by Alice Quinn
So there you had it. Simple. But nothing was ever simple (and certainly not over these last few days!). What if these Amsterdam people had already sold the diamond? What if they’d gone back to Dutchland? What if . . . What if . . .
Véro wouldn’t be long now, and my little Sabrina would be home safe with me.
You know what? Maybe I actually had a good idea this time. But I still had my doubts, so I didn’t want to run with it straightaway. I had to be patient.
I decided to put the radio on and find out whether or not the story of Max’s death had reached the media. There was a radio in my room. A little private time for me. That’s when I heard it all. And the sky came crashing in. I’d become public enemy number one, suspect number one . . . everything number one . . . My name was being mentioned every other second.
56
On the floor of my trailer, smack bang in the middle (it must have fallen out of my bag while the kids and I were making a run for it), the cops had found a needle. They thought that this needle might have been used to inject Max Pinson with a fatal overdose of heroin. However, investigators were asking why the suspect would have taken the needle with her rather than leave it, where it would have been assumed that the victim injected himself with the drug.
The autopsy results were not yet in, and the cause of death remained unconfirmed because the victim had also received a blow to the head with a blunt instrument . . . and this blunt instrument had not yet been discovered. What a total shitty mess. I knew that the blunt instrument was the four nudey girls.
But the cops had the cherry on the cake . . . the icing on the cake (whatever!). They had a believable motive for me. And it was nothing to do with those stupid toys on the Internet. No. Under my mattress—my actual mattress in my home-sweet-home—they’d found a little painting, and this painting was worth its weight in gold. That’s right. I’ll spell it out for you, though: They found the girly boy on the horse.
All this was being said on the national news! I don’t know who their source was, but they had all the details, so they must have gotten it from somewhere legit! The girly boy was a certain Louis-Eugène d’Etchegoyen, some officer in the French army, painted by somebody named Gros, and it had an estimated value of approximately €187,000. I’d have loved to know a painting worth that much was in my trailer. And if I had known, I certainly wouldn’t have left it there. Or maybe I would have. Who knows? I mean, remember what I did with the diamond? I hardly took care of that properly.
So they’d found the painting at my place, had they? Where was this story going? I knew I was paranoid, but it didn’t come into play here. This shit was real. I switched the radio off for some peace. So someone (or someones) wanted to see me go down for this. The needle was found at my place, and it was now being broadcast to the whole world as the murder weapon. Plus the painting . . . With two pieces of evidence like that, I was toast.
There was no way out of it for me this time. How was I going to prove I hadn’t taken the painting and that I certainly hadn’t taken an old man’s life? All the evidence pointed to me. Of course, my fingerprints wouldn’t have been on the painting, but they were all over the trailer, and if it had been found in my place, I suppose it didn’t really make much difference. I still had that small bottle of liquid. What did it contain? Maybe there was a possible escape for me yet if I found out it didn’t contain heroin.
Oh Cricri! Dream a little dream, baby! It’s something I always make myself do in times of stress—dream my way out of it—and there I was, dreaming my way out of serving life in jail. Dream your way out, Cricri! Dream that nobody will separate you and your kids. That’s what I’d do, and would continue to do, while I stayed in my hide out and waited for Borelli to find another lead, to find his way to the real murderer, whoever he or she was. I was dying to know! Whoever it was had it in for me, that was for sure.
Someone was ringing the bell at the gate. That bell was so loud, I could hear it from upstairs. I had a sneaky-peek out my bedroom window (I didn’t want to go down and find the cops) and saw that it was Véro with Sabrina, Simon, and little Pierre.
I went out to collect them. When we were all safe in the living room, the hypnotic spell (or should I say the panicky silence) that had been present only five minutes earlier was rudely ruptured. Everyone livened up. Major-league action erupted.
Véro and the gang stayed for dinner. As we ate, I entertained myself with thoughts of my latest crush while the others yapped on and on like fishwives. God only knows what they were talking about, but it sounded like there were a thousand people at the table. Weird, because Lani couldn’t speak much French, and Véro’s English was worse than mine. I have no clue how they were managing to understand each other.
There was another ring at the front gate. I crept outside into the darkness.
57
I knew that the lights from the house weren’t visible from the main road. I shuffled into the cold night air, slowly and silently, to find out who our uninvited guest might be. Phew! It was Ismène! She joined us for dinner as well.
