Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

intersected and arced in what reminded her of a star chart. An amateur astronomer, a stargazer? But she saw no telescope, no binoculars.

A configuration. But of what she had no clue.

Pascal would be a puzzle lover, she figured. A dreamer, Coulade had said.

But driven and edgy in his work? If this was a guide, a map, she wondered again why he’d made it so difficult. Especially since he’d suspected the danger.

Too clever for his own good? Or afraid of discovery and running out of time?

She breathed in the cold air. Her mind cleared. The diagram was so familiar. But from where?

She pulled out her palm-sized digital camera, Rene’s latest must-carry gadget, shot photos of the wall diagrams, a few of the room layout, the view from the window. If she hadn’t found answers here, she’d picked up a sense of how to look for them.

She locked the apartment door behind her and descended to the ground level.

Her breath caught.

Prevost, a blue-uniformed flic, and a mec she recognized from Brigade Criminelle strode across the courtyard.

She ducked into a cove containing garbage bins, crouched on the damp flagged floor behind a broken chair. Odors of last night’s fish clung in the corners.

Prevost huddled in conversation with the plainclothes, who wore a bomber jacket just like Melac’s—a definite undercover trademark. After a long moment, the mec handed Prevost an envelope and jerked his thumb upward. Prevost turned on his heel and the man headed toward the tower entrance. And toward her.

Pascal had left her the key, and his great-aunt had hired her to investigate. By all rights they’d given her access to the apartment. But try explaining that to la Crim or a flic. One she didn’t trust.

They could accuse her of violating procedure, regulations, the order of the law, or of ransacking a victim’s apartment. With no time or desire to engage in semantics, she kept her head down, hoping her knees didn’t give out.

Five minutes later, after the last footsteps sounded on the staircase above, she crossed the courtyard. She checked for Prevost or police presence on rue Beranger. None.

Turning left, she headed toward her parked scooter and called Rene. Rene was better at puzzles, loved a challenge. His phone rang and rang. Too late, she remembered the hotel …

“Can’t you give us some time, Aimee?” Rene answered, irritated.

“Desolee, but it’s important,” she said, checking her Tintin watch. “You’re going to get a call.”

“From who?”

“I’m volunteering and you’re going to give me a stellar reference, Rene.”

“Gone crazy, have you?” A sigh. “Consider our accounts, our security projects out for bid. Accounts who’ll pay real money.”

“The volunteer coordinator from the Musee des Arts et Metiers will call, can you remember that? I’m volunteering to assist in digitizing the museum holdings during their renovation,” she said. “Pro bono, of course, a service to the community. Tell her how Leduc Detective welcomes opportunities to preserve history and culture for the next generations—”

His line ticked.

“Right on time.” She prayed this worked out. “A glowing recommendation, Rene.”

She heard the click of heels behind her. A woman walked into an art gallery. “Call me back. I’m en route there now.”

She shouldered her bag, double-looped her scarf, and turned the key in her scooter’s ignition.

“Seems they’re desperate since the last volunteer left. You got the job,” Rene said, ten minutes later. “Digitizing the catalog collection, sorting through centuries.”

She figured as much.

“She wants to meet you. I said you’ve made time in your busy day, et cetera.” Pause. “This involves Pascal Samour, n’est-ce pas?”

“Bien sur. It’s the only way to find out.”

“Find out who murdered him by volunteering at the museum?”

“Long story, Rene.” The image of Pascal Samour’s corpse flashed in her mind. “I took the job. Five thousand francs retainer.” Not to mention Tso’s cash “retainer,” but she kept that to herself. “You in, Rene?”

“The old lady reminds you of your grandfather, n’est-ce pas?”

Maybe she did.

“And Meizi’s still a suspect,” Aimee said.

Pause. “I’m in. See you at the office in a few hours.”

Saturday, 6 P.M.

“OUR MUSEUM DEPARTMENT appreciates your donation of time and expertise,” said Madame Chomette, the curator, a tall, slender woman with white hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She was dressed head-to-toe in black, which highlighted the silver teardrop pendant hanging from her neck. “I think that’s all, Mademoiselle Leduc. It’s been a long day.”

All? Aimee stared at three centuries of the Musee des Arts et Metiers’ cataloged holdings to digitize.

“We hope you don’t mind the accommodation, as we can’t transport the documents. Legal issues.”

Madame Chomette gestured to the alcove office carved out behind a Gothic strut pillar. Worn Latin was just visible in the floor paver. The extensive renovation of the museum revealed that the walls stripped down to eleventh-century stone. Thoroughly medieval, apart from the power strips and space heater.

“Tomorrow we’ll have a desktop operational for you and functioning within the museum network.”

Aimee wouldn’t hold her breath. After one look at the antiquated system, she’d decided to bring a laptop or three for backup.

Now to the meat, and finding Samour’s project. “To prevent duplicating Monsieur Samour’s efforts, perhaps you could tell me where he left off?”

She wondered if Madame Chomette was in on this, or a friend of Samour’s. Or both.

“So sad. Such a loss.” The conservator paused. “But I’m new, on loan from the archives to finish things up by the reopening deadline.” She gave a small shrug. “I met Samour last week for five minutes. But each person who worked on this logged the details.”

“Who did he work with?”

Another shrug. Madame Chomette glanced at her watch. “He was a wonderful help, that’s the memo I got. I’m late for a meeting. Desolee.”

Did this woman really not know? Aimee tried again. “I’m looking for a fourteenth century document.”

“The museum building was a church until the sixteenth century, so our holdings don’t go back that far,” Madame Chomette said. “We concentrate on inventions and machines from the eighteenth century on.”

“Could there have been another collection? A mistake? Or might it have been misfiled?”

Madame Chomette shook her head. “Not to my knowledge.”

Was Aimee some pawn in an elaborate setup? She wondered at how eagerly they’d accepted her services. Or was this more paranoia?

“But open one of our storage cellars and you’d be amazed at what’s in there,” Madame Chomette said, perhaps noting the dismay on Aimee’s face. “Believe it or not, the Archives Nationales kept things here during the Occupation. It wouldn’t surprise me if some were left. In most cases no one’s looked at these things in a hundred years. We’re overwhelmed and so grateful for your generous offer. It’s a true gift, this expertise you’ll furnish.”

Aimee believed the woman. Felt a brush of guilt for her ulterior motive, but groaned inside. It sounded like an exercise in futility. Still, she had to begin somewhere.

“I’ll program a laptop and start tomorrow.”

“Merci.” Looking again at her watch, Madame Chomette motioned her out. “Vardet,