Murder on the Quai

by Cara Black

She looked at the time. Late—she’d miss the train. She ran her fingers through her spiky hair, smoothed it down. Winced at the pain in her shoulder.

  “I’ve got to meet Elise.”

  “Not a good idea, Aimée.”

  “Until I do I won’t know what’s going on.” Or about her mother, but she left that out. “No use trying to talk me out of it, Grand-père. I’m catching the train.”

  Her grandfather smoothed his mustache, a thing he did when thinking. “Did your father sign a contract with Elise?”

  “She paid us a retainer, Grand-père.” Under French law, institutional and archaic as it was, a PI’s investigative scope was narrowly defined by contract. Aimée needed to get one to cover her derrière.

  “What were you thinking?” said her grandfather. He shook his head.

  She changed and threw in a change of clothes in her worn Hermès, along with another pair of boots, her makeup kit, the dossier of her notes, her surveillance log, the photos. She called a taxi. No gypsy taxi for her.

  Her grandfather stood waiting for her at the door with her old school lunchbox, which emitted smells of rabbit with mustard sauce, and a contract form. “Take this. It’s standard. Have her sign off and come home.”

  Close to midnight, Aimée, in black leather pants and parka, gripped her bag and climbed from the short platform onto the third train, a diesel engine nicknamed Micheline, finally bound for Chambly-sur-Cher. Elise had painted an optimistic picture when she’d said two train changes. That was on days other than weekends, holidays, or August.

  She breathed the acrid fumes and the tang of oil. At least the eyedrops had worn off. A nasal voice over the crackling loudspeaker announced timetable changes, then finally trumpeted their imminent departure.

  Biscuit crumbs crunched under her as she sat down. She whisked the mess onto the floor. A young half-Arab man, headphones plugged into his ears over dark sideburns, escorted a bent, white-haired woman into the compartment. He seated her across from Aimée, sat down, then promptly ignored her.

  The engine snorted, then chugged off. Aimée peered out the window, but only saw one track, a single-gauge line. What did they do when they met another train?

  “Bertrand,” the old lady across from her shouted.

  No response. The young man’s eyes were closed and his head shook rhythmically.

  “Bertrand!” A roll to her Rs, typical patois of a Berrichon. The deep country of la France profonde.

  She kicked him in the shin and he glared.

  “Stick the eggs on top,” she commanded, pointing to her shopping bag.

  “Oui, Grand-mère,” he said, and meekly complied.

  •••

  Half asleep, Aimée watched the train zigzag past dark clumps that hinted at the lush forests she might see by daylight in the Sologne. They trundled through low-lying mist blanketing what she imagined were wheat fields. She caught glimpses of running deer beside the track in the engine’s light. At the dirt road crossings, the train’s piercing whistle scattered billows of startled night birds. Only a few hours outside of Paris, yet this region felt like another world.

  The train finally chugged into Chambly-sur-Cher’s white stone station. A line of washing hung limply between the rafters in the lit station house. The station mistress, in jeans, gold loafers, and a tight Lakers jacket, approached with a lit cigarette dangling from her mouth. With muscular arms she pulled the chute that swung the main track aside, then waved back to the engineer.

  Aimée descended, relieved to have finally arrived. Her heeled boots crunched on the dusty gravel in front of the station. The way to the village was illuminated by a string of lantern lights. Her heart dropped—no Elise.

  The old woman drew near, leaning on her cane. Her grandson had shouldered their large shopping bag.

  “I’m visiting the Peltiers,” Aimée said. “Know them?”

  Her grandson looked up. “Who doesn’t?”

  “If you have trouble finding them, let me know.” The old woman winked. “Everyone knows me.”

  “Merci, I will. Your name is . . . ?”

  “Madame Jagametti,” she said, spitting the Ts sharply.

  Madame Jagametti, with her darkly handsome grandson escorting her, shuffled down past Chambly-sur-Cher’s old village wall, which was crumbling and plastered with faded circus posters. In some places bald stones were all that remained of the ancient Roman wall curving into the neighboring forest and beyond. The three-quarter moon illuminated rolling hills, slate-roofed farmhouses, and lines of cypress trees. The silver-green of a river snaked in the distance.

