Rook composed himself, muttered “Deux,” and handed the menus back. “Wow, I had no idea.”
“Once again,” she said.
“Full of surprises.”
“I have always loved the language. They even let me skip French Four in high school. But there’s no substitute for immersing yourself and speaking it with the locals.”
“When did you do that?”
“On my college semester abroad. I had been in Venice most of the time, but Petar and I came here for a month before I went back to Northeastern.”
“Ah, Petar. Shall we set a place for him?”
“God, drop the shoe, Sparky. So you know? Jealousy? Totally unattractive.”
“I’m not a jealous guy, you know.”
“Oh, right. Let’s run down your list of hot buttons: Petar? Don? Randall Feller?”
“OK, now, he’s different. That guy’s name says it all. Randy Feller? I’m just sayin’.”
“I think you’re ‘just sayin” a lot.”
He brooded, fumbling with his silverware, playing one-handed leapfrog with his forks, then finally said, “You named three. Is that about it?”
“Rook, are you seriously asking me my number? Because if you are, that’s going to open up a ginormous subject. That’s defining for a relationship. It’s going to mean talk. Lots and lots of talk. And even if you’re willing to go there right now and put in that work, I’d ask myself one thing, first: How many surprises can you handle in forty-eight hours?”
He saw the waiter coming and said, “You know what I think we should do? Let’s just relax and enjoy whatever the hell it was you ordered.”
“Merveilleux,” she said.
Monsieur and Madame Bernardin greeted them in the foyer of their spacious apartment, a duplex comprising the top two stories of their six-floor building. In spite of the Left Bank’s Bohemian pedigree, that stretch of Boulevard Saint-Germain whispered unpretentious wealth tidily wrapped in Louis XV facades. The block of apartments rose above street-level shops that were limited to elegant necessities. In this neighborhood, it would be easier to find a wine boutique or seamstress than a place to get a tattoo or Brazilian wax. The couple, in their mid-eighties, reflected the neighborhood in their attire. Both were smartly dressed in understated classics: a black cashmere pullover and tailored slacks for her; a maroon sweater vest under a butterscotch corduroy blazer pour monsieur. No velvet smoking jackets, but these were certainly not matching-track-suit seniors, either.
Lysette accepted the small bouquet of white lilies Nikki had bought on their walk there with a mix of thanks at the kindness of her gesture and sadness at their grave symbolism. Emile rasped a heavily accented “This way, please,” and they followed him as he hobbled to the living room and his wife disappeared in search of a vase. As they sat, he apologized for his slowness, blaming a recent hip replacement. She returned with the flowers and placed them on a corner table with some other condolence arrangements that surrounded a framed photo of their daughter. To Heat’s eye, the portrait was identical to the New England Conservatory yearbook photocopy in her murder file.
“Thank you for seeing us today,” said Nikki in French. “I know this is a difficult time, and we are truly sorry for your loss.” The old couple facing them on the couch took each other’s hand simultaneously and held it comfortably. They were both thin and small like Nicole, but seemed even more so—almost birdlike under the load of mourning their only child.
They thanked Nikki, and Emile suggested they continue in English, as they were both fluent and could see that M. Rook would like to be more included. He limped around the coffee table with a bottle of Chorey-les-Beaune to pour into the wineglasses that had been set beside a small plate of petits fours in anticipation of the visit. After a muted toast and polite sips, Lysette set her glass down, eyes riveted on Nikki. “Pardon me for staring, but you look so much like your mother,” Heat heard again. “It is so strange for me to sit here across from you, who are occupying the same chair Cynthia liked to use. The sensation is as if time had … what is the word …?”
“Warped,” said her husband, and the pair smiled and nodded in unison. “We cared very much for Cindy, but I am sure you know that.”
“Actually, this is all new to me. I’d never met your daughter and my mother never mentioned her to me.”
“That is odd,” said Lysette.
“I agree. Did my mother and Nicole have some sort of falling out at some point? Anything that might have caused them to become estranged?”
