by Susan Finlay
The report described the blunt-force trauma to the brain caused by being struck by the heavy flashlight. Nothing unexpected there. Goddard had unfortunately seen this type of killing before. The Medical Examiner had estimated the time of death between nine P.M. Tuesday and two A.M. Wednesday. Well, they would keep the strangulation to themselves—he wanted it kept from the papers for now.
Goddard set the report back on his desk and rubbed his chin. So what did they have here? Gabrielle was strangled to the point of unconsciousness, perhaps, and then hit over the head, but why? Was the perpetrator not certain if she was dead, or was she or he trying to throw the investigation off? Was his or her plan—and even his or her motive—to implicate Maurelle Martin? Or, did Maurelle try to strangle her and then, finding she lacked the strength to kill her that way, hit her over the head?
CHAPTER NINE
LILLIAN LEFÉVRE SIPPED her third cup of coffee in an attempt to wash down the hardened pastry she’d bought at the bakery on Tuesday afternoon, a pastry she had planned to eat on Wednesday morning but hadn’t because she had gone to Café Charbonneau after the storm along with so many of the other locals. Even Jonas had gone with her, which was a rarity. The near accident when he’d arrived home during the early hours of Wednesday had shaken them up, and they’d both stayed up the rest of the night. This Thursday morning she was sitting alone in the kitchen, still in her thin nightgown, her feet snug in pink fuzzy slippers.
The front door creaked open and then clicked shut. It was done softly, the sounds barely discernable unless you were listening carefully. She looked up and gazed through the living room to the entry hall. Her husband was trying to be discreet. If anyone had been watching, they would probably think he was being a considerate husband, but she knew better. Jonas was hoping she didn’t know he’d stayed out all night. She’d awoken around one o’clock in the morning, turned over in bed, and rolled into the indentation his body had permanently made in the mattress. Usually when that happened, she would roll away and drift back to sleep, not bothering to wait up for him to come home, the days of waiting up having long since passed. But since the murder the night before last, she couldn’t get back to sleep once she had woken. She’d imagined him lying dead in one of the caves or at the bottom of one of the stone staircases, or floating in the river. When Jonas didn’t show by four A.M., she thought about calling the Gendarmerie. She wasn’t sure what had stopped her.
She checked her watch now—six o’clock. She sighed, then stood up and left her empty coffee cup and empty plate sitting on the kitchen table. “Did you get lost, Jonas?” she said when she was close enough for him to hear.
He froze in his tracks part way up the stairs, looking over his shoulder at her. His mouth was open and his eyes wide. Clearly he’d thought she was still in bed.
“Uh, sorry. I lost track of the time. I was playing pool over at a club in Belvidere with some of my friends, and then we went out for a calvados. Drank too much to walk all the way home. Of course one of them could have driven me if they weren’t drunk, too. We all stayed overnight with Charles. He lives in Belvidere.”
“And you couldn’t pick up the phone? I was worried.”
He shrugged and gave her a lopsided smile, like a school boy caught trying to sneak out of classes early.
“You stayed out late Tuesday night, too.”
“I was home by three A.M. That’s not so late. Besides, I told you the storm kept me from getting home. When I could drive home, I did, remember? You stood there watching as that lamppost toppled over and almost killed me.”
“Didn’t you bother to think about me? I could have been in danger.”
“From what?” Jonas said, one hand firmly planted on the baluster. He turned around to face her. “You were safe in the house. I was the one out there in the torrential rain and wind.” He waved his free hand at the front window.
“Well, you could have shown some concern. You could act like you care about me, instead of not even bothering to call when you’re out late and letting me sit here worrying. I am still your wife whether you like it or not.”
“I do care, Lillian. But since you brought it up, where was your concern when the post fell down, huh? As long as it wasn’t your car destroyed, you didn’t care.”
