by Susan Finlay
Roland then followed the other two men into the bedroom. A full-size bed with a blue and white striped duvet, a largish white armoire, a baby crib, and changing table crowded the small room. A small pile of child’s clothing sat atop the armoire. French doors led to a cramped balcony, and adjacent to the doors was a small utilitarian bathroom.
“I don’t see a computer, do you?” Bouvier asked.
“Perhaps she has one in the cabinet in the entertainment center,” Jaillet said.
“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Bouvier asked, walking up to Roland.
Jaillet went back into the living room. “There’s no computer here,” he said after foraging through the entire cabinet.
Roland went into the kitchen and proceeded to search the cupboards and drawers. In the last drawer he found pens, paper clips, and a note pad. He picked it up. He spotted a small book in the back of the drawer. It was an address book. He picked it up and flipped through the pages—Francois and Brigitte Thibault, Pernety École, several other names and initials. He took out his own notebook from his pocket and scribbled the names in it. He took Gabrielle’s note pad and address book, closed the drawer, and walked back into the living room.
Bouvier held out his hand. Roland clinched his jaw and handed the items over. Never mind. He would provide Goddard the information he’d written down, convey Bouvier having the pad and address book, and get further instructions from the captain.
CHAPTER TEN
ISABELLE LAMBERT UNLOCKED the door to Maigret’s Chachette, the bookshop where she worked part-time. She flipped on the light switch and closed the door behind her. Alain had instructed her to come in an hour before the shop’s opening so she could begin going through the second-hand books he’d bought at auction on Tuesday. She was supposed to sort them by genre, price them, and then add them to the inventory record on the computer.
Usually he did the sorting and pricing. This was normally the owner’s job, but she wasn’t about to argue with the boss, especially when he was also her boss at the café. Of course Simone was the owner of the café and gave the orders there. But Alain, being Simone’s lover, liked to think he was boss there as well, even though he wasn’t really. At least not from Isabelle’s perspective.
She walked to the back of the shop where the storage area was located. As she stepped through the doorway, she gasped. Good God. She’d expected a couple of boxes, which was typical, but instead there were eight boxes stacked up. If these boxes were full, this was a big buy and would take her far more than an hour to complete the task. What the hell was Alain thinking? She scrunched her face and thought about calling him to complain. But on second thought, perhaps she was being hasty. Since the shop didn’t get that many customers, the additional work would save her from the usual boredom. She could wait on customers, when needed, while continuing to work on the boxes.
Odd, it seemed a bit smelly in the back room today, different from the normal musty odor of old books. Shrugging and thinking nothing further of the odor, Isabelle opened the first box and began pulling out books, stacking them on a table set-up for that purpose. Mostly children’s and young adult books in this one, judging from these top books. She arranged them by type and then moved the empty box to the side. Opening the next box, she did the same. This box, however, contained non-fiction books, mostly educational. After tossing that box aside, something behind the remaining boxes caught her eye. She leaned forward to get a closer look. Had Alain thrown a blanket or duffel bag there? She moved one of the boxes. There was silence, and then she was screaming.
“Oh God! Oh God!”
AFTER PARKING IN the car park on the edge of Reynier, Goddard made his way to the bookshop and approached Officer Vargas who was standing outside the shop. “What do we know about this case so far?” Goddard asked.
“Sir, I’ve interviewed the shop clerk,” Officer Vargas said. “She’s Isabelle Lambert. Says she came in early to unpack boxes of books her employer bought at an auction for resale. Found the body hidden behind the boxes in the back room.”
“How long have the boxes been there?” Goddard asked.
“She says Monsieur Delacroix bought them on Tuesday and dropped them off in the shop through the back entrance. Mademoiselle Lambert was waiting on the last customers of the day. They closed shortly afterwards and didn’t reopen on Wednesday because of the storm overnight.”
Goddard glanced at his watch. It was now eleven ten Thursday morning. He presumed the shop owner would have noticed a body when he placed the book boxes in the shop if the body had been there. Therefore, the murder had taken place after he left work on Tuesday, which meant this victim could even have been killed the same night as Gabrielle Thibault. He took out his mobile phone and checked the digital photos Vargas had taken when he first arrived on the scene half an hour ago. Another pretty woman with long, light-brown hair. Her blue-grey eyes were wide-open as though she’d been taken by surprise. Blood had oozed from one side of her head and had pooled on the floor. The similarity between this head trauma and the first, struck Goddard. “Do we know the identity of this victim?”
“We do, sir,” Officer Vargas said. “Mademoiselle Lambert identified her as a co-worker of her brother. The victim is Felicia Beaumont, age twenty-six, a waitress at Chez Olivier, Reynier’s newest restaurant. Well, it’s not exactly new. A man named Luc Olivier bought it five months ago and is renovating it, turning it into an upscale restaurant. Get this—the new owner is an outsider, an entreprenéur who moved here from Paris. Do you think maybe he killed Gabrielle Thibault? She could have been blackmailing him over something, and this waitress overheard?”
