The Body in the Vestibule

eye, Valentina dropped the gun, which fell to the vestibule below. Faith heard it strike the stone floor, and she clung more desperately. She'd be all right if only the whole banister didn't give way and send her over the edge. She wouldn't hear the sound of that landing. And there was an occasional missing rod, she'd noted in her travels with Ben, keeping him always away toward the wall. But she couldn't choose another place now and she willed herself to believe it was her own fears making the iron in her grip feel looser.

Valentina was trying for a firm grasp of Faith's short hair to turn her head around to get at her face. She brought her foot up, kicking at Faith's leg, which was locked into the railing. The pain was tremendous.

“Help!' Faith screamed again. 'Au secours! Au se-cours.¹' There had to somebody in the building. But it was the holiday. The offices were empty and everyone else was out enjoying the sun.

If she let go right now, they would both go tumbling down the stairs. Valentina was both taller and heavier than Faith was, and if this happened, she'd most likely knock Faith out, then throw her over. Faith tightened her grip and tried to kick back with her free leg. It was impossible. The two women grappled in silence punctuated by oaths from Valentina and Faith's own breathing, which was fast and labored. She'd kept Valentina away from the baby so far.

She mustn't let her get an opportunity to kick her there. She bent over and screamed again.

She heard a sound from above. It was a door opening. Someone came to the railing and called down, 'Mon Dieu! What is happening! Mesdames!' Valentina stopped her attack for a moment, surprised at the voice from above. She arched her head over the side to see who it was. Faith dredged up every ounce of strength in her body, reached for Valentina's ankles, and tipped her over.

It seemed to take a long time for the body to reach the bottom. The woman's screams rattled the windows as she passed each floor, making vain attempts to halt her progress by reaching for the iron bars. Her shoes fell off and her skirt ballooned up around her face. The poubelle lid was closed and she hit it dead center.

Faith sat down on the stair. Someone was next to her taking her hand and stroking her head. It was Madame Vincent. Faith started to try to explain. 'Hush, ma petite. She was not a good woman.”

Sirens were wailing outside, but in the building, all was quiet. They stood up and peered over the railing down the dizzying stairwell at the limp figure clad in navy and white with the chic splash of red resting on top of the trash bin. The hat, the chapeau rouge, had never budged. It must have been pinned on.

Eleven

French country weddings, Faith Fairchild decided, were either an endurance test or a question of habit. They'd set off for Beaujolais early Saturday morning for Act One—the civil ceremony at the mairie in the groom's small village, where the couple was officially wed in the eyes of the state and the mayor of the village. Then they adjourned to a church where the bride's mother and grandmother had been married, in the neighboring village of Matour, for the eyes of God. Coming down the aisle of the ancient Romanesque stone church on her father's arm to kneel at the side of her betrothed, Adele, the Veaux's niece, looked as radiant as she was supposed to in a simple long ivory satin sheath, carrying one perfect calla lily and replacing the traditional veil with a short wisp of tulle that floated about her short dark curls. The groom, who worked for France Gas and Electric, seemed ill accustomed to his wedding finery and tugged at his cuffs nervously as if to make the suit fit better. His name was Jean-Jacques and he smiled so continuously that Faith wondered whether his jaw muscles would ever function normally again. The happy couple left the church in a hail of rice, accompanied by their gargons et demoiselles d'honneur, a dozen or so angelic-looking small children in bright, flowered frocks and long white Bermudas, which as the day advanced took on new and different hues. Wide-eyed and preternaturally solemn during the mass, the children exploded out of the church laughing, calling to the newlyweds, and scooping up the rice from the steps to hurl at each other. Quickly collected by mothers and fathers mindful of village opinion, they were hustled into cars to be tidied and transported to Act Three, the brioche and champagne reception for the entire village at the family farm.

