by Diana Orgain
Chuck made a pained expression and shrugged. “I don’t know. She talked to me about a lot of things. But it doesn’t really ring a bell. If I had my computer I’d search for it.”
I left Chuck Vann’s house and rounded the corner to my car. My heart dropped as I spotted Jim’s windshield: There were two tickets on it.
One for an expired meter and the other for not curbing the tires. Anger flooded me. Had the cop who came to report on the robbery decided to ticket me? The tickets totaled $105.
I knew San Francisco was broke, but two tickets, really?
Images of the mayor and Calvin Rabara parading around at last night’s fundraiser made my blood boil. Next time I saw Kimberly I’d make it a point to tell her to let her supervisor boyfriend know enough was enough. How could I be expected to run out and feed a meter in the middle of grief counseling!
And the tire curbing? Please, this was barely a hill. More like a small incline. If you didn’t huff and puff while walking up it, it couldn’t be considered a hill. And I hadn’t huffed and puffed and I was completely out of shape! I looked up and down the block. Okay, it was a slight incline, but really, curb your tires? I walked down the hill and back. Nope, not out of breath at all.
How did they judge these things? Did the officer carry about a leveling gauge with him?
I climbed into Jim’s car and threw the diaper bag doubling as my purse onto the front passenger seat. Before I could start the car I heard my cell phone ringing.
Please don’t be Jim.
I wanted to avoid telling him about the tickets until I could find a bright side to it. Was there a bright side to getting tickets?
I looked at the caller ID display, but didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Kate, this is Kyra. I’m . . . uh . . . we met the other day . . . I’m Armand Remy’s downstairs neighbor.”
Something akin to an electrical current shot through me. She had to be calling me with a lead. “Yes! Kyra, of course, I remember you. What can I do for you?”
She let out a nervous giggle. “Oh, good. Good. Yeah. Armand’s parents are in town. They’re here with me actually. His mom wanted to speak with you.”
I turned the engine over. “I can be there in a few minutes.”
I couldn’t find parking outside of Kyra’s place that wasn’t metered. And I’d already used all my quarters at the last worthless meter. I double-parked in front of a nearby convenience store and ran in. Now it would be just my luck to get a ticket for double-parking. Without taking my eyes off of Jim’s car, I grabbed a water bottle and a bag of chips and threw five dollars down. The attendant barely took his eyes off the daytime drama he was watching. He charged me $4.85 for the water and chips, which left me with no meter money.
I sighed. “I need change for the meter,” I said, pulling out another dollar.
He scowled at me, either because he’d already closed the cash register or because the transaction was taking more time than he wanted it to. He reopened the register and dished out the four quarters as if they were gold.
“Thank you,” I said.
He’d already resumed watching the show.
On my way out of the store, I grabbed an auto trader magazine from the FREE newsstand rack. Stepping out onto the street, I clutched my four quarters, chips, and water and walked smack into Jean-Luc. My quarters spilled all over the sidewalk.
Great!
I knew he worked just down the street and that I was going to his girlfriend’s house, but the sight of him still shocked me.
“Mrs. Connolly. What are you doing here?” he snarled.
“Shopping,” I spat back, “for a new car.” I flashed him the magazine. “You know, since my last one was smashed by Armand Remy. Remember—”
His eyes narrowed. “No stores in your neighborhood?”
I bent and picked up the quarters off the sidewalk.
Did he know Kyra had called me?
I straightened. “I got a lead that I’m investigating.”
His jaw clenched and his head moved almost involuntarily in a nod. “Oui.”
We stared each other down for a moment, but I quickly moved to the car. I drove up the street and looked for as close a spot as I could get. I was happy to see that this meter time limit was two hours, but when I dropped the four quarters into it, I only got thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes, really?
Each quarter was only worth seven minutes? Jeez, this was ridiculous.
I walked toward Kyra’s building and stopped to turn around. The convenience store was around the corner so I knew Jean-Luc was behind me, and yet I felt like I was being watched. Creepy.
I looked at the corner where the French consulate loomed. Yes. The store around the corner was probably the closest place that wasn’t a restaurant or café to grab something quick, so there was really nothing odd about Jean-Luc being there. And yet . . . a chill went through my body. Why did it feel like I was being followed?
I ducked into a stairwell a few buildings before Kyra’s place and sat. I opened the bag of chips and munched. Within a few moments a man stopped directly in front of me. It was Christophe.
“Kate! I thought that was you.”
I was right, I had been followed, and yet, if he was approaching me then it mustn’t have been too secretive, right?
He was holding a large briefcase. It could easily hold a laptop, but if he was the thief who had ransacked Chuck’s house would he so boldly flaunt it before my nose?
I stood. “Were you following me?”
He frowned and looked genuinely surprised. “Following you?”
I stared blankly at him.
He shuffled the briefcase nervously from hand to hand. “I was just heading back to work.”
“The other day I saw you at the San Francisco Centre. You ran from me.”
He looked confused.
“And then I ran into you at the party last night,” I continued.
He smiled and shrugged. “We must be running in the same circles.”