Goddard sighed inwardly. Officer Vargas had a penchant for rambling on about inconsequential things, jumping to conclusions, and overdramatizing. He personally disliked the idea of profiling people merely because they came from Paris. But on the other hand, he couldn’t ignore a possible connection, no matter how small it might be, since the first victim was also an outsider from Paris. Of course that now meant looking at everyone in Reynier with ties to Paris—anyone who had lived there previously or went there on business. “Where is Monsieur Delacroix?”
“He just arrived. Durand is speaking with him now, inside the bookshop. The employee called him right after, or possibly before, she called us. Her story changes.”
The bookshop didn’t look like much from the outside—a plain wooden door with glass on the upper two-thirds, sectioned into six small squares. No broken glass. Next to that, two largish storefront windows with the same glass arrangement as on the door but with larger panes. White shutters on either side of the windows looked like the kind of shutters that could be pulled shut during a storm. He wondered if they had been. Again, no broken glass. “Where is Mademoiselle Lambert?”
“She’s gone home, sir.”
Goddard sighed. They shouldn’t have let her go home. “I’ll need to interview her. And Monsieur Olivier and Monsieur Delacroix. Have them all brought to the Gendarmerie in an hour. Also, look for anyone else here who has ties to Paris. I’ll need to interview them all over the next couple of days.” He turned and took a step toward the bookshop. He wanted to look at the victim, but he stopped when he realized Vargas hadn’t answered. Goddard looked over his shoulder. “Is there something else?”
“Uh, yes. Madame Martin is also an employee at the bookshop.”
Right, she would be. Chantal might think Maurelle Martin was innocent, but he certainly didn’t like the coincidences that were stacking up against the woman. “She’ll need to be brought back in as well, obviously. Any idea how many locals or current visitors have Paris connections?”
“Not yet. But I’ll get the other men working on it right away.”
Goddard turned and walked to the door, pulling it open and entering the bookshop. He hadn’t expected much, judging from the outside appearance, but neither had he expected so little. It smelled musty. Most of the small bookshops Goddard frequented at least had a coffee counter with little t
ables and generous lounge chairs where you could sip coffee while you read the book you were buying. Nothing like that here, not even a place to sit. If he was a customer, he’d have to scan the book while standing, pay for it and leave. Not very inviting at all. A heavy butcher block counter top sat atop three wine barrels near the back half of the shop and while it served its purpose as the check-out station, he would be worried if a rowdy bunch of kids ran through here; the setup didn’t look very stable. The wooden bookshelves were crude but, again, they did the job. Two long side walls were lined with these shelves. Several more shelves, set up in freestanding fashion, made three aisles. While two shelves held new books, everything else was obviously used.
He heard voices coming from the back of the shop. Behind the counter and to the right he found a supply room and in there Durand was speaking with Alain Delacroix while another officer took more photographs of the body and the room. The forensics team was due any time. Goddard stepped past Durand and around the boxes of books. The body was fully clothed, lying on its side on the linoleum floor. Even from his position, Goddard could tell the woman’s head had indeed been smashed similarly to the first victim.
“Have you found the murder weapon yet?” he asked the photographer.
“No. Durand and I looked for it. The rest of the team is searching outside of the building.”
AIMEE AUGUSTIN INSERTED a key in the lock and turned it, opening the door to the vacant shop on rue de Rennes. “This is it, Monsieur Lamont. Go on in and have a look around.”
René Lamont, distracted by the uniformed gendarmes milling about near a yellow taped-off area around a building across the street, raised an eyebrow. “What is happening over there?” he asked. “Is this a bad area? I am not at all surprised to see police milling about in Paris. Crime happens there all the time, but here?”
“Oh, it’s . . . well, it’s nothing you need to worry about,” Aimee said. She waved her hand as if dismissing it. “Bad things sometime happen even in small towns.”
“Yes, of course,” René said. “But I’m concerned to see so many gendarmes. They literally look like a small army. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many of them in such a small village.”
“I can assure you this is the first time in twenty years for Reynier. I’m sure it’s nothing. You know how the gendarmes in small towns like to make a big fuss about everything. It’s perfectly safe for you to open your business here. And I do think this is the perfect spot for your antiques shop, don’t you agree, Jeannette?”
“What?” Jeannette said, distracted herself by the commotion. “Oh yes, I’ve always had my eye on this space. When my Charles was alive, we talked about opening a seamstress shop here in Reynier. I did have a small area in our general store, and I did sewing and mending there for my customers while Charles tended the store. You know, I always believed I could have turned my business into something bigger if it had its own storefront.” Jeannette paused momentarily, apparently deep in thought. “Ah well, it wasn’t meant to be. Oh, a thousand apologies, Monsieur Lamont. I must be boring you.”
“No, not at all Madame Devlin. It’s interesting to me. One of the things I love about these little villages is that nearly everyone, it seems, can become an entreprenéur if they so desire. You know, I wasn’t always a big city man. I started my business in a small town, too. That was many years ago.”
“Oh, how interesting,” Aimee said unconvincingly as she led them into the shop. “Now, if you look over here, you’ll see there’s good lighting, and the previous renter even left behind these display cases and cabinets. I believe they could work nicely for antiques.”
