Queen of the Hide Out

by Alice Quinn

  I picked up my girls. Simon had already left with his mommy.

  Pastis was so pleased to see us when we came through the door. He rubbed himself against our legs and gave us some of his special nose kisses. We all shared the leftovers I’d brought home. Salmon, salad, and rice . . . The Tupperware was a great find! We had ourselves a feast! Sitting on top of the highest cupboard, Pastis must have licked his paws for about an hour and a half before mewling to go out for his evening disappearing act.

  Even though it didn’t really feel as if I had a proper job, I must have been absolutely whacked because as soon as I’d put the rug rats to bed, I crawled into my own and slipped into a coma.

  An hour later I woke up in a sweat. I felt so bad, but I didn’t know why. Then it dawned on me: Max buying those toys! Oh heck! What was I going to do? I started up a total fret! The guilt of it! Why hadn’t I just refused them? I’d totally taken advantage of a little old man who might well be losing his mind!

  I just didn’t get why I was such a dope sometimes. Just so my kids could have fancy gifts? I went ahead and let my brand-spanking-new boss buy them for me? Just like that? My mother must have dropped me on my head as a child.

  I knew I’d have nothing but nightmares now for the coming weeks. Giving those gifts to my kids wasn’t exactly going to be the proudest moment of my life. I was deranged. Mental. I had no clue about some of the most basic things in life. How was I going to get out of this? Was it still even possible?

  I’d just have to tell Max to cancel the order. There you go! I could do that! But what if it was too late?

  Friday: Nobody Puts Cricri in the Corner

  28

  When I woke up on Friday morning, I felt completely abandoned by my mother. Even though I’d managed to take control of my nightmare, no music came to me in my sleep. No songs from my mommy. Was I all alone then?

  I felt she was disappointed. She wanted to show she wasn’t too pleased about old Max getting one over on me the day before. We Maldonnes don’t (usually!) let people buy stuff for us. We take care of our own needs—no matter how hard it gets.

  I dropped the kiddos off, and when I got back to my trailer sweet trailer, I got busy cleaning the place from top to bottom. It helped with the old nerves.

  My head was full of good intentions when I arrived at Place de la Foux later that day. I was going to delete the toy order. But how? I’d have to distract the old dodger with some songs. What if he was in a superbad mood? I’d just have to try to be as pleasant as possible and keep my cool. Saint Cricri.

  I had it all planned out. I wondered what we’d get up to that day. I hoped it’d be as much fun as the day before. I’d brought a couple of ABBA CDs with me in my purse that I’d borrowed from the public library. Nobody had checked them out in ages. I didn’t get it. I was sure he’d love them as much as I did.

  I had on some pretty velour shorts with bright-pink ribbing and orange-and-turquoise striped woolen pantyhose. The house needed brightening up, and I was just the girl to do it.

  As I was about to bang on the big brass knocker, I remembered I had a key. I was so slow at times. That’s when I noticed that the door was already open a smidgen.

  I pushed and entered. Something wasn’t right. I slammed the door as loudly as I could behind me.

  “Hellloooooo! Is anybody there? Who’s there?”

  There was a strange rustling noise. Weird. Where was Lani? Wasn’t she supposed to be here to welcome me?

  I threw my key into the Degué bowl. It landed next to another key chain. A Mercedes one identical to mine.

  I felt frozen to the bone. No explanation. Just an odd feeling I had. A premonition. Something freaking strange was going on here. I couldn’t really get a feel for what it was exactly, but it wasn’t too hard to guess. Here was a house that was usually all locked with more than one person on the premises . . . but it was open . . . and Lani hadn’t come to greet me.

  Once I’d taken my coat off and hung it up, I crossed the entrance hall and went straight into the dining room where my Max should have been waiting for me.

  The little bridge table in front of the giant windows wasn’t laid this time. There was no food ready. Just a bottle of wine and some cutlery.

  I called out, “Max? Sir?”

