Murder on the Quai

by Cara Black

  “Elise asked me to drop this off. It’s important.”

  “Come back tomorrow.”

  Like hell she would.

  “Who is this?”

  No answer.

  “Then you tell Elise, who insisted I drop this off, why you won’t let me—”

  The massive carved door buzzed open.

  About time.

  The black-and-white, marble-tiled foyer, lit by a chandelier, led to a winding staircase wrapping an elevator padded with worn blue velvet and so small she held her breath as she squeezed in. The wire doors clanked shut and the shoebox ascended.

  It shuddered to a halt on the fourth floor. A fiftyish woman wearing a velour turquoise tracksuit stood on the landing, framed by another set of massive carved doors. Her chin-length black hair was lacquered flat to within a centimeter of its life. She looked wide awake as she sized Aimée up. “I’ll take that,” she said, holding out her hand for Aimée’s report.

  Aimée had professors harsher than her.

  “I don’t think so,” said Aimée, barreling past her. “Elise?”

  The theme song of Dallas came from a télé down a cavernous hallway of palatial moldings and wall sconces. But the packing boxes and crates lining the walls gave it a forlorn feel.

  The woman caught Aimée’s arm. “Wait a minute, you can’t come in here.”

  The tall windows overlooking the park and the chapel dome were fogged in the November cold. A faint waft of musk and leather attested to the presence of someone else.

  “Where’s Elise?”

  The woman’s long fingernails raked Aimée’s jacket. “I’m calling the police, young woman.”

  “Not before I do.” Aimée shook off her grip. “What have you done with her?”

  Shocked, the woman’s eyes crinkled. “Done with her? What do you mean, child?”

  “I’m asking the questions. Who are you and what have you done with Elise and her mother?”

  The woman stepped back.

  “Answer me.”

  “I’m the housekeeper. They left me to finish boxing up the apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “Madame Peltier and Elise just left.”

  Left?

  “So late? So where have they gone?”

  The woman’s mouth pursed. She said nothing.

  Had she stumbled into a robbery scam?

  “How do I know you’re the housekeeper?”

  “I’ve worked for the family for years.” The woman tugged her pocket zipper. Nervous. “Elise and her mother took the car and left.”

  “Like I believe you?”

  “Me? You barged in here, what right do you have?”

  Aimée scanned the dark hallway. On the sideboard were stacks of envelopes and newspapers, and a sheet of packing instructions with the underscored headline: For Denise.

  “When did they leave, Denise?”

  “Let me see your identification.”

  Aimée flashed her faux PI license.

  Surprise filled the woman’s face.

  “There’s a difficult situation, didn’t she tell you? It’s vital I reach her. Where did they go?”

  “She never mentioned someone would come here.” Denise’s thin mouth turned down. “I remember now. A Monsieur Leduc.” She was thawing a bit. “I didn’t expect someone so young.”

  “I’m his daughter. Now tell me, Denise, when did they leave?”

  “Not long. Forty minutes ago? They left for the village.”

  Great. “Where’s that?”

  “I thought you were family. Don’t you know?”

  She wanted to kick this stubborn housekeeper in her glaring track outfit. The turquoise didn’t suit Denise’s sallow color at all.

  “It looks better if you help me, Denise.”

  Denise hesitated. Aimée heard voices down the hall.

  “Who’s here?”

  “Only me, JR, and Sue Ellen.”

  Aimée never watched the télé but everyone in France who did had Dallas fever.

  “But if Elise left in a hurry, didn’t she leave a message?”

  A shrug and shake of her dyed hair.

  “I heard the police called.”

  “None of my business. It’s supposed to be my night off.”

  Helpful, this Denise.

  A loud buzz came from the hall intercom. Denise jumped.

  “You’re expecting someone?” Les flics?

  But Denise dashed down the hallway to the door without replying.

