by Susan Finlay
“Yes, sir. She only had a generic message, sir.”
Goddard sighed. “Has anyone contacted her service provider to obtain phone records?”
“Roland did that, sir. He was told it could take a few days.”
“Why is that?”
“Her phone service was established in London.”
“You mean to tell me the woman is English?”
“We don’t know, sir. Her phone number is a U.K. number, but most of the phone numbers in her phone directory are Paris numbers. We’re checking those out, but from what we’ve seen so far, most are for businesses—restaurants, cafés, that sort of thing.”
“What about incoming voice mail, text messages?”
“Nothing. We did look at the most recent outgoing phone numbers dialed. She placed calls to two numbers here in Reynier. One we haven’t identified yet, the other is the Martins’ phone number.”
“Who is Martin?”
“Dave and Maurelle Martin.”
Goddard shrugged. “Am I supposed to know who they are?”
“Oh, that’s right. You weren’t here last year. The wife, Maurelle, created quite a stir around here. At that time, before she was married to Dave Martin, she was Maurelle Dupre. I wasn’t sure she was the same person until I spoke to some of the locals.”
Goddard squinted. “The same person?”
“Yeah, not only is Maurelle Dupre now Maurelle Martin, but she’s the woman who found the child and . . . .”
Another officer walked into Goddard’s office and set a folder on his desk. Durand paused as Goddard picked up the folder and thumbed through it. Goddard shook his head and dropped it on the desk. Photos of the body. He looked at Durand and waved his hand, signaling he should continue.
“Last year, Mademoiselle Dupre was supposedly on holiday in Reynier, but someone got suspicious and called us. We did some checking. Her description matched that of a person of interest from England, a.k.a. Maura Barrington. Chief Massot sent us to Reynier to talk with her.”
“A person of interest?”
“Yes, sir. Scotland Yard. A case involving the son of the woman she was renting a room from.”
“And?”
“When we arrived in Reynier, she was gone. Took off. We interviewed people all over town. Most gave us a runaround. Chief Massot was not happy.”
Goddard shook his head. Now he was confused.
“Do you have a file on this Martin woman?”
Durand nodded. “By the time we figured it all out and found her, the Yard’s case was closed. Someone else was arrested for the murder.”
Goddard’s mouth twisted.
“Bring me the file, please.”
Durand left and Goddard opened up the folder with photos from the current crime scene. With the bright lights the crew had set up after Goddard had left, he could see much more detail. The woman’s face looked younger than he’d originally thought. Late twenties or early thirties and pretty. He picked up one of the photos and held it up, studying it.
Durand returned a few moments later. “Here’s the file you asked for, sir.”
Goddard placed the photo back in its file and took the other folder from Durand. He opened it and scanned the summary notes.
Maura Barrington, age twenty-seven, schoolteacher in London/Hampstead, England, wanted for questioning in the death of Jared Raybourne, age sixteen, student. M. Barrington missing, suspected of fleeing to France. Turned herself in at Gendarmerie in the Gorges du Tarn region of France. Neighbor of Barrington and Raybourne arrested and convicted for the murder, currently in prison.
Goddard rubbed his chin as he considered all the information, then looked up at Durand. “So, our victim placed a phone call to this local woman who was previously a person of interest in a criminal case in England. The victim’s phone was purchased in London, it seems. Have I got it right so far?”
Durand nodded again and added, “Maurelle Martin is also the person who found the child. And, I heard gossip you will find interesting: the cave where the victim was murdered had been nicknamed Maurelle’s cave.”
“Why is that?”
“Evidently, when she first arrived in Reynier, she was hiding out in that cave.”
Goddard let out a whistle.
“There’s something else, sir. Dave Martin, is a former cop from the U.S. He helped solve the murder case and cleared Mademoiselle Barrington. A few months later he married her.”
Sure, nothing suspicious there. “Has anyone questioned Madame Martin?”