  Nothing. Silence. I put my purse down on a chair—when I say “purse,” it sounds too classy, this was a big nylon bag all covered in Velcro pockets—and poured myself a glass of wine. I took a big gulp and just as I was swallowing I heard another bizarro noise coming from the office. I took my wine glass with me as I hastened to where the sound was coming from.

  “Are you there? Whoooo hoooo? Where are you, Max?”

  As I stepped inside the office, taking another huge slurp of my Château Margaux, I could see that it was game over. A draft swept across my face . . . and then there he was . . . right in front of me.

  He was spread out on the floor between the sitting area and his big desk.

  Facedown. Not moving a muscle.

  I crept over to him and leaned in toward his head. Christ! He wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t moving. No shit.

  Was this guy dead?

  I felt a scream burning up through my chest, so I slapped my hand over my mouth to stop it from coming out. But that wasn’t enough. My hand was too small to stop the massive screech I had inside me. It was like one of those cheap horror movies.

  Screaming was of no use to anyone, anyway. I was the only person in the joint. Well . . . Was I alone? I mean, where was that draft coming from? And what about those strange rustling noises? I was scared shitless.

  I glanced around the place, but couldn’t see a thing. I’d seen enough episodes of CSI to know I wasn’t supposed to touch the body. The body. Oh God! That’s if he really was dead. The other possibility was that he needed an ambulance and the police maybe.

  I was so cut up about the whole mess that I wasn’t thinking straight. My stomach was making gurgling sounds. Was I going to puke? My face was wet. Was I crying? I turned around slowly. I was supposed to be having a real good look at what was going on here, but I couldn’t see a thing. I’d seen dead bodies before, of course. Unfortunately. I’d seen my grandmother Ruth, and even harder than that, I’d been with my mom when she passed at the hospital. I don’t think it’s something you ever get used to.

  I was trying my goddamn hardest not to think of the dead man on the floor. I’d only seen him the day before. He was all smiles when I’d left. He had his whiskey. He was looking forward to more drinkypoos with his newfound friend, a.k.a. moi! He’ll never be able to offer his friends drinkypoos again. It was that little word of his that kept playing over in my head. It brought more tears to my eyes.

  I don’t know how long I stayed in what can only be described as a trance. I was stuck there until I heard yet another weirdass noise coming from the front door. I shivered as I felt a second draft. Shit was going down! Was there someone messing around with all the doors and windows? I ran around all the rooms like some kind of deranged madass looking for God knows what!

  After my downstairs marathon, I realized I was alone. Or that I was the only person on the first floor at least. I bounded back to the office, thoughts sprinting through my brain.

  Even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch him, I did (of course I did!). He was still warm to the touch. Warmish. It was freaky to think this had been a human being, and now it was just a stiff. An inanimate object. How long did a body stay warm? Or maybe it was because the radiator was on. It must have been a heart attack, right? Or something else? Could he have just fainted? Maybe I still had a chance of saving the old guy!

  No, I was getting carried away here. It’s just that I so didn’t want him to be dead.

  I went over to where I’d left my purse, spilling half my wine as I went. (I know, I still had it in my hand!) All the moving around had made me feel less sick. So that was one good thing.

  I ferreted around in my bag until I found a card with my cop fri
end Borelli’s contact details. I hadn’t put his number into my phone. I’m superstitious like that. It’s better not to have a cop’s number in your cell if you can help it. In my book, that would just be inviting trouble. I mean, who wanted to make social calls to cops? In my family, we were always careful when it came to our dealings with the law.

  But I suppose Borelli wasn’t the same. Since he and I had worked together on sorting out the case of little missing Pierre, we’ve been, like, best buds. Fast friends. Firm friends. Well, maybe best buds was a stretch. Also, what in the hell did fast friends even mean? Firm friends wasn’t much better. What weird sayings. They sounded sexual. I have a big problem with sayings. I never get them right. Did they just mean good friends or were they rude?

  He picked up on the first ring.

  29

  “Maldonne? Is that you, Maldonne?”

