by Agnès Ruiz
“Good. I’m dropping you. If you need me, you know where to find me.”
“Thank you, Jon. Thank you for everything.”
Jonathan was surprised by this sincerity. He came closer and their hands touched. This moment did not last long. Annabelle leaned towards the door. She kissed his lips and let him go.
In his rear-view mirror he watched her alone on the sidewalk.
Annabelle watched as the car moved away as she stepped back. Her thoughts were already turning toward the next few days. The rain slipped on her without her worrying about it. Her feet were in the pit, in the mud. That did not matter.
“You’re there!” Grégoire sighed springing up behind her, with an umbrella in his hand to shelter her.
She turned round and pinched her lips. Shrugging her shoulder, she simply commented:
“As you see.”
“You’re soaked. You gonna get cold.”
“You’re not my mother to tell me that!” Annabelle replied harshly.
“I just want to take care of you. Look at what state you are in, your clothes, your shoes.”
Annabelle lowered her head and contemplated the damage. She shrugged her shoulder.
“It does not matter. It cleans.”
Under the large umbrella, they were isolated from the rest of the world. Annabelle would have liked to stay as such. Maybe forever. In order to avoid facing the uncertainty and fear of the future.
“I was afraid you would stay with the other.”
“His name is Jonathan,” Annabelle rectified.
“I do not like him.”
“I know, but it does not matter. He’s my companion.”
Grégoire looked in his friend’s eyes for an ounce of teasing. There was none of that. He preferred to drop this subject too painful for him.
Annabelle observed the house next to Grégoire’s. That was her home, at last, with her parents. When she thought of it, she corrected herself again. No, it was her home, now that her parents were dead. She swallowed painfully before this blatant reminder. Would she still suffer as much from their sudden disappearance?
“I would have liked to go for a walk,” she said.
Grégoire realized she was talking about the house.
“They put the seals yesterday and those hideous police ribbons.”
“I do not like to see my home like that. It should not happen to us, I think.”
She now watched Grégoire. Would they understand each other half-way as in the past?
“She’s still there, you know,” he whispered.
Annabelle opened her mouth to amazement and her eyes shone.
“Really? I thought my parents had condemned the access...”
“They did,” Grégoire confirmed. “They put a wardrobe in front, you do not remember?”
Images of their youth sprang up in nostagic waves. They were aged seven or eight when they had discovered that the two houses were one and the same at first. And full of happiness, the two friends flushed the wall at Grégoire’s.
He just missed a grip.
That did not stop them. Grégoire had rushed into his father’s office, taking advantage of his absence. He had returned with one of the two alabaster book presses and had slipped the horse’s ear. By pinching the tip up, he had pulled and the old door had not resisted.
“I can still see our evenings spent secretly in the attic.”
“We had a lot of fun,” Annabelle continued.
“So let’s go?”
He had put a hand on her forearm. The other still held the handle of the umbrella despite the rain becoming sporadic.
Annabelle wondered if Grégoire was really jealous. Facing her mischievous air, she no longer doubted. Then she remembered the wardrobe mentioned earlier. Her parents had slipped it to permanently block access to the neighbors.
“Do you remember your father’s anger?”
“And how,” Annabelle agreed. “He put himself in all his moods. I did not know what it was. He went to see your mother.”
When the cat was let out of the bag, they were getting to sixteen years old.
“At least, we took advantage of it for a long time.”
Yet a veil of sadness arose. Grégoire chased it away furiously. He knew that they would evoke the past and inevitably this shadowy part of their youth. He was nevertheless aware that it wasn’t an appropriate moment for that. Rather take advantage of this respite to sneak gently into Annabelle’s home, like when they lived in carelessness.
Chapter 7
In the attic, the smell of the old objects piled up found its way into the girl’s nostrils This peculiar olfactory memory left her motionless for a time in the semi-darkness.
“I sometimes want to go back,” Grégoire confessed in a fit of nostalgia.
“Not me,” Annabelle cut short without justifying herself.
Grégoire was wounded. He added nothing. He walked ahead of his friend and opened the trap door. No need for the book-press tip. Annabelle noticed that a handle had been fixed.
“Has it been there for a long time?” she inquired, surprised.
“I can’t say anymore. I think I found that before your parents moved the wardrobe. I’m not sure.”
Annabelle could not remember having seen him. In fact, it was not so surprising. It was Grégoire, most often who came to join her.
“The piece of furniture is still on the spot, as you can see,” Grégoire announced.
Annabelle was disappointed. She had remembered herself going home through this access, despite the seals. Now she would have to wait for the police for that. Have eyes on her when she enters the house.
“Why did you bring me up here? To show me that?” she exclaimed, leaving.
She was already on the doorstep when Grégoire called her back.
“You always have an impetuous character. So, are you coming or you prefer to sulk?”
Intrigued, Annabelle retraced her steps. She opened her mouth when she saw the bottom of the wardrobe. Now that she was more attentive, there was distinctly a rectangle that covered almost the entire surface of the wall.
