“Sign, please.”
“Do you study these . . . kinds of books in your writers’ group?” Aimee asked.
Madame Cachou’s chin jutted forward. “I write these books, Mademoiselle.”
Aimee wondered if she was in the wrong line of work. No wonder Madame Cachou could afford the laptop and a high-end
Before she could ask more, a plumber in blue overalls appeared. “If we’re not going to measure for the pipe fittings, I might as well go home.”
“I’m coming.”
Aimee’s idea of begging the concierge to babysit evaporated.
Madame Cachou turned toward Aimee. “You young women have babies and expect the world to take care of them. But it’s your responsibility.”
“Madame Cachou, it’s an imposition, of course, but just for—”
Miles Davis wagged his tail and sniffed the treat bag she kept hanging from the door.
Now she’d have to take Stella with her. Put Plan B into action. She’d use her disguise, cover Stella with the blanket. The baby should be safe so long as they remained anonymous. She put on the dark glasses and cap, draped the blanket over Stella, and opened the ivy-covered back door, then wended her way through the dark rear courtyard.
She pushed open a small door cut into a larger wooden portal that filled the archway and stepped over the sill to stand on bright and busy rue Saint Louis en l’Isle. This narrow commercial artery, the principal one on the island, lay full of trucks unloading and of scurrying passersby. It was sheltered from the Seine breeze. She emerged onto the pavement in the midst of several women with strollers blocked by a moving van unloading furniture.
“
“What do you mean?” Aimee asked, nonplussed. Was it obvious that Stella wasn’t hers?
“A newborn and you with such a flat stomach. How do you do it? That grapefruit diet?”
Relief flooded her and she nodded. She was eager to get away and question the garage owner, but she couldn’t move quickly. The narrow pavement was blocked, as usual at this time of day. Overhead were wrought-iron balconies accessed via open doors with fluttering curtains behind them. The tall doors open to catch any breeze in the unusual heat, through which the murmur of conversations reached her.
At least, she could blend in. Nothing for it but to smile, join them, and eavesdrop on the discussions around her concerning playgroups, mother and baby yoga, errant nannies who took more than one day off. These were the conversations of women engulfed in a world ruled by little people who couldn’t even talk. And for a moment, with the sun hitting her back with a slow delicious warmth, she wondered what it would be like to have the biggest crisis of the day be deciding which park to go to.
But that was not her life. A body lay in the morgue and the baby breathing warmly against her chest was in danger. She thought back to the marks under Stella’s arm, the mother’s frantic plea—“
Two blocks later, having passed leaning soot-stained buildings with paved courtyards big enough to hold carriages and horses—now relegated to storing green garbage containers and the occasional truck—she entered the dimly lit garage across from Place Bayre.
“Monsieur, Monsieur?” A generator thrummed and she jumped, hearing shots. She ran behind a Renault on a lift and clutched Stella tightly. She felt foolish when she saw that the noise had come from a mechanic in an oil- stained jumpsuit who was shooting lug nuts onto a tire rim with an air-powered wrench.
A man wiping his hands on a rag appeared from behind a small cage in which two yellow parakeets trilled.
“We’re full up,” he said. “No more appointments until Thursday, Madame.”
“It’s Mademoiselle. And I don’t own a car.”
She walked, biked, or Metroed everywhere. She would never understand anyone having a car in Paris. Yet she knew Rene couldn’t envision life without his customized Citroen.
“A woman made a call from your garage last night. Late, around ten . . .”
He shook his head. “Impossible. We close at 8:00 P.M.”
How could she explain that she’d had the call traced?
The other mechanic handed him a power wrench. “Stas, I forgot to tell you. The baron called. He wanted special treatment. As usual. He’d punctured a tire.”
“Again, eh?” Stas rubbed his cheek, leaving an oil smear. “You keeping other things from me, too, Momo?”
Looked like she’d opened a can of worms.
“You know those aristos.” Momo shrugged. “I tried to say no but—”
The phone rang in the small office and Stas ran to answer it.
“Do you mean you opened the garage last night after hours?” Aimee asked.
Momo rolled his eyes. “Just for him. He knows I live upstairs. Can’t seem to get away from doing him favors.”
More than one baron lived on the island. “The baron lives near here?”
Momo jerked his oil-encrusted thumbnail toward Hotel Lambert’s high stone wall. “Rents his wing out most of the time. Stays with the owners in the country.”
Aimee took the photo from her bag, pointed to Orla’s face. “Did you see her last night?”
Momo shook his head. “Why should I have?”
If Orla had sneaked in while he was busy working, she was no further than before. Perplexed, she pulled her cap lower. Unless he was keeping his knowledge close to his chest. She pointed to the pay phone that stood under an oil-stained Michelin map of Burgundy.
“Come on, Momo. I’m sure she called me from here last night.”
Momo looked down, reaching for his tools. If she pushed him a little more she thought he’d admit it.
“We’ll keep it just between you and me,” Aimee said, coaxing him.
He glanced at Stas, who was still speaking on the office phone, then turned toward her.
“He’s a tightwad. He makes the customers use the pay phone. And I’m not supposed to let people in.” Momo lowered his voice. “But”—he pointed to the dark-haired girl seated next to Orla in the group photo—“she said her cell phone battery had run out.”
Surprised, Aimee looked again at the names on the back. Nelie. She guessed Momo liked a pretty face and leaned closer. Birdseed from the parakeets cage crackled under her feet.
“So you let her in. What did she say?”
“She was walking funny. Her face was white as a sheet,” he said. “She seemed nervous. That’s all.”
“Was she by herself?”
“I didn’t see anyone else. I changed the tire and when I looked up, she’d gone,” he said.
Stas had returned. “Hey, Momo . . . you’re on the clock.”
“How old’s your baby?” Momo asked.
Aimee gulped. “Close to two weeks.”
She walked past an air pump, her mind spinning. The dark-haired Nelie, not Orla—who was now lying in the morgue—had called her. She stared at the face in the photo and felt a fleeting sense of familiarity. Had they passed in the street, stood in line at a shop? But if it was Nelie who had called her, why had Stella been wrapped in Orla’s jean jacket?
She turned around. “Momo, have you lost any tire irons, those things you use to change a tire?”
He rubbed his chin. The moons of his fingernails were rimmed with black. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Would you mind checking?”
“The equipment’s kept in back,” he said. “Sorry.”
She pulled out twenty francs, put it in his hand. “Does this make it any easier?”
He nodded. She put her card in his grease-rimed pocket.
“Let me know, Momo.”
