Murder on the Champ de Mars

by Cara Black

  “C’est le petit. You deal with it. I need a manicure.”

  With that, the girl pulled on ankle boots and a short fur jacket and flounced out.

  René knew these two charlatans couldn’t see the future, didn’t have second sight. He hadn’t come for a palm reading. Still, he stole a glance at the lines on his palm as the elder fortune-teller made her way to the chair across the table from him.

  “Madame Rana, if we could cut the social niceties and get to the point.”

  She scratched her neck. Stretched her legs. Yawned again. “So, mon petit, a love potion to make her fall in love with you?”

  If it were that simple, he’d have tried long ago.

  “That’s not why I’m here, Madame.”

  As you well know, he thought, but instead he set one of the black-and-white photos on the brass tray. “Djanka Constantin, aka Aurélie; her son, Nicu; and her sister, Drina. Tell me about them. And if it’s something I haven’t already heard, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Professional now, Madame Rana consulted a thick book labeled APPOINTMENTS. Waddled over to the trailer’s door, flipped the sign to FERMÉ and sat down.

  She glanced at her watch, a faux, rhinestone-encrusted affair with a Chanel logo. On second thought, René reflected, given the bright sparkle and her clientele, it might be authentic.

  “You get ten minutes,” she said. “My second cousin married a Constantin. There’s been bad blood between our families since the war. One of those things.” She jutted out her chin, pursing her mouth as if to say go figure. “Alors, my second cousin lives in Montpellier, down south. No friends of ours, this branch of the Constantin family. Djanka didn’t exist to the family anymore, according to my cousin’s wife—”

  “Didn’t exist? How’s that?”

  “Shunned. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  He knew that. “Did that happen after she had her baby?”

  “I’m telling you what I know, not what I don’t.”

  René backtracked. “What about the boy’s father?”

  “In prison. Never came out.”

  Caught her in a lie. According to Madame Bercou, he’d died in a fire.

  She noticed his look. “They came up with a story about burning in a caravan to protect the boy.”

  “So that would explain why her sister Drina, presuming they’re sisters, raised Nicu as her son. To protect him?”

  “Our people take care of our own.”

  “This bad blood … who else did the Constantins feud with?”

  “Feud?”

  “Besides your family, I mean …”

  Her tone got defensive. “You shouldn’t speak about things you don’t understand. These disputes are generations old.”

  René knew the woman had something on her tongue. “But was it a feud that caused the family to shun Djanka? Or her baby?”

  “All I heard is that the sister, this one, she informed to the gadjo.”

  René gave a little sigh. “Tell me something I don’t know, Madame Rana.”

  “My cousin’s wife said they found her in a ditch outside les Invalides.”

  “She went by Aurélie, didn’t she?”

  “Her stage name, and she had a lover while her husband sat in prison.”

  Who must have been Nicu’s father. It fit with what the mec who’d married into the family had intimated.

  “A lover?” He showed her the other photo. “This man, Pascal?”

  Her glance grazed it. “I don’t know names.”

  “How did she know Pascal?”

  “Before my cousin’s time.”

  Sitting atop his deep cushion, René struggled to reach his bag and pulled out the birth certificate.

  “Yet on this birth certificate there’s no father listed. Shouldn’t the husband in prison be listed as the father?”

  She shrugged.

  “You’re saying this lover Pascal, a non-Gypsy, is the father?”

  She shifted in her seat. Rubbed the instep of her bare foot. “I’m saying nothing.”

  “Bien sûr, but it’s possible …”

  “Possible. But I didn’t say that.”

  “So in your culture it’s better for a child to be illegitimate than a gadjo?” René’s thoughts sped, jumped ahead. “A way to protect family honor while the husband’s in prison. That it? Then the family take it into their hands to kill her—an honor killing?”

  She growled. “There haven’t been honor killings for centuries, mon petit. We’re not primitive. Time’s up.”

  “I’m paid up for one more minute, Madame Rana.”

  She sighed. “What does all this matter now?”

  Aimée thought it mattered.