  Ha! So he’s put me in his contacts! Should I be flattered? Or is he just being a pro? Does it mean he likes me? Or does he think I’m someone he should be keeping an eye on?

  “Yeah, it’s me. You have to come quickly. I’ve got a stiff on my hands. At least, I think I do.”

  “What are you saying? How have things been with you, anyway? I haven’t seen you in ages! Everything good in your world?”

  “You know what, Borelli? I like you, I really do, but I haven’t just called you for a little chat here, OK? I had to call you . . . because I really have found a stiff.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it. You’re messing with me. I can tell.”

  “You know very well I don’t have a sense of humor.”

  I heard him sigh. He seemed resigned. “I knew there’d be more crap heading my way with you, Maldonne. OK. Where are you? Where’s this stiff of yours then?”

  “It’s at my new job. I’m at the Dumond de la Pinsonnière residence. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, of course. I know it very well. It’s a private mansion. I think it dates back to the seventeenth century in fact. Place de la Foux? So what’s all this about then?”

  “It’s him. My new boss. I showed up not too long ago and found him on the floor. I think I’d better call an ambulance too. There’s a chance he could still be alive. I doubt it, though. My God . . . You never know.”

  “I’m on my way. And Rosie, don’t move, don’t touch anything, and don’t tell anyone. I can just see you throwing open the windows and announcing to the street below that you have a dead body there and inviting everyone to come see.”

  I ignored that last bit and went ahead and called the paramedics. They explained that they’d be there as quick as they could and that in the meantime I wasn’t to touch a single thing (I knew that already. CSI plus Borelli. I got it!).

  I was just about to make my way back to the office when I remembered my Prince Charming. This guy was my boss and Max’s son! How could I not have thought about calling him earlier?

  I dialed the number I’d saved in my phone. Voicemail. Panic. I hung up. I clicked on the little envelope on the screen to send him a text message.

  Helo. Thz bin a c rius axident with ur dadi. Sori 2 gv u the newz lik this. I jst cald the cps. U must cum asap. U cn cll me if u wnt 2. Or cll Ofiser Borelli @ staysion. Realli sori. Cricri Maldonne.

  I felt worn out already, and I hadn’t even been on the job an hour! I stepped inside the office and glanced at old Max on the floor. I then took out my cell and started taking photos of everything. The position of the body from a distance and close up, then a 360.

  As I was snapping away, I noticed that the sleeve of his jacket was scrunched up a little on his left arm. Weird. I took a deep breath and flipped the body over. Yes, I know! I’m not supposed to touch anything! Well, never mind. It’s too late now.

  That’s when I saw the needle sticking out of his elbow. I looked over to the nearby desk and noticed a bottle with a kind of milky liquid inside. What was that? Was he a total druggy? Or maybe a diabetic?

  I really wanted to grab ahold of the bottle. I had the reflexes of an idiot, though, so I held back. I didn’t want to be leaving fingerprints all over the place. But I couldn’t resist. I got a tissue out of the box on the desk, picked up the bottle, pulled the needle gently out of his arm, and put them both on top of the desk.

  I then finally mustered up the courage to take a good look at his frozen face. He had an injury on his forehead. That was normal, right? I mean, he must have hit his head when he fell. He also had a smear of what looked like chocolate at the corner of his mouth. That got me blubbering. I sniffled and gulped. “Poor, poor old Max. He really loved drinkypoos.” I kept saying it over and over again.

  Just under his jacket I noticed a small bar of chocolate. So I was right. He’d been eating chocolate when he died. I picked up the bar and ate what was left of it, then threw the wrapper in the wastepaper basket. I know it was odd behavior, but I needed a little pick-me-up. I reasoned with myself, When you find a stiff, a little bit of chocolate can do you good.

  I felt perkier after my minisnack. The next thing I decided to try out was one of those CPR heart-massage things (I was still sniveling like crazy) just like I’d seen countless times in the movies. It was hardly worth the effort—that much was quickly obvious. He was stiffening up by this point. There was no doubt now that he was stone cold.

