Murder on the Champ de Mars

by Cara Black

  “Madame, the priest at Saint-François-Xavier referred me to her as the head of the Christian Helping Hands program. She left me a message with her address. I’m sorry to intrude, but it’s vital.”

  She saw a relaxing of couture-clad shoulders, almost heard a collective sigh of relief.

  “Then come in, wait un moment,” she said. “I’ll join you before my friends and I are off to an evening reception at the musée …” Madame Uzes lowered her voice. “… that racy Dali retrospective.” One of the coiffed pack fanned herself with her hand, her diamond tennis bracelet flashing on her wrist, as if to say “racy” wouldn’t quite cover it.

  Dali, racy? Maybe in 1963.

  “Merci, Madame,” Aimée said, making her way through the group toward the door. Sanctioned and approved now by the ladies, she heard murmuring as she passed: “… all that volunteering … that handsome young priest …”

  She was shown into a wood-paneled salon, where she faced a glaring girl of about eleven or twelve years old in a pleated wool skirt and matching blue cardigan, with white socks and black Mary Janes. A de rigueur outfit for the 7ème—one that had last been in style in the fifties everywhere else.

  “Maman’s left me with the old dragons,” she said, shooting a look at her great-aunt back at the door. “Good thing you’ve come. Now they’ll have something to talk about.”

  Aimée could just imagine.

  The girl pointed to her helmet. “You’ve got a scooter?”

  Did a little rebel’s heart beat inside the cardigan? Aimée sensed a possible mine of information.

  She smiled. “It’s pink. I’m Aimée. And you?”

  “Lisette. The only things that drive down this street these days are hearses,” Lisette said. “That’s the only way people get out of here.”

  “Where’s your mother, Lisette?”

  “Maman’s at a meeting. She’s always at meetings.”

  “That’s right, ma chère,” said the elder Madame Uzes, joining them. “My niece Belle took over a monumental job. She spearheads that program, Christian Helping Hands.”

  “Isn’t that where she works with des manouches?” Aimée asked.

  “Bien sûr, she sponsors a program for Evangelical Christian Gypsies. Outreach in the spirit of Christian fellowship, open to all Christians. It’s rather like an agency that helps create or find jobs for them using their artisanal skills.”

  Aimée couldn’t believe her luck. With a little insistence, she’d find a lead to Drina.

  “Nobody knows how to do that work anymore, Maman says,” Lisette informed Aimée. “And they’re cheap.”

  Aimée remembered her father’s colleague, who had been stationed at the commissariat here in the 7th, saying that the haute bourgeoisie would walk three blocks to save a franc on mineral water like anyone else. He’d meant it as a compliment.

  “May I consult the list of artisans in the agency records, Madame?”

  “Ah, I wish I could help you, but Belle handles all that. Je n’en sais rien.”

  She needed to see those records. “Would you mind calling her? I hate to bother you, but it’s important. It’s concerning Drina and Nicu Constantin.”

  “Do the Lord’s work, mais oui, je comprends,” she said and picked up her cell phone, a small graphite model. Hit speed dial, then shook her head. “Never picks up, my niece. Perhaps come back tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow would be too late. “You wouldn’t know an address for Christian Helping Hands, would you?”

  “Désolée. Talk with Belle.”

  Nothing came easily. Disappointed, Aimée handed her a card. She noticed the gilt chairs with their faded upholstery and the sagging tapestry on the far wall. This fossilized place reeked of threadbare wealth. Antique military memorabilia cluttered the glass cabinets lining the hall. Several families, or a whole encampment of manouches, could live in this space in comfort.

  “Lisette, will you turn off the lights?” said Madame Uzes, gesturing for them to leave the room.

  Frugal, this Madame Uzes.

  In a swirl of Patou, she joined the rest of her cronies at the door. Aimée needed to reach this Belle; she hung back, thinking in the hallway, where Madame was putting on her cashmere scarf. “Madame, pardonnez-moi, but may I use your salle de bains?”

  “Lisette can show you …” The rest of her reply was lost in the buzz of the ladies’ conversations and laughter.

