The Parting of Pierre

by Annette Moncheri

  In the drawing room below, Oates Pichette was going well beyond the call of duty. In fact, I was sure that he was just indulging himself, as the women were covered with progressively less silk. And they were loving it, mostly because of Monsieur Pichette’s dark locks, his luxurious beard and mustache, his full and munificent face with heavy-lidded dark eyes, and his powerful impression of joi de vivre, which was captivating. In short, he was gorgeous.

  I tapped him on the shoulder and thanked him for his time, and then shooed off the ladies, who uttered cries of disappointment—they all loved being the center of Pichette’s attention. I decided to take mercy on them as far as I could, and I called Pichette back to tell him confidentially that I'd pay for the most flattering prints, one for each lady, framed as gifts for them. He thanked me profusely, bowed far lower than necessary, and went out, leaving my drawing room feeling bereft.

  I heaved a sigh. I went through the remainder of the evening doing my job thoroughly and attentively—but my heart wasn’t in it. I kept thinking of Pierre Fabron unmoving under the water in the copper bathtub, and of poor Mireille.

  3

  We heard no word from any authorities all the next day—according to the report from the day butler, Monsieur Herbert—and still nothing early in the evening, when our house was full of gentlemen stopping off on their way home. I was forced to abandon my fretting about Pierre Fabron’s death and give all my attention to my customers and the ladies.

  I reassured a customer that the ocean room could be made available and would require only twenty minutes for the “sun” lamps to heat up, then passed that request to Monsieur Georges, and then I ran a special request for a smoked salmon tarte to Monsieur Gachet in the kitchen, interrupted halfway through by gently reminding Anaelle de Gall that she wasn’t to roll her eyes at the customers.

  Just after that, I turned to find myself nearly bosom-to-bosom with an older woman wearing a scowl and an overly aggressive floral print on her modest dress and large matching purse.

  “Parisian Moral Society!” she declared in a tone so shrill and penetrating that the nearest dozen tables fell silent and stared.

  “Indeed?” I asked faintly, my eyebrows going up.

  She thrust a flyer into my face, and I felt obliged to take it simply so that I would have my field of vision clear. I gave it a glance—indeed, it said “Parisian Moral Society” at the top and went on to declare, “Your brother, your uncle, your husband, your son—no one is safe from the harlots and whores!”

  I agreed with that statement. My experience bore it out.

  The younger woman at the scowling woman’s elbow was her opposite entirely. She seemed to shrink before one’s eyes, like a dormouse curling up. She was only missing the furry tail wrapping around herself in hibernation. And she was wearing black from head to toe.

  “Auntie,” she pleaded to the older woman, but the remark failed to land.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” I asked as politely as I could manage.

  I’d sometimes found members of the Parisian Moral Society waving placards outside on the street in front of my maison, and often had found their flyers tacked up on the outer wall of the property. I had at first taken some amount of offense, but eventually decided that if someone is angry with you, it only means you’re doing something. And I’d rather do something than nothing.

  The older woman said, “I’m here escorting my poor bereaved niece. She wanted to come. I thought it was a rotten idea and I told her so, but since she insisted on coming, I insisted on escorting her.”

  Bereaved niece?

  “You couldn’t be—” I said.

  “Madame Pansy Fabron,” she said weakly, extending her hand.

  I took it gently. “The wife—”

  “The widow,” the auntie interrupted. “Yes. Of Monsieur Pierre Fabron. Who died on your premises.”

  I escorted them to my private sitting room, and rang for Monsieur Georges to bring us tea, and we all took our seats on the overstuffed armchairs. We made an awkward trio—myself attempting to be hospitable, the auntie full of prim outrage, and Madame Fabron dwindling by the moment.

  The auntie placed her oversized purse on her lap, and it began to wriggle.

  A black nose emerged, surrounded by dark brown fur, then two big brown eyes, and two small, floppy ears. The auntie transformed before my eyes into a doting mother as she half-lifted the tiny dog from the purse. “Oooh, Caramel, you good doggie, you are a good doggie, aren’t you? Yes, you are, you darling Caramel.”

