The Penthouse Treasure by James Gerard (list of ebook readers .TXT) 📕

The Thief's Deceptive Ways

 Charisse just stared at the item held before her. “I’m sorry, there must be a mistake,” she finally uttered. “I told you I’m Connelly O’Brien’s personal assistant and that I was here to pick up something very, very important to him. Do you understand?”

 

“I know,” said the young woman in passing English.

 

Charisse again just stared at the item.   She simply could not understand that what the secretary held out could have any tremendous sentimental value to Connelly at all. Christophe Alphonse, she thought, the new star of the fashion industry must be some sort of twit if he hired this brainless wonder.

 

“You do know that is an umbrella?” she asked the young woman. “A big, yellow umbrella?”

 

“Yes, it is an umbrella.”

 

“And what am I supposed to do with it?”

 

“Take it of course.”

 

“Are you telling me this is what Mr. O’Brien wanted me to pick up? That I flew all the way to Paris to pick up a big, yellow umbrella?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Look, this is it. Why he would have you travel all the way here to pick this up I do not know. All I know is Christophe told me to have it ready for you. So take it.”

 

“What? You want me to carry this around with me? Look…whoever you are it is thirteen degrees outside and snowing; don’t you think it will look a little odd carrying around a yellow umbrella in the snow?”

 

“Of course you don’t use it in the snow. That would be silly. Just keep it by your side.”

 

Charisse grabbed the umbrella and left confused. She could not understand why, still felt as if there was a mistake in translation, that Connelly would have sent her here just for an umbrella. But just thinking about it brought about thoughts of foul play.

 

“He just needed me to get out of the way so he could perform his cruel and disgusting acts without a witness,” whispered Charisse. With that in mind she quickly set out to locate Christophe Alphonse and with a fresh wave of anger sweeping over the mind begin to spread the lies that would have him reconsider the good and moral character of the great Connelly O’Brien.

 

Walking down the hallway and argument broke out from behind a closed door. The voices were loud and angry, especially one who was shouting very loudly in French. The door popped open.   A man came storming out. He looked at Charisse and seemed to be commanding her to do something.

 

“Wait,” she shouted. “I don’t speak French.”

 

“Pardon…mademoiselle, but I need you to go to the changing room right now with Clara and Jacques. I need you to model some of the clothes for the upcoming show.”

 

“I am not a model! What is it with people, just because I’m tall and thin doesn’t mean I’m a model.”

 

“Get in there now,” the man shouted and pointed to a door.

 

“How dare you!”

 

Another man came running down the hall and began to speak fast.

 

Charisse clearly heard the name Connelly and the man began to settle down.

 

“Connelly’s personal assistant? I see. Again my apologies mademoiselle.”

 

The man again started to scream.

 

Although Charisse could not understand, she began to understand a little something about the fashion industry. But for what it was worth she was happy that the goal was vengeance and not long term employment.

 

The man who had come running up the hallway had stepped forward with a smile on his face. “Are you Brandy?”

 

“I am.”

 

“Connelly’s personal assistant?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Hello, my name is Jean Paul. I am a photographer…well not like the great Connelly but I aspire to be.”

 

“Well good luck with that,” responded Charisse as she turned and began to walk away.

 

“Wait! Please help me. You see, Christophe is having a moment, and not a very good moment as you can see. He needs to see some photos of a model wearing some of his preliminary designs. He wants me to take the pictures. It would help my career; so please will you do this?”

 

“I am not a model. Find someone else.”

 

“Well good,” laughed Jean Paul, “Because I am not a very good photographer.”

 

Immediately Charisse let down the veil of anger and began to laugh. She looked at Jean Paul and for some reason had pity. Besides, she thought, I came all the way here for some stupid umbrella. How could doing one more stupid thing make things worse? “Okay, but make it quick.”

 

“Oh good,” Jean Paul cried and ran down the hallway shouting “Christophe, Christophe!”

 

Clara came rushing down the hall and without a word hurried her into a changing room.

 

“I can undress myself if you don’t mind,” Charisse snapped as Clara started stripping off the parka.

 

“I am sorry mademoiselle, but Christophe is an impatient man.”

 

“Ooh,” whispered Charisse as Clara hung a number of items to the side of the changing room. “What a beautiful dress. I just love the flowery prints.”

 

“Please mademoiselle, you must put it on and go in front of the screen.”

 

“Fine, but if you don’t mind I’d like some privacy.”

 

Once Clara exited Charisse slipped on the dress and stood in front of the mirror. She looked at the reflection and saw that something was just not right. “Ah,” she whispered and with a hand removed the hair pin and shook her head from side to side. Her long and lustrous red hair was free of its constraint and draped casually over the shoulders and back. Yet something was still not right.