The Bernardins looked at each other and shook no. “Au contraire,” Emile said. “As far as we knew, their relationship was always strong and happy.”
“Forgive me if this is sensitive to discuss, but I believe Nicole’s murder is somehow connected to my mother’s, and I hope to learn as much as I can about their relationship so I can find the killer.”
“They were like sisters,” said Emile. “They had their differences, though.”
“It’s what made up the friendship,” said Lysette. “Opposite personalities that complemented each other so beautifully. Our Nicole, she was always an esprit libre.”
Heat translated for Rook. “A free spirit.” He nodded like he got it already.
“She worried us so much as a child,” continued Emile. “From the moment she could walk, she was always testing things, taking risks. Climbing this, jumping over that. Just like that urban sport these days. What is it called?”
“Parkour,” said his wife. “When she was seven, she gave herself a concussion. Oh, mon Dieu, we were so frightened. We gave her the pair of roller skates she wanted for her birthday. A week later, our little daredevil thought she would try riding them down the stairs of le Metro.”
Her husband shook his head at the recollection and pointed to his own body to indicate Nicole’s traumas. “Concussion. Knocked out a tooth. A broken wrist.” Heat and Rook shared a glance, thinking the same thing: that explained the old scar. “We thought she would outgrow all this but her esprit, her wild side, only got more worrisome at adolescence.”
“Boys,” said Lysette. “Boys, boys, boys. All her energy went to boys and parties.”
“And the Beatles,” Emile scoffed. “And incense.”
Rook shifted cheeks in his antique chair as the parents continued through the 1960s. Nikki knew this was taking a lot of time, but she didn’t try to stem their oral history. It seemed important for them to tell her Nicole’s story—especially considering their loss. But their narrative also gave Nikki what she wanted—not just the obvious rewarding of her attempt to dig for background to help her homicide investigation, but the opportunity to go to the places she had never gone before to learn about her mother and her world. The ceremony of sharing this moment with the family of her mom’s best friend gave her a feeling of completeness about herself she hadn’t expected; a sense of personal connection to things she had long avoided. If Lon King didn’t reinstate her after this, that shrink could bite it.
Madame Bernardin said, “We did not know where she would go in her life until she found her passion in the violin.”
“Which is how she met Nikki’s mother,” said Rook, scrambling to put up a stop sign on memory lane.
“The best thing that ever happened for our girl,” said Emile. “She became immersed in the development of her talent in Boston and, at the same time, met a friend with opposing sensibilities to ground her.”
“Nicole needed that,” agreed his wife. “And I believe—if I may say so, Nikki—that our Nicole helped to open up your mother, who had such a serious nature. So full of purpose, so duty-bound to her work, rarely giving herself permission to simply have fun.” She paused. “I can see this makes you a little uncomfortable, but don’t be. We are talking about your mother, after all, not you.”
“Although, you could be her sitting there right now,” Emile added, only making Nikki feel more exposed, until Rook, thank God, jumped in brandishing his odd sock.
“That’s what
so curious to me,” he began. “Cynthia—Cindy—had such drive and purpose and investment to succeed as a concert-class pianist. I’ve seen her play on video; she was astounding.”
“Yes,” they both said.
Rook placed his hands palms up to the heavens. “What happened? Something changed when she came here in the summer of ‘71. Something big. Maybe Nikki’s mother didn’t quit the piano, but she seemed to quit the dream. She had career opportunities back in the States and she didn’t bother to go back to see them through. I just wonder, what took such a serious young woman off course?”
After thinking a moment, Lysette said, “Well, I understand, as I am sure you do, that young people do change. For some, the rigors of the serious pursuit of a goal cannot be sustained. There is no shame in that.”
“Of course not,” he said, “but, with all due respect, Paris is a wonderful city, but three weeks’ vacation here, and she drops out?”
