by Susan Finlay
“You could have waited. You could have postponed the wedding until we returned. Or at least given us a choice of attending.”
He’d countered that he was a grown man. For God’s sake, he was thirty-six years old. He didn’t need his parents’ approval to get married. But, he’d acknowledged he screwed up. Yes, he should have invited them. Yes, he should have given them the option of cutting short their trip if attending his wedding was that important to them. Yes, maybe he should even have postponed it until their trip was over. He’d been the good son and apologized for his stupidity because he didn’t want to alienate them.
But, deep down Dave felt perturbed by them, especially his mother. He had invited them to his first wedding ten years ago—and they hadn’t bothered to attend. His mother had scheduled an appointment for a facelift, or tummy tuck, or some other such procedure. He couldn’t keep track of them all. That had taken precedence over his wedding when he was younger and more in need of them, but his parents had apparently forgotten all about that, with conveniently selective memory.
In a way he was glad they hadn’t attended his second wedding. Not because he didn’t imagine a perfect wedding—one with his parents and his grandmother all dressed splendidly, happy, smiling, getting along with one another, happy for him and welcoming his new bride. But that was an imaginary desire, an unrealistic fantasy that wouldn’t have happened without serious changes in his parents’ attitudes and priorities. As it was, it was probably a blessing they weren’t there.
The wedding had been warm and cozy, with everyone’s spirits high and with everyone getting along with one another. His grandmother had even been their matron of honor, something that had surprised and delighted the seventy-eight-year-old. That wouldn’t have happened if Eloise Martin had attended.
Dave knew how to abridge information so that only what he regarded as necessary was disseminated, and he’d made full use of that skill in telling his parents how he and Maurelle had met. That couldn’t have happened, either, if they’d attended. In a town full of gossipers, his parents would have gotten the full details and maybe even a few imaginary ones, for good measure.
Shaking off the unpleasant ruminations, Dave now explained to his father about Maurelle’s past, about the murder in England, about Maurelle being a suspect and being cleared of the murder and about the recent development in London, as well as about the current murders in Reynier and her disappearance.
His father whistled. “Lord, no wonder you didn’t tell us about her earlier. Your mother is going to go ballistic when she finds out.”
“Don’t remind me. What should I do, Dad? Should I notify the gendarmes or wait a while longer? She could actually be in danger, but if she isn’t, I could get her into a lot more trouble, not to mention that I’m a suspect, too. What will the gendarmes think if my wife has suddenly gone missing?”
“Okay, Dave, I’m getting on the next flight to Paris. I’ll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, I suggest you leave the gendarmes in the dark for the moment and keep looking for her.”
“DID YOU KNOW that the first victim was Gaby?” René asked.
“I heard,” Paul said. “I was in complete shock. What was she doing here in Reynier? Did she follow you here?”
They were standing in the chateau’s doorway and had to move aside when a man and woman carrying luggage approached from the parking lot.
“Me? No. I didn’t arrive until after she was murdered. Besides, why would she follow me?”
Paul shrugged and studied René closely. “It just seemed strange how you and Gaby showed up here so close together.”
“She didn’t know I was coming to see you, and I didn’t tell her father. Obviously, he knows you’re going to New York for the art exhibit. He’s helping set that up with an acquaintance of ours. Did I mention him before? Anyway, Francois doesn’t know I’m looking at Reynier for other . . . well, you know, business prospects.”
“Have you talked to Francois and Brigitte? I’m wondering how they’re taking the news of their daughter’s death. I should call them, but I don’t know what to say. Condolences aren’t one of my strong suits.”
“I called them last night,” René said. He lowered his voice and leaned in. “I can’t imagine how they can cope. Francois had trouble speaking on the phone. I thought he was going to lose his control a couple times and break down. I really felt sorry for him. To make matters worse, Brigitte keeps on him to push the police harder for answers. And, apparently, Gaby’s daughter has been crying and throwing tantrums. One can hardly blame the poor girl. She must be missing her mother.”
Paul shook his head and winced. “Poor gamine. I can’t imagine losing a parent like that. I hope she didn’t have to witness what happened to her mother.”
“That would be traumatic indeed.”
“Please let me know if you hear anything more from Gaby’s parents,” Paul said. “And if there’s anything I can do to help them.”
“Of course.”
“I NEED THE post-mortem report on Felicia Beaumont as soon as possible,” Goddard said. “We need to know if she was pregnant. I also want DNA tests run on Gabrielle Thibault and her daughter.”
“Why DNA tests?” Durand asked.
“We need to identify the child’s father. If we can do that, I believe we may find the killer.”
Durand nodded. “So, we’re looking for a man. You’ve ruled out the Martin woman?”
“No. Not entirely. I’m just working all angles. We’ll see where each leads us.”
“I’ll call the Medical Examiner right away and will let you know when he expects to finish the report.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“HI, SON,” EDWARD Martin said, “I figured I should call and give you a heads up. We’re at the airport in New York waiting for our connecting flight. Our plane should be boarding in about fifteen minutes. I’ll call you when we land in Paris.”
