4. Pascal

Vermin.

Plebeians.

Sewer rats sniffing for fodder.

What the fuck were they doing at my door?

What the fuck did they want from me?

I stood in the apartment upstairs, still and silent, cringing at every knock on my door, whitening the knuckles of my bunched-up fists as I heard them calling to me, trying to lure me out.

Of course, I knew eventually I'd have to show my face. I did, after all, have a café to open. Yes, I fully intended to recreate my French patisserie here in the middle of nowhere, not in a bid to broaden my horizons or start an international franchise, but to avoid suspicion, to throw everyone off my scent while I searched for the missing recipe.

I had a plan.

I had the first clue.

Unfortunately, I was going to have to work for the rest.

I pulled the letter from my pocket and opened the piece of hand-scrawled paper. His writing was hard to read in parts, but I had pored over the letter so many times now that I had long worked out every ink-smeared word and spelling mistake. By now I knew the letter by heart.

To Monsieur Pascal Dupont,

My name is Callum Flannery, although I dare say that I need no introduction. As you must well know, your Uncle Alphonse and I were once business partners in Paris. We were more than simply business partners. There was a time when we trusted one another. There was a time when we would do anything for each other. There was a time when we dreamed that the world was ours… at least, the world of pastries. We took Paris by storm. We served up the most delicate, delectable, irresistible treats ever tasted. Then one day my dear Alphonse—the man I would follow to the ends of the earth—told me that he had fallen out of love with me. I was devastated. I was heartbroken. I didn't know what to do, so I fled Paris and disappeared from the world. I disappeared to a tiny town called Mulligan's Mill. But I did not leave without first punishing him. Yes, I stole the one recipe that had made him famous. A recipe so complex, so precise, that I knew he would never be able to replicate it.

I was right.

I knew he would try.

I knew he would fail.

What I didn't know was that my act would eventually destroy him.

Am I sorry I did what I did? Of course I am, but turning back the tide of history is as easily done as plucking stars from the sky… or holding on to your one true love forever. None of that is possible.

I do, however, believe that your uncle's recipe should not die with me. Yes, I am indeed dying, my days wilting away in a hospice in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. By the time you get this letter, I will be gone. But I want you to know I have left the recipe for you to discover… albeit, you will not find it easy to uncover your treasure.

You will have to dig.

You will have to decipher.

You will have to earn your reward.

And hopefully you will learn some lessons along the way.

That is the greatest regret a man can take to his grave… not learning the lessons in his life.

Yours sincerely,

Callum Flannery

I turned the page over, and on the back, I read his first clue aloud—"Is the story true, or but a myth? For a nickel or dime, will the ghost grant your wish?"

I had no idea what that meant, I had no idea how long it would be before I ‘earned my reward', but I was determined to find out. It seemed logical to me that I needed to start right there in the apartment.

I walked from the living room to the bedroom, from the kitchen to the bathroom, looking around at the furniture that Monsieur Flannery had left behind; furniture that came with the sale of the property. To say his taste was not mine was an understatement. Everything was cheap and bland and completely outdated, and not in a good way. The bed didn't match the bedside tables, the sofa didn't match the coffee table, and when I opened the kitchen drawer there wasn't a single knife or fork from the same set. The veneer was peeling off the top of the dining table, the faded wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the paint was fraying from the window frames.

I wasn't certain I could sleep in such an apartment, although I also wasn't sure I had a choice.

"Stay focused," I told myself. "The sooner you solve the puzzle, the sooner you can prove Giselle Chapelle wrong."

My first guess was that the recipe had been hidden inside a book; given the words in the clue, it seemed obvious that I was looking specifically for a ghost story. I homed in on a bookshelf that stood against the wall, lined with dusty old books. I scanned the spines, looking for a ghost story.

"A-ha! Wuthering Heights."

I pulled out the classic and fanned the pages, then tipped the book upside down trying to shake out any loose pieces of paper.

Nothing.

I tossed the book aside and looked for another ghost story.

"You. The Turn of the Screw."

Another possibility.

Another red herring.

I threw the Henry James classic on the floor.

"Ah, of course. Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven. ‘Leave my loneliness unbroken!'"

I snatched the book off the shelf, flipped recklessly through every page and shook it so violently I almost broke the binding. "Dammit!"

I plonked myself down on the squeaky bed, exhausted.

I wondered how many times Monsieur Flannery had sat up in that bed, wallowing in remorse over what he had done to my uncle.

Through the window next to the bed, I heard voices outside.

I pulled the curtain back a little, just enough to see what was happening.

