She looked again at the postcard with its picture of the Promenade de la Croisette and remembered the afternoon with Laurent at the abandoned house on the coast. Suddenly, from out of nowhere and for the first time since she’d met him, she had an unmistakable feeling of doubt trace down her spine. A question began to form unbidden in her head that she’d never fully considered before.
Who was he, really?
23
The City Morgue in Cannes was not in a nice section of town.
Far away from the celebrities and the fifty-euro sandwiches, the tanned bodies and the jewelry boutiques, it was a squat, new building set between two older factories. From what Maggie could tell, the factories were no longer in use. Coming here six months after her first visit was only a little less disconcerting. She wouldn’t have to be identifying the bodies of any loved ones on this visit, but she went in this time knowing the people in charge were probably not really there to help her.
She stopped at the front desk and asked for Albert Donet. She had exchanged emails with Donet, who had been singularly unhelpful until she finally hinted that she might be arriving with more money than she could comfortably spend in Cannes.
The wait was brief. Before she had a chance to sit down, Monsieur Donet was walking down the stark hall toward the waiting room to greet her. He was younger than she expected. The assistant to the head Medical Examiner, Albert Donet was not friendly, nor was she absolutely sure he was in a position to give her any helpful information.
He did, however, speak English.
He ushered her into his office, a small rudely furnished room with barely enough space for the desk and a visitor’s chair. Maggie pulled out an envelope with two hundred euros in it and slid it across the desk to him. If he balked at only two hundred, she had another two hundred loose in her purse. He glanced at the contents and made a face, but accepted it. His hands rested on a slim file folder on his desk. Maggie could see the tab label had a series of numbers on it instead of a name.
“How can I help you, Mademoiselle?” he said, looking like that was the last thing he was interested in doing.
“Thank you for seeing me, Monsieur Donet. As you know, I’m here to get information about the body I identified on April 10th of this year.”
“Oui.”
“That body had a bullet hole immediately above the right ear.”
He frowned and flipped open the file. Without looking up, he said, “Non. There was no hole recorded in the autopsy notes.”
“Well, I saw it.”
He shrugged. “The notes do not mention a hole.”
“And, of course, we don’t have a body to confirm it one way or the other because it was cremated without my instructions.”
When he didn’t respond, Maggie tried a different tact. “Can you tell me why the body was cremated, Monsieur Donet?”
“There must have been an order for it.”
“Is it in the file?”
“Non.”
“Okay, well then let me ask you, what would you have done with the body if no next of kin showed up to identify it?”
“We would do a DNA test or dental records match. But labs are backed up nearly nine months. It would not be a priority.”
“What if I sent you the box of bone and ash you gave me? You could run a test on those to determine identity.”
“How do we know those remains are the same ones we gave you?”
“Really? You think I’ve got a garage full of random bones and ashes?”
“I do not know, Mademoiselle. But it would not be at all proper. You would need to go through official channels. You would have to first authenticate the remains.”
“But that’s why I’d be sending them to you, so you can authenticate them.”
“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle.”
“Okay, let’s forget about that. Can you tell me how you knew to contact my family in Atlanta?”
“Someone else attempted to ID the body but was unable to do so, not being related. He gave us your contact information.”
“Who?”
He flipped open the file and ran his finger down a text document. “A Gerard Gautier.”
Gautier has got to be an alias for Dubois! Maggie felt herself get excited. “Who notified him there was a body in the first place?”
“No one. He reported his common law wife missing and was told to check the morgue. It is a standard procedure when a wife goes missing and there is no obvious lover in the picture.”
“When did he report her missing?”
“I have no idea. You’ll have to ask the police.”
It appeared her two hundred euros worth of questions had run out. It was just as well. It felt as if she had paid more for dead ends then any real answers. Dejected and unsatisfied, she thanked Donet and gathered up her purse. As she walked out of the dreary building, she felt a weariness descend upon her. She hadn’t learned much from her interview with Donet, but she did walk away with a very big question in her mind.
Exactly who the hell was the poor girl whose bones and ashes were sitting on the mantle of the Newberry family home on Tuxedo Drive in Atlanta, Georgia?
Two hours later, after a wonderful lunch of soupe de poisson and a carafe of wine that made her think longingly for her bed, Maggie was otherwise ready for her second appointment of the day, this time at the Cannes Commissariat de Police on Avenue Isola Bella.
The detective with whom she had her appointment with was redolent of garlic and body odor, and had clearly had much more to drink at lunch than Maggie had. Plus, he was having a difficult time keeping his eyes off her chest.
“As I said in my email last week, Detective Jenet, I’m here in hopes of getting some information about my sister, who was believed killed in Cannes last spring.”
“Believed?”
“Yes, you see, it turned out not to be her. As I said in my email, I’m trying to find out the whereabouts of my sister, Elise Newberry, last March.”
The detective frowned and looked through his notes. He belched loudly. “She drowned in the Cannes Harbor and was claimed by next of kin in April of this year.”
Maggie sighed in frustration. “Okay, well can we go back before that? An attempt was made to claim her body at the Cannes morgue by a man named Gerard Gautier the last week of March. I was told he filed a missing persons report through you. Do you have a record of that?”