  “Let’s just say this twenty-year-old crime might be linked to Drina’s disappearance last night. Tell me more.”

  Madame Rana checked her watch. “My cousin’s wife wants a rice cooker, one of those Japanese ones—you flip a switch et voilà, perfect rice.”

  “So you’re saying that’s extra?”

  “You’re a mind reader, mon petit.”

  René pulled out his checkbook, hoping it was worth it. They settled on a price. He took out his pen.

  “What happened later?”

  “The lover’s long dead,” she said.

  Easy to say. “I need more than that. You mean Pascal?”

  “My second cousin’s mother-in-law, passed on now, told my cousin that after Djanka’s murder the sister and the boy hit the road. Went out of reach.”

  “Djanka’s murder sent them into hiding? Why?”

  Madame Rana shrugged. “Facing a bad wind makes a wise one turn back, mon petit.”

  More Gypsy sayings.

  “You’re sure the child’s father—the lover, Pascal—is dead?”

  “Long departed. That’s all I know.” All of a sudden her eyes fluttered then rolled up into her head so he could see the whites. A feather fell off the wall and floated in the air. Like a sign, René thought, not that he bought the woman’s act.

  “Mon petit, your business looks bright tomorrow. Good fortune. And I see a baby in danger.”

  “Chloé?” René tensed, then remembered that this was all fake. He seethed at this woman trying to take advantage of him.

  “The gadjo tries to tie up a loose end.”

  He leaned forward in spite of himself. “What loose end?” When she didn’t reply, he said, “Drina Constantin? Is she the loose end?”

  “Drina’s impatient for her journey. To join her boy.”

  Tingles ran up René’s neck.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Time’s up.”

  Monday Evening

  ROSE UZES’S VOICE mail recording instructed Aimée to leave a callback number. Frustrated, she did. As she checked her own phone for messages afterward, she heard the receptionist call the doctor by name. There he was. Dr. Estienne. She reached for the clipboard to go back in and try to catch him.

  “Has that hemodialysis adapter arrived?” she heard Dr. Estienne ask as he passed through reception.

  Her antenna up, she paused in the doorway.

  “Check on why the delay … the patient needs …”

  Aimée couldn’t hear the rest.

  Doctor Estienne was hurrying toward the next corridor. “I’m late.”

  The receptionist called out, “You’ve got an eight forty-five P.M. walk-in after your meeting, Doctor.”

  But Dr. Estienne had disappeared through the swing doors.

  If it itches, scratch it, her father used to say. Madame Uzes’s phrase “it doesn’t make sense” rang in her head. If he was doing hemodialysis work here, why wouldn’t Dr. Estienne treat Drina at this private clinic, especially since the foundation would pay the supplemental fees? Drina hated hospitals, she’d said.

  In the darkness she headed over the gravel path bordering the lawn that faced Dr. Estienne’s clinic. She paused before she reached the flower beds and peered through the lit windows. Four
of the patient rooms she surveyed contained older men in wheelchairs eating their dinners from trays.

  Halfway down the garden stood an old stone pigeonnier fashioned into a shrine with a statue of Saint Jean. Beside the last window she found the loosely replanted peonies where the corporal had dug his trench. Her eye caught on a glint in the clumps of dirt. A coin?

  She took out her penlight, shone it. Something that looked like a small disk with a metal band around it caught the light. Did the corporal keep treasures, like a child, in his trenches?

  Her curiosity piqued, she picked it up: a tiny wheel carved in wood. She felt her heart contract. She dug through the fresh clumps, getting dirt under her fingernails. And then she felt it, pulled it out with a slow, careful motion.

  A small wooden wagon, one wheel broken off. One of the wooden Gypsy wagons Nicu had carved for Drina.

  Drina had been here. Maybe she still was. That meant Doctor Estienne had been lying. Who else? Doctor Estienne’s colleagues from Hôpital Laennec? Madame Uzes?

  Her phone rang—Morbier. He could wait. She silenced the call. Time to scratch that itch. Aimée had to follow her gut. And not get caught by the staff.