  She pursed her wrinkled mouth into an exaggerated kiss, and little Caramel wriggled with joy as he thoroughly licked every surface of her lips.

  I have to admit that the sight nearly unmanned me. (Or unwomaned, I suppose.) My face froze in a half-smiling, half-horrified expression, and I stopped breathing. I don’t think I’m overly anxious about cleanliness… at least, I hadn’t thought I was, until I witnessed this particular sight. I managed to recover as Caramel lay back down, unseen once again, in the purse.

  “I told Pansy not to come,” the auntie reiterated, her mood seemingly improved by Caramel’s ministrations. “But she seems to think it will give her some sort of closure to see where her husband… slipped away.”

  “My dear Madame Fabron, I am so sorry for your loss,” I said. “It is a great tragedy.”

  “Yes,” she said faintly. “And you must understand, I will never recover from the fact that he died while… at such a place… doing… such things.” Her eyes rimmed red, and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief. “Of course, they said it was at a hotel. But I looked up the address, and I knew. But I’d known all along. A woman has a sixth sense about these things. He tried to keep it from me—everyone has tried to keep it from me—but I knew.”

  The auntie turned her accusing gaze on me. “Such shame you have brought upon this family.”

  “Monsieur Fabron’s choices were his own,” I said as kindly as I could manage. “I did not make them for him.”

  She tsked, affronted.

  “Have you spoken with the police?” I asked Madame Fabron.

  “Yes, they came to me to give me the news, and I spoke with them then,” she replied.

  “Do they have any idea what caused your husband’s death?” I asked gently.

  Madame Fabron nodded meekly. “I told them everything.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Epilepsy,” she said. “He must have had a seizure while he was in the water. It’s exactly what I had always feared. At home, I always kept an eye on him when he was in the tub.” She wrung her handkerchief.

  “He would have had no pain,” the auntie said, patting her niece on the shoulder. “He didn’t even know what was happening.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” I said.

  “She wants to see where it happened,” the auntie informed me.

  I wasn’t sure that was a good idea at all, but I agreed, and we went up to the bathing room.

  4

  A few minutes later, Madame Patron quaked with silent tears next to the copper bathtub, while her auntie patted her shoulder.

  Caramel, meanwhile, scrabbled around on the floor, sniffing and snuffling, no doubt looking for a place to do his business, and I ground my teeth. It’s not that I dislike dogs, I hope you realize. I think it wasn’t the dog I was objecting to so much as its supercilious and presumptious owner. The memory of how it had licked its owner’s wrinkled lips came back to me and inspired another shudder.

  “Madame Fabron, have you seen what you came for?” I inquired patiently. “I do hope it gives you some peace.”

  The auntie shot me a glare. “There can be no peace for any of us, Madame,” she said coldly.

  I bit my tongue and said nothing.

  “I hope you know I will report every bit of this to the Moral Society,” she went on, her chin raised. “None of us have ever, of course, set foot in such an establishment before, and I want you to know I will report all that I have
seen and heard. Every word, and every…” She surveyed the room as if searching for something unsavory. “… stick of furniture… and… drapery.”

  “Oh,” I said with a polite smile. “I’m distraught.”

  She tsked again. “Come, my pet,” she said to Madame Patron. “Let us leave this terrible place. You need never see it again, nor any such establishment. It’s all exactly as awful as I had imagined.”

  As they ventured out, the younger woman hesitated at the threshold. Then she pulled away from her aunt and wordlessly went the wrong way down the hallway, toward the smaller servants’ staircase at the back of the building, while her aunt called after her in surprise and alarm.

  I followed, uncertain as to whether I should be concerned. Was Madame Fabron hoping to find something? Perhaps even to confront her husband’s lover? She went into an open door a few rooms down—Melodie Bouvier’s room. I followed at a faster clip, still baffled, and anticipating a catfight.

