The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower. Rebecca RaisinЧитать онлайн книгу.
and wife, rather than the talented artist she was in her own right. Madame Dupont had been downright fervent about that fob watch.
I frowned. Was that what her heart-wrenching spiel on the phone had really been about? That she hadn’t given in to love because she wanted her independence and now regretted it? As much as she loved the idea of Zelda, she believed staying single she could accomplish so much more without a man holding her back. But even so, Madame Dupont wouldn’t resort to… I blushed at my treacherous thought – of course she wouldn’t; she couldn’t. She wasn’t a thief!
Once or twice she may have manipulated the truth in the past for reasons known to only her, but she wouldn’t be so shameless or immoral to actually steal! Money mattered little to Madame Dupont because she had plenty of it. She only continued working because she claimed her business kept her young. But committing a brazen robbery? Madame Dupont could easily have bought the entire collection ten times over if she had wanted to!
Shame spread through me. How could I have dreamed up such a thing?
I read the article once more. The Postcard Bandit. Stealing was one thing, mocking the investigators was another. Whoever it was didn’t like authority. Another long afternoon at the shop would give me ample time to think. I thanked the universe I hadn’t been sitting in front of Madame Dupont when I read the newspaper, lest she suspect my mind went straight to her. It was the heady rush of daytime vin blanc, and the angst of missing antiques. That’s all it was. Madame Dupont was as innocent as a newborn baby…
I finished the last of my wine and headed back to the shop, hoping the walk would invigorate me, and clear the detritus in my mind. Madame, the thief! Really.
The late afternoon was quiet. Everyone was soaking up fine weather, and the cloudless sky, so I found my rolodex, oui, I still used a rolodex because I liked the musty smell, and the eggshell-colored cards. I flicked through, scanning the details of my clients, searching for one in particular. I always jotted notes about their purchases, their style, what they desired, so I could help them better. Some cards had only one line, 1920s’ Lalique vases, present for aunt. Others had minuscule scribbles over a handful of cards, my longest and most loyal customers.
I found the card I was looking for. Eva, a woman who collected crystals and other spiritual paraphernalia. She said they had magical powers, and healed any ailment. The different color crystals worked on various emotions: turquoise for balance, amethyst for creativity, and scarlet to conquer fear. The reason I remembered those colors and what they represented was that Eva told me time and again. They were traits I needed to work on.
I dialed her number.
“Anouk, darling! What have you got for me? Yellow, perhaps for enlightenment, because I’ve been seeing the world so clearly lately!”
“Yellow, perhaps… I have some pictures to send you. Next week, there’s an auction, full of crystals from an astrology shop that closed down. All sorts of colors, and sizes being sold in bundles. As far as I can see, there’s been very little interest in it. I thought I might bid for you – what do you think?” A group of women huddled outside, their faces pressed against the window as they pointed to various curios while slurping milkshakes through striped straws.
She shrieked, “You are too good to me, Anouk! Oui, send me the pictures, and I’ll tell you which bundle I need most.”
“I think they’ll each go for perhaps a hundred Euros per lot, maybe less.”
An audible gasp rang out. “It amazes me people just don’t see the value! But it’s great for me. Let me flip your tarot, and see what’s in your future because I know it must only be good things.”
“Merci,” I laughed. There wasn’t a dealer in Paris who’d bother with a sale like this, especially an auction they’d have to attend in person. But for me it was all part of the business. I had customers who spent the equivalent of a small house, and others the cost of a dinner out. They were all important to me. I could see the relevance in everything, from collecting postcards, to candelabras, or pianos. We each desired different things, driven either by budget or simply love.
Eva always read my tarot, and I played along, never really believing but not disbelieving either.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Ah.”
“What is it, Eva?” I asked, staring out the window of the shop, watching the peach roses sway in the breeze.
She gasped. “Anouk, you have to tread very carefully. Your life…it’s about to take a strange turn.”
“How so?”
She took a long time to answer. “The cards are showing me some kind of altercation and you’re in the middle of it. All I know is, you’re about to become embroiled in something that you can’t extract yourself from. Be careful, Anouk.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, provoking shivers up my spine.
The door opened suddenly, sending a gust of spring air into the shop, and in he walked. Tristan. I nodded hello, and gripped the phone a touch tighter.
“Anouk,” she said. “Are you there? I haven’t scared you have I?”
Eva’s readings were usually lighthearted. A joke about soup for one, and some lucky guesses about antiques I’d win, and road trips I’d take, but this was new. Perhaps she could see the quarrel from the day before.
“No, you haven’t scared me. I’m sure I’ll be fine, Eva. But thank you for the warning.”
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