  “Why not? I’m just going downstairs to sleep at my cousin’s.” Lisette made a face.

  As she followed the girl down the hallway, Aimée asked, “Do you remember your mother mentioning someone named Drina?”

  “My mother, oui. But it’s my big sister Rose who thinks Nicu is hot,” she added with a wide smile. “Rose is weird,” Lisette said. “Nicu would never be into her. He’s from a different world.”

  Aimée stopped in her tracks near the bathroom. Nicu’s face, his blood on her hands, came back to her. “Did … does Nicu come here often?”

  Lisette shrugged. “Nicu delivered some church kneelers a few days ago,” she said. “When he left, my mother and sister had a big argument. I didn’t hear it all.”

  Aimée’s high heels creaked on the worn parquet floorboards. “Is Rose … does your sister have a relationship with Nicu?” Aimée’s heart ached. Was someone going to have to break the news to a teenage girl that her forbidden boyfriend had been killed?

  “It’s never going to go anywhere between her and Nicu,” Lisette confided. “The Gypsies keep to themselves, my mother says. She says Rose should just give up on it already.” Lisette opened the creaking door to another hallway. Chill and unheated. “I hate living here.” Lisette’s voice rose, petulant. “We have to, Maman says. It’s the economy.”

  No doubt the Uzes family, like others in this tony quartier, held on with a desperate grip to the big family apartment, worn around the edges; most of its value would be eaten up in inheritance taxes if they tried to sell.

  “I think the economy’s stupid.” Lisette’s small eyes challenged her. “Do you?”

  Aimée needed to steer this opinionated trainee grown-up in ankle socks back to her mother and sister’s argument. “Can you tell me anything else about Rose and Nicu? Or what your mother and sister argued about? I bet you heard a lot.”

  Lisette’s eyes gleamed. “And if I did? What’s it to you if Nicu wanted to go out with Rose after church?” Lisette paused at the bathroom door.

  “You’re smart, I can tell. Mature for your age. You understand a lot,” she said, hoping to make the girl feel important. “Even your mother’s relationship with Nicu and Drina.” Aimée paused. “Did you know that Drina’s in trouble?”

  Lisette’s eyes widened. “Trouble? Like arrested?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Maman thinks Gypsies steal, even if she pretends she trusts them,” Lisette said. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Lisette. Drina’s been a victim of a crime. I can’t say any more. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  Lisette’s mouth gaped open.

  “Can you tell me anything about what your mother and Drina talk about?”

  “But they only talk about boring things, church stuff. Maman keeps the records of the manouches who work with the church.”

  Alert, Aimée nodded. “Bet your mother has the information on her computer.”

  “Computer?” Lisette scoffed. “Maman’s old-fashioned; she writes everything down.”

  Even better. Aimée smiled. “Does she have an office? Maybe Drina’s information is in there. Why don’t you show me? Then I wouldn’t have to bother her or your great-aunt.”

  “Lisette!” Madame Uzes called out. “We’re leaving, you’ll have to go downstairs now.”

  Even with an old-fashioned name and outfit, there was nothing old-fashioned about the way Lisette winked at her. “If I help you, will I get a ride on your scooter?”

  Aimée nodded. “And we’ll keep this between ourselves, oui?”

 
“Tantine, the lady’s still in the toilettes,” shouted Lisette, pointing Aimée toward the next high-ceilinged room and mouthing, “Desk drawer.” “I need to use it, too. Don’t wait, I’ll go to my cousin’s in a minute.”

  The front door shut.

  In the office sat an eight-legged Mazarin desk with two tiers of drawers, an antique in need of varnishing. Lisette, who had followed Aimée in, opened the drawers and showed Aimée bank records, rubber bands, insurance statements—a wealth of information, everything but a Christian Helping Hands file.

  On top of the desk lay the stub from a medical-bill, next to it, a vase of daffodils.

  No personal planner. No address book. No diary.

  “Can you remember where your mother might have put it?”

  “Guess she took it with her,” said Lisette.

  Aimée’s eye caught on the name on the medical bill; stub: Clinique Saint-Jean de Dieu. A small private Catholic hospital and clinic in the area. At one time the 7th arrondissement had more churches than hospitals; now she figured it went the other way. “Was she going to a doctor’s appointment?”

