The Body in the Vestibule

part of why he is so terrified of his nephew is the exultation he observed on the young man's face after they dumped poor Bernard, almost naked and stone dead, in the Rhone.

“I'm sure they had some few moments of anxiety, but no one believed the crazy, although very-nice-to-look- at— yes, this from Martin and Pollet—American. Guy posed as the clochard for a day or two, one clochard appearing much like another, and they thought they were in the clear.

“Your friend Madame Vincent, by the way, was not sure it was the same clochard, either, but unfortunately decided to keep an eye on things rather than go to the police with her suspicions. This is quite a widespread problem in France,' he added sternly.

“I saw her speak to him shortly before I did. I thought it was odd, since she had made it so clear that she had no sympathy for these people. As to not going to the police, perhaps she wasn't sure they would believe an old lady.' Martin and Pellet's dismissal of what were clear facts still rankled with Faith.

Ravier had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Then why did they kidnap Faith?' Paul asked. 'If no one believed her and Madame Vincent had kept quiet?'

“Two reasons and again luck, bad luck, has played a role in all this. I was out of town. Valentina knew I would listen to the story and the story had changed now. She has learned that Madame Fairchild has been in touch with the police and believes the clochard who was currently in front of the church to be an imposter, un faux clochard. She also hears that Faith believes Marie has been murdered. Valentina takes a cup of tea with Faith and Faith herself reveals I am away and she is trying to get in touch with me. Madame Joliet realizes she must act fast. Again from this Mad Hatter tea party, she knows where Faith will be Saturday morning and sets the wheels in motion.' Pleased with his joke, he turned to the group and grinned like the Cheshire Cat. 'We police also read the classics, you know.'

“But from what you have been saying, it sounds like Valentina has more resources than a few school kids,' Clement commented, ignoring the allusion to English literature.

“I never liked her. You remember, man mari, I have often said that to you.' Delphine shook her head vigorously, causing her glasses to rest slightly askew on her long acquiline nose. She pushed them straight with her finger and nudged her husband to pour her another glass of wine.

Faith looked at Michel. 'This is where Marie and the others come in, right? They were afraid of Valentina. It was Valentina who was controlling their trade.'

“Exactly—Valentina's brothers, to be more precise. They were happy to get their sister's little shipments of trinkets every once in a while and they were, in fact, making a good business legitimately selling paintings, but they liked Ferraris, not Fiats, and as pimps, they operated out of reach of French law, with their devoted sister on the spot to keep the girls in line. Valentina decided the clochard had to go; it was her brothers who decided Christophe had to do it, an initiation of sorts. The same with Faith. They wouldn't be bothered to come across the border for such small stuff, but they—or those in their pay here—did Marie. That was meant to be a warning to the women not just here in Lyon but also in Marseille, Avignon, on the Cote d'Azur, and in Paris.'

“Poor Marie.' Faith sighed. 'She'd be alive if I hadn't come here.'

“For a year or two, maybe. It was a question of what would get her first, the drugs, SIDA. I don't mean to sound cruel, Faith. Marie had no chance,' Michel said.

Faith disagreed but thought he was probably trying to make her feel better, so kept quiet. Yet she knew what she felt and it would be with her forever.

“I remember now one time when the one with the dog came in for some scraps and Madame Joliet was there. The girl turned as pale as a ghost and left. Later, she returned and I asked her what was wrong and she said she had felt a bit ill. There was no one else in the shop except Delphine, and she does not have this effect on people,' Clement related.

“We have strayed away from the story. You know all the rest. Marie was murdered at the hotel de ville to prevent her meeting with Faith. Valentina was adept at getting information and no doubt knew all about the warnings. We do not know how she learned about Faith's calls to the police, but we are turning everything upside down to find out.' Michel sounded grim.

Paul Leblanc spoke pensively. 'We never could figure out why she married Georges. Georges, of course, was crazy for her—that long hair, those eyes. I'm sure she was the first woman he did not have to pay for and he was very proud of her gallery. But why did she want him? A respectable cover?'

“Perhaps she didn't mind being adored.' Ghislaine smiled. 'Few women do.”

Paul grabbed his wife and gave her a lingering kiss that fully illustrated the technique made famous by the French. She emerged blushing furiously.

Michel gave them a long look. 'If I may continue? Bon. Well, I always thought Valentina was overly ambitious and overly sexed. A good combination if you stay on the side of the law, but for her it wasn't as much fun and I suspect she enjoyed having so much power over others.'

“What will Georges Joliet do now?' Delphine asked. 'He seems to be trying to conduct his life as usual. He came into the store several times this week for some steak hache. Perhaps hamburgers are all he knows how to cook.'

“He has been at work since Wednesday and we spoke briefly. He doesn't know what to say to Tom and Faith. I think he is writing a letter. I urged him to take a leave, go away for a bit. It hasn't simply been the shock of Valen-tina's illegal activities, enormous as it is, but that she was sleeping with the boy down the hall—and no doubt others.”

Faith had a brilliant idea. 'I have the perfect place for him to go. A political retreat to nature—Clotilde's and Frederic's in the Cevennes! Clotilde will feed him wonderful meals and they can all sit around reminiscing about the glorious past. He can help them with their work and feel useful.”

Tom laughed. 'Then settle there himself, become the next mayor of the nearest village, marry one of the local farmers' daughters, have ten children, and live happily ever after.'

“You've got it,' she declared.

“Faith would be very useful here in France,' Michel remarked.

“But you mention children and now Adele will discover how many she will have with Jean-Jacques. Look at the head table; they are about to begin,' Delphine said.

France and the French were associated with I'amour and romance, yet Faith had found what characterized the country best was pragmatism—a basic sensibility, besides that sensitivity. So, an eminently practical custom such as whatever she was about to observe did not surprise her.

A large stew pot was placed in front of the young couple and they dipped their forks in. 'It's the salmis de pintades, the next course,' Delphine explained. 'They feed each other tidbits and we count the number of bites. That will be the number of babies.'

“So simple,' Tom murmured to Faith, and counted out loud with the rest of the room as the couple consumed the morsels of guinea hen in the rich sauce. 'Huit, eight. Quite a family.' He beamed.

“I know what you're thinking, Thomas Fairchild, and even if we'd had this at our nuptials, there is such a thing as shutting one's mouth.' Tom was of the 'more children the merrier' school and Faith of the 'merry for whom' one.

Delphine had been listening to their conversation. 'I don't think they plan to have eight, although who knows? They are making a joke that they have to stop, because the book you get from the priest when you marry only has a place to list eight and they would run out of room.”

After this, courses kept arriving—platters of vegetables with a filet of Charolais beef, those pretty white animals that looked so perfect against the various shades of green and yellow in the French countryside— a Barbizon painting come to life.

The dancing became even more energetic, the music faster, the hall warmer. Couples continued to whirl below them, with the exception of the bride's mother, who danced the same slow, stately waltz step to everything, no matter who the partner or what the tempo. Her bright blue silk dress remained unwrinkled, not a drop of sweat on her brow. Between dances, she was everywhere—in and out of the kitchen, overseeing the preparations, and up and down the aisles between the tables, a smiling martinet making sure the troops were having a good time. And they were.