Next door, that motley crew of misfits that had tried to break down my door earlier were exiting the building. Before racing upstairs to hide in my shabby new living quarters, I had caught a glimpse of four of them approaching. It's not every day you see an Amazon warrior drag queen, a girl in a wheelchair and a rather portly, androgynous creature with what looked like a war wound hobbling up the street, but then again, perhaps that was considered normal in Mulligan's Mill. Then of course there was the man who had attempted to wave at me as I entered. He was handsome yet rather scruffy looking, with a beard and somewhat disheveled work clothes covered in paint and sawdust. He carried himself like a simpleton, with an easy-going stride and a devil-may-care charm that seemed to radiate from him. These were of course traits that I would normally find utterly unappealing in a man. And yet there was something undeniably attractive about him. Perhaps I was wearier than I thought.

As I peered past the curtain now, I saw the drag queen, the girl in the wheelchair and the strange androgynous being—who seemed to have no war wound whatsoever now—step out of the premises, along with a handsome couple who emerged holding hands. The group waved goodbye to the man with the beard, who stepped back into the property once his friends had climbed into their respective vehicles and driven away.

In the distance I saw the sun beginning to set on what had been a long, spring day.

I was about to turn away from the window and head downstairs to get my luggage when suddenly I noticed a light come on upstairs at the place next door.

The curtains there were wide open and I had a perfectly clear view of the bearded man as he strolled across his own living room, snapping on a lamp light before peeling off his dusty, paint-smeared T-shirt, revealing his hairy, muscled torso.

"Oh mon Dieu," I murmured to myself.

Yes.

He was undeniably attractive indeed.

As I watched, the man strolled over into his kitchen and fetched himself a bottle of beer. He popped the lid off with a bottle opener and took a long, thirsty gulp.

Just gazing at him, I longed for a drink as well… although nothing as common as a Budweiser.

My parched throat clicked as I continued to stare, watching as he put down the beer and reached for the buttons on his jeans.

I gasped, thankful nobody could hear me, as he bent over and slid the jeans down his legs.

Unfortunately, the bottom of the window ledge censored out what I desperately wanted to glimpse. As he stood upright once again, all I could see was the V-shape of his hips and the hair on his belly trailing down below.

He picked up his beer again and headed into the next room.

The light went on in what was clearly his bathroom.

Once again, the curtains were wide open. Perhaps he had become accustomed to nobody living in the old bakery next door and didn't think to close them.

Then again, perhaps he was all too conscious of the fact that I had just moved in. After all, he did try to wave to me.

Perhaps he was an exhibitionist.

A cad.

A provocateur.

Whatever his reason for not closing the curtains, I was thrilled nonetheless.

Still sitting on the bed, I felt my cock begin to strain against the denim of my French designer jeans. I rubbed my crotch with the palm of my hand, a soft groan escaping my lips as I watched the bearded hunk next door tug open the clear shower curtain and turn the water on.

A moment later he stepped naked under the shower, my view of him still obscured from the waist down.

I was forced to use my imagination to visualize what I could not see.

Swiftly I unbuttoned my jeans, groaning with relief as I freed my throbbing hard-on.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt the need to pleasure myself. Life had been so tense lately, with my reputation in tatters and my career on the line, that the last thing I felt like doing was jerking myself off.

But there I was with my dick in my hand and the neighbor next door washing every grain of sawdust and every splodge of paint off his chiseled body.

No, wait.

He was doing more than just that.

Slowly his hands started venturing down the matted hair on his chest.

I jerked myself harder.

His hands made their way lower, following the cascading water that flowed down his body, over his abs, delving into his pubic hair until soon—

His hands disappeared completely out of sight.

My overactive imagination began to fill in the blanks as I watched his right arm move with the motion of long, slow strokes.

"Oui, oui," I breathed as his left hand began to play with his nipple.

It didn't take an expert in lip-reading to understand the words he began to utter—‘Oh yeah… oh fuck!'

His right bicep bulged, and his strokes quickened.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, the water flowing over his handsome face.

I beat myself harder and faster, spreading my legs wide as I started to gasp for air.

Under the shower his back arched.

He thrust his hips forward.

He jerked himself as hard as he could and then, with his mouth open, his brow creased and an ecstatic look on his face, his entire frame shuddered.

At the same time, a wave of bliss ripped through my own body as my cock launched two, three, four wads of cum into the air.

I panted with delight.

Beneath the shower, my unwitting lover next door did the same, his hairy, water-streaked chest heaving with contentment.

For a moment longer I watched him before the sheer joy of the moment washed away like water down a drain.

After that I looked at the floorboards between my feet and muttered, "Merde! What a mess!"