Murder in Saint Germain

by Cara Black

  Fury creased his mouth. The hatchet’s blade caught the light. “What in the hell . . . You? Why?”

  Had she caught him out? “Put down the hatchet, and I’ll tell you.”

  “You’re in collusion with them, Aimée?”

  She noticed a chemical smell. A crazed look danced in his dilated pupils—was he doped up? Ready to attack her as he’d attacked the man he’d put in a coma.

  “Who?” She wouldn’t wait to find out. Keep him talking; get that hatchet out of his hands. “I hate kicking an ill man.” She’d pulled her cell phone from her pocket. Prayed there was reception down here. Doubted it. “But I will if I have to.”

  “I did everything I was asked—”

  “Everything Sybille wanted?” she interrupted.

  “What?”

  “She’s playing you. So’s Michel. I saw him drop off the envelope you’d left, and it was Sybille’s assistant who picked it up.”

  His shoulders twitched. A convulsive shaking in his arms caused him to drop the hatchet. Aimée winced as it banged to the floor.

  “My pills . . .” His trembling hand reached in his jacket. “I need . . . medication . . .” A foil packet tumbled on the table. His breath rasped, ragged and choking.

  Mon Dieu. The man struggled to breathe. She grabbed her bottle of Badoit. Empty.

  Saliva flecked with blood dribbled down his chin. She punched in 15 for SAMU, the Urgent Medical Aid Service, on her phone, but there was no reception. The man looked like death. Somehow she had to get him upstairs, reach an area with reception. “Take my arm.”

  Too weak to resist, he swallowed his pills dry.

  From the tunnel she grabbed a metal work cart, got the shaking Dechard on it. Ran back for her bag. Then pushed the heavy cart, the wheels spitting stones, over the earthen floor toward the door.

  Still no reception.

  “Lock up the collection, for God’s . . .” His words trailed off.

  Later. First she had to get help.

  The steep ramp to the door took all her strength. Dechard slumped, groaning. By the time she’d pushed the cart into the main room of the old chapel, she’d gotten reception again. She called emergency and gave them their location.

  “There’s not much time,” she said, looking around.

  He gasped, taking shallow breaths.

  “Tell me. What does Sybille have to do with the blackmail?”

  “Stop. You’re lying . . .”

  She rolled up his shirt cuff. Took his pulse. Thin but steady. “What should have been in the Leonardo folder in the archives?”

  “Not your business.”

  “The Leonardo drawings are missing. The flics will love to make that their business.”

  “Leave it alone.”

  “Bit late for that. Hear the siren?”

  Panic flooded his face.

  “You need my help, Dechard.”

  He gripped her arm, pulled her toward him. Kept his voice low.

  “Last week I discovered there were Leonardo drawings missing,” he said, pausing for breath. “Then the emails came.”

  Then it made sense. “You knew Sybille used her position to hide the theft . . .”

  “Sybille’s not that stupid.”

  “Why should you cover it up if neither of you were involved?”

  There was real fear in his eyes. “Just leave it alone.”

  But she couldn’t. “The thief raised the stakes, counting on you to swap your past for a missing Leonardo. That it? Anything to keep the chair you wanted to endow intact?”

  That was it. She saw it in his face, craggy under the fluorescent lights and caved in with illness and despair.

  “So what happened, Dechard?”

  He shook his head.

  “A man’s in the hospital; priceless art is missing. You better talk, or I’ll go right to la Proc.”

  “The one who likes you so much?”

  He’d noticed. Difficult not to.

  “She’s hard but fair. That’s her job, Dechard.”

  “I knew the school would suffer . . .”

  How blind could the man be? “Your sister-in-law used you. If I can bypass security, so can she as la directrice. Where are the drawings now?”

  “Gone. Sold. I don’t know.”

  She’d been afraid of that. She forced herself to think about damage control. “All the more reason to talk to the board, explain and give your statement. Scandal gets old after two days. The newspapers will move on, hunting for new fodder. Just get it over and done with.”