“You... you’ve drilled the back of the furniture?” She exclaimed, flabbergasted. “Why? I do not live there anymore.”
“I thought you’d come back one day,” Grégoire explained.
He was afraid that Annabelle might get angry again after this confession. Against all expectations, she refrained from contradicting him. She did not want to talk about it. Not now and maybe never.
“Well, are we going?”
Finger pressure is enough for Grégoire to rotate the bottom of the cabinet. It was with a laugh that they entered Annabelle’s house. First the attic where there was a monstrous clutter. Annabelle looked from here and there. Old stuff that he would have to sort out one day or another... A little pleasure crouched in his mind. She could flush out vintage objects, who knows? She caressed a wooden horse, it rocked, creaked. An image floated in his mind. She climbed onto the rocking toy and held the reins. Unless it was only a photographic memory? She was sure of nothing. She opened an old trunk.
“My Halloween disguises!“she exclaimed. I did not know they had kept all that.
“Your parents were not the kind who talked about the past,” Grégoire argued.
That was the truth. Always go ahead and leave no trace, was their motto. By finding these objects of his childhood here, gathered, it meant that they did not always act based on the idea of leaving nothing behind them.
Annabelle closed the trunk slowly. She did not expect to feel joy when her parents were dead. On the right, she noticed clothes, hats. She put one on her head, added a boa that she wrapped around her neck, and made her coquette before Grégoire.
“You have a hat head,” he confirmed. Anyway, you’re all right. You are dazzling.”
He avoided his friend’s look. He felt that he had been too direct. She did not care about it and continued to explore the place. It felt like a timeless bubble or nothing serio
us could happen.
Purses! Look at that. A whole life is stored in this attic.
“Many lives, you mean, given the quantity of things that are there! You’re gonna have work to sort through.”
“I could rely on you, I’m sure,” she announced.
She did not turn round to tell him that. She was watching the purses. She refused to let him bore her protective bubble.
“I remember those two. My mother always had sweets in a pocket. She was so greedy. And I took advantage of it.”
Mechanically, she opened the bag and rummaged inside.
“It’s empty. No more sweets.”
Sadness melted on her and she repressed it. She put down the bag and took another.
“I’ll take this one. It’s too good. And this one too. Very trendy.”
“When Madame has finished shopping,” Grégoire said humorously.
“You’re right, I forget everything here. It feels good. Do admit that it’s extraordinary, all the same.”
Grégoire agreed. Especially as at home, the attic was rather the museum of his father’s stuff. Finally, especially the administrative paperwork piled up.
They left the attic with regret and then found themselves in Annabelle’s room. Everything was arranged in the same place, as her mother liked to say when she came for the holidays.
In recent months, she had increasingly spread her apparitions, under false pretenses. Did she believe her immortal parents so much that they could do without her visits and see her so sporadically?
A funny sensation began to spring up in Annabelle’s stomach. She closed her eyes briefly, still smelling the odors. After that of Grégoire’s attic and hers, there was now that of her room. The detergent used by her mother and even her perfume...
“They always said they did not see me grow up. That it went too fast.”
A furtive emotion rose to her throat now. It almost stopped her from making a sound. She lacked air. The room was nevertheless regularly and lovingly aired by her late mother, she knew it...
But then, what was happening to her?
Grégoire knew his friend. Finally, the one she had been. Annabelle remained motionless and paler than ever.
“It will be okay, Annabelle?”
“I think we should not be there, after all. It was a mistake.”
Without warning, Annabelle ran away and stepped over the wardrobe too quickly. She even almost stumbled in her haste. An old piece of furniture on her right helped her to regain her balance. Behind her, she heard Grégoire ask her to wait for him. She did not care.
Soon Grégoire found his friend in the living-room, at his house. She was curled up on herself, with her head on her knees.
I am sorry. I thought that... nothing at all. I was stupid. That’s all. I should never have proposed that to you.
Annabelle raised her face. She did not cry, which surprised Grégoire.
“It’s okay, do not worry,” she mumbled. “I just think it’s not fair.”
“Nothing is right in our stories, you know, Annabelle.”
Instead of stretching it, the young woman looked out of the window. Cars went by, indifferent to the drama she was going through.
“Jonathan did not want me to come here, to your home.”
Grégoire was surprised by this remark. Inwardly, he was happy to hear this comment. If Jonathan did not like it, it was a good thing for him, he was trying to persuade himself. Was it wrong? He preferred not to make any immediate objection and let Annabelle continue.
“He would have liked me to stay with him. To talk to him more about all that, how I feel and...”
“And is he right?”
Annabelle and Grégoire exchanged a heavy look. That was a tangible link of the past that would unite them forever.
“You’re the only one who can understand how I feel right now.”
The tone was rough now. It was like a verbal and impalpable pact.
“I refuse to discuss it,” Grégoire said, retreating, surprised by his reaction.
“Why?” Annabelle agreed, suffering.