“Yes, sir. Roland asked her to show him the exact location where she found the child. According to the woman, she was home alone last night and was walking into town the following morning. That’s when she saw the little girl sitting alongside the pathway.”
“She was alone? No one to corroborate her story?”
“Seems that way, sir.”
Goddard sighed. “Bring her in immediately.”
MAURELLE LOOKED UP from her seat in Café Charbonneau as Alain called out to Simone that he was going to work in his bookshop for a couple hours. He looked at Simone lovingly, kissed her, and then left. Maurelle could see why Alain was attracted to her—most men were. Even Dave had dated Simone. She always looked like a bright wildflower: tall, willowy, delicate, and graceful. This afternoon, even after the storm had wilted the flowers in everyone’s gardens, Simone remained strong and beautiful, her hair silky blonde and shiny. She was attired in a form-fitting pink skirt and a pure white blouse with the top open just enough to invite men to speculate. Maurelle glanced down at her own gritty clothes. She’d washed off the dried mud from her face and hands, not out of concern for her appearance but because dried mud on skin got itchy after a while. If Simone had been in her situation, she would have immediately gone home to change clothes and take a shower so she would look beautiful. Why didn’t I think to do that? She’d had time after she’d finished talking with the gendarme. All she could say in her own defense was that she was still in a bit of shock after all the excitement. Her thoughts were interrupted when a gendarme, the one who had gone with her to the site where she’d found the child, approached her table.
“Madame Martin, I need you to come with me.”
Maurelle’s heart was suddenly beating faster and considerably louder—at least it seemed that way to her. Could he hear it? God, she hoped not. She stood, pushing back her chair, then looked anxiously at Dave’s grandmother, Fabienne Laurent.
Fabienne stood up and placed her hand on Maurelle’s shoulder. Leaning in, she whispered, “I’ll wait for you back at my house, p’tite. Don’t you worry.” Strands of Fabienne’s coarse white hair strayed from her chignon, and her bifocals tilted awkwardly on the bridge of her nose, making her appear even older and more tired. The poor woman had been awake half the night because of her fear of thunder and lightning. Had Maurelle known the storm was coming, she would have stayed overnight at Fabienne’s house.
Maurelle hugged her and said, “I’ll be back as soon as possible. Don’t worry.” She turned to Officer Roland. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer but motioned for her to walk. Outside, two more gendarmes in blue uniforms and soft hats waited near their vehicle. One of the officers, apparently the driver, entered the front of the vehicle, and the other got in the backseat.
“Please get in,” Officer Roland said.
Maurelle scooted across the backseat. Roland followed her and sandwiched her between himself and the other officer. Two minutes later they were breezing out of town. Crews were still on the side of the road, clearing away debris and cutting up fallen trees.
“Will you please tell me where you’re taking me?” No answer. She tried again. Still nothing. She leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
The officer sighed out loud. “We’re going to Belvidere. Goddard is waiting for you in the Gendarmerie.”
She frowned. “Why do I need to answer more questions? I told you everything I know.” She could see his purs
ed lips in the rear-view mirror.
“I don’t know. All I know is that he needs to ask you some more questions.”
Maurelle twisted-and-turned her hands in her lap. What else could they possibly need from her? She’d already shown Officer Roland where she’d found the child, and she’d told him then everything she knew. She was beginning to feel claustrophobic. She glanced to her right, then to her left. The officers on either side of her stared straight ahead, their faces stiff and unreadable—like the guards at Buckingham Palace. A few minutes later they arrived in Belvidere and the gendarmes ushered Maurelle out of the vehicle and up a path to a plain white building. Above the door was a sign marked GENDARMERIE. The cell she’d sat in last year in a Gendarmerie near Saint-Julien popped into her mind, and she struggled to submerge her instant panic. As they entered an open work area, she looked around at the desks cluttered with papers and at the uniformed officers sitting at their desks. Turning to the officer on her left, she said, “May I use the toilettes first?”