  His gaze wavered.

  “Unless you want to keep covering up for Sybille,” she said. “Or is it more? Something else?”

  Dechard never answered. The pompiers, first responders, in their fluorescent green vests had appeared with a defibrillator, oxygen.

  “Shortness of breath, pain, any of those symptoms?”

  “He takes these pills.” Aimée handed over the packet. “Suffers a chronic illness.”

  A year of premed gave her little expertise, but between the anti-nausea medication and the chemical smell of his sweat, she guessed he was undergoing chemo.

  Dechard left on a stretcher. What would she do now? Denouncing an employer for robbery would lose her their contract. René would shoot her.

  Dechard hadn’t told her the whole story. Sybille was keeping secrets, and Michel was playing errand boy. What were they all hiding?

  Think.

  Her vibrating phone stole her attention. Merde, had she missed Zazie’s call when she hadn’t had reception?

  No, it was Saj, mired outside Paris because of a train strike.

  She’d figure Dechard’s mess out later. Right now she needed to cover Saj’s client meeting. Couldn’t let her business go down the drain.

  “I’m en route,” she told him. “Call when you’re near.”

  Jumping in a taxi on the quai, she called Zazie, feeling guilty she’d been out of phone range.

  “Tout va bien,” said Zazie. Chloé had loved the pool.

  Except Zazie had to take her sniffling toddler brother to a pediatric appointment. She’d promised her mother. Chloé would have to come along.

  Tant pis. Kids picked up more illnesses in the doctor’s waiting room than at home. After that slight fever, Aimée didn’t want to risk Chloé coming down with something right now.

  She hesitated. Melac had had it under control the day before, hadn’t he?

  Aimée escorted Saj’s contact, now a Leduc Detective client, out of the office. Sigrid, a thirtyish white-blonde Swedish videographer, had been eager to sign the contract for a ground-up security overhaul of the firm she’d taken over. Ready to sign on the dotted line and pay an up-front retainer. How often did that happen?

  Saj rang on the office line thirty minutes later, concerned that the deal had fallen through because he’d missed the meeting. Meanwhile, Aimée had downed an espresso and was running surveillance on the accounts of all Leduc’s clients.

  “Bravo, Saj. She’s in. We’ll take her check to the bank.” Then she added, since he’d brought in the client, “It’s your bébé, so you’ll set everything up when you make it in.” Call waiting clicked. “Later, Saj.” She switched calls. It was René, returning the voice mail she’d left him in the taxi.

  He sounded breathless. “Damn traffic. A cell phone tower must be down, I’ve hit so many dead zones. What happened with Dechard?”

  She updated him.

  “The man needs your help, non?” said René. “Time he clued you in.”

  She agreed. “But I just don’t get it,” she said. “He’s supposed to retire after this year. The man looks like he’s on his deathbed.”

  Creamy afternoon light spangled the chandelier, shooting rainbows onto the white marble fireplace. Aimée rubbed her eyes
. Her shoulders ached from pushing Dechard on the steel cart.

  “He’s almost out to pasture,” René said. “Pin a robbery or three on him, blackmail him with plagiarism accusations . . .”

  She was tired. She’d gone through all this in her head. “But what does he hold that no one else does?”

  “Money, prestige . . .” said René. “He’s head of an art history department.”

  “Wait une petite seconde.” She ran over and searched on Saj’s terminal, which was still in administrative mode on the school’s system network. Scrolled through Sybille’s email correspondence with the school’s board and trustees. Saw Jules Dechard’s resignation.

  “He’s resigned, René.”

  “Then I don’t get it.”

  And it stared her in the face.

  “He’s head of the art history department. That’s it. The important thing Jules Dechard provides is the crowning of his successor,” she said, printing the email, then hitting forward. She typed in the lawyer’s email address and hit send. “His recommendation makes his chosen successor a shoo-in for the position, which comes with lifetime tenure.”

