AL05 - Murder in Clichy

“Thadee was my brother-in-law,” he said, folding his arms, “but he and my sister Pascale divorced.”

Aimee stared at de Lussigny in the dim light.

“Your family were prominent colonials in Indochina,”

Aimee said, “so I presume you know about the looted jade astrological figures.”

De Lussigny took a deep breath. “You’ve done your homework.”

She and Mado had stopped en route at the art gallery, where she’d sent Thadee’s documents via e-mail to herself and Rene. Too bad she hadn’t enough time to research further. But half an hour on Sophie’s computer had been enough to give her some background. Why hadn’t she done this before?

“And you haven’t answered my question.”

“My father knew stories,” de Lussigny said. “Stories he’d heard from the workers on the rubber plantation.”

“Stories about jade looted from the emperor’s tomb? Or the one where the last Vietnamese emperor entrusted the collection to the Cao Dai, to keep it safe?”

“You continue to impress me, Aimee. Persistent as well,” he said, smiling. “I’m not a collector. It’s not in my nature. My father had more than enough acquisitive genes in his body for all of us.”

So his father was the one?

“So you’re saying your father acquired this collection?”

“He dreamed of it, I know,” he said. “But no one has seen it since the fall of Dien Bien Phu.”

Disappointed, Aimee wondered how this could be true.

“But the jade was put up for auction at Drouot last month,” she said. “Then withdrawn. Wouldn’t your father have known about this?”

“You’re sure?” he asked, seeming truly surprised. “C’est incroyable! I’ll bet Papa’s turning over in his grave. He passed away in October, at the dinner table. Heart attack,” he said.

“Your brother-in-law Thadee had this.” She pulled out the auction catalog page. “Then he was killed.”

“They’re beautiful. But I don’t understand,” de Lussigny said, puzzled. “How does this involve you?”

Should she tell him? Something held her back.

“I’m helping his former wife, Sophie,” she said. “She ran the gallery with him.”

“Then she knows that Thadee was always chasing dreams,” de Lussigny said. “An artist, such a shame, with all the talent he had.”

She’d hoped he would know more about the jade, but she’d struck out again! Aimee pulled her jacket close, wishing she had a warmer one.

“Why would someone kill him?”

“There are some things we want to keep private.”

“You mean his habit?” she asked. “According to Sophie, he’d cleaned up.”

De Lussigny’s eyes darkened. “He’s been in and out of rehab for the past year. I loved him like a brother, he was still very much a part of our family, but I had to pull away. It hurt too much to watch.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Was Thadee a victim of a double-cross scam? Or had Blondel used his thugs to send a message about paying debts?

She didn’t know what else to ask. The hour was late and de Lussigny looked tired, but if she didn’t press him, what other leads were there?

“Was your father acquainted with Dinard, the curator at the Musee Cernuschi?”

“You know a lot about my family,” he said. “Dinard’s my godfather.”

They were all tied together.

De Lussigny was buried in thought. “That’s strange. He was supposed to attend the benefit tonight,” he said.

“Where does he live?”

“Just across the park.”

Lena stood at the door, casting a shadow over the stone. “Your guests want to say good night.”

“I’ll let you get back to your wife,” she said.

“My ex-wife,” he said with a sigh. “It’s in bad taste to have this affair right after Thadee’s death, but last year I promised to host it again. I sponsor this charity event for the land mine victims organization she heads. We have to help people who need help.”

How civilized. She saw something very sad in his eyes. Brief and passing, and then it was gone.

“I don’t mean to change the subject, but there’s a business meeting tomorrow evening at l’hotel Ampere. Can you bring me the Olf project files and join us?”

She nodded and watched de Lussigny slip back into his gracious host mode.

AIMEE WANTED to avoid the kitchen and security out front but she had to recover her bag. She’d noticed the entry to the rear wing had what looked like a handicapped ramp. If she continued on the glass-covered walkway, she figured she’d run into a rear outlet to the garden.

It led straight to a door which she opened to find herself inside the dark rear wing of the house, near a small, high-ceilinged kitchen that smelled of lemon grass and sesame oil, warm and inviting.

A small boy with button black eyes, wearing Superman pajamas, perched on a stool, eating with chopsticks. Beside him, an older Asian woman with shiny black hair imprisoned in a bun, spooned rice into his bowl. Her hairpin caught Aimee’s attention. Lustrous, green jade. But what took her breath away was its shape: a dragon.

“Excusez-moi,” she said, “Are you lost?” asked the little boy.

Lost and clueless, she wanted to say.

“I’m avoiding the big kitchen and looking for the back door.”

He nodded, his look serious. “I avoid it, too. So does grand-mere.”

The hiss of steam escaped from a kettle on the stove and a clock ticked above the spice canisters.

She hoped her stomach wouldn’t growl.

“Are you hungry, too?” asked the little boy. His grandmother’s hand cupped his shoulder as if protecting him. Around his neck a red string was visible; suspended from it was a small jade pendant.

“Very kind of you but non, merci. Bon appetit,” she said. “Madame, what a exquisite hairpin!”

The woman touched her hair, then reached for the lid of the rice cooker. “The boy growing, wake up hungry. I feed him.”

Aimee smiled. “I see. So big and strong. He’s very smart, too, I’m sure.”

“Non, non, he too small. Weak. Worthless!” she said, horror in her eyes.

Confused, Aimee didn’t know what to say.

She saw the little boy grin. “Grand-mere always says that, to keep the bad spirits away. So they won’t think I’m strong and smart, and steal me.”

Aimee nodded. “Forgive me, I didn’t think of it that way.”

“She says things like that,” he said. “That’s why we live back here. My maman calls it a cultural land mine but I thought those were things that blew up.”

Aimee suppressed a smile.

“Where’s your maman? ”

The woman’s hand tightened on the boy’s shoulder. “Finish rice, Michel. Very late, time for sleep.”

Michel yawned. “Maman’s like a butterfly. Sometimes she comes when I’m asleep.” He took one last bite, set his chopsticks down, aligning them with the bowl, put his small hands together, and bowed his head. Aimee saw the pride in the old grand-mere’s eyes.

“Proper way. Good boy,” she said, ushering him toward another room.

If Aimee didn’t do something, they would disappear.

“Excuse me, Madame, I love your jade,” she said. “It’s exquisite. A one-of-a-kind piece?”

“From my country,” she said. “No good. Old-fashioned.”

“You’re from Vietnam?”

The old woman averted her eyes. “It is. Michel tired.”

“Of course. I’ve seen a dragon like that before. What does it symbolize?”