by Anne Stuart
“Before you get yourself into another one with me.” He finished it for her, his light tone took the sting out of the words. “I bow to your superior wisdom. There’s a café close by—we should only get slightly drowned. And once we get there you can tell me what you’ve decided to do, and how you’re going to let me help you.”
“You can buy the coffee,” she said. “And you can lend me your American Express card.” And without waiting for his response she started down the stairs.
He was chilled and wet to the bone. He was going to get pneumonia, he knew it. She was absolutely right—if they’d gone into his apartment they would have ended up in bed. And what a divine place to be, warm and dry and then hot and damp. Instead it was back out into the streets again, and he didn’t even have the wistful fantasy that he was suffering for his art.
He was suffering for Claire MacIntyre, and she was more important than a dozen muddy paintings, an execrable play, three chapters of the worst novel in history, and cases and cases of bad wine. Without any hesitation Tom started after her. And if he was becoming obsessed with how soon he could get her back up all those interminable flights of stairs, he wasn’t about to let her see it.
“For once I should get home on time,” Malgreave announced, shuffling the folders on his desk and stacking them in a neat pile. Normally he hadn’t such a precise nature—he left fussy behavior to his assistant. But the Grandmother Murders were of interest to too many people, and if he left his desk cluttered with his work in progress he would return hours later to find things shifted about.
Josef looked at his watch. “Five-thirty,” he said. “Madame Malgreave will be pleased.”
“You see too much,” Malgreave grumbled. “And I’m no longer sure there’s any way to please my wife.” He rose, stretching wearily. “If only the damned rain would stop, maybe we’d have a night or two without interruptions.”
Josef shook his head. “The forecast is for rain through Thursday.”
“Damn,” said Malgreave, reaching for the rumpled, still-damp raincoat that hung on a hook by his office door. He stopped, his arm outstretched, at the sight of the men standing in his doorway. In particular, by the look and smell of the first man, from his shiny black boots to his greasy, thinning black hair.
“Rocco,” he said flatly, dropping his arm and heading back to his desk. “And who is this with you?”
“My solicitor.” Guillère’s voice was both raspy and high, and his flat, soulless eyes glittered with a hidden amusement.
“I thought as much,” Malgreave said with a sigh, sinking back into his chair. “I suppose you’ve come to confess to the murders of the old women.”
Rocco grinned, exposing an incomplete set of teeth. “No, Louis,” he said with deliberate insolence. “We’ve come to insist you stop harassing me.”
Malgreave smiled faintly. “We could compromise. I’ll stop harassing you and you confess. It would make things very neat.”
Rocco stepped into the room, and the smell was overpowering. “I didn’t come here at …” he made an elaborate survey of the very expensive gold watch, “… at five-thirty-five to make jokes, Louis.”
Malgreave admired the watch, and wondered where its owner rested. In the Seine, most likely. Rocco wasn’t making much of an effort to be subtle, his contempt all too plain, but Malgreave could play the game.
“All right, Rocco,” he said gently. “You and your lawyer sit down and tell me why you chose …” and he made a matching, deliberate perusal of his own utilitarian watch, “… a time as late as five-thirty-five to come to me.”
Grand-mère’s apartment was still and silent. Nicole sat at the kitchen table, chewing steadily on a peanut butter sandwich. Peanut butter was one of the few American things of which Grand-mère approved, and every day she and Nicole would eat thick sandwiches made with baguettes and plum preserves and imported peanut butter.
It was after five-thirty, and Nicole didn’t really want another one. But she’d seen Grand-mère’s eyes drooping, as they did so often after she had to take one of her pills, and she knew that the old woman would welcome a few minutes of peace, to doze.
Nicole was usually gone by now, back at the apartment she now thought of as His. Claire would be making her silly, inconsequential chatter, and they’d eat something awful, like macaroni and cheese or frozen pizza, and then they could watch TV and Nicole would explain everything to a confused Claire.