  Aimée took advantage of this housekeepers’ preoccupation and scanned the crates for an address in the village. Nothing. On the sideboard she saw an old-fashioned leather address book, the kind her grandfather kept by the phone. Most people didn’t put their own addresses in something they kept at home, but she thumbed it open to P. Only the plumber on rue d’Amsterdam.

  She found a scribbled grocery list on the back of an envelope: onions, garlic, rosemary. Thank goodness Elise’s generation was so frugal, never wasted a scrap of paper. She turned the envelope over to see it had been forwarded to the Peltiers in Paris from the village of Chambly-sur-Cher.

  Aimée stuck it in her pocket.

  “I missed her?” a man was saying at the front door. “C’est terrible. I left as soon as I could.” His tone spoke of formal, aristocratic French. He shifted the overcoat from his arm and she saw he held a briefcase. He was of medium height, with a crooked nose and dark hair greying at the temples, but he emanated a presence, a charisma, like a politician. The type you noticed, Aimée thought, by their stance, their bearing, a je-ne-sais-quoi. Whatever it was, he had it.

  The housekeeper was murmuring something in his ear—all Aimée caught was “that detective’s daughter.”

  “I was supposed to meet Elise, too,” Aimée lied. “Do you know when she’s returning, monsieur?”

  His brow furrowed. “No idea.” He set down his case to shake her hand. “I’m Renaud de Bretteville. And you are?”

  “Aimée Leduc,” she said. “A relative.”

  “How did the performance go, Monsieur de Bretteville?” Denise asked, her voice fawning.

  “Typical dress rehearsal. Complete with a third-act stage-set disaster.” De Bretteville sighed. “Still so much to work on.” Turning to Aimée, he explained, “I’m performing and producing a piece at the theater.”

  An actor—that explained the presence, and the sigh. “Let me make tisane for your throat.” Denise turned to Aimée, her voice dismissive. “Leave the package with me, I’ll see she gets it.”

  No way she’d leave crime-scene photos and her report with a nosey housekeeper.

  “My contact’s with Elise.” Aimée pulled out her notebook. “Give me the Peltiers’ country number.”

  This time, Denise complied, and Aimée wrote it down.

  Despite Denise’s second invitation to tea, Renaud de Bretteville declined. Shot Aimée a look she interpreted as the last thing he wanted. So she followed him down the stairs.

  “You’re Elise’s friend, Monsieur de Bretteville?”

  “A little more,” he said, his deep-timbred voice echoing off the marble stairs. A stage voice. “And you?”

  “As I said, we’re related.” She still didn’t know exactly how. “Elise left me a message on the machine that she was afraid. Can you think why? Did she say anything to you?”

  “On the phone? It’s so hard to hear backstage.” He shook his head as he hit a button and the massive front door clicked unlocked. She pushed it open. “I think she called during—non, after the last curtain call. Maybe an hour ago,” he said. “I feel terrible I couldn’t get away. Has something happened?”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, how well do you know Elise?”

  Another sigh, then a bemused grin. “How well
does any man know a woman?”

  She’d overheard the busybody housekeeper whisper “detective’s daughter” to him—no use keeping it quiet. Her father always said it’s a fine line knowing when to reveal you’re a detective and when to try to get them to open up by other means. Maybe she’d learn more by enlisting his help. “Monsieur de Bretteville, this concerns her father,” said Aimée.

  He paused, a serious look on his face. “Her father? Look, I suggested that if the police couldn’t solve her father’s murder Elise should hire a professional. She said she had a family member in the business. That’s you?”

  “Leduc Detective’s my father’s firm, but I’m helping.” A swell of pride filled her. She’d never been taken as a professional before. Her shoulders straightened. “I’m following up.”

  In the patches of light she glimpsed his expression—curiosity in his eyes. “A bit young for this, Aimée? Alors, who am I to say? The police sit back, do nothing. At least that’s what Elise feels. It’s been a month. What have you discovered?”

  Like she’d fall for that and cough up hard-won information? “My job’s asking questions,” she said. “Who would want to murder Monsieur Peltier or his circle of friends?” She guessed that last part, but from Renaud’s startled expression, she could see it hit the mark. What mark, she didn’t know.

