“Such a lovely apartment,” Aimee said, aiming to get this woman to talk. “You’ve lived here a long time, Madame?”
“Zoe Tardou,” the woman admitted, showing Aimee to a room furnished with sleek blond-wood Art Deco pieces and
“Tardou, like the Surrealist?” Aimee asked to keep the conversation going.
“My stepfather,” Zoe Tardou said, her mouth tightening.
No wonder she could afford this expensive apartment covering the entire floor. But from the way Zoe Tardou’s mouth had compressed, Aimee figured she hadn’t gotten along with her stepfather.
Zoe Tardou switched on the light, illuminating silver-framed black-and-white photos. Beachfront family scenes from the sixties and celebrity snapshots covered the baby grand piano. A late-model television sat in front of a damask-covered sofa. But an unlived-in feeling permeated the large room.
“You’re an artist, too?”
“My mother was a Dadaist poet and did figure modeling,” Zoe said.
One of the Surrealist muses?
Zoe Tardou took a deep swallow of her steaming drink. She beckoned Aimee to a small nook behind the sofa. “Medieval scholarship’s my field.”
Here a blond joined-wood desk piled with notebooks and books angled out from the wall. Well used. Above the desk, mounted on the wall, hung an ancient crucifix and framed manuscript pages bearing ornate gold lettering and ancient black script. Definitely at odds with the Deco-period furnishings.
The cold air in the darkened apartment began to chill Aimee. Didn’t this woman ever turn on the heat?
“Were your windows open last night?”
“Always,” she said. “The human body needs fresh air at night.”
For a woman into health, she looked miserable.
“So, you would have heard the party below despite the storm?”
”I don’t know the neighbors. I keep to myself.”
“Mind if I take a look?” Aimee walked to the window and quickly pulled the blanket aside. The older woman’s eyes blinked at the sudden light.
Directly across the courtyard lay the scaffolding under the roof of the corniced apartment where she’d discovered Jacques’s body. The skylight on the roof level opposite glittered in the weak sunbeams from a sudden break in the clouds. She saw the path she’d taken with Sebastian, aghast at the steepness of the roof they’d climbed.
“Do you keep these blankets up at night?”
Aimee didn’t remember seeing them.
“
But the woman might have noticed something after all, even if she didn’t realize it.
“If you’ll permit me to clarify a few things. Think back to eleven o’clock last night. Did you hear anything unusual on the roof, see any lights over there?” Aimee pointed at the apartment windows almost directly opposite.
“I did hear snippets of conversation,” Madame Tardou replied. “At first I thought they were speaking Italian.”
Italian? Excited, Aimee took a step closer. The woman reeked of eucalyptus oil.
“Do you speak Italian?”
“
“What made you think it was Italian?”
“We used to go there on holiday,” she replied.
“What did they say?”
“Maybe it wasn’t Italian.”
“Please, it’s important. Can you place the language?”
Zoe Tardou shook her head. “I know they talked about the stars and planets.”
Had Zoe Tardou been dreaming after all?
“How could you tell?”
“Sirius, Orion, and Neptune, those names I could understand.”
“Male or female voices?”
“Male voices. Two, at least. I remember, in the village people talked about the constellations,” Zoe Tardou said, her gaze somewhere else, speaking as if to herself. “It didn’t seem so odd.” She shrugged. “Almost familiar. At least where I came from.”
Curious, Aimee wondered how this tied in. If she didn’t pursue the words of this strange woman she feared she’d regret it later.
“Where’s that?”
“Near Lamorlaye.”
Lamorlaye? Why did that sound so familiar? Her mind went back to the scratched yellow Menier chocolate tin always on her grandmother’s counter, the words
“Lamorlaye, that’s near the Chateau Menier, the family that’s famous for the chocolate.”
Zoe Tardou sniffed and blew her nose. She sat down and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes.
“So you watched the stars at night?”
“Eh?” Zoe Tardou bristled defensively. “The orphanage bordered the observatory—” She stopped, covered her mouth with her tissue. Like a little girl caught telling tales out of school.
“What do you mean?”
“The countryside’s full of glue sniffers,” she said, her voice rising in anger. “I went back last year. The young riffraff lie around in train stations sniffing glue.”
Glue sniffing? Where had that come from?
“Excuse me but—did you water your geraniums last night?” Aimee asked.
Madame Tardou started and dropped her tissue on the floor. ”What if I did?”
“We think some men escaped across the rooftops and descended through your building’s skylight. Did you see them while you were watering your plants?”
“It’s not safe anywhere any longer.”
Aimee paused. “Madame, did you hear any gunshots or see anyone?” she asked.
The woman shook her head. “The world’s full of opportunists.”
“I agree,” Aimee said, trying to humor her before returning to her line of questioning. “But when you watered your geraniums, did you see men on the scaffold or any on the roof?
“I’m going to call the locksmith to get more chains and bolts installed.”
Did Zoe Tardou fear retribution if she gave Aimee information? She seemed to be afraid of something.
“Please, Madame Tardou,” Aimee said. “A man was murdered. We need your help in this investigation. Whatever you tell me will remain confidential.”
Now the doorbell buzzed.
“Let me get that for you,” Aimee said. Before the woman could protest, she answered the door, accepted a proffered package, and returned to find Zoe curled up in a chair.
“Here’s your medication.”
“I’ve told you all I know, I watered my geraniums, but I saw nothing. I don’t feel well.”
“Madame Tardou, your information may be important,” Aimee said. “If you don’t wish to cooperate with me, I’m sure investigators will insist on taking your statement at the Commissariat.” A threat; she hoped it would work.