  A battered blue Renault screeched to a halt by the row of bare-branched plane trees. The car door swung open and a large man lumbered out. He was in his fifties, his shiny bald crown ringed by thinning dark hair, reminiscent of Friar Tuck. His overalls needed patching.

  “Bonjour, I’m Clément. Mademoiselle Peltier asked me to pick you up. I’m a friend of the family.” He extended a large paw-like hand, which Aimée shook. “Ça va? Easy trip?”

  His tone was light, but Aimée noticed his guarded look.

  “Plenty of local color,” she said and nodded toward the retreating figures of the limping madame and her grandson. Clément grunted and heaved her luggage onto the cracked upholstery of the back seat, which released a few chicken feathers. He climbed behind the wheel and ground the transmission into first gear.

  Aimée gripped the door handle as the car lurched forward. Already she had a bad feeling about Clément’s driving. From the way his mouth was screwed up, she could see it didn’t come easily to him.

  “I’m used to a tractor.” He shrugged. “But driving is like riding a bike, n’est-ce pas? You never forget.”

  Aimée gave him a thin smile. She didn’t have a car or want one, but she knew how to drive, more or less.

  “Why didn’t Elise meet me? Has her mother’s condition worsened?”

  Clément narrowly missed a late-night yellow mail van that turned out of an alley. He shrugged. “Gone to the emergency room. That’s all I know.”

  Sounded serious. But weren’t all strokes? “Best you drop me at the hospital.”

  “That’s all the way in Vierzon.”

  Vierzon? She could have gotten off before the last transfer—she’d be talking to Elise right now.

  “Wouldn’t it make it easier if I caught the train back to Vierzon?”

  “The last one left an hour ago.”

  Great. So now she’d be stuck here for the night without getting answers from Elise?

  Chambly-sur-Cher’s main square was bordered by a late-century mairie with a limestone façade, the town hall, la poste, and a shuttered café, deserted in the night. Twisted, narrow streets radiated from the square, vestiges of a market town’s medieval grid. The place felt lifeless, so unlike her grandmother’s village in the Auvergne.

  She might as well try to get what information she could from this Clément.

  “You said a family friend—how do you know the Peltiers?”

  “When hasn’t my family known them?” he replied.

  “So you’re a local, a Berrichon,” she said. “Then you know messieurs Baret and Dufard.”

  He hunched his shoulders. “Me, I live across the river in Givaray now, where there’s work.”

  What had once been a thriving river town, Aimée imagined by the look of the many shuttered houses, had dwindled to an almost deserted village. The Renault passed a boulangerie, its windows lined with blue, white, and red bunting. Next door was an abandoned shopfront with several battered bicycles leaning against it.

  Clément careened past the spurting marble fountain. She wished he’d take it easy.

  “Almost there.” Clément honked at a dog. “It’s just around the corner.”

  The corner happened to sit at the edge of the village, down a stone-w
alled sliver of an alley. Maybe wide enough for a horse cart, Aimée thought. Fat drops of rain splattered the windshield, multiplied, turned the dirt into muddy rivulets. A downpour. Several times the car door scraped the old stone walls as Clément maneuvered, cursing under his breath. Finally he jumped out to pull open a pair of metal gates, which grated over the cobblestones.

  Bare wisteria branches climbed the tidy two-story stone farmhouse—modest compared to the Peltiers’ Paris apartment. Aimée caught dark-green shutters being pulled closed from inside. The rain poured as Clément hefted her bag out. Panting, muddy, and wet, they stood scraping their shoes on the mat until the carved wooden door opened.

  A dark-haired woman, handsome although her face was webbed with fine wrinkles, shook Aimée’s hand. Bony and thin, the woman had a surprisingly strong grip. “What are you waiting for, Clément?” she boomed. “No need for formality when you’re being drenched. Come in!”

