Murder in the Bastille

“Except for how I feel about you.”

Had he said what she thought she heard?

“What do you mean?”

“You’re always getting into trouble,” he said.

“Everyone needs a trademark.”

But he didn’t laugh. She sensed him standing next to her. And all her consciousness settled on his hands enveloping hers.

“You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met.” His hands traveled up her arm, to the place where her shoulder met her neck. “I’m getting to like keeping you out of broom closets and safe from attackers.”

Was this some rescue fantasy he had? His words didn’t feel as welcome as she thought they would. But his warmth and the faint scent of Vetiver did.

From somewhere in the street came the muted clash of cymbals, the thunder of a kettle drum, and the clear peal of a tenor’s voice.

“Opera tonight,” he said. “Don Giovanni.”

“Believe it or not,” she said. “I’ve taken care of myself since I was eight.”

“You’re boasting.”

Maybe she was. “Boastful or not, it’s the way my life’s played out. No one’s ever wanted to take care of me except my father.”

Her hand brushed a stiff plastic rectangle of his badge, then the cold metal of his stethoscope.

“On duty, Doctor?”

“Just on call, until morning.”

“So that means?”

“I’m at the mercy of my beeper, but we can have dinner,” he said.

“Hungry?” She felt for his warm hand.

And she wanted to be close to him. Right now.

“Famished.”

“Feel like appetizers in my room?” she said, turning and pulling his stethoscope. “That’s if I can find it.”

His footsteps stopped.

What was wrong?

“Attends,” he said. “This isn’t right.”

“What do you mean?” She let go of the stethoscope.

“I know about people in your condition,” he said. “You feel grateful but . . .”

“I’m not people. I’m me.”

Pause.

“There’s the doctor and patient relationship to consider . . .” he said.

“But you’re no longer my doctor,” she said. “You referred me to a retinologist. Remember?”

Another pause.

“Is that it? A quick jump under the duvet?” he said, his voice low.

Was that anger in his voice?

She sensed him moving away.

Great. She wanted to curl up and disappear. What in the world had she done? Thrown herself at this man who smelled delicious, whose touch thrilled her?

Merde! She deserved some kind of medal, ruining her chances with a man in record time. Talk about faux pas. Why had she done that? Acted so desperate with her doctor!

Better salvage a scrap of dignity and see him to the door.

“Bet you thought I meant it, didn’t you?” she said. “I was testing you.”

“Liar.” His scent wafted in front of her. He pulled her close. “But you’re beautiful. Banged up knees, spikey hair, and all.”

She didn’t expect that.

“You’ve as much as said I’ll never see again.”

“What does that matter?”

“A lot.”

“To you,” he said. “But you have to get over that hurdle. Move on. Try. You’ll be happier when you do.”

Could she be happy without seeing?

This felt all mixed up and strange. She couldn’t remember the last time a man refused to sleep with her. Time to take her wounded vanity and climb into a hole.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said.

“Enlighten me.”

“Before medicine, I studied literature,” he said. “Scribbled poetry. You make me think of Byron’s lines . . . ‘She walks in beauty like the night.’ ”

Out in the night, a police siren wailed.

“I wish I wasn’t so attracted to you,” he said.

Now she was more confused than ever.

And then suddenly he was kissing her like last time. Her leg wrapped around his and she held him tight. He pulled her down onto the horsehair sofa.

His scent was in her hair, his lips brushing her neck. She gripped his back. And that’s when his pager went off, beeping near her elbow.

“Merde!” he said.

Non. Non, non, she almost shouted.

“You couldn’t pretend you didn’t hear it, could you?” she asked, feeling his elbow and warm breath in between kisses on her arm.

She heard clicking as he read his message. Felt his body stiffen. “Not when a three-year-old’s spilled acid base photograph developing emulsion and rubbed it in his eyes.” She felt him pulling away, his hands helping her up. “If I hurry I’ll get there when the ambulance does.”

And in two minutes he was gone. Only his Vetiver scent lingered.

SHE WOKE up to the rain spattering on the skylight above.

And she felt safe, cocooned in the big warmth of the duvet.

Her senses were heightened. Every part of her tingled remembering his kiss, the way he hadn’t stopped. . . .

And then she heard the accordion strains of Nini le peau de chien . . .

Again . . . like the background of the phone call on the stranger’s cell phone.

She froze.

Was the killer here? In the apartment?

But how?

Doubt invaded her. And for a moment she wondered if she’d gotten it all wrong. Made a mistake. The serial killer was alive and still . . . non, that made no sense.

Yet her blood ran cold.

She pulled the duvet off, crawled her way to the door. Listened.

Madame Danoux’s voice joined the chorus of Nini on the record. Footsteps beat a pattern on the floor as if she were dancing. The old folkdance, la bourree. So Madame Danoux danced by herself on Saturday nights.

But Aimee couldn’t sleep any more. She felt for the bed, then sat down on the floor and combed her fingers through her short hair.

She’d set the talking alarm clock to wake her up, but there was no reason to wait. She called Le Drugstore, followed the procedure, and within four minutes spoke to Martin.

“It’s like this, ma petite mademoiselle,” said Martin, as if imparting a confirmation gift. “No news at all, nothing really.”

She figured his usual police informants had clammed up. “But Martin, you of all people have impeccable