Sometimes she lied, and made up stories to fit the people on TV, stories that had nothing to do with what was really happening. Sometimes she lied about things in real life, too. Marc knew, and had punished her for it. Claire knew, and just ignored it. Maybe she’d tell Claire a lie tonight, tell her Marc had called, asking for her. It would be interesting to see if Claire would be happy or sad.
But she didn’t need to lie to Claire to know the answer to that, she’d already seen it in her eyes. Claire was going to leave. She’d probably go without saying good-bye, Nicole thought, stolidly chewing the sandwich. She was surprised to find the thought pained her. Her mother had gone without saying good-bye. But then, her mother had died.
Claire wasn’t going to die, she was simply going back where she belonged. And then she would be alone with Marc again. The thought gave her … what was Claire’s wonderful American word … the creeps. It gave her the creeps.
Nicole dropped the crust back onto the plate. She’d dispose of the garbage and Grand-mère wouldn’t have to know that she hadn’t finished it all. Maybe she could talk Claire into buying some Coca-Cola. Another excellent American invention, though this one Grand-mère didn’t approve of. But Nicole loved it with a passion. There were times when she wished she lived in the States and could drink all the Coke and eat all the peanut butter she wished. And never have to put up with Marc watching her, ever again.
He particularly liked to come in when she was in her bath. He would stand in the doorway, watching her, giving her clipped orders where to wash. The one time he tried to wash her himself, her mother had caught him. It was just before Maman had died, and Nicole would never forget how angry she was. She’d heard the two of them arguing that night, low, bitter words. Actually she had only heard Maman—Marc had retreated into his customary wall of silence, his only response a mimed expression that made Maman scream with rage.
At least he didn’t fight with Claire. Claire behaved herself, did everything she was told. As did Nicole herself. Life was more peaceful now in the old apartment, and with Grand-mère around there was always some place she could run to, if things got too bad.
She didn’t want Claire to go. It surprised her to realize it, but she would miss her, miss her awful food and her silly chatter and her clumsy efforts to take care of her. How could Claire take care of her, protect her from Marc, when she couldn’t even take care of herself?
Nicole rose, scratching her scalp beneath the tightly braided hair. Claire had tried to get her to wear her hair down, even get it cut, but she had steadfastly refused. She didn’t like her hair. She could remember too vividly the night Marc had come in, sat on the edge of her bed, and stroked her hair—long, soft, horrid sort of strokes—while he said absolutely nothing.
That was just before he’d left for America. He’d come back with Claire, and he’d kept out of her room since then. If Claire went, there’d be no one to stop him. And she didn’t know exactly why, but she didn’t want him to come into her room, ever again.
Maybe she could stay with Grand-mère. Marc had always refused, but maybe if Grand-mère offered him some money he might agree. He never had enough money, he would often say. If it weren’t for Nicole he wouldn’t have to worry, he would say. And Nicole would sit there, eyes downcast, silent.
Maybe Claire wouldn’t come fetch her tonight. Maybe she’d already left. The thought was depressing. Grand-mère was getting too old, the pills were making her forgetful. If Claire had gone, who would take care of her?
She heard the noise at the front door with anger and
relief. At least Claire hadn’t left yet. With her characteristic silence she rose from the kitchen table, moved to the door, and pushed it open a crack. She had a perfect view of the living room, of Grand-mère’s sleeping figure. It would be interesting to hear what the two women had to say to each other when they thought Nicole wasn’t around.
She hadn’t been able to hear a word yesterday, but Grand-mère’s maid Genevieve had been there, watching her to make sure she didn’t eavesdrop. Nicole was alone in the apartment now, with no one to stop her from snooping.
She pushed the door open a little more. She couldn’t see Claire yet—she was still in the hall. Grand-mère was waking up, foggy, befuddled, staring at her visitor in sleepy amazement.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” she demanded in a sleepy croak. In French. The visitor wasn’t Claire.
Nicole started to let the door swing shut in silent disappointment. Perhaps she’d left Paris after all.