  “No, why?” Lisette said, peering at the bill. “Oh, that’s for my great-uncle. He’s at that hospital. He’s on a special diet, so she has to pay extra.”

  On the stub, today’s date was circled, and someone had written a check number in the corner. Aimée leaned forward and touched an ink blot on the blotter; a black smudge came back on her thumb. Not quite dry. “Does your mother go to drop checks off at the clinique in person? Like, could she be there now?”

  Lisette shrugged.

  “Don’t you want to wear my new scooter helmet tonight on our ride?” said Aimée.

  “Bien sûr.” Lisette grinned.

  AFTER FIVE MINUTES of driving up and down the tiny dead-end street on Aimée’s scooter, Lisette went up to her cousin’s. Time was running out, and she had to act fast and get all the details right. She’d wangled a phone number for Rose out of Lisette, but was disheartened when it turned out to be the number for a phone at a student café; the young woman who answered said, “Not here,” and hung up. She called René again. Only voice mail. Frustrated, she left a message.

  Aimée held out small hope she’d find Madame Uzes at the clinique, but she had to do something. Follow any connection.

  As she rode toward the clinique, she thought about this monde privé of the privileged elite, and about the manouche community she was trying so hard to track down. They were two different worlds, ostensibly opposite, yet they had so much in common, Aimée thought—they were both secretive cultures, worlds hidden from outsiders; their inhabitants proud people who kept to themselves. Not that Aimée was going to let pride or secrecy stop her from getting to the bottom of this.

  Nicu, with his whole life ahead of him, murdered as a result of her fixation on her father. Who next?

  She checked her side-view mirror at the intersection. No blue van, no car trailing her. And in front of her was only the lamplight filtering through copper-beech branches onto the zebra-striped crosswalk. The light turned green and she gunned the engine.

  More than twenty-three hours now. René was right, Drina was probably dead by this point, and Nicu had been silenced forever. The pros, whoever they were, had accomplished their task. Her father’s death had been walled over, Drina’s secrets had disappeared with her. Aimée was left stumbling in the dark—again.

  Cold night air hit her cheekbones and she double looped her scarf with one hand. Thoughts played in an endless reel in her head. Her father’s tangled secrets, which she now knew must be linked to at least two but maybe three or more other murders besides his own, were a vast incomprehensible net descending on her. And in her bones, she knew she was the only one who could unravel the knots. If she wanted justice for her father—and for Nicu, whose life had been cut short for no reason; and for abducted Drina, who had probably died in excruciating pain; and for the mysterious Djanka, whose murder had been buried so many years ago, because no one cared about a dead Gypsy—she would have to figure this out herself. No other choice, whatever Morbier said; whoever had killed Nicu knew she was involved. And it terrified her. Made her knees wobble on the scooter.

  For a moment she wondered if she could do this. Chloé depended on her. Mon Dieu, her baby was just teething. René’s accusation spun in her head: “… crazy … giving Melac ammunition …” Would she turn into another version of her mother, the obsessed seventies radical turned CIA agent who’d gone rogue, dealt arms, ended up on Interpol’s wanted list—and abandoned Aimée as a child?

  The two didn’t equate. No comparison to her mother, she told herself, as she always did. She chewed her lip, tried to push those thoughts aside.

  Aimée had to make it right. She would. Count on it. And she’d make René cover her back.

  Aimée smiled at the dark-haired young woman at the billing desk at Clinique Saint-Jean de Dieu. Her second hospital in twenty-four hours. And they weren’t exactly her favorite kind of place to hang out.

  She set her vintage clutch bag on the counter. “Ah non, have I missed Madame Uzes again?”

  “She’s a patient, Mademoiselle?” The young woman turned to consult her computer screen. Over her shoulder Aimée could make out what looked like patients’ names in columns. Room numbers. If only the young woman would angle the screen to the left, Aimée’d get a clear view.

  “Her great-uncle is, and she takes care of his supplementary dietary needs. I’m running late; she must have been by to pay already, non? Perhaps she’s still here?”