  The woman pulled Aimée into the sitting room, stuffed with aging upholstered furniture. The cramped room, small and lived in, was lined with oil paintings—mostly pastoral scenes, amateur but skillful.

  Provincial, all right. Who was this—the Peltiers’ country housekeeper?

  “Call me Honorine. I’m Clément’s mother. Elise asked me to settle you in,” she said. “Some warm milk before bed?”

  Treating her like a baby? What in the world had Elise told them?

  “Non, Maman, she’d prefer a tisane.” Clément winked and left for the kitchen.

  Aimée sank into a sagging armchair. “I’m confused. Elise called and insisted I come at once. And she’s not even here.” She looked askance at Honorine, hoping the woman liked to talk.

  She did.

  Over herbal tisane, Honorine recounted how she’d come to visit this afternoon and discovered an immobile Madame Peltier by the cellar stairs. “Quelle horreur.”

  With more probing, Honorine continued: Mais oui, such a tragedy, Monsieur Peltier. Oui, Royant and Dufard had family homes here in the village but lived somewhere else. Rarely saw them, but of course, when Elise returned, there was time to visit.

  Time? Not in Aimée’s schedule. Her own life was on the line. She needed answers.

  The dull throb in her head wouldn’t go away. Rain beat against the shutters.

  “How far away are their houses?” she asked.

  “Monsieur Royant’s family house is next door and Dufard’s is down the street,” said Honorine. “Like I said, they don’t live here.”

  “Where’s poor Monsieur Baret’s house?”

  “Ah, that’s not occupied much, either. He never comes.”

  Aimée stowed that fact away. Honorine seemed to be forthcoming. Time to amp up her questions.

  “Does Monsieur Baret have relatives here?”

  Honorine shrugged. Stuck her large hands in the loose pockets of her black cardigan.

  “Alors,” said Aimée, “I thought maybe his murder the other night was the reason Elise and her mother came here.”

  “What?” Shock painted the woman’s face.

  “Terrible. Shot on the quai, in the same spot as Monsieur Peltier.”

  Fear, almost palpable, emanated from Honorine. What was she afraid of?

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Why would I know?” Honorine said, trying to sound dismissive. “He’s a neighbor I haven’t seen in ages.”

  The woman was hiding something. Aimée could smell it, as her father would say.

  “But he and Monsieur Peltier were in business together, non?” She was going on a hunch, based on the meeting agenda she’d seen at the bookstore. “As well as the other two, Royant and Dufard?”

  Honorine stiffened.

  “Good friends, weren’t they?” Aimée pressed. “They all got together in Paris every month to have dinner at their favorite restaurant.”

  Why was Honorine so quiet all of a sudden?

  “But you must know about les affaires,” said Aimée, nudging. “Do you know what kind of business it was?”

  “You’re tired.” Honorine had shut down tight as a clamshell. She went to the door and pulled out an umbrella. “Clément will show you to your room.”

  Clément led her up polished wood stairs, down a hallway, and then down another before he opened a creaking door. Faded floral wallpaper, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rain-drenched garden. A sunflower-print duvet covered the low wooden bed.

  Aimée wondered if she looked as uncomfortable as she felt. Or as spitting mad. She’d come on a job, not on holiday, pressured by Elise, who wasn’t even here. Elise, who stonewalled her at every turn.

  And her head hurt.

  “Clément, did Elise give you a message for me? The information I asked her about?”

  “Me?”

  Aimée’s rain-soaked travel bag, which Clément set down, dripped on the wood floor. She grabbed a hand towel from the marble-topped dresser and wiped the floorboards. “Clément, I need your help. Can you tell me why Elise called me here? Or anything about the Peltiers’ family business?”

  He drummed his sausage fingers together. Shrugged.

  Exasperated, she said, “Listen, this is important. Elise’s father and another man, a Monsieur Baret, were murdered in Paris. The same way.”

  “He who pees in the wind wets his teeth.” Clément’s voice was so low she almost didn’t catch it.

  Her pulse jumped. She was wide awake now as the insinuation took hold. The answer lay in this village.