I dug my hand into the bag of chips and tried not to mash them in my hand. “Where are you coming from?”
He smiled. “Lunch.”
I squinted at him. “Where’d you eat?”
He laughed. “Down the street.”
I looked at him without saying anything and crunched on another chip.
His expression changed, his lips turning out in a small pout. “I had the eggplant and roasted red pepper panini at the café on the corner. It’s not my favorite. They fry the eggplant in olive oil first, but that makes it too greasy.”
Something about him was unconvincing, as though he was only giving me this information because he thought I was looking for it.
“Really? Maybe I should try it. I like eggplant.”
His pouty expression turned into indecision. “If you like greasy food.”
I waved a chip at him. “I love it.”
He tapped his foot. “I have to get back to the office.”
Before he could step away, I said, “I understand Armand’s parents are in town.”
Concern or something close to it flashed across his eyes. “Yes. How did you . . .”
“I’m about to meet with them.”
His large Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Why are you meeting with them?”
I shrugged. “They asked.”
He was nervous, but about what? Armand’s murder or suicide hitting the papers and giving the consul some kind of bad reputation? Or was he nervous that I was going to uncover something more sinister about Armand’s death?
Suddenly Jean-Luc appeared. He clapped Christophe amicably on the shoulder but froze when he saw me. He fired off something in rapid French.
I ate my chips while they conversed and studied their shoes. I did my best to look uninterested yet with every bite wished I was conversant in French.
Christophe was wearing brown sandals. The toes were closed, but had small slits every inch or so
and the heels were open.
Very Euro.
Jean-Luc, in contrast, wore black oxford-style shoes. Laced up, wrapped tight, wrapped up as tight as he was. He tried to give off the c’est la vie attitude, especially with the buttons opened on his shirt and the hair peeking out, but it was a façade.
Suddenly, the sound of my chips crunching was deafening. I noticed it was because they were silent. The French chatter had ceased and they were both staring at me.
I crumpled the empty chip bag in my hand, enjoying the crinkling noise, then opened the water bottle and took a long drink.
Jean-Luc straightened, pulling himself up taller. “Mrs. Connolly, are you harassing our French citizens?”
“Harassing?”
“Armand Remy’s parents are in town to collect his remains. They do not need to waste their time talking to you!”
They stared at me with their arms folded across their chests. I got the impression that I was supposed to go. Where? I wasn’t sure, but they definitely were aligned against me. I nodded and stood.
I need to move my car anyway.
I waved at them as I retreated down the hill to my car.
I ended up driving around for a few minutes, then returned to make sure Jean-Luc and Christophe were securely out of sight. I pulled into the parking lot across the street from the consulate. The entire duck-and-delay procedure had cost me about thirty minutes—not bad, but I was dying to get home to Laurie. It was past feeding time and not only did my body feel overloaded, but my heart ached to see her little face and feel her fingers wrap around mine.
As I walked the short distance to Kyra’s flat, I texted Jim.
Got a call from Armand’s neighborhood. Long story, but will be late. Please feed Laurie the dreaded formula.
I hiked up the steep stairs and rang the bell. Kyra opened the door and invited me in. Her expression was grave. Before stepping inside I asked her if she could step out onto the landing. She frowned but complied.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Are you still seeing Jean-Luc?” I asked.
She glanced at her feet. She was barefoot again, only this time her toenails were done in a clear gloss. The big toes had yellow sunflowers stuck on.
“I think so, but he didn’t call this afternoon. It’s the first lunch date he’s missed.” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Tell me, were you home alone on Sunday . . . when Armand . . .”
Her brow creased. “No. Jean-Luc was here.”
I nodded.
“He spent the night,” she continued. “We didn’t see Armand though . . . we kept to ourselves.”
“Did you tell Jean-Luc that Armand’s parents want to speak with me?” I asked.
She shook her head vehemently. “He wouldn’t like that.”
“Why not?” I pressed.
“He was very upset the other day when you were here. He thinks involving you in problems they have at the consulate is like airing their dirty laundry.”
Her hand rested on the doorknob as she spoke and she looked eager to get back inside. I nodded and she pushed open the door.
Mr. and Mrs. Remy were perched on Kyra’s couch. They both stood when we entered. Mrs. Remy looked anxious, while Mr. Remy looked despondent. After Kyra introduced us and we all greeted each other, Mr. Remy sank back into the couch. Mrs. Remy remained standing, nervously fiddling with her dress.
She was painfully thin and had sunken cheeks. Her hands twisted endlessly and she searched the room. She looked like a women who desperately wanted a cigarette.
“Do you want to go to the back porch?” Kyra asked.
Mrs. Remy dove for her handbag while Mr. Remy waved us on. She pulled out a pink leopard cigarette case from her purse and followed us outside. As soon as she lit her cigarette the energy in her body changed. She focused on me with clear brown eyes.
“You’re a private investigator. You have to help us. Armand didn’t kill himself like the police say.”
“The police have closed the case,” Kyra clarified.
While Mrs. Remy looked into the sun, Kyra mouthed “Suicide” to me.