 

“Hey,” Charisse shouted to Clara.

 

She came running in. “Yes mademoiselle?”

 

“Could you help me with some makeup?”

 

Clara smiled and held out her hands. “I have what we need right here.”

 

Charisse immediately sat down before a lighted mirror. In a matter of moments her face was transformed from a dark and dreary look to one that glowed with softness and innocence.

 

“Well?” asked Clara.

 

“Perfect.”

 

“Jean Paul will be here shortly,” a man said behind the bright lights shining in her eyes. “By the way mademoiselle, Christophe’s design has never looked better.”

 

“Is that you Jean Paul?”

 

“No mademoiselle. I am just his assistant.”

 

Jean Paul suddenly came running into the room with words already rushing out of the mouth. “Brandy, I know you never modeled but just have some fun. Pose like you want; the photos are for in-house and will not be featured in any magazine. Now show me your springtime look.”

 

Charisse could only imagine what to do. She began to think of her mother. With a sparkle in the eyes and a warm smile the poses came easy. “You know, I’m starting to have fun.”

 

“Well good,” said Jean Paul.

 

As the camera continued to click she saw Jean Paul come out from behind the bright lights and move to the corner of the room prompting for light and breezy, carefree and happy poses and facial expressions. Charisse responded to the prompts for a few moments then suddenly her mood changed to dark and gloomy. The memories of the cruelty done to her mother suddenly came to mind.

 

“Springtime is not about being angry,” Jean Paul said.

 

Charisse heard the assistant say something to Jean Paul in French, but had no idea what he was trying to convey. The camera clicked photographs of winter’s bitter face and a frozen and rigid body as a cold front came rushing in.  

 

“That’s enough Brandy,” Jean Paul stated. “If you like I will send you some of the photos after Christophe sees them.”

 

“Don’t bother,” Charisse barked. “I’d rather die than to see all this stupid stuff.”

 

She went to look for Christophe but he was too busy to see her. But in a way it did not matter. In an instant the phone was out and a call to her best friend was made. While making her way to the exit she learned of new information. The news was startling. Connelly’s mother, her grandmother, lived in Ireland. Maureen was her name but all Aunt Anna had answered when asked about grandparents was that his parents were dead as well as her mother’s parents. She thought about confronting Anna with the newfound information but she suspected that even if she had known it may have been held secret for fear it would hurt in the long run. And even though her friend had advised to spread the false and viscous rumors about Connelly first before going to Dublin, she found herself moved to meet her grandmother. Begin the vengeance by telling her just what a vile man he really is.

A Stumbling Block to Vengeance

 Charisse stared at the horizon and smiled. The sparkling blue of the sky was a sight that brought about refreshing thoughts, a sense of safety from the dark and gloomy cover of clouds below.   But as tension had all but left her weary mind the plane began to descend through a heavy mist. And just when the plane fell into the gray and wet and dreary day the thoughts were focused on the discussion she had with her best friend the night before. Just one more opportunity for vengeance was near at hand.

 

As the plane came to a stop she stared at the terminal and watched the rain drops pelt the window. “Just wonderful!”

 

Charisse allowed the woman who had quietly sat by her on the flight from Paris to stand up and gather belongings from the overhead compartment. The way clear, she reached for the carryon bag and snickered. “Well I’ll be damned; his stupid umbrella.”

 

Heading for the exit she struggled against the throng of Christmas travelers at Dublin Airport. Stepping outside the scene was no less congested. Cars, vans, buses, and limousines fought for parking. Taxis could not arrive quickly enough to accommodate the travelers. Finally she spotted a taxi that was triple parked some seventy five feet away, just sitting idle under the downpour of rain. The umbrella popped open. A frantic dash into the street, a race to beat the few other passengers racing to the same taxi was on. A bump of the hip knocked away the man who was about to jump in the back seat. She jumped in and closed the umbrella.   “Go!”

 

“Where to?” asked the driver while forcing his way into traffic.

 

“I need to get to…well it’s somewhere near Trinity College.” She handed the driver a piece of paper. “That’s the address.”

 

The driver glanced at the paper and handed it back then quickly changed lanes and sped away from the terminal.

 

Her friend did not have much information on her grandmother with the exception of common dates concerning the marriage to her grandfather, when she was widowed, and addresses and phone numbers from the past, but the mention of Connelly was limited to a short blurb describing an only son.  Her friend was also unable to come up with a photo of the woman. But they both agreed that any information other than the current address was of no matter. The opportunity to poison the mind of her grandmother with the gruesome truth