As she entered the dining room, she threw Humbert an icy glare.
“I see our little family is growing every day!” she said in a sarcastic tone. Well, I think she meant for it to come out as sarcastic, but she wasn’t all that successful.
“Isn’t this supposed to be a hide out?” Humbert asked me. This looked like it was going to be some fun.
“Can you explain what’s going on?” asked Ismène.
I introduced my guests. “This is Humbert Dumond de la Pinsonnière, son of the deceased and twin brother to my ex-boss. He’s also a little worried that the police might have him down as a suspect, so I brought him to hide here with us.”
“Oh, my poor Cricri. You must be stoned. This guy could be the killer! He’ll kill you all in your sleep and that’ll be the end of that! Once and for all!”
“Stop being so dramatic! I trust this dude, OK?”
“The dude thanks you, Cricri,” whispered Humbert while Lani went to the kitchen to fetch another plate for Ismène.
Ismène turned to gape at Véro and her expression went from one extreme to another. She was transformed, illuminated, radiant. Wearing her most provocative smile, she darted up to her.
“Ismène. Do we know each other?”
“What are you playing at here?” I asked her. “This is my friend Véro. You know her.”
“Véro! Of course! I’ve heard so much about you! But you know what? I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
Véro appeared flustered. I knew she was uncomfortable.
“Cricri never bothered to tell me how beautiful you are!” Ismène continued.
Humbert and I peered at each other. We could hardly believe what we’d just heard. She was going straight for it. Did people even use pick-up lines like that these days? What were we hearing here?
Ismène pulled up a chair, sat next to Véro, and helped herself to some of my amazing tuna bake.
“I’m starving half to death!” she said loudly. She always took over a room wherever she went.
“Excuse me, I have to put the kids to bed,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes.
Sabrina came over to give me a hug. She was a calculating little girl. I understood right away that what she really wanted was for me to invite Simon to sleep over. One glance at Véro was enough for her to know what was going on as well. She gave me a little nod.
As I was leaving the room, followed in quick succession by the twins, Sabrina, Simon, Pastis (who was half scampering and half licking his tuna-flavored paws), and Lani (who’d come along to help out with the kids), I could hear Ismène launching into a conversation with Humbert. She was being pretty aggressive with him.
“Well then! This investigation? Where are we? Or where are you, to be more precise? What’s the point in hiding out here? You know the cops will catch up with you eventually! You’re the one who can resolve all this, you know. Otherwise, you’ll end up doing one hell of a stretch in
side, believe you me.”
When Lani and I came back, the discussion was lively, and several theories were being floated around. They wanted to give me a general summary of what they’d come up with so far. As they told me what they thought, it only added weight to what I’d been imagining so far. Old Max had been eliminated either by one of his kids because of some sordid inheritance scheme or by a burglar or by whoever was supplying him with drugs or by Mademoiselle Kessler for reasons yet unknown (some deep dark secret).
Strangely, every time Kessler’s name was mentioned, Humbert looked sick. Lani on the other hand didn’t seem like she had much of a clue as to what was happening, but she nodded and shook her head depending on what everyone else was doing. She did seem to get stirred up, though, whenever anyone mentioned Max and his dealings with the art world. Maybe she understood more French than I thought. And some words like “Max” and “art” are the same in both French and English. Had she been the one to plant the girly-boy painting at my place?
No, I was going off on a complete tangent. I needed to get a serous grip. I was just making things up as I went along. She hadn’t left my side since the first day of the investigation. Well, the second—the day after the murder.
Lani, Véro, and I got up to clear all the plates while Ismène and Humbert moved to the huge comfy armchairs, their wine glasses refilled to the brim.
“Oh, don’t worry about us, you two,” I said. “Take it easy, why don’t you? Don’t bother helping out or anything! Has someone stamped ‘The Help’ across my forehead and forgotten to tell me?”
Humbert stood up, embarrassed. Ismène copied him (although a little more reluctantly, and carried a fork into the kitchen—a major help!).
I didn’t want to mention the painting they’d found in my trailer and everything I stood accused of (according to the radio report). It was just too much for me. Nobody had listened to the radio except me, and maybe they hadn’t read today’s papers. They’d find out everything soon enough, though.
