‘Paris. The sixth,’ she replied.
‘Not with that accent you’re not.’
‘Australia. Sydney.’
‘Never been,’ he said simply and took another swig from his flask. ‘Show me your hands.’
Charlie held her hands up.
‘Not like that.’ He flipped her hands over so they were palm up. She was surprised at how cold his were. ‘My mother had the gift and her mother before her. I like to look at people’s hands to see if I can trust them.’
Charlie kept her hands still and said nothing.
Mael nodded to himself. ‘Just as I expected, you have earthy hands. Square palm, stubby fingers—practical. Grounded. Hands of a worker.’
He peered into her eyes and she blinked him away and turned her head.
‘Long lifeline. See? Mine’s shorter. Much shorter.’
Charlie looked at him and he nodded and jutted out his lip while he held one palm out to show her. He took another sip from his flask and winked playfully at Charlie.
‘You have a strong love line. Broken here, love … but gets going again.’ He chortled and patted the seat. ‘But your whole hand is holding you back. You’re searching … but in the way of yourself. You’re fixated on something you can’t resolve. There’s something you need to let go of. You won’t find what you’re looking for until you do.’
Was he talking about love? Or work? Both?
Charlie thought of her ex-husband. That was resolved.
Then she pictured Maisy Bell’s happy face. Unresolved.
‘Excuse me. I need to visit the gentlemen’s room before I check into where I shall be staying tonight.’ He reached down and grabbed his pillowcase. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you.’
‘Don’t go!’
‘My old man’s not what it was. Forgive me,’ he said as he dragged the clinking bag away to some trees.
Charlie watched the man disappear into the undergrowth, making a note of the direction so she could tell the police. Maybe Mael was right—she needed to focus all her energy on this new story. Yet she couldn’t let the Maisy Bell story slide … maybe she never would.
But for now, she needed to concentrate on unlocking what had happened here in Tours. Charlie pulled out her notebook and made a list of the details she had so far, including Mael’s French onion soup with proper comté cheese so she could track him down to the exact soup kitchen later.
When she was done, Charlie closed her notebook and went to find one of the police officers patrolling the park to tell him about the conversation she’d just had with a man in a burgundy velvet suit. A young man with thin lips assured her they would find him and investigate before ushering her out of the park. The local police certainly did not like the press. Chastened, she wandered along the footpath to catch a taxi back to the hotel and tell Violet all she’d discovered.
Chapter 13
RUE NATIONALE, TOURS
Back at their chintzy double room at the Hotel Mirabeau, Violet listened to Charlie’s account of the body in the forest, her encounter with Mael and even the spontaneous palm reading, before she clapped her hands and said, ‘Okay, so what I heard—apart from the obvious awfulness of the body—is that you are having an aperitif with a hot detective who could equally be a forester.’
‘That’snotthe topline. Also, I saiddebriefwith Detective Allard, not aperitif. We’re professionals.’
‘I’m not suggesting otherwise. But you clearly have nothing to do now except brood about what morsels you are going to get from your detective’—she rubbed her fingers together—‘so I insist you come shopping with me.’
‘Shopping? That’s hardly professional when I’m investigating a possible homicide.’
‘You just had your palm read by a nomad on a park bench. I wonder what George would make of that?’ Violet poked her left dimple and pulled a face.
‘You are impossible. I’ll come. But only because the locals might have some gossip. Word on the street is often—’
‘Extremely unhelpful. But still, the town drunk had something helpful to say, so who knows what someone sober might have remembered?’