Jenet turned to his computer and made a few entries onto the keyboard before scrutinizing the screen. Maggie was frustrated she wasn’t able to see his screen from where she was sitting.
“Yes. Gerard Gautier notified the police on March 15th that his common law wife, Elise Newberry, was missing.”
March 15th? The same day the body in the morgue was called in by an anonymous tip? Is it possible to believe this is a coincidence?
“Were there any other missing persons around this time? March 16th, say? Or 17th?”
He looked at the screen and seemed to be scrolling down. “No.”
“Any time in April or May?
After a moment, he said, “There is a missing persons for a Nadia Golchek. Reported missing since March 12th.”
“And she’s still missing?”
“There doesn’t appear to be any leads or unidentified bodies.”
“What about the body that was brought in on March 15th?”
“That body was identified by next of kin as Elise Newberry.”
“Yes, but as I’ve already said, it wasn’t Elise Newberry. She showed up alive in the U.S. four months later.”
“If you could have her contact us we—”
“Okay, I can’t do that because now she’s good and truly dead, but what I can do is give you proof that she died in June not March. If you can get the morgue to cooperate, I can even get you the remains of Nadia Golchek so you can test them to confirm that’s who she is so you can notify her family.”
My question is how did this mixup happen, and what does it mean?
“
I’m sorry, Mademoiselle,” Jenet said, licking his lips as if he wanted to eat her for dessert. “Speaking with the Cannes Medical Examiner’s office would not be possible.”
“Why is that?”
“We are not, how you say? on the same lines of communication. The channels are very complex and this would not be possible.”
“Bureaucratic red tape.”
“Exactement. If you were to get your attorney—and a French attorney would really be best—he might begin the process. I must warn you, Mademoiselle, something like this may take many months, or even years.”
“Yeah, never mind.” She stood and shook his hand, and felt a fierce urge to wipe it on her pant leg as soon as she left his office.
She was starting to see why people around here paid off officials to get anything done.
Later that night, after a quick but memorable meal of veal piccata and pasta, she put a call in to Laurent but there was no answer. She couldn’t remember if tonight was one of his personal chef gigs. Because she needed to get up early to catch the train to Paris, she turned off her phone so she wouldn’t be awakened by it, crawled into bed and fell deeply asleep with vivid dreams of her sister, Laurent, and an exotic Russian beauty named Nadia.
The next morning, she saw she’d missed a call from Laurent at one a.m. her time. There was no voice message. For some reason, an uneasy feeling had begun in the pit of her stomach when she saw the missed call at that hour (surely he knew she would be asleep), but she banished it. She dressed quickly and checked out.
Six thirty in the morning South of France time was twelve thirty at night Atlanta time. She knew he would still be up. As she settled into the taxi for the drive to the Nice train station, she called him.
“Allo, Maggie,” he said, answering promptly.
“Hey, sorry I missed your call last night. Was that after one of your cheffing gigs?”
“Non.”
“Okay, well, I’m on the way to the train station so that I can meet Michelle by lunch time in Paris. Do you want to hear what I found out?”
“Bien sûr.”
“I’m not at all sure how this relates to Elise, but I think Gerard—”
“Is he there? Have you seen him?”
Maggie paused and then said slowly, “No, because you asked me not to. I have no idea where he is. I’m just telling you what I learned from the detective at the Cannes police station and the assistant guy at the morgue yesterday. You know, Laurent, I have to say you are acting very strangely. I know you didn’t want me to come on this trip, and it really hurts me that you don’t understand how important it is for me to get closure on the whole Elise thing.”
“That is not what this is.”
“Oh, really? Then tell me what you think I’m doing over here.”
“C’est ne fait rien.”
“Well, it does matter. You act like it’s a personal thing against you or something.”
“I think it is a waste of money and is upsetting everyone.”
“Well, it’s certainly upsetting you.”
“Pshtt.”
Maggie had heard that snort before. It said a lot in one word.
“I’m here, Laurent. That part’s done. Get over it.”
Maggie looked at the brown scrub of the countryside as the taxi carried her to Nice. It irritated her that he wouldn’t support her in this. She wanted to process what she’d learned and he wanted to hold grudges.
“Fine,” he said finally. “Tell me what you learned.”
“Thanks. Well, it turns out that Gerard reported Elise missing the same day that someone called in an anonymous report on a body floating in the harbor. That’s a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think?”
Laurent didn’t answer.
“Well, I think it is. In fact, I think Gerard was the guy who reported the body and then tried to identify it as Elise to cover up the fact that he was also the guy who put a bullet hole in the head.”
Maggie heard an intake of breath on the line.
“Vraiment?” he said.
“Don’t you think?” she asked eagerly.
“It is possible,” he said, cautiously.
“I’ll say it is. It makes total sense.”
“But then where was your sister? He made a missing person’s report on a person he knew was not missing?”
“She must have been someplace where he wasn’t worried she’d be found, is all I can think. Obviously, I don’t know all the details. But right now everything that I learned points to Gerard.”