Dave hesitated, wondering if he’d heard his father correctly. The combination of a poor telephone connection, coupled with background noise from the airport loud speaker and the rumble of jet traffic in the distance, made it difficult to make out what his father was saying.
“We, Dad? Did I hear you say ‘we’?”
“That’s the thing. Your mother didn’t want me to call and warn you, but I thought you needed to know. I’m calling you from the men’s restroom.”
Dave ran his hand through his hair and paced across his living room floor.
“Mom’s coming? You know that’s going to be trouble. Why did you tell her what you’re doing?”
“I know, I know. But I could hardly say: ‘Hey, Hon, I’m going to go on a trip overseas. I’ll see you when I get back.’
Well, yeah, he should have known his dad would have to tell her. And there was no way she would sit at home while her husband traveled to France. Besides, she’d been complaining for months that she wanted to meet her daughter-in-law.
Dave sighed. Years ago, Eloise Laurent had left Reynier and gone to Paris to attend college. There, she’d met Edward Martin and had fallen head over heels for him; at least that’s the story they liked to tell. They’d married while still in school, and Eloise had given birth to Dave, their only child, living in a one room apartment on the Left Bank in Paris. His mother had subsequently dropped out of college to take care of him. Then, after his father graduated, when Dave was two years old, his father had swept them all away to the U.S. One of Dave’s earliest memories—it must have been when he was around four years old—was when his grandmother and his mother were arguing over the telephone. Of course he could only hear his mother’s side of the conversation, but it was clear his mother was being shamed into sending Dave to Reynier for summer-long visits and was anything but happy about it. Back in those days Eloise let Edward make all the decisions and tell her what to do. It was funny to think about, their roles having somehow reversed over the course of their marriage. Fabienne had complained, and still did, that Eloise was always de
fiant and had married an American to get away from her. There might have been some truth to that.
“Did you tell her everything?” Dave asked.
“Well, not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told her about the two murders in Reynier and said that you had asked me to help you assist the gendarmes.”
Crap. The last thing he needed right now was his mother’s negativity. Okay. Don’t panic. Put Mom and Grand-mère together, and leave quickly. He could picture them sitting in separate corners refusing to speak to each other. He’d never known two more stubborn people. The question was who was more stubborn? They were cut off the same cloth, whether or not they wanted to admit it.
“WHERE DO YOU live, Monsieur Houdan?” Goddard asked. He knew the rumors, but he wanted to hear it from the vagrant.
Bruno Houdan shrugged and raised his arms.
“What does that mean? A shrug. I need your address for my files. You just told me you currently have no job and haven’t held a steady job in six years. Tell me, how do you eat and where do you bathe and sleep?”
“I used to live with my brother, Michel, up on the top of the hill, near the old church in Reynier. We grew up in that house, we did. Now, we don’t speak to each other anymore.”
“Who lives in the house now?”
“Michel does.” Bruno waved his arms. “Can you believe he lives there all alone in a three-bedroom house, while his brother has to bed down wherever he can? That’s wrong. I’m the oldest. I should have inherited the house.”
“Why didn’t you inherit it?”
He looked away at a painting on the wall. “Maman and Papa always like him best. He was the bright one, the smart one, the popular one.”
Bruno said he was fifty years old, but if Goddard hadn’t known that, he would have added another ten years to the man’s age. Years of alcoholism and living in the streets did that to a person. Bruno was a poor physical specimen, flabby body, tired eyes, slowed metabolism. But was he capable of violence? Yes, probably so.
“How do you eat and bathe? You haven’t answered.”
Bruno looked down at his hands folded on the table.
Goddard had already noticed Bruno’s offensive body odor, but until he saw his hands, Goddard hadn’t noticed how dirty the man was. Dirt was embedded underneath his long fingernails misshapen to look like an eagle’s claws. Those were not the hands of a strangler, certainly not the strangler who killed Gabrielle. Those fingernails would have left distinct mark on her neck. Of course that didn’t mean Bruno was innocent of Felicia’s murder. There was no proof, as yet, that the two murders were connected.
“Bruno?”
“Okay, I’ll tell you, but promise you won’t tell anyone else?”
Goddard didn’t respond but sat there staring at Bruno, waiting.
“Some of the restaurants here and in Reynier throw away leftovers or day old food. That’s what I eat, unless someone takes pity on me and offers me a bite. A couple places even leave a plate of leftovers out in the back once in a while. Good people, they are.”
“Do you know the owner of Chez Olivier?”
“I may have talked to him once or twice. Why?”
“Do you know where he is?”
Bruno tilted his head and looked Goddard in the eye.
“What do I get out of telling you what I know?”
So Bruno wanted to make a deal. He could offer him a hot meal. Alcohol would probably be more to his liking, but that was certainly not going to happen.
Apparently worried Goddard might not offer anything, Bruno said, “I might know something important about Monsieur Olivier—and about Monsieur Martin.”
Goddard squinted at him. Maybe it was worth taking a chance.
“You tell me something that helps with the case, and I’ll pay for one night of food and lodging for you at Chateau de Reynier.”
