AL06 - Murder in Montmartre

“A police matter. Does she work . . . ?”

“You’re investigating my ex-husband’s murder?” The woman’s grip on Aimee’s card tightened.

Aimee inhaled, determined to try a tactful approach, a skill Rene often told her she needed to practice.

“So you’re Madame Gagnard?” Aimee said. “Please spare me a few moments to clear up some points in the investigation.”

“About time.” Nathalie Gagnard looked at her watch. She straightened the brochures. “I’m done. Take a seat over there,” she said, her voice clipped as she pointed to a smaller room lined with carved wood boiserie.

Aimee heard Nathalie give instructions to the waiter concerning wineglasses. Sculpted cherubs and a frieze beneath a ceiling mural surrounded her in an eclectic mixture. Stone sculptured caryatids of women held up the ceiling; gold and painted glass panels framed the outer salon. It was a nineteenth-century potpourri.

The thick expensive brochure proclaimed that here Bizet composed his opera Carmen, and his wife held salons attended by Proust and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, a neighbor across the street. Later, Aimee read, the mansion had become a working-class bouillon canteen; later still, a bordello, until they were outlawed; and most recently, a post office.

“Cornered the bitch, have you?” Nathalie said, sitting down, pulling out a gold-filter-tipped cigarette, and flicking the flame of a plastic lighter.

More than hostile, she was vindictive.

Nathalie took a deep drag, then exhaled a plume of smoke and leaned forward in her chair. “I swear, she went after Jacques like a cat in heat the minute he was nice to her. Can you imagine? Jacques would give the shirt off his back to help someone.”

Even if the shirt belonged to someone else, Aimee wondered? From what she’d gathered, Jacques could make an omelet without eggs, a real debrouillard—what some people called a wheeler- dealer.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“That harelip, the whiner,” Nathalie said, tapping her ash into a white porcelain ashtray.

Cruel, too. But much as she’d like to slap the woman, it wouldn’t help her.

“You’re referring to Laure Rousseau?” she said, determined to keep her emotions in check and probe deeper into Jacques’s life.

“The murderer. So jealous . . .”

Rolling a boulder uphill would be easier than talking to Nathalie.

“Help me to understand this,” Aimee said, curious about the Gagnard woman’s delusions. “According to the file, their professional relationship worked well. Why do you suspect her?”

“Who else? Despite her, Jacques and I were getting back together.” Nathalie’s shoulders heaved and she covered her eyes, sobbing. The smoke spiraled into Aimee’s face.

Surprised, Aimee ground out the cigarette, pulled out a tissue, and passed it to Nathalie.

“She’ll pay, the bitch,” Nathalie interrupted, blotting the tears on her cheeks.

“From what I gather,” Aimee said, reining herself in with effort, “your divorce was finalized a few months ago.”

“Where’s justice, that’s what I want to know.”

“Justice. That’s what we want,” Aimee agreed. “But we have to dig, find the evidence, put the pieces together, and nail the perpetrator. Procedure dictates questioning and investigating every aspect to get a complete picture. Going to the newspaper doesn’t further your cause, Nathalie, does it?”

“At least it gets attention.” Nathalie reblotted her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. Suspicious now, she asked, “Who do you work for?”

“Nathalie, what if there’s an accomplice? Others may be involved.”

Nathalie stuffed the tissue into her purse. “I asked who you worked for.”

“I’m investigating on Maitre Delambre’s behalf,” Aimee said. She figured Nathalie wouldn’t know which side he represented. At least not yet. She pulled out her cryptography notebook. Pretended to consult it, flipped through some pages, then stared at Nathalie’s face, disappointed at the firm set of her mouth.

“The report indicates your former husband saw other women,” Aimee said, thinking of Laure’s comment about a girlfriend. A new tactic might loosen her lips. “We believe he was meeting an informer that night. A woman.”

“You don’t understand. Jacques respected women,” Nathalie said, as though stating a simple fact. “He treated them well. But she took it the other way.”

“I’m curious, looking at the logic of that evening,” Aimee said, hoping her voice sounded reasonable. “From the suspect’s viewpoint, it wouldn’t make much sense to murder Jacques since everyone saw them leave the cafe together!”

Nathalie’s eyes hardened into slits. “Do your job. Nail her.”

“Was Jacques under pressure? Bills? The job? Did he mention people he owed money to?”

Nathalie stood. “I have an appointment.”

“Nathalie, La Proc demands proof. Facts. When did you last see Jacques?”

“I set a place for him at dinner on the eve of Noel but at the last minute he had to work.” Her brow creased as she combed her memory.

“That was a few weeks ago. Nothing more recent?”

Nathalie shook her head, hurt pooling in her eyes.

For a moment, Aimee pitied her. Guy had bought a Christmas tree and together they’d strung the lights on the tree and on Miles Davis, too, finally falling asleep in each other’s arms at dawn.

Snap out of it, she told herself. Get down to business. Think. Did Jacques have mistresses whom he supported? Was he trying to maintain a lifestyle beyond his reach? She’d seen it happen to her father’s colleagues.

“Jacques was making monthly car payments according to the report,” Aimee said. She remembered seeing the tow truck hooking the Citroen. “What happened to his car?”

“I can’t make the payments,” Nathalie said. “I’ve returned it.”

“Did you divorce him because of his spending?”

Nathalie leaned forward. “Just between you and me, things were tight. We divorced and declared bankruptcy to save our assets, but we were still together. How plain must I make it? The woman killed him out of jealousy. But she won’t get away with it, I won’t let her.”

Aimee felt sorry for Nathalie, desperate to revenge her unhappiness somehow. But her accusations damaged Laure, who was surely innocent.

“The Brigade Criminelle will investigate and find the criminal.”

“Wake up,” Nathalie said, rising and pushing back in her chair so that it scraped on the wood floor. “The old- boy network didn’t want her father’s name dragged in the mud. But no one will cover up for her.”

“Yet, Jacques took her as a partner—”

“Like I said,” Nathalie interrupted, “he liked to help people.”

Something struck Aimee as wrong.

“I’m late.” Nathalie looped a tangerine kerchief around her neck, reached for her coat, and walked out of the building.

Aimee followed her to the low-slung Renault Megane with the AUTO-ECOLE plastic box on top parked outside. Wind whipped down the street, bringing the smell of wet, sodden leaves.

“You own a driving school?”

“We only kept this,” Nathalie said, unlocking the door. Her sigh indicated she’d known a better life. “Before the divorce we had a fleet of six cars, eh. I’m not the type to sit at home so I was involved in the business.”

So the divorce had saved what was left of their business. Again she wondered if Jacques had grown too accustomed to the finer things. Flics often moonlighted, doing security to supplement their salary.

“Did Jacques work security?”

Nathalie’s mouth formed a moue of distaste. “Consultant,” she said. “He did consulting.”