  From the jasmine-trellised gravel walkway, a ramp led to the rear of the white-walled wing. The corridor was narrow, with small rooms for patients off both sides. Antiseptic-smelling and basic—unlike the great-uncle’s room. The ventilation system thrummed. She padded past open doors on both sides—most of the beds were empty; one contained an old man on a respirator—then a larger common room on the right occupied by old people nodding off in wheelchairs, where a muted télé was playing the news.

  A door opened and shut down the hall. She ducked into the common room. She heard murmured voices, but the footsteps continued past. Aimée looked around, but none of the wheelchairs’ occupants had even opened their eyes. She heard the door to the hallway swing open, the footsteps trail away.

  She knew she might regret this, have to lie her way out if she was caught, but she remembered the wooden wagon and knew she needed to see who was in that last room. The one with the closed door, the one the footsteps had come from.

  After a quick scan of the empty corridor, she tiptoed out into the hallway and down to the last room. She opened and shut the door without making a sound.

  Lying on the bed was a shriveled woman covered in white blankets, her shallow breaths punctuated by the rhythmic flow from the artificial respirator. Dim light illuminated the sparse grey braids spread over the pillow. Seeing how the cancer had ravaged her, had turned her into an old woman, Aimée gasped. But these were the same dark, deep-set eyes she remembered from photos, and from those visits fifteen years ago: there was no denying this was Drina Constantin.

  The door opened.

  She dove behind the bed and slid underneath it in time to see white clogs on the linoleum. The fluorescent light flickered on, shadows moved.

  “Plug it in there.” A woman’s voice. “Near the floor.”

  Lying on her stomach, she tried to make herself small. She saw the outlet an arm’s length away and panicked. Thick fingers fumbled for the outlet. Then she heard a snap. Several clicks.

  The machine thrummed to life. A moment later she heard the flick of a switch. “We need to refill the oxygen containers …”

  “You’re noting this down?”

  “Everything. As instructed.” The door opened and closed again. They’d gone, leaving the light on.

  Aimée crawled out from under the bed, her heart pounding. They’d be back any moment.

  “Drina?” She touched the wrinkled cheek—cool. The sunken eyes remained closed. “Maybe you can’t hear me. It’s Aimée, Jean-Claude’s daughter. Nicu said you wanted to see me, to tell me about Papa.”

  No movement. Just the pumping sounds, in and out, of the machine breathing for Drina through the tubes in her nose.

  “Drina, you wanted me to make something right. I know you can’t talk, probably can’t hear me, but if you can …”

  Only the rhythmic schwa, schwa of the pumping air.

  “Drina, I found the roulotte Nicu carved for you. See?” She lifted it out of her jacket pocket. Put the little three-wheeled wagon in Drina’s stiff hand.

  Aimée curled Drina’s worn fingers around it. “I’m sorry, Drina.” At least Drina looked peaceful, in no pain.

  Of course the woman couldn’t hear her, and she didn’t know if it was true. But she said it anyway. “Nicu loved you like his mother, Drina.”

  The fingers tightened around the wagon. A hard, bony grip.

  Drina’s eyes opened. Her wide-eyed stare revealed dilated pupils. “I remember you …” Her hot, shallow breath wheezed, crackled. Aimée leaned in, putting her ear near Drina’s moving lips. “You weren’t big then. Jean-Claude said take care … make it …” Her whisper faded.

  “Make it right, Drina? How?”

  Drina’s eyes fluttered. “They want to keep me quiet … but I promised him …”

  She struggled, seemed to be gathering her strength, determined. Her whispers were labored, and she gripped Aimée’s other hand tighter.

  “Promised Papa what, Drina?”

  “You should know … I saw those men in Place Vendôme. Who notices a begging Gypsy except to shoo them away? But now they know. But they find … me.”

  Aimée’s chest heaved.

  “You were there, Drina? On Papa’s surveillance?”

  A nod. “Always toys for Nicu, he’d do that. Said if anything … tell his little girl …” Drina’s hoarse whispers roared in her ears. “They covered up Djanka’s murder, blew up his van …”

  Drina lapsed into Romany. Desperate, Aimée squeezed Drina’s hand. Cold, now so cold. “You mean Djanka’s murderer killed Papa?”

