Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

threatening in the clouded sky. The frigid air sliced her lungs, shot up the mini under her coat.

Great. She hadn’t thought her wardrobe through, as usual. Rene had better appreciate this. Listen to sense and slow things down.

She ran across the boulevard into the medieval quartier, still an ungentrified slice of crumbling hotel particuliers, narrow cobbled streets lined by Chinese wholesale luggage and jewelry shops. Red paper lanterns hanging from storefronts shuddered in the wind. From a half-open door she heard the pebble-like shuffling of mah-jongg tiles. This multi-block warren comprised the oldest and smallest of the four Chinatowns in Paris. Few knew it existed.

She reached Chez Chun, the oldest or second-oldest building in Paris, depending on whom you talked to, sagging and timbered beside a darkened hair salon.

Inside Chez Chun a blast of garlic, chilis, and cloying Chinese pop music greeted her. The resto, an L-shaped affair, held ten or so filled tables. Roast ducks dangled behind the takeout counter. Not exactly an intimate dining spot.

Rene cornered her at the door. “Took you long enough, Aimee.” Rene, a dwarf, was always a natty dresser. Tonight he wore a new silk tie and a velvet-collared wool overcoat tailored to his four-foot height.

“Work, Rene,” she said. “I’m still running programs.”

He raised his hand. “Routine. We’re good till Monday.”

She’d never seen him like this. For once work took second place.

“Yet look who came out in the cold,” she said, wiping the snow from her collar. “Why so nervous?”

“Her parents.”

“Use your famous Friant charm,” she said under her breath. She pulled the gift from her coat pocket. “But why rush this, Rene?”

Rene reached for the box, a small smile playing on his lips. “Time to listen to my heart, Aimee.”

At the table, Meizi, her black ponytail bobbing, smiled at them. A warm smile that reached her eyes. “Rene said you’d be joining us. We ordered, I hope you don’t mind.” Petite, not much taller than Rene, she wore jeans and a green sweater as she stood ladling abalone soup into small bowls. “Love your coat, Aimee. Meet my parents.”

“Bonsoir,” Aimee said politely.

The unsmiling Monsieur and Madame Wu stared at her. “My parents speak Wenzhou dialect,” said Meizi with an apologetic shrug. “I’ll translate.”

Aimee grinned, determined to thaw the atmosphere. Her black-stockinged thigh caught on the plastic- covered seat. Under the disapproving stare of Madame Wu, she remembered Rene’s complaints about how Meizi’s parents insisted on chaperoning their dates.

Rene set the present on the table beside the steaming soup. “Happy birthday, Meizi.”

Aimee tried not to cringe. Even if it was only earrings, it was too soon. Rene was nuts, or crazy in love.

Madame Wu turned and spoke to her husband. Aimee heard her sharp intonation, and could imagine what was being said.

But Meizi’s face lit up in happiness as she untied the bow and opened the jewelry box. To Aimee’s surprise, it was a ring. A pearl ring, luminous and simple. “How thoughtful, Rene,” Meizi gasped. “I lost my other ring at the dojo.”

He winked. “I hope the next one will sparkle more.”

Meizi blushed.

Madame Wu pulled the reading glasses down from her short, very black hair—dyed, Aimee could see—and shook her head. Round-faced Monsieur Wu, who was much older, averted his gaze.

Were they criticizing Rene’s gift or objecting to the relationship? Perhaps they didn’t want their daughter involved with a dwarf? Despite her own reservations, Aimee felt a pang for Rene.

“Lovely, non?” Aimee said, trying to ease the almost palpable tension.

“Try it on, Meizi,” Rene urged.

Aimee noticed the look Rene and Meizi shared. Lost in each other. She nudged Rene. He ignored her.

Madame Wu spoke sharply, and Meizi translated. “My parents say you’re too kind, Rene.”

Aimee doubted that. Meizi slipped the ring on her fourth finger. “Parfait.” Aimee noticed the bitten nails, the worn calluses on Meizi’s fingertips. Meizi set the ring back in the box and passed out the steaming soup bowls. A large serving for Rene.

Meizi’s phone vibrated on the table. She glanced at the number and pushed her chair back. “I’ll be right back.”

Rene’s hand paused on his soup spoon. “Can’t you talk later, Meizi?”

“Won’t take a moment,” she said. As Meizi went to the door, Aimee noticed her backward glance, her beetled brow, before she stepped outside.

The Wus, not ones for conversation, tucked into the soup. Poor Rene. Aimee imagined the dinners he’d shared with the humorless Madame and Monsieur Wu. Had she read Meizi, a dutiful daughter, all wrong? A young waitress cleared their bowls, leaving Meizi’s, and brought a platter of fragrant roasted duck with shaved scallions. At least five more minutes passed.

“Where’s Meizi?” Rene asked, holding off from serving himself.

“Meizi, oui.” Madame Wu nodded, her chopsticks working at morsels of duck.

Aimee wished Meizi hadn’t left them in this awkward situation. She shot Rene a look. He flipped his phone open, hit Meizi’s number on his speed dial.

A stooped older woman wearing a stained apron entered the resto. Madame Wu exchanged an uneasy look with Monsieur Wu as the old woman made her way to their table.

“Who’s this, another relative?” Aimee asked.

“The busybody who sells tofu and groceries next to her uncle’s place.” Rene frowned. “Meizi’s not answering her phone.”

Suddenly, the old woman shouted in Chinese. Madame Wu dropped her glasses on the table.

The old woman continued, bellowing, frantic. Loud murmurs and the clattering of chopsticks filled the resto. Surprised, Aimee saw diners throw money on their tables, heard chairs screeching back in haste over the linoleum. As if at some mysterious signal, people reached for their coats and fled in a mass exodus.

Madame and Monsieur Wu stood in unison. Without a word they left the table and were out the door of the resto without their coats. Not only rude, but unnerving.

The ring in the red velvet box sat by the teapot, forgotten. Like Meizi’s coat on the back of her chair.

“But what’s happening?” Rene said, bewilderment on his face.

Aimee rubbed her sleeve on the fogged-up window to see outside. A red glow reflected in the ice veining the cobble cracks. Firemen, an ambulance, the police?

The young waitress by the door turned down the pop music.

“What’s the matter?” Aimee asked her.

“Trouble.”

“Trouble as in a robbery?” Jewelry stores abounded in the quartier, which had once been the diamond-cutting district.

“The old lady said murder.”

“Murder? But who?”

The waitress shrugged. Her fingers worried a tattered menu. “Behind the luggage shop.”

Aimee sat up. “The luggage shop around the corner?”

The waitress nodded.

Meizi’s parents’ shop. A terrible feeling hit her. Meizi?

Rene had pulled on his coat and was already halfway to the door. Aimee scooped the jewelry box into her pocket, left a wad of francs on the table, and took off behind him.

• • •

FILLED WITH DREAD, Aimee hurried down the street, following Rene past the dimly lit Le Tango, a dance club emitting a reverberating drumbeat. No one stood outside. It was too cold for the usual drunken brawls. A horn blared streets away.