Murder in the Bastille

“The new generation craves a whiff of the past. To sing their grandparents’ songs, to dance the bourree from the countryside in three quarter time.”

She knew the past could reassure. Or frighten.

“You know most people in Paris come from somewhere else,” he said. “What about you?”

“A Paris rat,” she said, leaving out the fact her mother was American. “And you?” she asked.

“Born in Chambery. The snowy Savoy.”

What did he look like? she wondered.

“But my grandparents . . .” she went on.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Auvergne?”

She nodded. “That’s easy.”

Paris was filled with Auvergnats. Between the wars and during the Depression, Auvergnats, nicknamed bougnats, had fled the mines and their bleak farms in the Massif Central, migrating in droves to Paris. The well-known tale: coal merchants, hoping to make their fortune in Paris, often ending up carrying coal on their backs. The more affluent opened bistros, accounting for the large number of Auvergnat-based menus one still saw. She remembered her grandmother telling her how in Cantal, the calcium carbonate-rich springs coated any object put under them with a shiny translucent layer. Like the pervasive bougnat influence in Paris.

Her senses had been pared to the essence. People, slapping eath other’s backs, and smoking, involved in discussions, as they were all over Paris tonight. Their energy hit her. And she felt curiously part of it.

“Pastis?”

She needed something strong.

“Double, please.” She shoved a fistful of francs at him.

While Dr. Lambert got drinks, she pulled out Josiane’s cell phone, found the number pad, and called Rene.

“Allo?”

Aimee heard klaxons and the revving of engines in the background.

“Ca va, Rene?”

“I’m stuck in the motorcycle rally in Bastille,” he said.

“But that’s on Friday nights.”

“Maybe you should let them know. Alors, traffic’s jammed,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Not far, buying my doctor a drink,” she said.

Pause.

“Aren’t there ethical considerations . . . doctor and patient, eh?”

“It’s after my MRI. He’s trying to break it gently to me,” she said.

“MRI?”

“Standard procedure. He’ll know more tomorrow.” She didn’t want to tell Rene she’d be blind forever. “Look, he feels sorry for me.” She felt the edge of the table, worn and sticky. “What did you find out?”

The revving of engines increased. She wished he’d shut his window.

“Aimee, get this. Romanians intimidate residents and old people, using strong-arm tactics to force them out. They don’t even try and evict them legally,” Rene said, his voice rising with excitement. “Seems a construction company moves in then and restores or demolishes the building. Josiane was working on a story about this.”

“Would that have got her murdered?”

“Makes more sense than that she was a victim of the Beast of Bastille,” said Rene.

Rene was good. A natural.

“Quite the detective, aren’t you? Tell me more.”

And he did. The architect Brault’s allegations, the roller-blading astrologer’s predictions, his friend Gaetan’s evasions, and the old woodwind maker’s information.

“Draz?” she asked. “This old man heard the name?”

“Seems Draz was a bon mec. The old flutemaker heard him beating someone to a pulp below his window,” Rene said. “I don’t imagine that’s something you forget.”

“Good job, partner. Listen, someone stole my phone,” she said, wanting to downplay the attack. “Try my number, see who answers.”

She clicked off. Rene called right back.

“Your voice mail answers,” he said. “Your phone’s probably in the Seine with the fishes.”

She wasn’t so sure of that.

“I’m staying somewhere else tonight,” she said.

Another pause.

“With your doctor?”

How did Rene make that jump? Was her flicker of attraction to the doctor so obvious?

“An opera singer rents rooms . . .”

“What about the residence? You need care!”

She appreciated his concern. He was the only family she had besides Morbier, who was keeping to the margins of her life.

“It’s complicated,” she said. “Look, my door got carved up and I had a close encounter hanging from my window railing.”

“Someone attacked you in your room?”

So she told him.

Right now, she was so worried that she might not see again, that everything else faded in importance.

“Stay at my place.”

“Rene, the doctor wants me near the hospital, available for tests. He can’t schedule in advance, he calls me in when a space opens. But thanks for the offer.”

The air brakes of a late evening lumbering bus hissed in the background.

“Of course,” he said, his tone resigned. “You need to be close to the hospital. Lucky the attacker didn’t take your laptop.”

“He came for something else: Josiane’s phone. If he saw the laptop in the drawer he ignored it. My phone must have sat in full view on the bed but I’d put Josiane’s in my pajama jacket pocket after the nurse copied the numbers for me. I’d forgotten it was in there.”

She heard Rene’s intake of breath. “By now he will have discovered he’s got the wrong phone. You are in danger.”

“That’s why I moved. Only you, Dr. Lambert, my landlady, and Chantal know where I’m staying.”

“Good.”

“Listen, why don’t you make an appointment with Josiane’s editor?” she said. “Find out what she worked on, see if the editor will share her notes.”

“Tomorrow. I’m beat.”

He sounded more than tired.

“We know she lived near Marche d’Aligre.”

She pictured the streets leading to it, one of the few covered markets left in Paris. Her grandfather had bought pheasant there. She’d accompanied him, transfixed by the beady-eyed stuffed guinea fowl and the bright- plumed pheasants. Rabbits hung by their feet upside down. Under the glass and wire-framed roof, he’d buy Meaux mustard sealed in its crock with red wax, and containers with olive oil from Provence they decanted into small bottles.

The marche hosted a thriving outdoor produce trade and secondhand dealers, too. On the outer fringes, under the arcade of a 70s “monstrosity” (according to her grandfather), stood the curve of flats replacing Haussman era buildings, where street people spread blankets, hawking odds and ends. A marketplace since medieval times, the Marche d’Aligre was the only spot in Paris to continue the tradition unbroken.

Aimee tried to view the map in her mind. Had it made sense for Josiane to go through that passage where