“That’s not true.” His words stung. How could he think she didn’t care? She cooked his meals and washed his clothes, took care of him when he was sick. She even tried not to complain when he left her alone in the house at night. At least most of the time she tried. She’d hoped that when his car was destroyed, he’d actually stay home for a change. So much for that wish. He’d have to lose the use of his legs, too, before he’d spend his evenings with her. Perhaps if they’d had children, their marriage would have fared better. She’d tried to conceive. Sometimes she blamed herself, though she knew it could be partially Jonas’s fault.
Seeing his chance to escape, he said, “I’m going upstairs to take a shower.”
“Jonas, please talk to me.”
He was walking up the stairs and she saw his hand go up in the air, a wave of dismissal.
She raised her voice and said, “Why do you go out all the time and leave me alone? You used to take me out with you—dinner, dancing, drinking. Don’t you think I might like to go out sometimes?”
Too late. He wasn’t listening. He reached the landing, turned, and disappeared from sight.
Lillian sat down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands, attempting to calm down and stop shaking.
THE COFFEE MACHINE in Café Charbonneau gurgled and hissed, filling the room with its beckoning aroma. A few more minutes and the coffee would be ready. For now, Simone stood by, yawning and rubbing her eyes. She’d already turned on the stove. It was part of her morning ritual. First customers of the day would be arriving soon, and she knew who they would be and what they would order. The locals liked their routines.
Alain came down the stairs from their apartment, singing Mamma Mia off-key, and she smiled at his amicable mood. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Please tell me you’re making me an omelet.”
Simone quirked an eyebrow at him. He usually snatched a croissant or pastry to eat on his way to work at his bookshop. “You know, you’re welcome to use the stove,” she said. “It’s almost ready to use.”
Alain walked over and kissed her. “I’ll make you a deal. If you cook me an omelet, I’ll make the first five customers’ breakfasts. I don’t have to go in to the bookshop until after lunch today. That means I can hang around here and help out.”
Simone picked up a spatula and waved it at him. “You have a deal, Monsieur.” While she cooked, she watched him. He slumped down in a chair. He hadn’t shaved, and his hair was a mess. “You sing, but you look like you aren’t fully awake yet,” she said.
“I’m not. Why do you think I wanted you to cook my omelet?”
“Huh? It’s because I’m the best cook in the world, isn’t it? And don’t you dare say no.”
He laughed so hard that it made Simone laugh, though it was hardly that funny. The omelet was ready and she carried it to his table.
“Thank you, ma chérie,” he said. He pulled her onto his lap and she laughed.
Someone pounded on the front door, and Simone jumped and nearly tipped over the table in her struggle to stand up. She smoothed her clothes as she went to the door to unlock it. Her first customers, as expected, were the Gavaldas.
“Are you open yet, Simone?”
She held back a sigh and moved out of the way so they could enter.
They seated themselves at the table next to Alain, and he nodded to them as he chewed his food.
“The usual?” Simone asked. Charles always took his coffee with more milk than coffee, and he always ordered two warm buttered croissants with a side of strawberry preserve. Helene took her coffee black with lots of sugar, and she always ordered a mushroom and cheese omelet.
They both nodded.
Helene said, “I’d like an orange juice,
too, if you have any. I really did like the juice the other day.”
Simone poured the steaming coffees and carried them to the Gavaldas’ table, then went back and poured a cup for Alain. She set his down and watched him eat voraciously. His migraine last night probably made him sick to his stomach the way they usually did, and he was now making up for it this morning. He might cook some meals later, but he obviously wasn’t going to cook for the first five customers. She turned around and went to the stove. Several minutes later she carried two plates of food and an orange juice to her customers. The bell jingled on the door as it opened and four more customers entered the café. Simone greeted them. One was Yves Rousseau who rarely showed up for breakfast. She took their orders, then started preparing the meals.
Alain carried his dirty dishes to the back room and came to Simone’s side. “What do I need to cook?”
She looked up at him and wanted to hug him. She gave him the orders, and they worked together. This was the way she liked to work—side by side with Alain.
Alain carried out two plates, one to Nicolas Tournier, the barber, and one to Yves Rousseau, the petrol station owner. “Why aren’t you at the station this morning, Yves?” Alain asked.
“My oldest son and grandson are running the station today. They think I need to retire soon. Ha. They’ll change their minds.”