  She scanned Sybille’s email for any other clues. There was a reminder about the board and trustee meeting—it would be starting in twenty minutes. Aimée grabbed her bag, paused at the door. Reminded herself to check: keys, wig, flats, scarf, printouts—all accounted for. With a quick goodbye to René, she flew out the door.

  She crossed by the statue of Voltaire in the small Square Honoré-Champion, ran into rue Bonaparte, through the school’s courtyard, into the old cloisters. She took two steps at a time up to Sybille’s office.

  “But la directrice is meeting with the trustees.” The assistant arranged a bowl of hyacinths at the window.

  Too late.

  “Where’s that?” Aimée asked, catching her breath.

  “She can’t be disturbed.”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  “Strict procedure. Madame won’t allow anyone into the closed session.”

  Aimée looked past the bowl of hyacinths to the windows across the courtyard. Several grey-haired heads were visible.

  The next moment she’d run out into the corridor, rounding the courtyard on her way to the other wing. Another staircase. She felt the pain in her legs as she ran. Her calves seized up.

  So out of shape.

  Keep breathing. Don’t stop.

  She pushed one of the tall double doors open. An anteroom.

  She kept running. Reached for the handle at the next pair of double doors.

  “Mademoiselle, there’s a meeting in progress.” The assistant had caught up with her, panting. “You can’t go in there.”

  “Watch me.”

  At a large, heavy wood table sat six or so men, one holding a gavel, and Sybille, openmouthed in amazement and irritation.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Murmurs, the scraping of chairs. “Only board members, trustees, and staff are allowed in the proceedings,” said one of the men.

  “Then I’m just in time.”

  Sunlight haloed the grey-haired members of the board in the dark wood-paneled room, reminding Aimée of a Renaissance painting. Her phone trilled. The attorney.

  “Good timing, Maître,” she said. “I’ll put you on speakerphone. You’ve read the emails I’ve forwarded regarding the candidate put forth for Monsieur Dechard’s position.”

  “Who’s listening, Mademoiselle?”

  Of course a lawyer would ask that.

  “The people who matter.” She hit the speakerphone button. “We’re in a closed assembly. So can you summarize what you’ve read in the emails?”

  “Where’s my client?” The lawyer’s voice was tinny, so she upped the volume.

  “I rushed Professor Dechard to the hospital.” A little stretching of the truth. “He collapsed after discovering—well, I’ll let you tell us what I discovered.”

  Sybille stood up angrily. “I motion we adjourn,” she said, turning to the others. “Proceed with voting on the candidate at a later time.”

  Aimée turned to the candidate. Michel Sarlat, Dechard’s colleague and blackmail envoy. He squirmed under her glare, his cheeks flushed. “You’ve no right bursting in here and—”

  “Calling you out on your deception?” said Aimée. “You’re blackmailing your colleague Professor Dechard, a cancer patient undergoing chemotherapy treatment, to get him to recommend you for his position.” She slapped the printed emails on the table. “Threatening his Légion d’honneur, a sick man’s legacy for his life’s work.” She raised the phone. “But don’t take my word for it. It’s all printed out, and le maître will corroborate, won’t you?”

  Sybille’s hands waved as if she were trying to bat Aimée away like a gnat. “Pwah. Don’t listen to her.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Michel’s eyes bulged. “She must have faked the documentation.”

  “And the da Vinci drawings?” said Aimée. “Would you like to explain whom you sold them to with Sybille’s assistance? Knocking out your partner at the gallery because he got greedy?”

  “I think you’re making up stories,” Michel said.

  Guessing at the truth, more like it.

  “I didn’t make up how you checked out a blue camionette and drove to the Galerie Tournon the day Jules Dechard and the gallery owner were attacked. Your signature’s in the vehicle log. A witness identified you.”

  Again she was stretching the truth, but Michel’s jaw dropped. His eyes, with their pale lashes, blinked in fear. He looked like a cornered rat—a well-fed one.

