
“Shit,” Remy said. “You’re in Braham’s office. What’d you break?”
“It’s my office, too.” David’s voice tightened. “Go check out Marcelle’s purchases. Call me when ye have more information. I’ll fill Elliott in on what ye’ve found so far. And Remy—be discreet. Don’t make the shop owner suspicious.”
“Have you known me not to be discreet? I work for Elliott, and my actions affect other people’s opinion of him. You have me confused with another family member. I’m not a screwup.”
“I didn’t say ye were. Just don’t go in there throwing yer favorite word around.”
“Fuck, McBain. I need my bandmates.” Remy disconnected and nearly threw his phone on the dresser with Marcelle’s. But he reconsidered. If Elliott wanted him, he had to be available. Those were the rules.
Clay took the receipt and looked up the address online. “The vintage store is nearby. We can walk.” He pocketed the receipt. “If Bastien and Marcelle attended a Roaring Twenties gala, would they dress to match the theme?”
“Marcelle would,” Remy said. “Bastien would wear a tux, not a gangster costume.”
“What are you going to ask the shop owner?”
Remy set his jaw, hands sliding into his jacket pockets. “I doan know.”
“If you want to run ideas by me, shoot.” Clay glanced sideways at him, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m pretty good at brainstorming plausible scenarios.”
Remy shot him a look. “Is that from your undercover work as a journalist?”
“Most of it, yeah.” Clay’s smile faded into focus as they crossed the street. “If you’re an epic fail, I’ll jump in.”
A few minutes later, the vintage shop came into view.
Remy opened the door and stepped into the brightly colored shop, with jazz fusion playing softly in the background.
He was expecting the musty, mothball scent of old books.
Instead, lavender and orange hit him—clean and calming—and for half a second he wanted to sink into the overstuffed chair in the corner and let the music do its work.
A cute blonde woman in her mid-twenties, wearing a purple blouse, wide-legged pants, and a denim jacket, was dressing a mannequin in a short, 1960s-style dress.
“That sounds like In a Silent Way,” Remy said. “Miles Davis.”
Her smile grew wider. “You must be a jazz enthusiast.”
While Clay headed toward the jewelry counter, Remy turned on the charm. “Darlin’, I’m a jazzhead for sure.”
“You sound straight out of New Orleans. What are you doing in Chicago when it’s Mardi Gras time?”
He let out a smooth laugh. “I’m Remy Benoit. My friend is Clay MacIntyre. Is this your shop?”
She nodded. “I’m Rachel.”
He glanced around. “It’s nice. And I love the scent.” He sniffed. “Lavender.” Another breath. “Refreshing. Warm. Peaceful.”
She laughed softly. “You’re good with music and scents. That’s an odd combo.”
“I work for a vintner,” he said. “You learn fast when you’re surrounded by wine.”
“He’s a showoff who looks for opportunities to impress beautiful women,” Clay called from the counter.
Rachel blushed, and Remy side-eyed Clay. “If I doan, he jumps in to impress women with his literary expertise. Doan get him started on Jane Austen.”
“Oh, I love Jane Austen,” Rachel said. “When I read her books, it’s like she’s one step ahead of me.”
“You must have majored in English lit,” Clay said.
“I did, but it didn’t prepare me for opening a vintage shop. Used books might have been a better fit, but I love what I’m doing.”
Clay pointed at the chair, table, and lamp in the corner. “Why not do both? That space would be perfect for a small bookshelf.”
“If you added books, people would expect coffee, tea, or wine,” Remy said. “Then they’d ask for those little finger sandwiches. There’d be no end to it. I’d stick to vintage clothing.”
Rachel laughed. “Are you saying you’re not looking for finger sandwiches, tea, or coffee?”
“Or a good book,” Clay added.
“Since I don’t have anything in the shop that would interest you,” Rachel said, “can I assume you’re shopping for the special ladies in your life?”
“Neither of us has one of those,” Remy said easily. “But I have a good friend who was here yesterday and bought some jewelry—Marcelle LeBlanc. I wanted to get her a gift and figured she probably found other pieces she liked but didn’t buy because she didn’t want to bust her budget.”
“You must be an old friend,” Rachel said. “That’s exactly what happened. She liked several pieces, but her biggest purchase was a Celtic brooch. She passed on two others.”
Remy’s stomach dropped. “Three brooches?”
“They were all different.”
His heart lodged in his throat. “Different stones?”
“Two have stones in the center,” Rachel said, already reaching for a folder beneath the counter. “But they’re very different.” She glanced up. “How was the fundraiser she attended last night?”
“I haven’t heard,” Remy said smoothly. “We only got to town a few minutes ago.”
Rachel’s brows knit. “Didn’t she leave this morning for New Orleans?”
Remy didn’t hesitate. “Plans changed.”
Her puzzled look deepened. “That’s unlike Marcelle.”
“It was last-minute,” he said, keeping his smile in place. “So—what can you tell me about the brooches?”
Rachel slid a receipt across the counter, a Polaroid clipped neatly to the top. “Here’s the one Marcelle bought. I got it at an estate sale in Dallas two days ago.”
Remy stared at the image. The pit of his stomach clenched hard. There were a dozen brooches in Braham’s safe—same make, different stones. Why hadn’t Elliott sensed anything?
Clay leaned in. “Except for the stone, that’s exactly like the one my uncle owned. Do you mind if I take a picture?”
Remy forced a smile at Rachel and silently thanked Clay.
“Sure.” Rachel handed over the Polaroid and receipt.
“I told a friend about Uncle Archibald’s brooch,” Clay said, “but I didn’t describe it accurately. This will help.”
“What stone does your uncle have in his brooch?” Rachel asked.
“Moonstone,” Clay said.
Rachel met his eyes. “I’m sure it’s beautiful.”
Remy stepped between them. “Do you mind showing me the other two pieces? I might buy her one of them.”
Rachel unlocked the jewelry case and lifted the glass lid, its hinges creaking softly.
She removed two brooches and laid them carefully on a velvet pad.
“This one is a Victorian Scottish agate,” she said, nudging it so the stone caught the light.
“And this one is a silver thistle tartan brooch. Marcelle liked both. But when she saw the Celtic brooch, she said it was perfect for her dress.”
“I’ll buy them,” Remy said without hesitation.
Rachel’s brows shot up. “Both?”
“Yes.” He paused, then softened his tone. “If she liked them.”
“Oh, she did.” Rachel’s smile warmed. “Very much.”
“Ring ’em up,” Remy said. “And tell me—what else did she purchase?”
Rachel leaned closer, voice dipping conspiratorial. “You must be trying to impress her.”
Remy didn’t pull away, but his jaw tightened. “Will it work?”
“It would on me,” she said, breathy.