AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

face as she walked the few steps to her building. A weak moon struggled behind wisps of pearl gray clouds hovering over Pont Marie.

Orla had died almost outside Aimee’s window. Capitaine Sezeur had confirmed her suspicions.

But her investigation had fallen short. Brigitte had revealed little about MondeFocus or Nelie. Claude’s video held only blurred, unfocused images and would require painstaking processing to decipher. And then the tape might show only two minutes of dark chaos. There had to be more.

What was clear was that she couldn’t juggle work and take care of Stella.

Yet she needed to sniff under the rocks Brigitte had pointed her at and to find Krzysztof. To focus, or—as the old dinosaurs in the force said—squeeze till the water ran dry.

She tried Brigitte at the MondeFocus office. No answer, so she left a message on the machine.She stopped at the boulangerie around the corner and stood in line behind a bent old man. He tipped his cap with a knowing smile. “Bonsoir.”

She returned his greeting, searching her memory. Did she know him? He struggled to put his loaf of pain au paysan inside a plastic bag printed with the green cross of the pharmacy next door. She noticed boxes of bandages and dressings inside the bag.

The boulangerie doors stood open to the street where the few passersby were folding their umbrellas to save them from the wind. Meter maids in blue peaked caps checked car meters along the quai. She emerged, baguette in hand, and paused, sensing someone watching her. Her skin prickled.

Unsure of what to do, she ducked inside a doorway and scanned the street, but she saw only a meter maid writing a ticket in her little book and the bent old man shuffling to the stone stairs leading down to the riverbank. She had to control her nerves.

On impulse, she followed him. She wanted to ask if he’d seen anything unusual the previous night. The algae-scented breeze rustled the budding plane-tree branches. The old man clutched the stone balustrade as he made his way downward with slow, painful steps. Odd. She wondered why he was descending since the Seine’s gray-green water lapped over the bank and rose above the bottom step. No one else was out walking on the quai now.

Pont Louis Philippe arched ahead of her, decorated with carved stone wreaths of intertwined sculpted leaves. Buses trundled overhead, their green sides flashing above the stone wall.

When she looked down again, the old man had disappeared.

“Monsieur?” she called out. Anxious now, she took the steps two at a time, hesitated, then tiptoed through the swirling eddies of water. Useless. Her shoes were soaked. And she couldn’t see the old man on the bank or in the river. Before she waded ankle deep in water to explore, she had better relieve Rene. She mounted the stairs. Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket.

“Allo?”

“Mademoiselle Leduc?” said a familiar voice. She searched her memory, came up blank. The guitar of an old Georges Brassens song played in the background, punctuated by an engine starting.

“Oui?”

“You asked about a tire iron. Well, one’s missing from the garage stockroom.”

Momo, the mechanic from the garage near Pont de Sully. Chances were the figure in Place Bayre had stolen the tire iron while Nelie was telephoning Aimee, and had then used it to attack Orla. Not a comforting thought.

“Momo,” she said. “Can you remember anything more about the woman who used the garage phone?”

No, I’m sorry,” he said. “

Too bad.

“But I thought I saw her,” he said as she was about to click off.

She gripped the phone tighter. “You did? Where?”

“The scarf . . .” The sound was muffled as he put his hand over the phone, speaking to someone.

She controlled her frustration. “Her scarf, Momo, you’re sure? Do you remember the color, the design?”

“Chic, you know,” he said. “Never saw one embroidered like that. But I’m not sure. Just an old woman. They’re like crows, you know; they go through the garbage—”

“What color?” she interrupted.

“Chic, with papillons, pink butterflies. I’ve got to go.”

He hung up.

INSIDE HER APARTMENT, all was still except for the strains of a lullaby. From the doorway, she saw Rene sprawled on the recamier, eyes closed, mouth open. Miles Davis was curled on the floor by Rene and faint whistles of sleep came from the bundle in the hammock. She checked on Stella. And sat, watching her, lost contemplating the little balled fists and feathery eyelashes until she noticed a note in Rene’s handwriting. It read, Never wake a sleeping baby. Nesting all right. And in this case, it was a tired Rene who was catching up on his sleep. The old lullaby on the tape deck played over and over again.

His laptop screen showed a program running a standard virus check. Bon. Again Rene had it all under control.

Still, she prepared a bottle, in case, then sat down, expectant. But Stella’s little peeps of breath came measured and slow. She glanced at the clock, then tiptoed to her bedroom, riffled through the hangers in her armoire. A white military-style frock coat with a double row of buttons, over-the-knee boots, striped black-and- white trousers with a Left Bank mottled brown leather oversized doctor’s bag? Or a more soignee Right Bank assembly of cropped wool Chanel jacket and rope of pearls worn over dark washed jeans and stilettos with a metallic python-skin handbag?

Neither. Her role was that of a concerned eco journalist. She chose the jeans, stilettos, frock coat, a T-shirt silk-screened with Che Guevara’s chiseled face and her leather backpack, pinched her cheeks for color, and daubed a drop of Chanel No. 5 in the hollow of her throat.

“ SANTE . ” AIMEE CLINKED her wineglass against Claude’s. The bottle of Chinon sat open and breathing on the wooden West African manioc-kneading table. At least her pants were dry and she wouldn’t drip puddles on the floor this time.

“I am so sorry the video didn’t come out more clearly. But take it with you.” Claude brushed his hair back. His long legs were clad in black leather pants and he wore a black V-neck sweater and a small silver hoop in his ear. “Did Brigitte help you reach Nelie?”

She felt stupid. He looked as if he had dressed for a date. She thought she had better leave now.

“Non, but I’ll keep trying. Merci.” She downed the wine in one gulp and picked up her bag.

“Wait a minute—why rush off? I’ve got a joke to tell you.” He threw his arms up in mock supplication. “I’ve practiced it all afternoon.”

Was this part of his “lighten up” campaign?

“Sit down again,” he said, refilling her glass.

“Do I have to laugh?” She took a sip. The wine slid down her throat, smooth and full bodied.

“In Dakar, a steamroller operator’s at work flattening the dirt for the highway. He is injured. His friend goes to visit him in the hospital. ‘What room’s my friend in?’ he asks the nurse. ‘Rooms 15, 16, and 17.’”

Aimee grinned dutifully but she didn’t find his joke very amusing.

“OK, I tried,” he said.

She hoped he wasn’t going to pull out some cowrie-shell game to teach her.

“Now it’s your turn.”

Jokes . . . she didn’t know any clean enough, or politically correct enough, for a documentary filmmaker.

She pointed to the tattoo of a lizard on his arm. “Nice. From Africa?”

“Marseilles, on the dock. Young, dumb, and drunk,” he said. He ran his hand up her arm. “Do you have any tattoos?”

She averted her face, blushing.

“Look at me.” He grinned. “You do!”

She couldn’t lie before that intense dark gaze.

“A Marquesan lizard,” she said, “the symbol of change, with the sacred tortoise inside.”