  “You counted on Dechard’s misplaced loyalty to his sister-in-law and to the school after he discovered the da Vinci’s missing,” she said. “You had your partner send him threatening emails, holding the ancient plagiarism over him if he revealed the theft. But you underestimated him—he was too upset by the idea of the artworks being stolen to let it go. He hired me to figure out who else had been in contact with his blackmailer, and I led him back to you.” She was guessing, guessing—but Michel Sarlat’s face was red with silent shock. “Now Jules Dechard would never give you the recommendation you needed to take over the department chair position, which you so desperately wanted. You had lost his trust. He would have ruined your career prospects as his last act before retiring. The poor man, he was trying to prevent you from being promoted, but he didn’t want to make things difficult for his sister-in-law, Sybille.” Aimée turned her glare on the directrice. “He tried to protect the school’s reputation because you’d convinced him the old plagiarism business mattered now. The poor man had no idea you were going behind his back to take advantage of him and help his enemy.”

  “Who are you, mademoiselle? What right do you have coming in here making allegations, accusing people?” A dignified white-haired man with a South of France tan shoved the printed-out emails to the floor, scattering dust motes. “As chairman of this board—”

  “I’m the school’s IT system consultant. You, Chairman Bruly, in effect, hired me,” she said. “Emails never go away. People think they can delete them. Especially you.” She bent down, picked up the papers, and pointed. “Here, Chairman Bruly. Right here, an email from you states that ‘the da Vinci drawings are copies. Good ones but nineteenth-century fakes.’ Which the board knows, since they all received your email. Only Professor Dechard didn’t know.”

  Bruly shook his head, disheveling his well-coiffed curls. Brushed imaginary lint from his navy blazer. “This is an institution for which you no longer work,” he said. “The board handles staff affairs and hiring decisions. None of that is in the public purview or any of your business.”

  “However, blackmail, coercion, robbery, and criminal assault are crimes,” she said, holding her phone aloft, “and prosecutable to the fullest extent of the law. I doubt Professor Dechard’s lawyer will fail to
bring charges against you.”

  The door opened, revealing the middle-aged security guard she’d snuck the odd cigarillo with at the rear courtyard.

  “Escort this intruder out,” Chairman Bruly said.

  The guard studied his black shoes.

  “Now.”

  Out on the landing, the guard smiled at her.

  “Got them on the warpath. Quite a feat,” he said.

  She wondered what the guard knew about this tightly closed, crème de la crème world—like a big backstabbing family. He’d know the backstairs version of why Michel Sarlat was the top candidate for Dechard’s position, despite everything unsavory and illegal that he’d done.

  “More intrigue than at Versailles,” she said. “Blackmail, stolen da Vincis—but you’d have heard all that gossip, non?”

  “Not if I want to keep my job.” He went all business, escorting her to the ground floor and insisting on watching her empty her desk and her locker.

  She tried again as he was letting her out of the gate. “Alors, I’m sure you’ve heard things.”

  Nodded. “C’est ça, you’ve stuck your nose where it shouldn’t go.”

  “Professor Dechard’s devoted his life to the school,” she said. “Now he gets shafted? Disgraced?”

  “Dogs bite if you pull their tails.”

  She shook her head. “They won’t get away with it. Not this time.” She’d talk to la Proc herself. “I still don’t get how Sarlat could be considered for department chair. How can that be possible? No one even likes him or wants to work with him.”

  The guard sucked in his breath. “You didn’t hear this from me.” He looked around. Lowered his voice. “Sarlat walked in on a three way: la directrice; her assistant, Bette; and Bruly, the board chair, in flagrante delicto on the back terrasse.”

  Aimée visualized the peaceful terrasse, dripping with ivy, as a setting for that threesome. Cringed. Not a pleasant image.

  “So promoting Michel is the price of keeping that quiet, eh?” she said.

  He’d taken out a cigarillo. Lit it and puffed. Returned the tin to his pocket without offering her one. “Anyone ever told you it’s tough being your own worst enemy, mademoiselle?”