  Suspicious, she watched him closer. Walking in the chilly, rain-freshened night air, their footsteps were muted on the wet leaves.

  “I can’t guess who would want to kill Bruno Peltier, and neither can the flics. Elise’s so frustrated,” said Renaud. “The inspector took me aside and told me they’d rounded up a suspect, but then his alibi checked out. Of course they can’t share his ID or their investigation. For her peace of mind I said, ‘If you don’t think they’re doing it right, talk to a detective.’ But I figure you’d tell her the same thing.”

  “Alors, please, can you help me?”

  “Bien sûr, in any way I can.” He sounded sincere and offered to walk her to the boulevard where she’d parked.

  As she tried to figure out what information she could get from him, he gestured to the Chapelle Expiatoire, fronted by four Doric columns splattered with pigeon excrement. “You know, every January the right-wing aristocrats celebrate a mass here in the deposed Marie-Antoinette and Louis’s honor.”

  “Vraiment? I never knew that,” she said. Let him talk, she thought. Draw him out.

  “Elise’s father made a point of telling me,” he said.

  Here was a way to push for more information about Elise’s father. “Did you know him well?”

  “Pas du tout.” He shook his head. “He supported our theater foundation. But supporting the theater isn’t the same thing as being happy that your daughter is involved with an actor.”

  How old-fashioned. Wasn’t Elise old enough to make her own choices? She must be practically as old as Aimée’s father. Ancient.

  “You’re saying her father disapproved?”

  “Old school, tu comprends?”

  Hypocritical, too, this Bruno who frequented boîtes de nuit on rue de Ponthieu.

  “When did you last see Monsieur Peltier?” That was too direct, so amateur. Yet how else could she find out? She wondered how her father would have handled it.

  “Let me think.” Renaud’s condescending voice rubbed her the wrong way. “I’d just dined with the family on Sunday at home,” he said. “We were announcing our engagement. That was the last time.”

  Engagement? “Congratulations,” Aimée said, surprised. She had an idea, decided to take a shot in the dark. “Were his old friends at the party? You know, the ones he meets—I mean, met—every month?”

  “There was a superb foie gras, that I remember. But the other guests?” He shrugged. “Désolé.”

  She’d try another tack. “Can you remember anything else about the last time you saw Monsieur Peltier?”

  “You mean at the dinner?” Renaud’s brow furrowed. “It’s terrible, but . . . I can only picture Elise. How happy we were. But now . . . it’s tearing her apart.”

  “Can you give me the date?”

  Renaud paused under the streetlight and consulted his calendar. The taxi stand stood deserted.

  “October eighth. We dined early since I had rehearsal.”

  The night before his murder.

  “If I’d only paid attention,” he said. “But I gave Elise a promise ring and her mother seemed happy and her father, alors, happy in his own fashion.”

  A Noctambus, the rare and infrequent all-night bus, approached on the boulevard. “Désolé, this bus stops at my door. I have to catch it.”

  “Here’s my card, Renaud.” She’d found him to be a condescending showman at first, but now he seemed like a caring fiancé. A nice catch for Elise. “Please, call me if there’s anything you can think of.”

  Renaud took it.

  Her grandfather’s comment on the Sten gun came back to her. She’d try one more time, fish for one more thing. “I wonder if that evening Monsieur Peltier mentioned anything about the past. Maybe the war?”

  She sensed Renaud hesitate. Then he shook his head. “Non, but I overheard a remark at the theater benefit.”

  “Et alors?” Right away she wished she’d kept the impatience out her voice.

  “Just gossip, really.”

  The bus pulled up. Doors opened and a few passengers stepped off. Renaud de Bretteville edged toward the bus door.

  “I’m listening. Please, everything’s important.”

  He paused, pulling out a bus pass. “You won’t mention this to Elise?”

  “Everything stays confidential,” she lied.