René shrugged. Jeannette was watching him. He stood still for a moment, trying to decide what he should be doing. Taking his cue from Aimee, he moved around the room and stuck his head into cupboards. In front of one of the freestanding cabinets he stooped down and looked underneath.
“My grandson Paul is also something of a handyman,” Jeannette said. He must have told you about that. He can have this placed cleaned up and remodeled in no time. He’s done some work on the restaurant on our main street. You can go there and see some of his work.”
“That’s an excellent idea, Jeannette,” Aimee said. “We could actually go there right now, have a nice lunch and discuss the store.”
René walked over to the window and looked outside again at the gendarmes. “That still worries me. What has happened? Would I have to worry about robberies or break-ins? I might have a lot of valuables in here if I were to open shop here.”
“It wasn’t a robbery,” Jeannette said. “It was another murder.”
Aimee shot her a poison look that made Jeannette slap her hand over her mouth.
René shook his head and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. “What! Murders plural. I thought this was a quiet little village like the ones I visited on holiday in my youth. How many murders have you had here? Maybe Reynier isn’t right for me after all.”
“Now don’t let that worry you,” Aimee said, obviously trying desperately to smooth over Jeannette’s slip-up. “Like I said before, Reynier is normally a quiet, safe, and happy little village. This is the first murder we’ve had in many years. We don’t even have our own gendarmes. These are actually from Belvidere. Now how about that lunch? My treat, of course.”
OH, GOD, THIS . . . can’t . . . be happening,” Brigitte Thibault said, sobbing and instantly shaking. “I don’t understand. Why would anyone hurt our girl? She was the nicest person, quiet, sweet . . .” François Thibault, sitting beside her, color draining from his face and tears forming in his eyes, put his arms around his wife’s shoulders. She looked up at him and said, “Please tell them they’ve made a horrible mistake.”
“I’m so sorry, dear,” François said. He buried his face in her shoulder-length blonde hair.
Officer Roland looked away. Scenes like this were often worse than the actual crime scenes, so emotionally damaging for loved ones of the victims. Made him want to withdraw and hide from the raw grief he had just delivered. Though not having suffered the loss of someone himself, the scene reminded him of when he was fourteen and his dog was hit and killed by a car. Nothing in his life, up until that point, had prepared him for the kind of grief he felt. He’d barricaded himself in his bedroom for days, refusing to eat. He could only imagine how he would react if that happened to his little daughter. He closed his eyes and saw her head of curly red hair, so much like his own, and her large brown eyes, inherited from her mother.
After several minutes, François stoically asked, “What about Amélie?”
“Pardón,” Bouvier said. “Who is Amélie?”
“Gaby’s baby,” François said. “Where is she? Has anything happened to her?”
Lieutenant Bouvier looked to Roland.
“She’s safe, Monsieur,” Roland said. We have her with Social Services in Belvidere. Do you know how we can contact the child’s father?”
“He . . . well, we don’t know,” François said. “Gaby was secretive when it came to her love life.”
Bouvier raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean she didn’t tell you who fathered her child?”
François’s face reddened. “She only said that he wouldn’t acknowledge the baby and wanted his name kept off the birth certificate.”
“And she went along with that?” Bouvier asked.
“She told us that she would eventually get him to accept their child, but she didn’t want to force him.”
Ah, thought Roland. That might mean married man. Find the father, find the killer? He’d seen other cases like that. Roland said, “We’ll arrange to have Amélie brought here.”
The woman choked a muffled, “Oh, thank God,” and began crying even harder.
Giving the Thibault’s a few more moments to compose themselves, Roland studied his surroundings. They were sitting in the living room of the home. Traditional French décor, probably not changed much in the past twenty years by the looks of it. The furniture was neith
er shabby nor chic. Photographs of their daughter at various ages, with her parents and alone, were displayed on the walls and on tabletops. A smiling girl, blonde hair and blue eyes. Not beautiful but attractive by most standards. Roland also recognized a small photo of Amélie.
After giving the Thibaults a few more minutes, Bouvier glanced at Roland, then said to the parents, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we need to ask you some questions.”
François looked up, his eyes moist. “Who would do this to our Gaby?”
“That’s what we’re trying to discover. We need to know everything about Gabrielle—her work, her friends, her lovers. What was happening in her life? When you did last see her, speak to her?”
“Like I said, Gaby was reticent to talk about her love life. She’s a teacher at Ecóle Pernety. They’re out for the summer. Gaby was enjoying time at home with the baby and going for short trips.”
Roland said, “Did she ever mention Reynier to you?”
“No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“That’s where it happened. Did she have any interest in caves?”
Between sobs, Brigitte said, “When she was little, we would go cave exploring sometimes. She loved them.” This memory initiated more sobbing.
“So, perhaps she visited there because of the caves in that area?”
François said, “With a baby? No. She wouldn’t do that. She was too protective of her daughter to risk that, unless it was one of those easy, guided tours. Do they have those there?”
Roland shook his head no. He hesitated, then asked, “Did Gabrielle attend university here in Montparnasse?”