He nodded and led her to the doorway. She went inside and stared at her reflection in the mirror, then reached into her jacket pocket for her comb. Thank goodness it was still there. She tried to always keep one in her handbag and in her jacket pockets because her hair tangled so easily. Pulling it out, she slowly combed the knots out of her hair until it felt and looked somewhat presentable. She took off her filthy jacket and swiped at the dried mud on her jeans and managed to remove some of dirt. When she was satisfied she’d done all she could do, she opened the door and faced the gendarme again.
FABIENNE LAURENT LOOKED around the café. Helene Gavalda had returned and was sipping a cup of coffee while her oldest son went on and on about his job at the local school—it seems the Cardin twins had switched places again and frustrated their teachers. No surprise there, thought Fabienne. They were incorrigible. At the next table, balding Nicolas Tournier, the town’s only barber, was reading a newspaper. Apparently, business was slow, as usual. Sometimes he didn’t bother opening up his shop until afternoon. If someone wanted a haircut, they knew where he would be. Nowadays, though, most people preferred going to Belvidere where they could find real stylists. Jeannette went whenever she could get her daughter Coralie or one of the grandchildren to drive her, usually Simone.
Changing thoughts, Fabienne surveyed the café’s interior. After Simone had bought the place from Fabienne two years ago, Fabienne had worried she would make drastic changes. But she hadn’t. Simone had kept the beloved red lamps which Fabienne had hung over each table many years ago. She’d added red-checkerboard table cloths—a nice touch, yes. She’d left most everything else alone. Oh, that wasn’t quite right. Simone had also replaced the seat covers on the chairs and bar stools. Of course Fabienne had thought of doing that, as well, but she would have used real cloth instead of this cheap vinyl. A bit tacky if you asked me.
Fabienne got up from her chair and went over to the counter where Simone was chatting with Lillian Lefèvre. She awkwardly clambered onto one of the bar stools and waited for Lillian to stop talking.
“So someone from Social Services has come and taken the child away already?”
“Yes,” Simone said. “Half an hour ago.” Looking disgusted, she continued, “Alain was disappointed, as if he somehow thought we could keep her.”
“I don’t know how you keep Alain from straying,” Lillian said. “I’m furious with Jonas. He thinks I don’t see the way he looks at other women, the way he flirts with them. He must think I’m a fool.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s cheating,” Simone said. “It’s normal. Men look. Some flirt. Try not to let it bother you.”
Fabienne adjusted her bottom on the stool, causing a loud plastically squeak. Her face burned when both women turned and stared at her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Carry on.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come up,” Simone said. “I thought you were sitting with Maurelle.”
“I was. Didn’t you see that gendarme, the skinny red-haired boy?”
“No.” Simone’s eyebrow quirked. “What happened?”
“He took Maurelle away.”
Lillian said, “What? Why? Did he say what he wanted?”
Fabienne shrugged. “Should we be worried, do you think?”
Simone and Lillian exchanged looks.
“What?” Fabienne said. “Should we? You’re scaring me.”
CHAPTER SIX
“SIR, THE MARTIN woman is here. She’s waiting in the interview room. Should I begin the interrogation?”
Goddard looked up from the papers on his desk. Durand was standing in the doorway waiting for a response. “No. I’ll be there shortly.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Durand turn on his heel to leave, but Goddard wasn’t finished. “Could you wait a minute?”
Durand stopped, turning back wearily.
“I’ve been looking through the two case files,” Goddard said. “The one from last year says locals thought this Maurelle Dupre was a gypsy? What can you tell me about that?”
Durand shrugged and then waved a hand. “Well, I suppose it was her appearance and her behavior, you know. Locals said she was like a transient, a vagrant. They described her as having long dark hair, straggly and unkempt much of the time. She would go around town wearing dirty clothes. A couple of shop owners said they kept a close eye on her when she came in. They suspected she was shoplifting.”
“Was she shoplifting?”