  “I heard a rumor that Bruno had made out well during the Occupation. That that’s why he had the money to be a benefactor of the arts.”

  “You’re saying Elise’s father collaborated with the Germans during the war?”

  “It’s only an overheard conversation,” he said. “Not for me to slander the dead. People made fortunes and no one asked questions then.” In the bus’s doorway he turned back to add, “No one wanted answers.”

  As the bus lurched away, she pulled on her helmet. She thought about Vortek’s father, the Polish resistance fighter, and his story about executing collaborators in the Polish forests. She took a last look at Chapelle Expiatore’s dome, the glint of the gold-tipped fence. It was time to call it a night.

  Crossing Pont Marie, she shuddered at the memory of what she had seen earlier, not so many bridges away. Why would the police have contacted Elise unless this second murder connected to her father’s? Of course it did. Afraid, Elise must have packed up her mother and left in a hurry.

  Afraid of what?

  That they were next?

  Did that mean Elise knew who might be after her? Did she already know who’d killed her father? Had she withheld part of the truth when she’d come into Leduc Detective?

  Or was it just that the grief and stress were too much for her, and she had decided to get away for a while? A second murder, the police calling in the night—it would have taken a toll.

  On the Ile Saint-Louis she turned left down the quai d’Anjou and parked. She saw a light on in their window.

  The Leduc family flat took up the third floor of a seventeenth-century hôtel particulier built on the island where once the king’s cows had grazed. Inhabited now by aristos and old families whose descendants had inherited an architectural jewel but couldn’t afford to redo the archaic heating and plumbing. She’d grown up with it, so she was used to it—used to keeping her coat on indoors in the winter, used to remembering to turn off the sagging chandeliers before switching on her hair dryer so as not to blow a fuse.

  Over the years, rising humidity had dampened the three-hundred-year-old walls and warped the inlaid parquet floors. The eight-room apartment’s walls were lined by smoky a
ge-patinaed mirrors, granite fireplaces, and cracked marble busts that had been left to her grandfather. He’d told her the original owners had sadly taken a one-way trip in 1942. Now he bought lotto tickets, hoping to win enough to renovate the place.

  Her shoulders sagged with tiredness. She crossed the cobbled courtyard, passed the glistening pear tree, and made her way up the age-worn marble stairs. Cursed when, as usual, the key stuck in the old lock. She kicked off her boots on the creaking wood floor of the foyer, hung up the jacket, and rubbed her sore finger with the blood blister. She heard barking.

  Mon Dieu, he’d brought the stray home.

  In the kitchen, a wet nose popped out of a little nest of blankets by the radiator. On the wood table, her grandfather had left a note: Fed, walked, and needs love. See you in the morning.

  “Mon pauvre.” She picked up the little thing, a warm ball of now clean white fluff. “What can I do with you until tomorrow?”

  Licks on her cheeks answered her. He had the pinkest tongue she’d ever seen. She nuzzled him back, held him for a while, trying not to think about the body she’d seen on the quai, thinking instead about her father and wondering why he’d kept back the truth about his trip to Berlin. Why the hell did her mother have a Stasi file?

  A keening whine came from the little dog. Her grandfather’s note said the puppy had already been fed, but . . . “Thirsty?”

  She peered in the cupboard and came up with a chipped Limoges bowl she hoped her grandfather wouldn’t mind her using. Filled it with Evian, which the dog lapped up.

  Her own stomach growled. She turned on the radio to jazz classique and shoved yesterday’s cassoulet in the old oven. She tore off a piece of baguette and uncorked the bottle of red wine on the table. Strains from a ballad from Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue album. The melancholic notes matched the gusting wind outside the window, the leaden hanging clouds. Any minute it would pour.

  She picked the puppy up again, felt his little bones shaking. He was warm and comforting in her arms. He barked.

  “Voilà,” she said. “I’m calling you Miles Davis for now.”

  Sipping from the glass, she moved the salt and pepper, spread out her notes and photographs on the table.