Then she heard the last voice she would ever have expected. Her stepfather’s soft, beguiling tones.
“What do you think I’m doing, Harriette?” he replied gently. “I’m here to fulfill your fantasies.” And as he moved into the room, Nicole saw that he held a knife.
CHAPTER 14
Harriette blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to clear her brain of the mists of sleep and pain-killers that had fogged it. Surely she must be dreaming. It couldn’t be her hated son-in-law standing there, a small, charming smile on his too-handsome face, contemplating her with a knife in his hand.
She struggled to sit up, her body protesting. “What fantasies?” she said calmly, as behind her impassive face her brain suddenly began working. How long had she slept? Surely Nicole had left by now, was safely home with Claire. Did she dare say anything to the man standing in front of her? Or would she be signing Nicole’s death warrant by doing so?
Marc made no sound at all as he advanced into the room, his every movement a graceful, exaggerated gesture. She half expected him to be in whiteface, but of course he wasn’t. That same, exaggerated grief wreathed his face, mocking her, as he sank down on the chintz-covered sofa beside her, the knife clasped loosely in his hand.
Harriette looked down at the knife, trying not to be squeamish. It was long, with a thin blade, and there was no discernible trace of dried blood on it. It looked very sharp, and more than effective, and Marc handled it as if he was quite used to it.
“Harriette, don’t fence with me,” he said softly, his voice a surprise after the thick silence. “You’ve been very clumsy. While I admit your plan was ingenious, you weren’t aware of a few basic flaws.”
He couldn’t know. But then, if he didn’t, what was he doing here with a knife? “What plan?”
“Don’t be childish, it irritates me. You wanted to frame me for the murders that have been plaguing Paris, and you were willing to die in order to do so. Your dedication is admirable, but it won’t work.”
“Why not?” She sounded icy calm, as, indeed, she was. She wasn’t afraid of dying, and there was a certain savage satisfaction at doing so by his hands. He would be caught. He had killed her daughter, now he would kill her, and with any luck at all he would make a mistake, enough of a mistake to get caught. Claire had been warned—she wouldn’t just sit by and ignore the possibilities.
“Because they will not catch me.”
“You may have been able to cover up Isabelle’s murder,” she said, “but a second one will prove harder.”
“Harriette, my dear, the police will simply consider you to be one more in a string of senseless murders, with nothing whatsoever to tie you to me. I’m in the south of France right now, visiting friends. I will be saddened and distressed to hear about your unfortunate end, and I will rush back to Paris to comfort my grieving, much wealthier stepdaughter.”
“Pig.”
Marc’s smile broadened. “And you’re mistaken about something, dear Harriette. You won’t be my second murder. You’ll be my fourteenth. You get your wish, darling. You will be killed by one of Paris’s serial killers, one who’s had a great deal of practice getting away with it.”
She didn’t move. She looked into Marc’s flat black eyes and saw calm, implacable madness lurking there. Madness and death. Slowly she nodded, leaning back against the cushions of the sofa. “Very well,” she said with calm, icy contempt. “I’ll have to hope your luck won’t hold out. At least I know that sooner or later you’ll be caught. You’ll pay for killing Isabelle.”
“I doubt it, Belle-mère. I expect to … what was that?”
Harriette didn’t even blink. She’d heard it too, the quiet, almost imperceptible thump from the kitchen, and she realized with dawning horror that Nicole was still there, in the apartment, listening to every word.
“I heard nothing,” she said in a flat voice. If only there was some way she could draw him out of the apartment, away from Nicole. It would be impossible. He was only inches away from her—if she tried to run he would catch her before she even left the couch. And she couldn’t bear the thought of an undignified struggle. She could scarcely stand the thought of his hands on her at all.
“Of course you heard nothing,” Marc said. “You’re old.”
Distract him, she thought desperately. Make him forget that noise. “Tell me, Marc,” she said in a voice suited to infuriate him. “Your slovenly friend who was here yesterday. The one who must have told you about our little arrangement. Does he kill the old ladies too?”