Alain nodded.
“What about you?” Yves asked. “Shouldn’t you be at your bookshop instead of hangin’ round here?”
“It doesn’t open until ten o’clock. Besides, one of my employees is opening this morning, so I have some free time today.”
“You mean Maurelle? I heard the gendarmes took her in.”
Alain glanced at Simone, then said, “Isabelle is working the morning shift. Maurelle doesn’t work today.”
Charles Gavalda was listening. “I heard that Maurelle is the main suspect. They locked her up, didn’t they? Someone over at the general store said they hauled her away in a Gendarmerie vehicle.” Helene nodded.
Simone leaned her arms on the counter top and said, “She’s home. She and Fabienne came to dinner last night at my grandmother’s house.”
“Do you think she did it?” Helene asked.
“Of course not,” Alain said.
“What do you think, Simone?”
“I’m not a detective. I’ll leave it up to them to figure it out.”
“Well, for the record,” Yves said, “I’ve always liked Maurelle. Been nothing but nice to me. I can’t imagine her hurting a flea, let alone a person.”
Simone remembered a scene in Fabienne’s house almost a year ago. She’d gone there for lunch with Dave and had been dismayed to find Maurelle there. Although Simone had heard gossip about the younger woman, they’d never actually met before. Simone brought her new dog along, and while Dave was in the kitchen preparing lunch, Simone, Maurelle, and the dog were stuck together in the living room. The dog spied a mouse running across the floor and took off after it, barking. Maurelle screamed, “No!” bringing Dave rushing in.
Simone was standing a few steps away from Fabienne’s grandfather clock and Maurelle was kneeling near the back edge of the clock where it butted up against the wall. Simone’s little dog, Bono, had his nose and one paw stuffed underneath the clock, while his tail wagged in delight at his capture.
Maurelle turned her head and looked up at Dave, pleadingly. “He’s got a mouse. He trapped it behind—or underneath—the clock and he’s been battering it. Please don’t let him kill it. Can you get it away from him?”
Dave glanced over at Simone as she watched the scene with some amusement. He reached down and grabbed the dog’s collar, pulled him out of the way, then kneeled down and looked underneath the clock.
Maurelle said, “Mice don’t usually run out in the open when people are around but this one did. It ran across the room, right by the couch where I was sitting. It actually scurried over my feet. The dog was on Simone’s lap, across from me. He saw the mouse and chased it behind here.”
Kneeling on the wooden floor, Dave leaned back and looked up into Maurelle’s pleading eyes. “It’s too late,” he said. He pulled out the dead mouse by its tail and stood up. Of course, like any dog would do, Bono jumped and tried to get it from his hand, but Dave held it up, out of the dog’s reach He took the mouse out the back door, disposing of it, came back in, and went to wash off his hands in the laundry sink.
When he returned, Maurelle had made a big deal out of it, crying and sniffling. Dave bought into it, putting his arms around her to comfort her. Until then, he’d been Simone’s boyfriend, but Maurelle had shown up here with her innocent face and damsel-in-distress persona to suck him in and Simone knew she couldn’t compete with that.
AT CHATEAU DE Reynier, Camille Wickliff prepared breakfast for their guests and carried it into the formal dining room where the newlywed couple was already sitting. They’d come downstairs early, saying they were getting ready to leave for a busy day of sightseeing in the town of Lavardin. As Camille set down the platters of food, their newest guest strolled in.
“You have impeccable timing, Monsieur Lamont. Breakfast is ready.”
“Ah, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee drew me in,” he said, as he took a seat at the table. “There’s no finer smell to awaken to, is there?”
Camille smiled, lifted the porcelain coffee pot and poured him a cup. She wasn’t a coffee drinker and couldn’t understand why people liked the stuff. To her, the smell was about as appealing as cigar smoke. But to each his own, she thought.
“Have you met our other guests?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Suzanne and Claude Zette. They are on their honeymoon. And this is Monsieur René Lamont. You are here on business, is that correct?”
“Yes, I am. I’m a friend of Paul Lepage. He and I are discussing an exhibition of his art work in New York.”