  Instead, as we turned into the room, we saw Madame Fabron in the act of lying facedown on the carpeted floor, while Melodie turned from the settee in front of her mirror, interrupted in applying a fresh layer of lipstick.

  “What—?” Melodie asked.

  Madame Fabron began to quiver and shake upon the floor.

  “Oh, she’s having a fit!” the aunt exclaimed. “Quickly, put something beneath her head.”

  Melodie jumped up, but I was nearer the bed, and I gently rolled Madame Fabron over and positioned one of the bedpillows beneath her head, and then closed the door to give her privacy. “Both the Fabrons had epilepsy?” I asked the aunt in disbelief.

  She only nodded briefly as she found her way down to her knees next to her niece.

  How peculiar. I wondered if that had formed some of the basis for their attachment. Mutual understanding of a difficult condition?

  The auntie pressed her hands together and launched into vigorous prayer. “Blessed be the Holy and Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God. Our Lady of Lourdes, pray for us.“

  I watched her in fear she would draw a crucifix from beneath that violently patterned floral dress. She didn’t, but even so, I began to feel acutely uncomfortable. I soon realized it was the prayer itself to blame. I had always thought that prayers merely made me uneasy, but I was discovering that prayers delivered with Auntie’s volume and conviction made me twitch, and I found myself backed into the corner by the door.

  “Mother, have mercy on us,” Auntie went on loudly as Madame Fabron continued to seize. “Our Lady of Lourdes, heal darling Pansy for the greater glory of the Holy Trinity. Heal Pansy for the greater glory of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Melodie had bowed her head piously so as not to offend, and I knew I should do the same. But I felt like I was suffocating, and I excused myself and stepped out into the corridor. I sagged against the door and heaved a sigh of relief.

  I peeked back in to see that Madame Fabron’s movements had ceased, and Auntie was praying in gratitude instead, but with the same fervor, her hands now spread wide and her face turned upward to Heaven. I chose to remain outside the room.

  When I was very young and new to my supernatural condition, I had often played a game with myself where I would try to approach the Paroisse Catholique Saint Louis en l’Île, the one church on the tiny island on which I lived. The others in my little crowd of gutter rats and street urchins would hold open the heavy wooden door for me, so that I could peek in and see the candle-lit wooden pews and the gilded apse far on the other side of the vast room, with a large golden sun-like decoration above the altar. They would all urge me on, and I would take slow and determined steps toward the door, as I began to feel a weight on my chest.

  I would force myself forward as the weight became more and more crushing, counting the cobblestones that remained until my foot might cross the threshold. Each time, I tried to push myself farther, as fear prickled at the back of my neck.

  I never got to the threshold. Every time, with no fewer than eight cobblestones between me and the door, sheer panic gripped me and I turned and fled, laughing in fright and glee mixed equally, and my friends would chase after me, laughing at me. “Silly girl! Afraid of a church!”

  I never told them my true nature, of course.

  Ah! That damned dog! Caramel was lifting a leg to the lower portion of a priceless tapestry.

  5

  I had just bidden a relieved farewell to Madame Fabron, Auntie, and Caramel and turned back to my busy drawing room when I recognized the smooth, elegant tones of Monsieur Inspector Thibauld Baudet behind me.

  “Madame.”

  I felt a bolt of electricity go right to my stomach, and I turned with a smile. “Salut, Inspector.”

  Monsieur Inspector Baudet’s strong black eyes met mine, and he smiled in return. “Salut.” He took my hand and kissed it without lowering his eyes, and I melted inside. All possibility of my speaking vanished. Oh, Madame, I said to myself. You have no business feeling this way. It is always a mistake to pursue a mortal man.

  Oh, but then again… I thought of my last mistake, Hugo. Such muscles Hugo had…

  Meanwhile, the inspector’s eyes dimmed as he recalled his reason for coming. “I’m afraid I’m here on official business, Madame. And unsavory business at that.”