  “How’s that?”

  “Everything’s so complicated.” Clément raked his thick fingers through greying hair. He was tongue-tied by indecision, she thought.

  Aimée watched him, waiting. Don’t fill the silence during questioning, her father advised, let them speak first.

  “Elise is a good person,” he said, finally. “I remember her as a little girl. She’s stayed that way—sweet, innocent. Her parents sent her to school in Montreal—she’s been away for years. Now she appears, scared and asking me for a favor.”

  She read it in his eyes: Clément was sweet on Elise.

  She heard her father’s voice—Do whatever you have to do: cajole, flirt, empathize. Intimidate as the last resort. Just find what they’re hiding. They’re always hiding something.

  “Something happened here during the war, didn’t it, Clément? That’s what Peltier’s and Baret’s murder have in common, non?”

  This was the first time she’d seen a man’s mouth drop open in surprise. He nodded. “No one talks about it.”

  Score! she almost shouted. She was getting somewhere.

  “What? What was it that happened, Clément?”

  “You seem awfully curious for someone your age.”

  “Two men have been murdered, Clément. Men from this village.”

  Aimée saw a struggle in Clément’s face. He’d picked up a polished stone shaped like an arrowhead from a collection on the shelf. Prehistoric silex stone tools—she remembered from a lycée history class. The Loire Valley had been populated long before the Romans arrived, before the Gauls were even tribes.

  “Anything you tell me stays within these four walls,” she coaxed, hoping she came across as trustworthy and confident. What would it take to reach this stubborn peasant?

  Clément fingered the silex, a mottled greenish brown. His wariness seemed to get the upper hand and he silently shook his head. “You’re a kid playing detective. And like all Parisians, you expect the world.”

  “Alors, Elise is family. My cousin. Can’t you trust me? I’m useless to her if I don’t know more background.”

  Clément hesitated. She needed to make up his mind for him.

  She reached for her handbag on the old burl wood desk and took a big breath. “I’m sorry for what I’m about to show you. Does it strike a chord?”

 
; Clément stared at the photo of Baret’s bound body against the quai. His big hands shook.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “More to the point, what if Elise is in danger, too?”

  Perspiration beaded Clément’s upper lip. That got to him.

  “What is it, Clément? What are you thinking about?”

  An intake of breath. “The old nightmare.”

  That’s all he could say? Here she was, clutching at straws—so close she could smell it.

  “What do you mean?”

  He averted his gaze. Well, he wasn’t going to open up. Time to try something else.

  “Call me a taxi, Clément,” she said. “I’m going to Vierzon.”

  She was leaning down to grab her wet bag when Clément spoke. “Wait.” He pointed outside the window, to the rain-distorted mercury of the river. “It was Christmas, 1942. I was eight. I went down to the river and found the mayor shot in the head. There.”

  “Mon Dieu.” Wide-eyed, Aimée sat down on the lumpy bed. Winced as her shoulder hit the wall.

  She’d been eight when her mother left. It had marked her for life. How had his discovery marked Clément?

  “Thought it was a dead animal at first . . . I’ll never forget the smell. And the black flies. That day had turned warm for December, his body had been lying in the sun.”

  Aimée nodded, never taking her eyes off Clément.

  “Later Papa yelled at me,” he said. “He was mad that I had followed the men who found the body. They didn’t know I’d tagged along to fish.” Clément’s jaw quivered. “I never understood why he got so angry. But it was the four men you’ve mentioned—Bruno Peltier, Alain Dufard, Philbert Royant, and the jeweler, Baret.”

  Aimée suppressed a gasp.

  “And there was a fifth man, too, the blacksmith, Minou. He died at Liberation.”

  Aimée nodded in encouragement. “What happened when you found the body?”

  “The men told me that Gaubert, the mayor, was un traître. That he’d been shot by the Resistance. After that, my parents wouldn’t let me go out,” he said. “Not even to school. Or to see my friends.”

  “So Gaubert was a traitor—why does that matter now?”