The Body in the Vestibule

diamonds, powdered wigs, and perhaps intrigue. Intrigue! There was enough of that. She wondered again whether Marie would be downstairs after the tour. The group trailed obediently after the enthusiastic guide, who almost wept when describing the fire of 1674 that had destroyed so much of the building, including irreplaceable allegorical murals by Blanchet, which she then proceeded to describe in such intricate detail that Faith gave a passing thought to a belief in reincarnation.

They entered a room overlooking the Place de la Comedie and the Rhone. Faith walked over to the long window at the rear and stood next to a door. The woodwork was darker in this chamber and she listened as the guide once again flung herself into an impassioned recital of the building's history. This, it appeared, had been used during the revolution for trials. Lyon had been a Royalist city and paid dearly. The guide walked over to Faith and with somewhat ghoulish relish flung open the door to reveal a large closet with another smaller door in the wall. It was locked, she told them in a slightly muted whisper, and concealed a stairway to a tunnel that led straight to the river. Often after the Jacobins found the defendant guilty, as they invariably did, justice was meted out swiftly and efficiently—the body disposed of down this series of chutes. Faith gave a shudder and moved away as the guide went on to bewail the destruction to property done by the revolutionaries—'les statues, les peintures, les meubles,' she intoned. There was no question whose side she was on.

It was just past noon and the guide quickly wrapped things up, reminding the mothers what a signal honor had been accorded them. They filed past her, murmuring thanks and pressing a small token into her hand, which she did not refuse. It was still raining and Faith hastened back from the open courtyard, where the tour had ended, into the entrance hall. There was no sign of Marie. Faith stood by the door, then decided it would be better to pretend to look at the exhibit, which had something to do with hydroelectrics.

At twenty after, she began to get anxious. Had Marie come and left, not seeing her there at the dot of twelve? She doubted this. Most of the French she knew were notoriously late and expected the same from others. She was forced to admit that the prostitute was too frightened to risk a meeting—and maybe she was right.

At 12:30, Faith was late herself and rushed across the Place des Terreaux, past the Bartholdi fountain, and toward the garderie. She gathered Ben up, and after lunch, they both took naps. She was exhausted.

They spent the afternoon indoors, playing Legos to Ben's heart's content. He made little cars and Faith made houses—or, rather, garages, as far as Ben was concerned. She was trying very hard to avoid stereotypes, but Ben had consistently picked anything with wheels since birth and she had reluctantly become convinced that there was a vehicle gene.

By the following day, the rain was a mere drizzle and a faint glow indicated the sun was struggling to burn through. Tom took Ben to school and Faith headed for the market. She was hungry and decided to prepare a special dinner that evening.

One of the first things she saw was an array of small paper boxes rilled with fraise des bois, wild strawberries, sitting on the old lady's card table. The boxes were lined with strawberry leaves and the red fruit glistened against their dark green. Faith scooped up two containers. She took their presence, with its promise of all the lush summer fruit to come, as a good sign, and Lord knows, that's what she was in the market for. As she thought this, fragments of a collect came almost to her lips: O Lord . . . , who hast safely brought us to the beginning of this day; Defend us in the same . .. and grant that we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger. . .

She looked over her shoulder at the housewives with their baskets, some pushing strollers, occasionally with a toddler in tow. One of the chefs was selecting pineapples at the next stall. It was all so normal—and all so menacing. She was alone and she was frightened.

After that, she swiftly put her meal together, feeling a sudden compulsion to get out of the market—almost as if all the friendly faces of the vendors she'd come to know might instantly turn to those of hostile strangers. Scenes of sudden violence like the clochard fight pushed into her mind—the tables overturned, fruit rolling down the walk, someone chasing her. She blinked and found herself standing at the lettuce seller. He smiled and winked at her. What did ma-dame want today? Madame wished she knew. She did know one thing, though. She'd make a salade Lyonnaise—several kinds of lettuce, including plenty of curly endive and dandelion greens, dressed with a strong vinaigrette, small crisp pieces of bacon, croutons, and crowned with an egg somewhere between soft- and hard-boiled that broke deliciously over the mixture when you ate it. The traditional Lyonnais recipe called for herring, as well, but she thought the flavor would be too strong for the caille, the quail, that she was going to roast to follow.

Faith tucked a bouquet of anemones into her loaded panier as she left the market, even though the apartment was filled with Tom's flowers. They'd add some color and it seemed important to seize some brightness.

Marie, Monique, and Marilyn were nowhere to be seen and she decided to call Michel Ravier. As she walked, she wondered if all the indecision she'd been experiencing over the last few days was due to her unfamiliarity with the country or her relative unfamiliarity with pregnancy. She had a nagging feeling that if she'd been home and /or not with child, she would have been more resolute by now— probing around more herself or prodding police chief Maclsaac to get on the stick.

She headed for the boucherie to get the caille. The sun had broken through the clouds and the rain had stopped. Good signs.

As soon as she walked through the shop door, she knew something was wrong. All the chairs were occupied and everyone was speaking in hushed tones. Alarmed, she looked around quickly for Clement and Delphine. She was relieved to see them at their usual posts—he behind the counter, she in front at the cash register.

She asked for the caille and walked over to Delphine. 'Has something happened? Everyone seems very quiet.'

“It's that poor girl, you know the one. They are always standing there.' Delphine gestured toward the corner. 'The one with the red hair. She's dead; she has suicided. They found her in the river near the confluence.'

“But that's impossible!' Faith exclaimed.

One of the regulars, an elderly man, said, 'No, ma-dame, unfortunately not. Many of these women are very depressed. They drink too much or use drugs and life can sometimes be too much for them. It is sad but not unheard of.”

Faith felt ill. The shop began to swim before her eyes and she was aware that someone had given her a seat.

“It's all right,' she said, 'I'm fine now.' The Veaux wanted to call Tom or at least get her a restorative coffee, but she finally convinced them it had been a momentary giddiness due to her interesting condition. She took her package and walked back toward the apartment. Marilyn and Monique were not at the corner.

She mounted the stairs, dropped the basket by the door as soon as she was inside the apartment, and went straight to the phone. She took Michel Ravier's card from her purse and dialed the number.

She was not fine at all. She was sick. Sick with overwhelming guilt. If Marie had stayed away from her, Marie might still be alive.

Ravier was out and they would not tell her when the Chief Inspector was expected back. She tried his home number. A woman answered after several rings. The voice did not sound like that of a young woman. His mother? The cleaning woman? Michel was not home. After Faith identified herself, it appeared the woman was his mother and she began to chat volubly. She related that Michel, such a wonderful son, was in Marseille working. Who was this calling again? Faith left her name and hung up, sorry that the appendage of Madame when she repeated her name seemed to dash the good lady's hopes. Faith's own hopes were dashed, as well. She didn't know what to do now.

Marie had not committed suicide. She had been murdered, and apart from Marilyn, Monique, and the killers, Faith was the only one who knew it. She couldn't imagine the other two prostitutes going to the police after what had happened to Marie. It was up to her and she did not hesitate. She dialed again, 17—the police emergency number— and told the individual who answered that she had some information regarding the suicide of the young woman, Marie, found in the river that morning. She was swiftly transferred to another individual who switched to English as soon as he heard her speak. More proof that her accent had not achieved the level she was aiming for, Faith reflected dismally. He told her he would be there as soon as possible.

She put the food away, although the idea of cooking the meal, not to mention eating it, made her feel ill. The doorbell rang and she ran to answer it.