“Oui. Gerard as the killer of an unidentified body, but not of your sister.”
Maggie sighed and slumped back in the taxi seat. “That’s true. But in any event, I think I found out who the body was. A woman about Elise’s age was reported missing around the same time. A Russian woman with a rich daddy, it seems. I googled her.”
“There is a Russian mafia in Cannes,” Laurent said slowly. “If this girl’s papa is a part of that cabal, and Gerard really did kill her, it would be worth his life.”
“Oh my gosh, Laurent, see how all the pieces start to come together?”
“Oui, chérie, just not pieces that form a picture of your sister.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I am sorry, chérie, to have fought with you. I am missing you very much.”
“And me, you, Laurent. So much. I’ll never take a trip without you again. I’m too addicted to you. I’m going through withdrawal.”
He laughed and she felt her whole chest bloom with pleasure to hear the sound.
“Take care, Maggie,” he said, the warmth and love in his voice back just like it had never left. “And come back to me soon.”
24
Once at the train station in Paris, tired and unwilling to decipher the bus schedule that would take her the rest of the way to her hotel, Maggie grabbed a taxi and handed the driver the address of her hotel on the Left Bank. The driver, a large, malodorous woman lolling on a seat cover made of rolling wooden beads, seemed irritated either with Maggie’s lack of bags or, perhaps, her destination. At any rate, she snorted continually throughout the long drive to the Hotel de L’Etoile Verte on Rue Tournon. Maggie tipped generously and left the taxi with relief.
The French windows in her room opened outward onto the roof, with Paris pigeons and a melancholy view of more Paris roofs. Spotting the unmistakable dome of the Pantheon from her window, Maggie felt the energy return to her after her trip.
Leaving her hotel, she turned north onto Rue Racine and crossed to the area’s other large boulevard, Saint-Michel. Along the way, Parisians appeared to be preparing for their midweek dinners with last minute afternoon shopping expeditions. Maggie wasn’t surprised to see that most of those preparations seemed to involve food: the cooking of it, the selling of it, carrying it, and eating it—all on the busy, bustling streets in the heart of the Latin Quarter.
She continued down the Boulevard Saint-Michel until she reached the Seine, where she stopped and stared across the river. She had passed very near to Elise’s first apartment, but had deliberately avoided going there. Not yet, she told herself. From the Seine, she turned east and walked parallel to the city’s great river until she came to her destination, the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris.
The cathedral loomed magnificent and imposing before her, its twin towers as familiar and reassuring to her as if she’d seen them every day in Atlanta. Her mother had taken her and Elise to Mass here as children.
Now, standing in the square before the cathedral, surrounded by the ubiquitous lavender sellers, pickpockets and tourists, Maggie felt the same majesty and magnificence reaching down to her. She settled on a cold stone bench on the perimeter of the square and watched the famous church and its patrons for nearly an hour before she realized that, aside from her early morning airport croissant, she’d had nothing to eat all day.
Circling Notre-Dame, Maggie walked westward again, this time on the Quai de la Tournelle Montebello until she reached Rue Dauphine. S
he took a seat at a small café called La Place Americaine. She ordered the fixed-price menu of paté and roast beef with pommes frites and the house wine, which turned out to be a flinty dry white that tasted like bouquets of flowers, without the sweetness. To her relief, the waiter was pleasant and friendly.
She looked out onto the street as she ate her lunch and wondered which of the shops was Chez Zouk. The address she had was 11 Rue Dauphine in the Latin Quarter. She guessed that Zouk’s boutique must be only a few blocks from Elise’s old flat here in Paris. Maggie had an image of Elise walking home from art classes and stopping in at Zouk’s shop. Probably caters to the bohemian-artsy crowd, Maggie figured. Elise’s style was definitely not Ellen Tracy.
After lunch, Maggie headed north on Dauphine until she reached the Seine where the Pont Neuf crossed over to the Quai de Louvre and the Right Bank. The wind had begun to pick up and she felt the rain in the air, although it wouldn’t fall just yet. The river looked wild and angry. A block further south on Dauphine, she found the shop. It was small and looked quite old. The small display window showed antique jewelry amid dark cashmere drapes and sweeping skirts. Nice stuff, Maggie thought. A little on the black and spooky side, maybe, but then, that’s Paris. A sign over the door read Chez Zouk.
The door opened before she had a chance to reach for the doorknob and Madame Zouk stood in the doorway. She was tall and slim, dressed in black with gray stockings and black velvet slippers. A thin web of black velvet caught her blonde hair up and carried it gracefully at the nape of her long neck. Michelle Zouk’s eyes were dark and almond-shaped, her mouth full yet not too large for her delicate and finely boned face. She made Maggie think of a beautiful gypsy fortuneteller.
“Enchanté, Maggie.” Zouk spoke in a light, musical voice. She smiled and gestured for Maggie to enter. “You had a good trip from Nice?”
“Yes, thanks.” Maggie stepped into the shop and noticed that Zouk locked the door when she slipped in behind her .
“So we are not being disturbed,” she said. “If you will follow me?”
Murder in the South of France: Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series) Page 20