Mrs. Remy turned to us. “I know my son. He wasn’t depressed or fou—” She pointed to her head with her index finger and twisted it, sign language for crazy. “—like the police say. We spoke all the time. He was happy.”
Her accent was thin and she pronounced “happy” as “appie,” which for some odd reason endeared her to me. Her eyes were dark with pain, but she was a fighter. She was determined to get justice for her son and I hoped that might equate to justice for Nancy.
“Kyra told me his apartment was broken into. How can they say he killed himself when someone broke into his apartment?”
“I thought the apartment was broken into a few days before . . .” I said.
Mrs. Remy waved the hand with the cigarette around, dismissing my comment. “Someone broke in. They were looking for him the first time and didn’t find him. But it only made it easier for them to come back.” Her other hand clenched her cigarette case, making a fierce fist. “Why didn’t he get the door fixed!” she cried.
Kyra and I exchanged pained glances.
“It’s a theory,” I said. “Especially since nothing was taken from his apartment—”
“Nothing taken?” Mrs. Remy asked, outraged.
“It is my understanding that he told Christophe Benoit at the consulate that nothing was stolen from his apartment.”
Mrs. Remy’s brow furrowed as she took a hit from the cigarette. “But then where is his computer? He was on it all the time. And it’s not in his apartment.”
I looked to Kyra; she gave me a small shrug.
Another stolen computer?
I thought back to his apartment. There had been a table with stacks of papers and a space on it. I’d assumed that a stack of paper had been moved, but I understood now that the space on that table probably had been previously occupied by his computer.
“Have you noticed anything else that is missing?” I asked.
Mrs. Remy shook her head. “Non.”
“Do you have any idea who might want to hurt him? What was going on in his life? Was he mixed up with something—”
She stubbed out her cigarette. “We spoke all the time, e-mailed almost every night. He never said anything about any problems.” She gave Kyra a sad look and said in a whisper, “Only about a girl he was in love with.”
By the way Kyra reacted, I didn’t have to guess that the girl was standing right in front of me. Unrequited love.
Had Kyra known Armand had been in love with her?
I couldn’t tell.
She leaned against the fire escape and brought her foot to the bottom rung. She rubbed the little sunflower on it and made a noise not dissimilar to a tsk.
Was unrequited love enough of a reason to kill yourself? Knowing the girl you loved was sleeping with your boss? Just plain having Jean-Luc for a boss might be enough to send someone over the edge and then knowing he’d ended up with your girl instead . . .
Well it was something.
What did it have to do with Nancy though? There had to be some information connecting them, information that had probably been sent via e-mail, thus the computer thief, but what was it?
“Do you know that the consul will be your new ambassador?” I asked.
Mrs. Remy looked disinterested. “Oh. Yes.”
I looked from Kyra back to Mrs. Remy. “I think he’s having an affair.”
Kyra looked surprised, but Mrs. Remy seemed not to care. She pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “What does this have to do with Armand?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Kyra tugged nervously at her sweater. “What happens at the consulate when the consul moves on? Do they get a new boss or . . .”
I waited for her to continue.
She stared at me. “I mean, ambassador, that means he moves to Washington, D.C.? Right?”
I nodded.
“Well, does the staff go with him? Or do they stay here?” she asked.
Ah. She was concerned Jean-Luc was going to leave. Obviously he hadn’t said anything to her about it.
I shrugged. “I guess it depends.”
Mrs. Remy made an impatient gesture. “What does that matter?”
Kyra’s eyes darted back to her sunflowered toe and she looked contrite. “It doesn’t matter.”
It was a good question though. Who would be impacted by the consul’s promotion? Was someone’s job on the line? Could anyone be trying to prevent the promotion?
Did anyone beside the consul have anything to lose? Or gain?
• CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO •
To Do:
1. Enroll Laurie in art class.
2. Upload Laurie’s Santa pic on Facebook.
3. Figure out who killed Nancy so I can get on with holiday prep.
4. Write letter to DPT protesting tickets.
5. Decide on New Year’s resolutions.
6. Need more formula.
I arrived home in a panic. I hadn’t planned on being away from Laurie so long and now felt an urgency to be with her that I couldn’t contain. I sprang up the garage stairs two by two and pushed the door open, calling out, “I’m home!”
Mom stood in the living room with a smile on her face. “She just flipped over! Look at this.”
My body surged with emotion. “Where’s Jim?” I demanded.
Mom put her hands on her hips. “Well, I know you’re still mad at me, but not even a kiss for your old mom?”
I walked over to her and kissed her cheeks. “I’m not mad at you,” I lied.
Mom laughed. “Yes, you are. You’re still upset about the other day.”
“No, I’m not. I think it’s spectacular that you were able to share that milestone moment with Laurie for her first Christmas photo. And the fact that I was put in the middle of you and your two boyfriends is certainly not your fault. You’re not even to blame that Galigani is refusing to speak with me. And I couldn’t be more happy that you have personally witnessed Laurie flipping over, another of your granddaughter’s milestones. I couldn’t be happier.”
