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Prologue

HOTEL RITZ, PARIS, AUGUST 1938

It was his eyes that held Maisy Bell’s attention, blue one blink, grey the next—every bit as impenetrable as the Atlantic. The man was taller than the average Frenchman and nearing forty, which made him close to twice her age. His features were austere: square jaw, neat moustache and a few tell-tale silver streaks at the temples.

Maisy shivered as she watched the stranger survey the ballroom of the Hotel Ritz as if he were taking in the Grecian artefacts at the Louvre; running his eyes over guests draped in rivers of silk and diamonds, his gaze dancing between the alluring decolletage of the opera singer and the many Monets on the far wall.

She’d been with men his age back in New York—enough to learn what she needed—sneaking out of her college dormitory, pretending to her roommate that she was off to yet another Broadway opening, when really she would be lying on two-thousand thread count hotel sheets, tipping her neck back, inhaling oysters and Krug.

Maisy chose her lovers carefully to ensure bedtime conversation was not property prices, skiing at Aspen and potential children, but rather books, classical music, opera and theatre. Art. Travel. Older men had seen shows she hadn’t. Older men had read literature she hadn’t. Older men had lived a life she hadn’t. Yet. Keats had it right: Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That summer in Paris, Maisy Bell was going to have it all.

She sipped her champagne and let the cool bubbles linger on her tongue as the man met her curious gaze. Maisy looked away and felt her cheeks grow hot as she allowed herself to inhale the scent of roses and expensive perfume while hundreds of chandeliers twinkled overhead.

The Ritz, Paris. Maisy Bell had a suite for the month as a proud graduation gift from her father. She sighed and tipped her crystal coupe for a waiter to refill and wished her father could be in Paris with her. Then, in the next second, felt guilty as she thought of her poor papa stuck in his chair with an oxygen mask, riddled with coughing fits, spasms and involuntary jerks that no doctor could fix. Papa was living proof that life was a giant adventure that could take a turn at any given moment.

Paris for the summer it was. Papa had insisted. Long, delicious weeks of opera, galleries and haute couture fittings, of course. Maisy’s mother expected her to return to Dallas and tread water being the dutiful heiress, shopping at Nordstrom, taking tea at Delilah’s and keeping fit at the tennis club, where she would presumably snare a well-vetted match. Papa was a huge patron of the arts back in Dallas and the only member of their family who didn’t laugh, avert their eyes or change the topic when Maisy insisted she was going to be an actress. She’d already had a small walk-on Off-Broadway and planned to be back for audition season in the fall.

Meanwhile, for her summer in Paris, Maisy was chaperoned by her well-meaning aunt, Clementine. The young woman was very fond of her aunt—hell, Clementine had practically raised her. But how could Maisy get the gentle, lovable Clementine to loosen her lead while they were in Paris?

She bit her lip, took another sip and admired the decadence of the ballroom and the hotel beyond: a baroque wonderland with iron lacework staircases, clandestine jazz bars with velvet booths, grand restaurants with à la carte menus loaded with pheasant, canard and boef that cost more than most people’s monthly salary. An exclusive enclave sitting proudly on Place Vendôme, where Coco Chanel kept her private living quarters. Tonight, the ballroom was heaving with poets, writers, bankers and designers. Maisy’s favourite kind of people, the kind who dressed up, travelled, went to the opera, galleries and the theatre. Discussed big ideas. People who devoured Paris. Elsa Schiaparelli stood in the corner, speaking with dear Aunt Clementine and the Paris-based interior designer and socialite, Lady Ashworth, the host of tonight’s soiree. A who’s who of fashionable Paris inhaling Krug and gossip as a pianist and a pretty opera soloist filled the room with high notes, and waiters in white tuxedos and gloves swirled between the guests with silver trays.

Maisy noticed the arrival of a striking woman with a smattering of freckles and the slightest tinge of auburn to her hair. She stood demurely behind the champagne stand, dressed in a midnight-blue, bias-cut dress so impeccably draped it could only be from one of the Paris couture houses. Even though the woman in blue had a commanding presence with her broad shoulders and keen eyes, the guest stayed a quiet observer, happy to remain in the shadows rather than step into the dazzling light of the chandeliers. The woman held a notebook in her hand and soon she was busy scrawling notes. A journalist, perhaps.

As Clementine Bell and Lady Ashworth continued in deep conversation, Maisy turned her head and made eye contact with the tall man again. He was closer now, so she confirmed late thirties, dressed in white tie with the shoulder pads a fraction too big, which could mean only one thing: a rental. Rather than repel, this intrigued her. Back in her part of Texas, men had their own tuxedos tailored. In Paris, perfect-cut shoulders were de rigueur. As the man continued to lock eyes, Maisy refused to turn her head. She found this stranger’s bravado attractive. Who was this man? Maisy smiled, smoothed her wavy blonde bob in a way she knew was alluring, set her shoulders and stepped through the crowd to introduce herself.

Murder in Paris by Kirsty Manning is out now.

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Murder in Paris

by Kirsty Manning

A glamorous historical mystery of murder, fashion, food, secrets, and danger in 1930s Paris.

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