  “Attendez, I’ll check.” A few clicks. “Yes, she took care of Corporal Uzes’s bill. If that’s all?”

  “I wouldn’t bother you, but there’s a problem with her daughter’s babysitter. How long ago was she here?”

  “My colleague took care of this. Looks like ten minutes ago.”

  “Maybe I can catch her if she’s visiting the corporal. Which way is that?”

  The young woman hesitated.

  Aimée snapped open her clutch, pulling out her lipstick tube as if to apply it before going. “It will only take a moment,” she said. “Which room is the corporal in?”

  The young woman caught the eye of a colleague hunched over the opposite computer screen, phone to her ear. The colleague shook her head. “I’m sorry, clinique policy forbids me to give out that information.”

  Aimée tipped her clutch bag. The contents—mascara tube, keys, Chloé’s teething ring—spilled behind the woman’s computer. “Oh, I’m sorry. But I understand.”

  The young woman gathered the spilled contents and put them in Aimée’s waiting hands.

  “Oops, my lipstick … I think I see it. Behind your computer.”

  “Where?” The woman leaned forward, reaching behind the screen. Still blocking Aimée’s view. If only she’d lean a few more … “Désolée, but—”

  “There, see?”

  The woman bent down.

  Over her shoulder Aimée scanned the display, noting the corporal’s room number.

  “I can’t find it, Mademoiselle.”

  “Oh, I’m so dumb,” she said, tapping her forehead with the palm of her hand, “my lipstick’s right here. Merci!”

  ROOM 314—SPACIOUS, HIGH-CEILINGED and warmed by soft lamplight—overlooked a dimly lit garden that stretched half a block, if not more. Amazing, all the green spaces hidden behind walls in this quartier. But the room was empty.

  Merde! Too late.

  She was about to leave when a gnome-like figure entered the room, his gait crab-like. A grey suit hung from his frame as if he’d shrunk inside it. He must have been in his nineties, but his face was smooth, waxen. “Quels idiots.” He shook his head, grabbed Aimée’s arm. “They’re counterattacking, ma petite.”

  Startled by his grip, Aimée caught the gaze of the woman behind him. “Madame Belle Uzes?”

  The woman nodded, shot Aimée a long-suffering look. “My great-uncle thinks it’s 1917.”

  Madame U
zes guided the corporal to a chair. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not the new social worker, I’ve met her. Who are you?”

  That gave Aimée an idea. “Mais non, I’m the health program liaison. I’d like to ask you—”

  “Where’s your badge?” Madame Uzes interrupted. “How did you just walk in here?”

  Aimée quickly rummaged among her alias cards. Found what she was looking for. “I’m Marie from Hôpital Laennec,” she said, handing her the card she’d taken off the office bulletin board.

  “Don’t start on this again. I told Doctor Estienne Great-Uncle’s doing well here.”

  Doctor Estienne? A coincidence? But Aimée was distracted by the old man thumping his gnarled fist on the table. “Retreat, I tell you. We must reach safety before the mustard gas!” the corporal shouted.

  To Aimée’s horror, he tugged his chin, which slipped off, revealing the lower half of what had been his face, now a deep cavity of rippled pink skin with a hole for a mouth. From beside the chair, he pulled a khaki green gas mask, which he then fitted over his disfigured visage.

  One of les gueules cassées, the broken faces, maimed in the Great War. They had been a fixture of her childhood growing up—every quartier had them, although there weren’t many left anymore.

  “The mustard gas, ma petite, let’s go,” he said, motioning to her.

  Sad. Her mind went back to the old Loterie Nationale tickets her grandmother had bought to support the rehabilitation of les gueules cassées in the old châteaux formerly requisitioned as field hospitals. A few were kept to house remaining severely disfigured soldiers, providing the grotesque a refuge from the public. Many of the generation who’d lost their youth, ideals and faces preferred to live among their own kind. Others wore masks to avoid horrifying children.

  “Get the supply wagon, the one with wheels,” he said. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “After your dinner, Great-Uncle,” Madame Uzes said, matter-of-factly. “You know how you like the way the nurse cuts up your steak-frites.”