“I don’t recall any specific accusations.”
“So it was what? Speculation, gossip?”
Again, Durand shrugged. “We used to have a big problem with them, years ago. Gypsies. Of course that was long before you moved here so you wouldn’t know about that.”
Goddard shook his head. “Okay, I suppose if the locals had problems with gypsies in the past, they might be wary of this Dupre person. I’ll find out more about her when I interview her. As for the new case, it bothers me that we still don’t know how the victim and child came to Reynier. No abandoned car in the village. The train doesn’t go through there, does it?”
“No. But she might have taken the train from Paris to Belvidere and then a taxi the rest of the way. Or maybe someone picked her up at the station.”
“Has Roland checked the train station yet?”
“He’s there now. He called Michaud to give an update. Said he’s been showing pictures of the victim and the child around to people in and around the station. So far, no one recognizes either of them.”
Goddard considered the information, staring at the victim’s picture. He needed to identify the victim, her method of transport, etc. before the procureur called with questions. The procureur would undoubtedly open an information judiciare. Then, the case would be referred to a juge d'instruction, the magistrate responsible for investigating more serious cases. “I need you to check taxi companies and tour bus companies that travel in this part of the country. See if anyone drove someone into Reynier in the past few days.”
When Roland left, Goddard closed the file and then called his wife. “Hello, ma chérie,” he said, “I am sorry to say I have a big case I’m working on and I will likely be working late tonight.”
“Oh, no,” Chantal said, disappointment apparent in her voice. “I was looking forward to going out for dinner with you.”
“Yes, I know. So was I. I’m sorry. We’ll do it, I promise, when we wrap up this case. I’m hoping for a speedy resolution.”
“What kind of case is it?”
“Murder, but you know I can’t discuss it with you. But this could be my big break. If I can impress the magistrates, it will be a feather in my cap and possibly lead to promotion.”
“That would be wonderful. We might be able to afford some new furniture and a new kitchen. All right, you do what you need to do. We’ll go out to dinner to celebrate when it’s all finished.”
“Thank you for understanding, Chantal.” Goddard hung up the phone, and carried the two file folders to the inter
view room. He opened the door and motioned for his assistant to leave. He sat down at the table across from the woman and studied her, trying to keep surprise from showing on his face. Her hair was shiny and dark, a color midway between brown and black—Chantal would call it sable, no doubt—with a section of it cascading seductively over one shoulder and reaching the crook of her arm resting on the table. Her eyes were clear blue with little flecks of gold and green and her features were almost angelic. She would have reminded him of one of the porcelain dolls that Chantal designed and made and then sold in the gift shop on the market square, except for the filthy clothes she had on, making her look like she had rolled in the mud.
Gypsy? That perhaps fit the person he was seeing in front of him. But looks could be deceiving. Any gendarme worth his pay could tell you that. Maybe this woman changed her appearance to fit the role she wanted to play.
“Madame, I am Captain Pascal Goddard. Please state your full name for the record.”
She sat up straight and placed her hands on the table, folding them together. “I’m Maurelle Elise Martin.”
“Maurelle? I have a report here that says otherwise. Are you not Maura Elise Barrington of London, England?”
“I—uh—that was my birth name, yes.”
“Please explain the change.”
She fidgeted and looked down at her hands.
Goddard said, “I know about the Jared Raybourne case.” He saw her register surprise, then quickly turn to what appeared to be sadness.
“I was scared and panicked because I was a suspect and I didn’t have an alibi. I came to Reynier under an assumed name—Maurelle Dupre. Since then, Scotland Yard found and convicted the killer. He was a neighbor, an elderly peeping tom named Ian Waitley.” She paused and sighed. “Jared knew about Ian’s illicit nighttime activities, and Ian knew about Jared vandalizing homes and his school. They didn’t like each other, and each had threatened to tell on the other. When their problems escalated to the point that Jared killed Ian’s beloved cats, Ian retaliated and killed Jared.”
