Confessions: The Murder of an Angel by James Patterson & Maxine Paetro

Author:James Patterson & Maxine Paetro [Patterson, James & Paetro, Maxine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Family, Siblings, Social Issues, Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance, Love & Romance, Juvenile Fiction / Mysteries & Detective Stories, Juvenile Fiction / Family / Siblings, Juvenile Fiction / Social Issues / Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance, Juvenile Fiction / Love & Romance
ISBN: 9780316301022
Google: PBYJrgEACAAJ
Amazon: 0316301027
Barnesnoble: 0316301027
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2015-10-24T16:00:00+00:00

Short, balding, about sixty years old, with hair sprouting on his knuckles and creeping out of his shirtsleeves, Monsieur Delavergne is not gorgeous, and in my experience, not exactly fun, either. So I was surprised to see him behind the wheel of a shiny blue Mercedes-Benz in a sport jacket, pink linen shirt, no tie, loafers, no socks. And he was smiling at me.

“Tandy, are you feeling well?” he asked me in French.

I thought of all the possible answers to that one and decided to lie.

“Bien,” I said. “Je suis très bien.”

He smiled.

He also looked very pleased with himself, and that was good. The Angel kids really needed Monsieur Delavergne on our side. But as the car slowed to navigate the très charmantes winding streets of Paris’s Le Marais district, I started to enjoy the lawyer’s cheerful side. It felt like I was leaving the scary past behind.

When the car stopped in front of the powder-blue-and-gold building that housed the perfume company my grandmother had founded so many years ago, the attorney said, “This is a very big event. I’m pleased for you to be the flower of Parfumerie Bellaire. I hope you are ready for your close-up, yes?”

“What is it? What is happening?” I asked.

“It is your perfume,” he said. “It is, how you say, rolling out today, worldwide.”

My perfume?

Beautiful people in gorgeous clothes were spilling out from the store onto the adorable shop-lined street. There was a huge banner over the entrance to the shop that read INTRODUCING TANDOORI, THE SCENT OF LOVE.

I clapped my hands to my mouth. This was the reason I’d flown all this way. That a fragrance named for me was being introduced to the world, and this was the launch party. No wonder Monsieur Delavergne had been so lighthearted, pulling off such a stupendous treat.

But that was only the beginning.

The driver opened my door for me, and as the soles of my strappy shoes touched the street, a wonderful man who had loved my gram Hilda came out of the store, opened his arms, and embraced me. His name was Guillaume Laurier; he’d been with this company since my grandmother’s time and had been the president for many years.

He had to be the one who had named a fragrance for me.

“You look beautiful,” he said, kissing both my cheeks. He lifted two glasses of champagne from a tray, handed me one, and toasted me, saying, “To the original Tandoori.”

I returned the toast. “I am so honored, Monsieur Laurier. I can only say, thank you so much.”

“You wish to smell ‘Tandoori, the scent of love’?”

“Oh, of course I do.”

My silk skirts swirled around me as we parted the crowd and went into the shop. The walls were hung with huge, luminescent photos of flower fields in the French countryside: lavender and roses, and tall grasses backlit by the setting sun. There was a video playing on monitors: a gorgeous commercial for Tandoori.

Monsieur Laurier brought me to a table near the center of the store. A pinlight in the ceiling lit a rounded bottle of frosted glass with my name etched in the center.

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