Lysette turned from him to Nikki to answer. “I would not say that your mother dropped out. It is more as if she took a hiatus from the pressure she put on herself and enjoyed things. Touring, visiting the museums, of course. She loved to learn new cooking. I taught her how to make cassoulet with duck confit.”
“She made that for me!” said Nikki.
“So, tell me, how am I, as a cook?” Lysette chuckled.
“Three Michelin stars. Your cassoulet was always a special occasion meal.” Lysette clapped her hands together joyfully, but Nikki could see fatigue descending on the old couple, and before they faded, there were some basic questions she needed to ask. The same ones she would ask the parents of any victim from her precinct. “I won’t take much more of your time, but there are some details I wish to know about Nicole.”
“Of course, you are a daughter but policewoman, too, n’est-ce pas?” said Emile. “And, please, if it helps you discover what happened to cher Nicole …” He choked up, and the couple joined hands again.
Detective Heat began with Nicole Bernardin’s work. She asked if she had any professional bad blood such as rivalries or money troubles. They answered no, same as when Nikki asked if they knew of any troublesome relationships in her personal life, either in Paris or New York: lovers, friends, jealous triangles? “How did she seem to you the last time you spoke?”
M. Bernardin looked at his wife and said, “Remember that call?” She nodded and he turned to address Nikki. “Nicole was not herself. She was curt with us. I asked her if something was wrong, and she said no and would say nothing more on the subject. But I could tell she was agitated.”
“When was that call?”
“Three weeks ago,” said Lysette. “That was another unusual thing. Nicole always called on Sundays, just to check in. She went her last weeks without contact.”
“Did she say where she was when she called?”
“An airport. I know this because when I asked her what was wrong, she cut me off and said she had to board her flight.” The woman’s brow fell at the memory.
Rook asked, “Did your daughter have a place here in Paris?” In preparing for the visit he and Nikki had hoped to discover an apartment to search—with the parents’ permission, of course. But Nicole didn’t keep one.
“Whenever she visited the city, Nicole stayed here in her old bedroom.”
“If you don’t have an objection,” asked Detective Heat, “may I see it?”
Nicole Bernardin’s bedroom had long before been redecorated and put to use as an art studio for Lysette, whose watercolor still lifes of flowers and fruit lay about in various stages of completion. “You will pardon the mess,” she said unnecessarily. The room was tidy and organized. “I don’t know what you wish to see. Nicole kept some clothing and shoes in the armoire, not much. You may look.” Nikki parted the antique wood doors and felt the pockets of the few items hanging there, finding nothing. Same for the insides of her shoes and the lone, empty purse hanging on the brass hook. “Everything else of hers is in there,” Lysette said, moving an easel to indicate a large drawer at the bottom of a built-in. Nikki found the drawer as orderly as the rest of the apartment. Clean underwear, bras, socks, shorts, and tees—neatly folded—lived in a clear plastic container. Heat knelt and unsnapped the lid to make her inspection, carefully returning everything as it had been, stacked and sorted. Beside the container sat a pair of running shoes and a bicycle helmet. She examined the interiors of both and found nothing.
“Thank you,” she said, closed the drawer, and replaced the feet of the easel to the dimples they had made in the rug.
As they rejoined Emile in the living room, Rook asked, “Did Nicole keep a computer here?” When Mme. Bernardin said no, he continued, “What about mail? Did she get any mail here?”
M. Bernardin said, “Nothing, no mail.” But when he said it, both Heat and Rook noticed something unsettled in the way he lingered on the thought.
“You seem unsure about the mail,” said Nikki.
“No, I am quite sure she got no mail here. But when you asked me, it reminded me that someone else had recently asked the same thing.”
Heat got out her notepad, making complete her transition from houseguest to cop. “Who asked you that, M. Bernardin?”
“A telephone caller. Let me think. He said it so quickly. An American voice, I think he said … Sea—crest, yes, Mr. Seacrest. He said he was a business associate of my daughter’s. He called me by my first name, so I had no reason to doubt him.”
“Of course not. And what exactly did this Mr. Seacrest ask you?”