The farm appeared as old as the church. Delphine took Faith and Benjamin into the house to use the salle de bain and explained that very little had been changed since Clement's great- grandfather had settled on the land. Portraits of sober-looking individuals peered down on her in the stiff company parlor where Faith had been placed to wait her turn for the amenities later Veaux had fortunately deemed essential. Meanwhile, out of sight of the ancestors, the village was toasting the bride and groom in mounting merriment, filling the courtyard that separated the house from the immense stone barn and other farm buildings.

Clement took Paul Leblanc away to the orchards as soon as decency allowed. He was eager to get Paul's advice about his experiments with hybrid peaches. The two men strolled companionably across the fields as if they had been friends from childhood. The Fairchilds and Ghislaine were left to make conversation with the locals. Tom was soon caught up in a discussion with one of Clement's brothers, who explained there had been six boys in the family. One stayed to farm, one became a priest, and the others split fifty-fifty—two going north to Paris to learn to be bakers and two going south to Lyon to train as butchers and charcutiers, sausage makers, which was the pattern for villages like this. Coming together for weddings, baptisms, even funerals was more than an old custom. It was a way to maintain their ties.

Faith wasn't sorry they'd brought Benjamin. He could have stayed with the Leblanc children and Paul's sister Michele, but as she watched her son, in his own long Bermudas, blue seersucker ones, and a white polo shirt, climbing the gnarled old apple trees near the wisteria-draped house with the garcons d'honneur, she knew he was having an experience she, if not he, would remember all his life. Besides, she wanted him near and she had a strong feeling he felt the same.

She had taken him to school most of the week, not wanting him to miss the fun of playing with Leonard and the others, but had stayed, leaving only to go to the market. In the end, sitting at a low table at the garderie and helping to play a variety jouets educatifs— educational games like pasting beans in designs and of course Legos—turned out to be just what she needed to regain her own equilibrium. Looking at this gathering of well-wishers, happily sipping grape juice and eating the best brioche she'd ever tasted in her life, Faith resolutely turned her thoughts away from where she'd been a week ago. And it might have remained that way, except for the car just now pulling to a halt at the gates, scattering gravel and discharging none other than Chief Inspector Ravier.

Michel Ravier had cursed himself repeatedly all week for not having sent the guard to the Fairchild's apartment sooner. They knew Christophe had not been acting alone and it should have been obvious that another attempt would be made to keep Madame Fairchild from talking. Michel knew she didn't know who else was involved, but whoever they were did not. Now, it might or might not be over. Christophe had vanished, presumably to Italy. Valen-tina Joliet had miraculously survived her fall—much to Faith's relief, who, while not relishing the idea of joining the clochard in the poubelle coffin herself, did not want to be the cause of another human being's death, however justifiable. Also, knowing a bit about the French legal system, she realized she had been spared an endless amount of questions and paperwork that would have made grandmother's sister's husband's place of birth seem a mere bagatelle.

Valentina would be hospitalized for a long, long time and would never walk again, but after some days, she was able to talk. She just wouldn't. Meanwhile, Ravier had had Faith discreetly followed all week, deciding to take on today's duty himself. He loved country weddings and it wasn't often he had the chance to attend one, particularly since becoming a police officer. Besides, the Fairchilds were leaving on Monday and it would be his last chance to see Faith—and Tom—until the trial.

“Inspector Ravier, how nice to see you,' Faith said in genuine delight, thinking what a stupid word nice was. 'Friend of the bride or groom or both?'

“Neither, but they were gracious enough to allow me to come.”

In fact, Adele Picard nee Veaux was looking upon her wedding as one of the events of the decade. The press had gotten wind of the missing Americaine's attendance and reporters and photographers had surrounded them at the mairie and the church before the bride's father had ordered them off. All week, Faith had been having her fifteen minutes of fame over and over and now Adele was having hers. It would be something to tell her grandchildren. When Chief Inspector Ravier asked to come to keep an eye on Madame Fairchild, they had not only agreed, they had been honored. Then there were those big boxes from Cambet