  I stopped trying after a few minutes and blew all the snot out of my nose with my antifingerprint tissue. His jacket had come undone while I was trying to revive him, and the contents of his inside pocket, including his little black notebook, slid out onto the floor. Carefully, and with the same tissue, I picked it up and stuffed it into my pocket.

  Maldonne! What sort of shit mental move was that? That was the little reasonable voice inside my loopy brain. It was only a tiny voice . . . and always in the background. It’s a whole lot more than foolish! You could get in serious trouble here. Haven’t you caused enough of a mess already? You’ve touched the body! You’ve touched all kinds of crap! Think, Maldonne! Why are you taking the notebook? What good will that do? You’d be holding up an investigation. You’re getting mixed up in something that doesn’t concern you. You risk having a whole load of unwanted attention here. You’re putting yourself and your bambinos in danger. Come on! Give me one good reason why you’ve put a dead man’s notebook in your pocket.

  Well, I really felt like it, that’s why. This answer came from another section of my brain. The tone was so childish. I’m nosy! There’s another reason. I really want to know what’s inside the notebook. I recognize it from yesterday when he was making that weirdass phone call. The cops will just take it if I don’t. And then I’ll never know.

  I see. I get it. So other than being really nosy and acting on a whim, you’ve got no actual good reason at all, have you?

  That’s true. I can see that. I’ve no valid excuse to be taking this notebook. I’m a loon.

  You know you’ll get in so much shit if you do, right? We’re talking serious shit.

  I get it. I know. Depending on how this whole thing pans out, if someone finds out I have his notebook, I could end up having to pay for it big-time. The best thing for me to do right now would be to put it back where I found it. There . . . just there . . . back in his pocket. That’s right.

  After this little conversation with myself, I tapped the pocket of my shorts just to make sure the notebook was safe and sound, then carried on searching the room for anything else interesting I could find.

  30

  Another scary noise. It sounded like clacking. Or footsteps? I went to look out the window onto the terrace. Nothing.

  I crouched down and had a quick look at my watch. Thirty minutes had already passed since I’d arrived. The police and the ambulance had to show up soon. I didn’t know what else I could do. I tried to imagine how different this could have all played out. I imagined I came to the house, unlocked the door with my special key, and found Max exactly as I had the day before.

  I’d have loved it if I had heard a breath, if I’d seen his p
inky move . . . Anything, any sign that would show he was still alive.

  I needed to exercise my little gray cells if I was to take Hercule Poirot’s advice. Max stank of whiskey. Maybe he was in an alcohol-induced coma. Maybe he’d poured his drink all over himself when he fell. With the amount he drank, smoked, and God knows what else, it was a wonder he’d made it this far. His arteries must have been really blocked up, so he’d definitely had some sort of cardiac arrest. Or he had diabetes and messed up the amount of insulin he had to take.

  I couldn’t handle looking at him any longer, but at the same time, there was something about him that made me want to stay. Why did I feel obliged to keep watch like this? I hear humans have a kind of reptilian brain. I don’t know what it is, though. Could it be there’s something inside us that feels the need to watch over a dead body in case a wild animal comes along and eats it, like back when we were cavemen? Is that it?

  I sat down at the desk in front of the computer. He’d been sitting there only a few hours earlier earning his millions. There was a green-and-white pharmacy box between an almost empty bottle of whiskey and an ashtray full of cigar butts. I could tell straight-off it had housed the needle. So I placed the needle back into the container. It was a bit tricky because I didn’t want to touch it. I was relying on my trusty tissue. I stuffed the box and the bottle of milky liquid into another pocket, making sure I didn’t directly touch either. I was in deep now. I’d maybe need these things at a later date as evidence.

  I don’t know whether it was guilt, or that I was acting out of the norm, but I felt a third draft. It was odd. Just like that noise I’d heard when I was stealing the notebook. I felt a chill run through me. What was up with the noises and weird wafts of air?

  I waited a moment. Nothing. I’d be hearing voices next. You may as well call me Joan of Arc. I decided to have a bit more of a snoop around the place.