“He was concerned a package of Nicole’s might have been misdirected here by error. I told him nothing had arrived for her here.”
Rook asked, “Did he describe what kind of package or what might be in it?”
“Mm, no. As soon as I said nothing had come, he got off the line quickly.”
Heat quizzed him about the caller and any characteristics about his voice—age, accent, pitch—but the old man came up at a loss. “Do you remember when the call came?”
“Yes, a few days ago. Sunday. In the evening.” She made a note and he asked, “Do you think it is suspicious?”
“It’s hard to know, but we’ll check it out.” Nikki handed him one of her business cards. “If you think of anything else, and especially if anyone contacts you again to ask about Nicole, please call that number.”
Lysette said, “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Nikki.”
“And you,” she said. “I feel like you gave me a glimpse into a big part of my mother’s life that I missed. I wish I could have learned more about it from her.”
Mme. Bernardin got up. “Do you know what I want to do, Nikki? I have something I’d like to share with you that you may find enlightening. Excusez-moi.”
Heat sat again, and in Lysette’s absence Emile topped their glasses, even though neither had gone beyond the toast sip. Nikki said, “My father met my mother when she was playing at a cocktail party in Cannes. He said she had been getting by doing that and giving piano lessons. Did she start that here during the summer she visited you?”
“Oh, yes. And I am proud to say that I was instrumental in finding her employment.”
“Were you involved in music?” she asked.
“Only to sing in the shower,” he said. “No, no, my business was commercial and corporate insurance. Through that work I developed a relationship with an investment banker—an American who was living here who became a dear friend of the family. Nicole adored him so much she called him Oncle Tyler.”
“Uncle Tyler,” said Rook.
“Very good,” said Emile with a wink at Nikki. For no reason other than instinct she asked his name. “Tyler Wynn. A charming man. I got a lot of business through him over the years. He was very well connected to international investors and knew anyone who mattered in Paris. And Tyler’s generosity of referrals didn’t just extend to me. No, no. Whenever Nicole was home from Boston, he would find her summer work as a music tutor for the children of some of his wealthy
acquaintances. It was good experience for her and paid very well.”
“And kept her out of trouble,” said Rook.
Emile pointed a forefinger to the air. “Best of all.”
Nikki had done the math and urged him on. “So this Tyler Wynn also found tutoring clients for my mother that summer?”
“Exactly. And Cindy was so good at it, soon she had appointments every day. Tyler made more referrals and one job led to another. Some of her patrons who had vacation homes would even hire your mother to come along with their family on les vacances to continue the tutoring. A week in Portofino, another in Monte Carlo, then Zurich or the Amalfi coast. Travel, room and board, all first class. Not a bad life for a woman of twenty-one, eh?”
“Unless your life was supposed to be something else,” she said.
“Ah, once again, Nikki, so much like your mother. Both dutiful and beautiful.” He took a sip of wine. “Remember what one of our philosophers once said, ‘In the human heart there is a perpetual generation of passions, such that the ruin of one is almost always the foundation of another.’”
Lysette seemed newly invigorated by her mission and hurried back into the room carrying a keepsake container about the size of a shoebox covered in burgundy and white toile fabric with matching burgundy ribbon ties done into bows. “I can see I’ve been gone too long. Emile’s quoting maxims again.” She stood before Nikki’s chair and said, “In this box are old photos I kept of Cynthia from her times with Nicole and also of your mother’s travels. Cindy was a wonderful correspondent. If you please, I am not going to look through them with you now. I don’t think I am able to endure seeing them at the moment.” Then she offered the box. “Here.”
Nikki reached out hesitantly and cradled it in both her hands. “Thank you, Mme. Bernardin. I’ll be careful with them and return them tomorrow.”
“No, Nikki, these are yours to keep. I have my memories in here.” She placed a hand over her heart. “Yours are in there yet to be discovered. I hope they bring you closer to your mother.”
Frozen Heat (2012) Page 16