She searched his face to make out the slightest sign. He tried to understand her after such a long absence. Her head curiously returned to her shoulders, as if trying to escape the terrible drama that struck her. He reproached himself for not giving his hand when she really needed it. After all, was not that the reason for his driving all those miles to meet her in Toronto? Didn’t he want to be the one she would see and who would tell her the appalling news? He was the only one who would be able to wipe her tears. Finally, that’s what he said to himself when he decided to drive to that city.
Today he did not know. He wondered if he was wrong all along. Upset, he confided himself without masking. With Annabelle, he had trouble pretending.
“Because nothing is settled, quite simply.”
“And so what? That doesn’t change anything. Your father was murdered when you were ten years old. That I remember and you too. And today, it’s my parents. Both of them hop, all of a sudden, gone. And that’s all.”
“Why do you put it that way, so cold?” Grégoire cried.
“Because death is cold!”
Chapter 8
Detective Toury received the report on the murder of Vincent Caron, the neighbor of the Rambouillets, Grégoire Caron’s father. She plunged into it, already disappointed by the thinness of the file. The matter was unsolved. Ongoing. More than twenty years old.
She knew what that meant. The case could re-emerge only if a new element re-launched the investigation. For now, the whole thing was at a standstill.
She knew a little about the investigator. She had met him several times in the course of her work. She had nothing to reproach him with. Moreover, he had posed no problem when she had made the request to consult the papers.
He had just tried to find out why she wanted him. Rachel did not mind giving him this information. It was no secret. Of course, a question arose in one and the other, “was it a coincidence?”
“No doubt, the policeman suggested, it’s been over 20 years.”
Rachel could not discard that so quickly. Who knows if it was not the famous new element needed to revive his old story?
She read the testimony. Vincent Caron was a quiet man with no history. That is a common point in her current affair, like most cases, she thought.
He worked from home as a private detective. He had an assistant, Micheline Lemercier. There seemed to be animosity between Vincent Caron’s wife and this woman. Maybe a case of adultery? It was a question put in the margin, among other questions by the police. His colleague had also dug a disgruntled customer. That had not been successful. Vincent Caron accepted all sorts of assignment. Her work was good to judge from the statements.
What had happened since this man’s death? How did Grégoire support his needs and those of his mother? Life insurance?
There was no such information in the record. Ah yes, she found an amount. That was one million dollars for the benefit of his widow. That was a good sum of money.
Of course, Grégoire Caron was too young at the time, 10 years. There was his mother who remained cloistered in her room most of the time. She should be questioned. At least so she could give an opinion. The widow’s testimony, Gwendoline Caron’s, was on file. She was upset. It was she who had found her husband, with a skull broken with a blunt object. The person had fought on the head; perhaps in order to disfigure him. He was on the floor in his office. With papers scattered everywhere.
Rachel could see the snapshots taken at the time of the murder. She remained suspicious, trying to make a connection between this story and hers.
She scribbled on her notebook “check Grégoire Caron’s current finances and ask where the detective’s archives are”.
Finally, she shifted back into her seat and looked at the thin file. She now doubted the merits of all this. It was not her investigation, after all. Why waste time on this? Her colleague was already doing it. Her resources w
ould be better concentrated on the double murder of the Rambouillets.
Frustrated, the detective put aside Vincent Caron’s case to re-read the statements of her current case.
Chapter 9
“Because death is cold”, Annabelle said to Grégoire. The words were percussive and resonated well into the young man’s skull.
He wanted to close his ears, blink his eyes and be able to go back... So far in the past that his father would still be alive, that Annabelle’s parents would be just as much if they did not love him, this young neighbor, perhaps too curious...
They remained silent long before Annabelle took them out of their doldrums.
“You think they’ll find out who did that?”
“They never found out for my father,” Grégoire rebelled, now vindictive.
“Today, they have made progress. Then, this detective, she seemed competent.”
Saying this, Annabelle consulted her watch.
“They’ll soon be here. Would you like to prepare coffee for me, please?”
That was new, Annabelle drinking coffee. She had always preferred tea.
He almost questioned her, but decided it did not matter. He went into the kitchen. Annabelle fretted on the console of the living-room and moved the accumulated papers.
Grégoire had kept his father’s old furniture. Before, this desk was in a separate room, upstairs, she remembered vaguely.
Grégoire had placed it in front of the vast window which opened onto the street. He could see everything like a spy. This observation disturbed her more than she would have liked. She easily understood that this was how he had seen her arrive. Had he watched her talk with Jonathan, kiss him too?
Annabelle shrugged her shoulders as if to drive away this fleeting vision. There was the piled-up paper work again in idleness. Grégoire was not good at keeping order. He had never been orderly, she thought, more serene to evoke their youth.
His leaflets, notebooks and books were always littered everywhere on the floor under the bed; and never on his little desk.
His hand inadvertently overturned a pile in precarious balance and documents scattered. She bent over to pick them up and her eyes fell on several unpaid bills. She rested the heap in bulk, embarrassed by this discovery.