“Very astute, Harriette. Fortunately I have a certain power over him. Otherwise he might have insisted on taking care of you himself. You’re a popular woman. If the others were still alive I have no doubt they would have wanted to have a go at you. I would have loved to have left you to Gilles’s tender mercies, but alas …”
“The others?” Some of her icy calm slipped. “What in God’s name have you been doing?”
“I told you, murdering grandmothers,” he said. “And we haven’t been doing it in God’s name at all.”
He moved closer to her, so close she could smell the very expensive aftershave he favored. She had bought it for him herself one Christmas, back when Isabelle had first married him and everything had seemed to be fine. She wanted to vomit.
She pulled together the last remnants of calm. She had lived with dignity, she would die with it. She was tempted to ask Marc why, but she controlled her curiosity. In a few more moments it wouldn’t matter anyway, and she could tell he longed to brag. She wouldn’t ask, she wouldn’t fight, she’d keep her contempt intact. “What are you waiting for?” she demanded.
“In a hurry?” he purred. “I don’t like to be rushed.”
“If I were you I wouldn’t linger too long. People come and go around here.”
“I won’t linger. I have to be gone by six o’clock, and I have only a few minutes left. Long enough to take care of you,” he said gently, “and then go out to the kitchen and find who’s hiding there.”
“There’s no one in the kitchen.”
“Really? I’m afraid I’ll have to check for myself.” He leaned closer, so that his scent filled her nostrils, and she felt as if she were choking. She shut her eyes, trying to still the uncontrollable shudders that were wracking her body. Her ancestors had died on the guillotine, died with grace and dignity in the face of a howling mob. She could die just as well.
She felt the shock of his wet lips on her withered, dry ones. His tongue entered her mouth at the same moment the knife entered her heart, and she sighed. So very easy after all.
He laid her out very carefully on the chintz sofa, folding her hands across the neat wound. How many times had he seen her, sitting on that sofa, staring at him with stony contempt? Her early attempts at graciousness had been even worse, burning an implacable hatred into his soul.
How fitting to lay her out on the chintz, with her blood staining the soft pink upholstery. He’d harbored a small wish that she would fight him, but deep down he’d known better than to hope fo
r that. She knew him too well, knew what he wanted from her and refused to give it. He looked down at her, into the milky, staring blue eyes, and smiled.
Five minutes to six. He didn’t have much time. If she wasn’t found within ten minutes his careful planning would help no one. He couldn’t afford to dawdle.
On silent feet he moved to the kitchen door. Pushing it open, he looked into the empty, brightly lit interior, and whispered, “Nicole.”
There was no sign of her, but he knew she was there. The back door was bolted on this side, she couldn’t have made her escape, and the only other exit would have brought her past him. Granted, he’d been preoccupied for the last few minutes, but even at the point of orgasm he would have noticed his precious little stepdaughter tiptoeing past.
He tried it again, his voice a soft croon. “Nicole,” he cajoled. She wasn’t under the table, he could see that much, or hiding behind the door. With seeming unconcern he walked over to the sink and began washing the blood from the knife.
Still no sound. If she could see, she would have betrayed herself. A child of nine doesn’t view her grandmother’s blood lightly. Perhaps he’d been mistaken.
But no, his hearing was more acute than others’, honed by years of working in silence. He’d heard that tiny, scuffling noise, and seen Harriette’s reaction. He finished cleaning the knife, washing his hands carefully before turning to survey the blank wall of cupboards in front of him.
“I know you’re there, Nicole,” he said gently. “Come out.”
Still nothing. He crossed the room and began opening cabinets, methodically, peering into the neatly arranged interiors. China, casseroles, copper cookware, but no nine-year-old. He slammed the doors shut in fury. There was no need to make it painless with Nicole. She wasn’t part of the covenant—he could do whatever he wanted with her, and he would take great pleasure in doing so. He would cram a lifetime of emotion and sensation into her last few hours on earth. Indeed, it would be a kindness.