Bruno smiled and quickly said, “You’ve got yourself a deal.” He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied look on his face. Did that mean he really did know something?”
“Every night I make my rounds. One night, must have been two weeks ago, I was waiting for the throwaways outside the back door of Chez Olivier. That owner, don’t remember the first name he’s using here, but I remember the name this woman called him—Bertrand. She said she was going to tell Nina where he was if he didn’t pay her. He swore at her and went inside, then came back out and handed her a wad of cash.”
“What happened then?”
“She left and he went back inside.”
“Can you describe the woman?”
“Tall, skinny, with long blonde hair tied in a pony-tail. She was wearing a short red skirt, white blouse, and high heeled shoes.”
Goddard scribbled the names and description in his notepad. He hoped Bruno wasn’t leading him on a wild goose chase. But if he was telling the truth, that could be why his men couldn’t find Luc Olivier.
“Do you know who she was?”
“Nope, never seen her before.”
“Have you seen her since?”
He shook his head.
“Did you see where she went? Did she have a car?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t follow her.”
“You said you had some information about Monsieur Martin, as well.”
Bruno nodded.
“I told you, I make my rounds in the evenings. The other night, that woulda been the night after the storm, I was behind Simone’s café. Well, I was leaving when a car pulled up. Dave Martin got out and started walking to his grandmother’s house. Fabienne was always nice to my family. Did you know she and her husband and my parents were friends when my brother and I were young? The Laurents would invite us to the house for dinners. That Fabienne is a good cook.”
“Does this have anything to do with Dave Martin?”
“No. Oh, yeah, I was talking ‘bout Dave, wasn’t I? Well, I did follow him because I was making my rounds and he was walking in the same direction. He went into her house but came back out and went back to the café. I ducked behind some trees. Do you know, a few minutes later, he drove by. He left and I thought he musta gone to see someone. But then, maybe ten minutes later, I see him walking up the road from the main street and over to the trail heading to his house, and I asked myself why he would do that? He always parks behind the café. Simone lets him do that because it’s the closest parking to his troglo.”
Why, indeed?
Goddard called in one of his men. “Please arrange for a night of lodging at Chateau de Reynier for Monsieur Bruno Houdan. For tonight or tomorrow night if possible.” Goddard hesitated, thinking what the reaction of the hotel owners and their guests might be when Bruno showed up. He added, “And please take him shopping for one suit of clean clothes to wear. Preferably something from the second-hand shop.”
Bruno leaned against the back of his chair and smiled. “Merci, Captain.”
SIMONE WAS WORKING as fast as she could in the kitchen. Ever since the first murder occurred, business had been picking up exponentially. She was beginning to think she would have to hire more help, at least temporarily until things quieted down. Alain was doing the best he could to help out, but he was distracted because of the murder in his shop and by the gendarmes questioning him. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her about his interview, and she would have been okay with that if he wasn’t acting irritable.
She glanced over at Alain, who was taking an order from a couple, evidently new guests at the chateau. Alain’s eyes were red, probably from not sleeping well. He’d tossed and turned in bed last night.
“Oh, Simone, dear,” Aimee Augustin said, “could you get me a coffee. I forgot to ask for it earlier. I’m so absentminded lately.” She was sitting on one of the bar stools near the stovetop.
“Of course, Madame Augustin.”
When Simone poured her a cup of coffee and set it in front of her, Aimee leaned over the counter and said, “Did you hear that Maurelle Martin is missing?”
“What? Again? Are you sure?”
“Well, I heard from Jeannette that Dave has been looking for her all over the village. Apparently, she didn’t come home last night.”
“Perhaps she was mistaken. Grand-mère sometimes does that.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Not this time. I mentioned it to a couple other people after I talked to Jeannette, and they confirmed it. Poor Dave was frantic. What do you think it means? Do you think she was killed, too? I’ve been worried who might be next. Do you think we have a serial killer in our midst?”
Simone bit her lip. All kinds of thoughts were fighting for attention in her brain suddenly.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CAPTAIN GODDARD SAT in his office the next morning and reviewed his scribbled notes from his interview with Bruno Houdan: tall woman, skinny, with long blonde hair tied in a pony-tail and wearing a short red skirt, white blouse, and high heeled shoes. That description could fit a multitude of people in a big city, but here he might be able to narrow down a list. As he jotted down a few names, his phone rang, interrupting his work.
“Hello,” Chantal said. “I didn’t hear you get up and get ready for work. I must have been sleeping soundly.”
“You were, indeed. You seemed to need the sleep after our intimacy last night, so I dressed quietly to avoid waking you.”
“Should I expect you for dinner tonight?”
He’d found the time to take her out to dinner twice this week, but he wasn’t sure he could commit to it again tonight, and he wasn’t sure how long work was going to keep him today. Then he remembered the night before last her mentioning plans she had made for them to go out with friends. He would have to make time.
“I’ll do my best to take a dinner break and come home,” he said, “or maybe we can meet somewhere.”
“Lovely. I’ll wait to hear from you. Try to have a pleasant day. I love you.”
