Chapter 18
My finger hovers over the trackpad, ready to tap and click “send.”
I’ve spent hours reviewing my audition clips, choosing the best one, and finally attaching the video to an email. Now my message to the casting director is ready to go, but I can’t bring myself to hit the button.
Did I forget anything? Did I do all I could? Is this my best work?
“It will have to be,” I mutter, because the deadline is today. And I’m out of time.
Doubt and anxiety try to creep their way in, so I steel my nerves and press the button. The outgoing message leaves with a whoosh, the finality of the sound almost taking my breath.
The empty screen taunts me for a few more seconds, then I sigh and sit back in the chair. A rainbow of emotions filters through me. Doubt, relief, elation. Doubt again.
Swiveling the chair, I face the windows. Nothing to do but wait. Wait and hope for a callback.
Outside the window, the night seems to go on forever. No moonlight or movement, only thick heavy clouds.
After the last few work-filled days, I feel the vastness of my sudden free time. Endless hours rolling out before me. What do I do with myself?
My gaze drifts to the ceiling, my thoughts drifting even farther. To the storage room one level up, sitting in the dusty dark.
I should probably finish looking for the journal, but I can’t summon the will to return to the cramped, dirty space. Not tonight.
Then I think about Noah and his invitation to La Danse des Monstres. The monsters’ dance.
According to André, it’s a much sought-after invitation, an exclusive event for the Parisian elite. And great social events often draw the media.
Which could be a problem.
I sit up straight and return to my laptop. The truth is, I have no idea what to expect from the party. High-society events often have photographers present.
Wondering if I should cancel with Noah, I click out of the email server and open a search engine. News of the protests is the top story, and the crowds on the streets have doubled in size.
So many more people than before. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. So far, they seem to be focused on the heart of the city, but I don’t think I’ll be travelling any time soon.
Putting political unrest out of my mind, I type “La Danse des Monstres” in the search bar.
Several links fill the page. None of the sites have photos, so I click on the link for images. Several pictures of the mansion come up, but they’re only exterior views.
At last, I hit paydirt. A single photo of people mingling in a lavish ballroom, many wearing masks or costumes.
The picture is uncentered and taken from a lower angle, as if the one holding the camera was sneaking a shot. Is that why I’m having a hard time finding pictures? Are cameras not allowed at the dance?
Visions of golden masks and black robes fill my mind. I shake my head at where my thoughts have led. “I’m not playing a role in Eyes Wide Shut.”
At least, I hope not.
I’m sure the privacy is to protect the party guests, or maybe secrecy helps create mystique. If it’s one thing Hollywood has taught me, it’s the power of illusion. And what people will do for a little taste of fantasy.
The photo doesn’t tell me much, other than masks seem to be optional, and I still have questions about the monsters’ dance.
Luci said this party was a way of making fun of the local gossip, the family saying they don’t care what other people think. But something about the explanation doesn’t sit right with me.
The deaths of a husband and wife in the early 1900s isn’t recent enough to inspire so much interest. And surely no one—even the haughty Marteaus—would host a yearly party to mock gossip involving a child’s death.
There has to be more to the story.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve searched every combination of words related to Maison Marteau or the monsters’ dance. I even searched for Maison de la Morte, in its specific arrondissement. Still nothing. No explanation or history of La Danse des Monstres.
I remember the enthusiasm of the dark tourist, with his ghoulish attitude and skull T-shirt.
What was done to her body.
The words send chills down my back, but I still have no idea what he meant. How did he know so much? Where did he get his information?
The idea hits me like a lightning bolt. He knew, because he was into dark tourism.
My fingers fly over the keyboard, and this time I search for dark tourist websites. Several pages populate, an overwhelming amount, so I take my time with each link. I sift through a few amateur blogs, links to social media pages, and a site last updated five years ago.
Finally, I land on a forum, the latest entry from only two hours ago. Using the search box embedded in the site, I type in Paris and scan through the topics. I find mostly information about the catacombs and graveyards.
I need more about the mansion. Specifics. And I’m betting these are the people to ask.
When I try to post a question, I get a pop-up box with a message. Access restricted to members only.
Typing in my junk email and my usual nickname, I apply to open an account.
I wait five minutes. Check my email. Another five. Another check.
“This is ridiculous.” I refresh the page one more time.
Thunder rolls outside the window, and those thick, dark clouds release the rain.
My first thought is of little Clairee. The rain will bring her to my front door, ready for supper. And so am I. With the whole day spent working, I’ve hardly eaten.
Hand on the railing, I jog downstairs, and as soon as I open the door, Clairee dashes in. She doesn’t bother to shake the drops from her fur, only beelines for the kitchen.
“Well, I guess I know what I’m good for.”
She stops and meows at me.
“Yes, yes. I’m coming.”
In the kitchen, she sits in her spot, watching me as I fill her bowl. By the time she’s licked it clean, I’ve got water boiling for pasta.
My food is in the pantry across the kitchen, my few items dwarfed by the huge space. I grab rotini and meat sauce, an easy meal. And the bottle of merlot I forgot I bought. With my audition submitted, a little relaxation—and celebration—sounds like a good idea.
I skirt around the island, pour rotini into the pot, and read the instructions. The pasta needs nine minutes to cook. Enough time for a quick change of clothes.
Rushing through the entry hall, I pass a red velvet chair.
Something pops in my peripheral vision.
I stutter to a stop.
My brain is slow to process what I saw.
I turn and look again. There, in plain sight, rests a small book.
A book that wasn’t here before.
A book I’ve never seen before.
Slowly, I stare over my shoulder, to the large connecting doors. The ones I left unlocked when I took a tour with Luci.
Alarm jolts down my spine, the shocking heat of fear. And I’m certain . . .
Someone’s been in the apartment.