  Rattling sounded in Drina’s throat. More Romany, for a minute or two this time.

  “Please tell me in French so I understand … Drina?” She rubbed Drina’s arm. “Why, Drina?”

  Drina’s Romany trailed off. The only words Aimée caught made her blood run cold.

  Tesla. Fifi.

  “Who are they?”

  Drina’s eyes blinked open. Stared at Aimée. Her pupils pinpoints. “You know.”

  Drina’s grip loosened. Her lids lowered halfway. Aimée felt a presence, hovering, suspended. A current of air lifting her, pulling at her.

  “Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle,” a voice was saying. “She’s slipped into a coma. You can let go now.”

  She came back to the room, to the humming machines, to the hand cupping her shoulder. To a young nurse’s nodding face.

  “She’s letting go now,” said the nurse. “You should too.”

  Shaken, Aimée looked up at the young nurse, her thin face full of understanding. How long had she been there?

  “I wrote down her words, the fragments I could make out,” said the nurse. “Like I was told.”

  Like she was told? Aimée’s pulse quickened. On the side table lay a notepad.

  “Who asked you? You mean someone was waiting for her to confess something?” Yet Drina had just told her they wanted to keep her quiet?

  “I don’t know,” the nurse said. “I just did what the doctor asked. I wrote the Romany words as they sounded, but they were garbled.”

  “I’m sure you did a good job,” Aimée said, picking up the notebook.

  “Doctor Estienne’s coming back, he’ll want to see it.”

  “I’ll give this to him myself, thank you.”

  “The orders were—” said the nurse, starting to protest.

  “Changed, Nurse.” She pulled out her cell phone. Hit René’s number. “I’m handling this now.”

  “But Doctor Estienne and the monsieur—”

  “Quel homme?” The nurse went to leave but Aimée caught her arm before she could reach the door. She could hear René’s tinny phone voice answering her call, but he would have to wait. “Which monsieur? Tell me before I report you for illegally recording a patient’s dying words.”


  The nurse’s eyes batted in fear. “Who are you?”

  “Special security.”

  “Like the monsieur?”

  “That’s all you need to know. We don’t wear uniforms. I need to verify this, give me his name.”

  “Let me go,” she said, her voice rising. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “To do with what?”

  Dodging past Aimée, the nurse reached for her pager from the nightstand and hit some buttons.

  Aimée grabbed it. Merde. She had to get the hell out.

  “Cooperate and I’ll see you’re not arrested.”

  “Arrested? But the monsieur’s with security at the ministry.”

  “Which ministry?”

  The nurse’s pager beeped in her hand.

  “The ministry—that’s all I heard.”

  Think, she had to think how to get the nurse to identify this man. “You’re talking about the security team, the one with glasses, right?”

  “Glasses … non, the man from Toulon.”

  Toulon? “You recognized his accent?” The pager was blinking. Get out, she had to get out of here. Now. “Bon, keep this to yourself.”

  And with the notepad under her arm, she slipped into the hallway, walking as quickly as she could without running.

  She pulled out her phone and called René back.

  “Allô? Aimée? Who were you talking to?” René said. “I tried calling, but your phone—”

  “René, just listen. Can you pick me up on rue Oudinot?”

  “Rue Oudinot? I’m close, but what’s going on?”

  “Just hurry. Now.” She clicked off, striding purposefully. Not looking back.

  “Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle!” a voice shouted.

  But she kept going and broke into a run. Then out the swinging exit doors at the back, into the chill, dark air of the garden, keeping to the shadowed wall.

  A starling fluttered in alarm from the bushes.

  The gate was locked. The garden was surrounded by a high stone wall, trees. No way out. Her heart pounded. Floodlights flicked on, illuminating the lawn. Shouts carried through the air. She ran to the nearest tree—a ginkgo—stuck her bag down the front of her jacket and climbed. Climbed to the higher branches, scraping her nails and fingers while pulling herself up, wedging her feet in for purchase and slipping on the smooth bark.