Murder in the Sentier

TUESDAY

Tuesday Morning

BE RESPONSIBLE, SHE TOLD herself when she woke up. She had to act more responsibly. Not let this obsession take control.

She called Action-Reaction, got an answering machine, and left a message, using the name Marie, saying she’d like an appointment as soon as possible.

After walking Miles Davis on the quai, she dropped him at the groomer’s for a much-needed trim, then stopped at the charcuterie for his favorite steak tartare. By eleven, she’d finished tests on the Media 9 security fire wall and e-mailed them to Rene.

Time for her to visit the person who’d know more about Romain Figeac’s work than his own son—Alain Vigot, his editor.

Below her apartment’s marble staircase, she wheeled Rene’s battered Vespa over the old losange-patterned tiles. He’d loaned it to her since her moped had been stolen last year. Riding across deserted Pont Marie, a low glare reflecting from the Seine in the absence of pollution haze, she realized most Parisians had begun their annual vacations.

Over on the Left Bank, Aimee shoved the Vespa in the rack outside Tallimard Presse. Once a cloister, this medieval stone building with baroque and Empire additions still projected a meditative aura.

“Alain Vigot, please,” Aimee said to the middle-aged receptionist. “He’s in conference,” she replied after consulting an appointment book.

A yellow light spiraled from the turreted windows, softening the framed photos of Tallimard’s authors and illuminating the arched recesses in the thick wall. The small reception lobby teemed with couriers delivering packages and an exodus of secretaries going out for lunch.

“I’ll wait.”

The receptionist tilted her tortoiseshell-framed glasses down her nose. “Better make an appointment.”

“D’accord,” Aimee agreed. “This afternoon?”

“Nothing until … let’s see, after Milan …” She looked up. “Laure, this goes to Monsieur Vigot.”

A young woman wearing a gray miniskirt and tunic top thrust a file onto the receptionist’s desk and picked up a large envelope with “Alain Vigot, editeur de fiction” written on it.

“Laure, when does Monsieur Vigot return from Milan?”

“Late September,” Laure said, turning toward the door, obviously in a hurry.

“Any way you could squeeze me in today?” Aimee handed Laure a business card.

“Monsieur Vigot’s in a lunch meeting.”

“Christian Figeac suggested I speak with him.”

“I’ll give him your card,” Laure said, her mouth pursed in a tight line.

“Merci, it’s important.”

“Like I said, I’ll pass it along.”

Not much of a guarantee, Aimee thought.

She left, then waited outside the Tallimard entrance until Laure emerged. Aimee followed her, at a distance, two blocks to Brasserie Lipp on Saint Germain des Pres. Laure nodded to several publishing types, smoking and drinking at the sidewalk tables. The fashionable crowd, wanting to see and be seen, preened under the awning.

She was surprised when Laure continued several blocks down Saint Germain to a small covered passage, Cours du Commerce St. Andre, then turned left. Didn’t Alain Vigot lunch with the trendy world of French publishing?

Laure entered a small cafe in the middle of the glass-roofed passage next door to a creperie stall. Aimee’s mouth watered at the smell of Nutella crepes. Her favorite. She’d only had a brioche with her coffee this morning.

Aimee ducked into the tabac opposite, thumbed a copy of L’evenement, and prepared for a long wait. The painted wood shop fronts showed the passage’s gentrification. But Laure emerged empty-handed only a few minutes later.

Aimee hesitated, then opened the cafe door. The door’s lace curtains swayed and the hanging bells tinkled. A few heads, all of them male, looked up from the zinc counter.

The clientele stood drinking, watching a motorcycle rally on television. The revving of engines and shouting voices of announcers, raised to a fevered pitch, filled the air.

Only one round table at the rear of the dark cafe was occupied. A man with thin graying hair and round, black-framed glasses sat at it, reading, oblivious to the noise. A white linen coat was draped over the back of his chair, his shirt was unbuttoned. Blue ink marks stained his shirt cuffs. He nursed a large biere and a copy of Le Figaro.

She checked to see if someone else was expected. But there was only one setting, a basket of bread, and a very full ashtray.

It seemed he had his own version of a lunch meeting.

“Monsieur Vigot?” she asked.

His eyes, behind his owl-like glasses, looked small and tired.

“Oui.” He gave a curt nod. “And you are?”

“Aimee Leduc. Pardon me for disturbing your lunch.”

He said nothing.

“May I take a few minutes of your time?”

“Concerning?” He looked up, leaned back, and crossed his legs.

“Romain Figeac.”

“No interviews about Monsieur Figeac,” Vigot said. “I’ve made that clear….”

“That’s understood. I’m a detective,” she said. “Christian Figeac hired me.”

Now maybe Vigot would listen to her.

“Why?” he asked, reaching for his glass. He eyed her more closely this time.

“Could I sit down, please?” she asked with a big smile. “Maybe you can help me, I can’t figure Christian out.”

Amusement crossed Vigot’s face. “Have a biere brulee with me. I guarantee it will help.” He waved to the waiter, who had a mobile charge machine stuck in his waistband. “Encore … deuxbieres biere brulees.”

The waiter nodded.

Aimee sat down. She moved the mustard pot and bread basket to the side. She didn’t like the way Vigot’s eyes swept up her legs.

Almost immediately, the glasses of biere flambeed with gin arrived. Little of the alcohol had burned off.

“Salut,” Vigot said, clicking glasses.

Fruity fumes and acidic hops tore down her throat. If drinks could signal a color, she figured this would flash fuchsia.

“Christian still raving about ghosts?” Vigot asked.

Aimee watched him as she sipped. He seemed relaxed, his eyes calm. Not glazed. Like she would be if she kept drinking this stuff.

“Monsieur Vigot, what was Romain Figeac working on when he died?”

Alain Vigot’s white puffy hands remained steady on his glass. “Christian still got that on his mind?”

“Actually, Monsieur,” she said, “it’s personal.”

If Vigot was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“You knew him a long time, didn’t you?”

“Forty years of friendship, a working relationship,” Vigot said, taking a long sip. “From the rocky to the