“Oh, how exciting.”
“Is this your first time to Reynier?” Suzanne asked.
“It is indeed. I find the place charming. After seeing it, I’m thinking it might be nice to open an antiques shop here. Madame Devlin tells me there aren’t any local shops of that kind.”
“That would be wonderful,” Camille said. “I can give you our estate agent’s name and number. I’m sure she would be happy to show you empty shop space up the road from here.”
“Splendid. I’ll try calling her today.”
TRAFFIC WAS CONGESTED as Lieutenant Alexandre Bouvier, a Police Judiciare of the criminal division of the Police Nationale, drove his car along rue Castille in the 14th arrondissement of Paris with Officer Jacques Roland and Officer Andre Jaillet of the Belvidere Gendarmerie in the backseat. Roland and Jaillet had gone to the Direction Régionale de Police Judiciaire de Paris (or DRPJ Paris), known locally as the 36, because their investigation had crossed into the DRPJ’s jurisdiction. Roland gripped the edge of his seat and hoped it wouldn’t take much longer to reach Gabrielle Thibault’s apartment in the Pernety area of Montparnasse. Bouvier smoked like a chimney and wouldn’t let Roland roll down the car windows, saying he didn’t want car fumes getting inside. Roland thought he was going to gag on the smoke. He jumped out of the vehicle the moment Bouvier squeezed into a parking spot on the curb outside Villa Losserand.
The buildings along this street were all white or cream colored, forming a long elegant row five stories high. The street was one-way with a single lane of traffic. Down the street, a few blocks from Villa Losserand, they’d passed numerous cafés, restaurants, shops, and the entrance to the Pernety underground station. Not a bad location, if one liked living in the big city.
After questioning the concierge, Josette Béringer, the three men followed her up a winding flight of concrete stairs and waited as she unlocked Gabrielle Thibault’s door.
“Do you need me to stay with you?” she asked.
“No, that isn’t necessary,” Bouvier said. “We’ll lock up when we’re finished.”
She shrugged.
Roland said, “If you would be so kind, Madame, I do have a question.”
Bouvier gave him a warning look, but Roland continued. “You said that Mademoiselle Thibault had several male visitors coming and going from her place in the past few years. Can you tell me about them?”
“Well, yes, one was her father, Francois Thibault. A nice looking man, quite charming. His wife, though, I don’t like. Too arrogant, if you ask me. He sometimes brought a friend here, quite a friendly man whom I would have liked to see more of. Very sophisticated and attractive—at least for an older gentleman.” She paused and tilted her head at Roland. “Oh, but you meant Gaby’s young gentlemen callers, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“That’s harder, I’m afraid. There must have been four or five gentlemen callers, but unfortunately I can’t tell you any of their names. You know how it is with young people these days.”
“Was one of them her daughter’s father?”
“I suppose. I don’t know which, though. She didn’t talk to me about it.”
“What about neighbors who were friendly with Mademoiselle Thibault?”
She replied with a shrug. “I don’t think she was particularly friendly with anyone in the building. Can I go now? I have things that I must attend to.”
“Yes, you may go,” Bouvier said before Roland had a chance to say anything else.
So it’s going to be like that. The national police always try to take over when it should be a joint investigation. Roland sighed and turned his attention to the apartment. They had entered into a rust-colored tiled foyer. An eat-in kitchen—with dining table and a child’s high chair directly next to the foyer—was a tiny but serviceable area with typical appliances, including a washer and dryer underneath the counter top. The area was clean and appeared well-organized. Across from the kitchen was a living room. Roland turned left and entered the room. The room had ample lighting due to a large picture window above an inexpensive but tasteful white sofa. A maple coffee table sat in front of the sofa with several magazines sitting on it. Facing the sofa on the opposite wall was a low black rather plain entertainment cabinet with a small flat-panel television sitting on top. Two black shelves hung above the television, with assorted knickknacks and a photo of a baby. Roland studied the photo. Assuming it was a picture of the little girl that was found, he took a snap-shot with his mobile phone.
