Murder in Belleville

“Soak the bloody jacket in vinegar,” Anais muttered.

Aimee knew Anais was fading fast.

“Vivienne, tell le Ministre she’s had a sudden attack of food poisoning,” Aimee said. Aimee surveyed the plates. “Those,” she pointed. “Tainted mussels. Apologize profusely to the guests.”

“Of course,” Vivenne said, backing into kitchen drawers.

“I’ll get her upstairs,” Aimee said, worried. “Bring some bandages. Towels if you have to; she’s bleeding again.”

Aimee grabbed the nearest kitchen towel and tied it tightly around Anais’s leg.

Vivienne picked up a tray of crudites and bustled out of the kitchen.

They made it upstairs and down a dimly lit hall, the wood floor creaking at every hobbling step.

“Maman!” said a small voice from behind a partially open bedroom door. “Where’s my bisou?”

The child’s tone, so confident yet tinged with longing, rose at the end. Aimee melted at the little voice.

“Un moment, mon coeur,” Anais said, pausing to regain her breath. “Special treat —you can come to my room in a minute.”

Had she ever asked her mother for a goodnight kiss? Had her mother even listened? All Aimee remembered was the flat American accent saying, “Take care of yourself, Amy. No one else will.”

In the high-ceilinged bedroom, with pale yellow walls and periwinkle blue curtains, Aimee helped Anais out of her clothes.

She wiped the blood from Anais’s legs, helped her into a nightgown, then got her into bed. Aimee set several pillows beneath her leg. Again, after she applied direct pressure, the leg stopped bleeding. Thank God.

Aimee tied her own damp sweater around her waist.

A great weariness showed in Anais’s sunken face. But when a carrot-haired child, in flannel pajamas dotted with stars, peered around the door, her face brightened.

“Maman, what’s the matter?” asked the child, her brows knit together in worry. She padded in bare feet to her mother’s side.

“Simone, I’m a little tired.”

“I couldn’t wait to see you, Maman,” said the child.

“Me neither,” Anais said, opening her arms and hugging her daughter. “Merri, Aimee. I’m fine now.”

Aimee slipped out of the room, passing Vivienne who cast a large shadow, carrying antiseptic and towels.

“Please call Anais’s doctor,” she said. “The bleeding’s stopped for now, but she should be checked for internal injuries.”

Vivienne nodded.

“Keep checking on her, please,” Aimee said. “I’ll call later.”

Down at the kitchen doorway Aimee paused and peered at the reception in progress. A mosque fashioned out of sugarcubes, with details painted in turquoise and embellished with a gold dome, stood near chilled Algerian wine and fruit juice. Knots of men, some in djellabas, others in suits, clustered under the de Froissarts’eighteenth-century chandeliers. Conversation buzzed in Arabic and French.

She hadn’t seen Philippe de Froissart since the wedding, but she recognized him huddled among uniformed military men. He’d aged; his beaklike nose was more prominent, his mottled pink cheeks lined, and his black moustache graying. His thick black hair, white around the temples, curled over his collar. A member of the aristocracy, he’d once been a card-carrying Communist. Now he’d become a watered-down socialist, she thought, like everyone else.

She didn’t want to crash the reception, smeared with mud and blood—his mistress’s blood. But she had to get his attention and tell him what happened. She waved at him, standing partly behind the door.

Finally Philippe saw her. He reluctantly excused himself, causing several of the men in his group to turn and stare in her direction.

“Why, Aimee, it’s been a long time, the food poisoning—is Anais all right?” Philippe said, surprised.

“Vivienne’s calling the doctor,” she said as she pulled out a stool by the counter and closed the kitchen door with her foot.

He noticed her outfit, and his eyes narrowed. “Of course food poisoning is serious, but how are you involved?”

“Sit down, Philippe.” She leaned on the glasslike granite counter, her mouth dry. She chewed her lip.

“The minister’s here—what’s the matter?” he asked, watching her intently.

“Philippe, there was a car bomb,” she said.

“Car bomb—Anais?” he interrupted, his eyes flashing. He started for the door.

“Hear me out. Sylvie Coudray’s dead.”

Philippe paused. “Sylvie … No, it can’t be,” he blinked several times.

Aimee read shock on his face. And sadness.

“I’m sorry,” Aimee said. “Sylvie turned on the ignition and then—”

He sat down heavily, shaking his head. “Non, not possible,” he said, as if his words would negate what happened.

“Philippe, her car blew up right in front of us.”

He sat, stunned and silent.

“Do you understand?” Aimee said, her voice rising. “We were thrown by the blast; Anais might have internal injuries.”

He looked as if he’d hit a cement wall. Full force.

“What does it have to do with you, Philippe?”

“Me?” Philippe rubbed his forehead.

The clink of melting ice cubes accompanied the hum of voices from the other room. Platters of wilted salad sat by the sink.

“Sylvie tried to tell Anais something.”

Philippe stood up, anger flashing in his eyes.

“So?”

She wondered why Philippe was reacting this way.

“Anais could have been in that car,” she said.

“Never,” he said. “They didn’t get along.”

What an understatement.

“I helped Anais escape—”

“Escape? What do you mean?”

“Some men followed her,” Aimee said. “They came after us when your mistress was murdered.”

“But Sylvie’s not my mistress,” he cut her off. Philippe paced past the stainless-steel refrigerator. Preschool paintings with ‘Si-mone’ scrawled in pink marker covered most of the door.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“But Philippe,” she said, “Sylvie tried to tell Anais—”

Aimee was interrupted by two men, their arms around each other, who burst through the kitchen doors.

“Why all the secrecy, Philippe? Eh, hiding in the kitchen,” said a smiling man with curly hair and flushed cheeks, pushing up the sleeves of his djellaba. He had laughing eyes and cinnamon skin. He saw Aimee and his brows lifted.

“Call me a party crasher,” Aimee said, wishing they would leave. “Excuse my appearance, I’m in rehearsals,” she said to explain her outfit. She wanted to keep it vague. “A German miniseries—a Brecht adaptation.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asked the man. Of the two, he appeared the more personable.

“My wife’s friend, Aimee Leduc,” Philippe said reluctantly. “Meet Kaseem Nwar and le Ministre Olivier Guittard.”

Both men smiled and nodded to Aimee. Guittard gave her a once-over. Already she didn’t like him. It had nothing to do with his Cartier watch or perfectly brushed hair. She imagined him having a matching blond wife and 2.5 blond children.

Kaseem turned to Philippe. “Of course, you’re announcing the joint venture with continued funding of the