AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

So Nelie, a fugitive, was the mother. She hated to ask the next question, yet the dead had no privacy once they’d succumbed to the big sleep. “Her stomach contents . . .” she paused, hesitant, thinking of the open organs with their overflowing contents.

“Oh yes,” Serge said, gusto in his voice. “Crepes Provencal for lunch and a last espresso, though I doubt she knew it was her last one. With sugar. But the river water diluted . . .”

“Serge,” Aimee interrupted, “was she dead before she hit the water?”

“The water in the lungs indicate respiration. The blow would have stunned her, rendered her unconscious. Her natural reflex to breathe caused her to open her mouth and swallow. That’s the usual way. The bruise came from the drain grille later. I’d say, according to the type of discoloration, that it was inflicted after death.”

Serge cleared his throat. “I’m coming, Adjutant General,” he said.

The big brass must have stepped in to listen. She heard shuffling footsteps, the clang of dropped metal on the floor, and someone saying, “Merde . . . my foot! The rib spreader fell on my foot!”

“In our report we concluded she had been a victim of foul play,” Serge said.

“But did the beads on Orla’s jeans match the jacket?” Aimee whispered, seeing a black-cassocked priest standing nearby.

“According to my tests, Inspector,” Serge said into the phone, “the results correlate.”

“Merci, Serge,” she said and hung up.

TRAGIC AND PUZZLING. The beads matched. Orla had left the baby wrapped in her denim jacket in Aimee’s courtyard, been murdered, and dumped in the Seine. She thought back to the rust-colored bloodstains, the garage mechanic saying Nelie looked odd, Janou’s observation of her limping. It might make sense if Nelie, injured and desperate, had gone into hiding and sent her a message on the crossword puzzle that she feared for her baby’s life. Aimee thrust the phone into her bag. What had she written on her baby’s skin?

She imagined the two women, wanted, trying to escape from the police—or someone—unable to keep the baby at the hostel. Again she drew a blank. Pieces of the puzzle were missing—the why and who.

She left the church. Would she have the heart to turn Nelie in? Turn her in like someone had turned her own mother in, to go to prison?

And then . . . foster care, or that of distant relatives, or adoption for Stella? She was rationalizing.

She shivered in the rising wind and rain, called her friend Martine, and left a message. On the narrow street, a man brushed by, a small child atop his shoulders. The wet-haired child, laughing, ordered, “Gallop faster, Papa!”

“Chocolat chaud to the winner,” the red-cheeked mother said, bringing up the rear.

She couldn’t test Rene’s already frayed patience any longer. She, too, ran.

SHE FOUND HER apartment as warm as an oven, the printer running. Rene’s voice came from the kitchen.

“The database, oui,” he was saying. “I’ve entered the information. Bien sur, the framework’s been redesigned. You’ll appreciate the new ease of use.”

He was talking into the speaker phone. A laptop screen displaying an antivirus program stood on the kitchen counter. His gold cuff links were in the soap dish by the sink.

She stared, openmouthed, watching him stand on a chair to reach into a high cabinet, the sleeves of his handmade Charvet shirt rolled up, a lace-fringed apron tied around his waist. Steam rose from the kettle humming on the stove. Miles Davis lay curled, his tail wagging, next to Stella, who was sleeping in a computer paper box together with a stuffed pink pig. Where had that come from?

The domestic scene, the result of fortuitous circumstance, gave off a sense of family. For the moment, it felt like her family.

In her room she took off her wet blouse and skirt. She searched her armoire and found jeans, a black cashmere sweater, and an old Sonia Rykiel lined khaki raincoat. Urban chic? Non. She decided on a warm waterproof parka from her Sorbonne days. Nondescript and utilitarian. She picked items from her computer tool kit and stuck them in her backpack.

Back in the kitchen she said, “We have to talk, Rene.”

Startled, he reached to untie the apron. “I didn’t hear you . . .”

“You’ve got it all under control,” she said. “Amazing.”

Rene’s large green eyes took in her outfit. He frowned. “You didn’t tell Morbier, did you?”

“He called in favors I owe him. So I’ve agreed to assist him.”

“And somehow neglected to mention Stella.” He jerked his thumb at the baby. Relief or something else filled his eyes.

“Her mother’s alive. And wanted.”

Rene lost his balance and grabbed the cabinet handle. She reached him before he fell and helped him down. He took off the apron, summoning a stern look.

“What do you mean ‘wanted’?”

“Martine’s checking on that. But if students can ‘steal’ from a secure nuclear fuel processing site, military security’s in trouble.”

Rene gave a wry smile. “And I’m six feet tall.”

“I’ve got to find her first, Rene. With you here, I will. Here’s the deal—I’ll take the late shift—”

“And put our work in jeopardy?”

She ignored his reproach. “Tonight I’ll continue monitoring the network and finish the firewall protection. Hell, we can do this half awake.”

She squeezed the stuffed pink pig at Stella’s side and it squeaked. A price tag on the floor caught her eye.

“She’ll love that, Rene.”

He turned away but not before she saw the funny look on his face.

As she raced down her worn marble steps, she wondered why Rene hadn’t admitted where the stuffed toy had come from.

Tuesday Night

IN THE GALLEY kitchen in the back of his brocante, or secondhand shop, Jean Caplan sighed and smeared a knife full of Nutella onto a warm baguette. Better humor her as usual, he thought. The poor thing.

He shuffled past a chair piled with melamine ware, cracked Ricard ashtrays, and old Suze liquor bottles, all layered with a film of dust.

“Voila, Helene.” He set the chipped Sarguemines plate on the marble-topped table next to which the old woman sat. Rain pattered outside on the courtyard, streaming from the gutter, beating a rhythm on the metal well cover.

“So thoughtful, Jean!” Helene said, reaching a thin blue-veined hand out to help herself. Her nearly transparent paper-white skin barely covered her protruding bones.

He’d been sweet on her then, he was sweet on her now. Helene had sat in the wooden school desk in front of him and he’d dipped the tip of her ribbon-tied braid in his inkwell. He still saw traces of that feisty young girl although the long braids were now white and tied together at the back of her head with string.

“Haven’t seen you for a few days,” he said, combing back his thick white hair with his fingers. He’d worried with all the rain . . . where was she living now? He pressed a wad of francs into her hand.

“Jean, non! This kind of money I can’t take from you.”

“I sold the armoire—you know the seventeenth-century one the baron gave me on consignment, eh? And you never let me take you for a meal.”

“Merci.” She rolled her dark blue eyes, violet ringing the irises. There wasn’t a wrinkle on her smooth face; her skin was that of a young woman, only her jaw was more pronounced than it had