  “Oh?” I was struggling to focus on his words instead of his elegant Indochine cheekbones, but “unsavory business” caught my attention.

  “May we speak in private, Madame?”

  “Certainly,” I said. And no, I told myself, you may not take advantage of that privacy. Although I entertained the idea all the way there.

  A few moments later we sat in my private sitting room in neighboring armchairs, while Monsieur Georges supplied us with tea.

  “I’m here in regard to Monsieur Pierre Fabron, the deceased gentleman.”

  “Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. My attention finally shifted entirely to the business at hand. “I thought the matter was settled when Madame Fabron explained his condition.”

  “The epilepsy? Yes, well, the examination of his body has revealed something different. It’s true that he drowned, but only because he was held beneath the water. He was conscious and not seizing at the time of death.”

  I gasped. “Mon Dieu. I had no idea. You mean to say it was a murder?”

  The inspector nodded gravely, and my thoughts began to race. Who would have killed Pierre Fabron? And while he visited one of my ladies! “Do you have any leads?”

  “I wish I did. I came here to speak with Mireille Patrix—I believe she was the lady who was giving him… company… at the time? I wondered if she would have any information that could assist us.”

  “Of course you’re welcome to speak with her,” I said. I got up and rang for Monsieur Georges, and when he appeared an instant later, I asked him to bring down Mireille.

  I turned back to the inspector as a thought struck me. “Oh! You don’t consider Mireille to be a suspect, do you?”

  He tilted his head in that way people do when they can neither agree nor disagree. “She was the only person at the scene of the crime, Madame. We must explore all angles. I’m sure you understand.”

  I sat down at the edge of my chair, leaning forward. “Inspector, you mustn’t suspect Mireille. She is one of my trusted ladies. She’s been with me for nearly ten years. I found her at the scene of the crime, so distraught she couldn’t speak. She cried all night long.”

  The inspector patted me briefly on the knee. “Madame, you must forgive my cynicism. It is a product of my years of experience in these matters. I have met many a killer whom I would have thought as harmless as a mouse.”

  As harmless as a mouse… Madame Pansy Fabron came to mind, the one I had thought of as a dormouse when I first met her. “You’re considering the widow a suspect as well then, I assume?”

  He tilted his head. “Do you think it a possibility?”

  “She was deeply resentful of her husband’s visits here. But no
, truthfully, I don’t. She seemed very mild.” I thought then of dear old Auntie, and the Parisian Moral Society. But even Auntie seemed far too… righteous… to commit a murder. I envisioned her holding her niece’s husband down in the water until his breath stopped, and I couldn’t believe it. “Perhaps you’re right to be cynical, Inspector, but I haven’t yet met anyone connected to Pierre Fabron whom I would think capable of killing him.”

  Just then, Mireille came in. She looked apprehensive from the start, and her sallow expression grew even paler when she recognized the inspector. She hesitated at the threshold, her small and intense eyes fixed anxiously on him.

  “Come in, Mireille,” I said. “Take a seat. Have no fear. The inspector only has some questions.”

  A few moments later, Mireille had been brought up to date on the developments in the case, and the inspector had asked her to relate everything she knew about Pierre Fabron.

  She hesitated, collecting her thoughts, and then she began with her eyes darting here and there as if watching a fly that was buzzing around. “Pierre came to me a half-dozen times over the last year or two. But he shared little about his life. I know that he liked to go out on a boat sometimes during the summer. He wasn’t happy in his marriage, but he still limited himself to meeting with me when his wife was away visiting her mother. That was out of respect to her, you know. He worked in banking, but I don’t know the particulars. I know very little else about him.”

  I may have mentioned to you before, dear Reader, that I have certain powers in perceiving the emotions of others, due to my heightened senses. As she spoke, Mireille’s scent turned acrid, and her heartbeat and breath hastened. I was forced to wonder why.

  “He never spoke of any enemies, any difficulties with others, any stresses at work or the like?” Inspector Baudet asked.