in Lyon that arrived, expensive crystal and china underneath the shredded tissue. No, Adele was not unhappy at all. All this and Jean-Jacques, too.
Ravier had arrived just as Act Four was about to commence. The wedding guests bid adieu to those from the village and jumped in their cars to report to a scenic spot for the photo. The cars pulled up to an open field, grass neatly mown, surrounded by Lombardy poplars. A small Renault truck roared to a stop and in the twinkling of an eye, two young men had pulled stacks of risers out of the rear and assembled them at the far end of the field. Then rapidly, they began to assemble the group for the wedding souvenir. It was like her eighth-grade class picture, Faith recalled, thankful that her braces were off. The children flanked the newlyweds in front on the first level, Ben included, and all the rest stood on the risers behind them. The photographer took a long look at the group and made a few adjustments. You there, you there. Madame, remove your hat. Then click, click, click and he was hurrying them off. They'd packed the gear and were gone in a cloud of dust before the wedding party had reached their cars for, at long last, the reception.
The salle des fetes was indeed a room for parties, actually a hall with several rooms. There was a dance floor with a small stage overlooked by a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. This room was filled with long tables covered with white paper punctuated by small colorful bouquets of flowers at regular intervals, besides the requisite glassware, cutlery, and napkins. The kitchen was behind some doors on the left and the smells made Faith faint with hunger, not an unusual state for her these days. What a happy baby he or she was going to be! They'd located their place cards and she sat expectantly between Michel and Tom. Ben had joined the children again, twirling about madly on the dance floor to the lively music produced by an elderly but accomplished accordian player and an only slightly younger drummer.
“You won't hear any heavy metal here tonight,' Paul said. 'Maybe 'le canard,' some tangos, walzes, an apache dance, if people really loosen up, and so forth. What was played at their parents' and even grandparents' weddings and all the village fetes.'
“ 'Le canard?' Tom asked. 'The duck?'
“Wait and see.' Paul laughed.
After the melon au porto and the saumon a I'oseille, perfectly poached salmon with sorrel sauce, and while Tom, Michel, and Paul were proclaiming the Beaujolais Leynes the best Beaujolais ever to cross their lips, the music changed from stately Strauss to something more sprightly. Couples waddled onto the floor for 'le canard,' which looked exactly like its name, performed with much enthusiasm and high spirits. Faith declined when approached by Clement, saying all too soon she would look like the dance. The others were also content to watch and wait for the next course. The whole affair reminded Faith a little of the dance she'd gone to on an island off the Maine coast the summer before. Grown-ups danced with children, women with women, men with men, as well as the more traditional pairing of men and women. There were all ages, all sizes, and all abilities. Watching the couples alternately glide and jump about below her in a series of remarkably athletic dances, Faith wished the evening could go on and on forever. Of course at that point relatively early in the evening, she didn't know that it would.
It was Ghislaine who first broached the subject on everyone's minds.
“Faith, cherie, be honest. We are here together and you are safe. Could we ask Michel some questions? There is still much I am unclear about. But if it brings back bad memories, we will watch the ducks and feed ourselves.'
“I had actually been going to suggest something along those lines myself. Michel and his buddies have been asking me questions all week, but I have a few of my own.' She raised an eyebrow in Ravier's direction in an attempt at a Gallic gesture. He replied in land with a shrug. It sent a slight tingle up and down her spine.
“For myself, I don't mind. Tom?'
“I know my wife very well, my good inspector'—the ambience-inspiring phrases normally absent from the good reverend's speech, Faith noted—'And if you don't answer her questions, she'll try to find out some other way, and we know what happens then.”
Faith was glad for the Beaujolais. Tom's glass was empty and she tipped some more in, though strictly speaking, it was impolite for women to pour wine in France. The stricture was loosening, yet she was fairly certain in the country, the last bastion of tradition, it still held.
“Shall I begin then?' Michel asked.
“Not until we are there,' came Clement Veaux's voice from the dance floor, and he and Delphine, hardly out of breath, climbed the stairs, grabbed another bottle of the Beaujolais from an empty table, and settled down next to Ghislaine.
“There is no one else expected?' Michel asked
“I wish Madame Vincent were here,' Faith said a bit wistfully. They'd been spending a great deal of time together during the week. 'I think she suspected Valentina all along.'
“I have spoken with that excellent lady and you are correct. She watches much of what happens in the building and had formed a very negative opinion of Madame Joliet. But all in good tune, Faith. I think I will tell it as a story, because we are at a celebration and that is where stories get told—and where this one will be told for many years, I suspect.' Ravier was clearly relishing his role.
“Your part of the story, man petit chou, started perhaps with a bored young man, smart, yet not smart enough to do very well and be interested in his studies or applauded by the adults around him. But he is handsome and has a great deal of charm. He has no trouble attracting girlfriends, particularly those like himself who are bored. His parents are busy and have little time for him. It is enough for them that he has grown up with a certain degree of politeness and intelligence. They suppose after his military service, he will study to be an avocat like his father or work in the bank of his uncle. Not the uncle who has disgraced the family, the d'Ambert upon whom all hopes once centered. The d'Ambert who was at ENA, the National School of Administration in Paris. The d'Ambert who was going to be, dare we say it out loud, perhaps President of the Republic. And eventually, the d'Ambert who discovered drugs and alcohol. We found this man, Guy d'Ambert, and that is how we know the story. He was trying to hide in a brothel in Marseille in the Old Port, although I do not think he has much sex drive left,' Michel added reflectively.
“Does he know where Christophe is? And Valentina— did he know about them?' Faith asked.
“He does not know where Christophe is. Nor do we, unfortunately, but with all the police in Europe looking for him, it will not be long. I am convinced his parents had no knowledge of his activities. His mother has gone into seclusion with the younger children at her family house in Normandy and Monsieur d'Ambert is staying here to help us. He is as eager to find his son as we are and perhaps for some of the same reasons.
“Now getting back to Christophe's uncle. He vastly preferred being found by us to being found by his nephew and those he worked for. And yes, he knew about Valentina, has known for a long time. She and Christophe have been lovers for several years.”
Ghislaine gasped. 'My poor Dominique and little Ber-thille, the babies! The boy was completely wild!'
“I do not know who seduced whom. Apparently, it was a very satisfactory arrangement for both and helped Christophe to ease his boredom. He must have recognized quite soon that Madame Joliet was not the type of neighbor lady who gave you milk and a biscuit. Together, they hatched the plan. She because she wanted to give him something to do besides lie in her bed, so he would stay there, and he because he wanted the money. But I am sure Christophe also derived a great deal of pleasure hi robbing his parents' friends and his own relatives, and involving their children. Out of luck or trickery, he almost never drew la courte paille, the short straw—I believe you, too, have this custom in the United States?'
“Yes,' said Tom, 'as well as spoiled and disaffected youth like Christophe.'
“But he was more than that,' Faith interjected. 'He was a murderer.'
“Yes.' Ravier had been speaking in a light, almost humorous tone. His voice now became deadly serious. 'Yes, as he revealed to you, he killed the clochard Bernard, We know from Guy d'Ambert that Bernard had discovered the jewelry in the bottom of the shopping bag one night. The others they chose were too far gone or too intent on collecting the hundred francs for delivery, if nothing had been touched, to look. Bernard smelled a rat, or rather something much more appetizing, thought he could get in on the action, and he got killed instead. If Faith had not served her pungent bouillabaisse to you all that night, but some veal, a few vegetables, they would have gotten away with it.
“Christophe enticed the clochard into the vestibule and poisoned him while his uncle, perhaps with Valentina, went to get Christophe's car. Guy had not the stomach to do the actual deed and