I knew that if my friends (old and new) found out that I was officially the main suspect in this case—and that the cops had so much evidence against me that I’d never get bail in a gazillion years—I’d soon find my sorry ass all by my lonesome. They’d scamper, and that’s not good for anyone’s morale.
And that was the best-case scenario. Worst-case was that as soon as they found out, they’d call the cops and tell them where I was. Big blabbermouths.
58
Lani continued to tidy things away while I filled the dishwasher. Véro made a few more trips back and forth to the table to help Lani out. Humbert watched us. He looked awkward, as if he didn’t know what to do with his clumsy body. Ismène stood in the corner of the kitchen, sipping her wine and holding court.
“OK! Let’s examine all these brothers and sisters then,” Ismène said. “We need to know what’s going on with that lot.”
“It’s all fairly straightforward,” said Humbert. “There’s my twin brother Théodore, who’s inherited my father’s entire estate.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we get that. I’d like to know more about the rest of you. Who is everyone? What do they do? How well did you all get along with your father?”
“That’s all very straightforward too. Apart from Théodore and my sister Ariane, none of us could stand him. Maybe that’s somewhat strong . . . Let’s just say we weren’t the best of friends.”
“I want to know the names, ages, addresses, and reasons behind every fight you’ve all ever had with him.”
“I’ll stop you right there, if you don’t mind. There are never any fights in our family. We’re not that type of people, you understand. My father wasn’t a fighting man. We all kept a low profile with him. We were puppets on his strings.”
“You’re all in deep shit now then? Is that right? He’s dead. So you’ve lost your puppet master? And the man who paid your way, right?”
“That’s true. Not for Théo, though. He was already doing very well for himself, but now he’s as rich as they come, let me tell you that for nothing! Ariane gets to keep her place in Paris. She already lives there, you see. As for us . . . Well, I suppose we’ll have to get jobs. Earn our keep.”
“So you’re innocent by the looks of things! In that case, why are you in hiding?”
“There is one thing . . . umm . . . I don’t really know how to put this . . .”
Either this fool was totally bird-brained, or he was excellent at bluffing and couldn’t have been all that bad at poker. He thought he was going to inherit everything. And then he didn’t. This means he’s a suspect whichever way you look at it. Think about the motives. He’s greedy and wants his money, or he’s furious and wants revenge. That’s how I see it.
Humbert was shaking. He was such a nervous wreck and seemed to be getting worse. I wondered if my Théodore was like this too. He seemed so charming, but this anxiety thing was a real character flaw.
“It seems, from this angle,” cried Ismène suddenly, all doom and gloom as always, “that it would be better to stay here until it all settles down, which it never will, or until Borelli finally catches your asses. Or you . . . Well, until it’s all sorted out. And this Mademoiselle Kessler, do you know her well?”
“Umm . . . err . . .” stuttered Humbert.
“Come on! Spit it out, man! Every time we speak about that woman, you go all white or all red, or you lose the goddamn plot. It won’t wash with the police. That behavior just won’t cut it. So what’s up?” Ismène asked.
Humbert went from appearing superpissed to totally resigned. He took a deep breath and said, “It was me who introduced her to my father years ago.”
“Really? And how come you did that?”
He whimpered, “She had a whole load of different . . . um . . . substances to sell. I was a bit of a party animal when I was younger, and I met her at various, er, events. She was what you’d call a go-between. I think that’s what we’d say. Her clients didn’t want to have anything to do with real dealers. Father didn’t want to have any direct contact with those sorts of people either. As for me, I thought I was the king of the castle back then. I thought I had some sort of control over Father. He really liked Mademoiselle Kessler. So much so that they had an affair right at the outset—”
“Wow! I get it!” Ismène couldn’t help herself. She had to interrupt. “Who would have guessed it? And then what? Out with it!”
“I don’t know what happened next exactly. When they split up, she stayed on with him as his housekeeper, I guess. They still got along very well, and she still handled the drug side of things for him.”
I bounded toward the middle of the room with my hands full of cutlery that I had been trying to stuff into those special holders in the dishwasher.
“Now I understand,” I said. “She was blackmailing him. For years. That’s why she stuck around. I bet she received an amazing salary. We need to check that out—her salary, her bank account, or accounts, any transfers she might have made.”
“It’s possible,” said Ismène. “There’s also the mysterious son Théodore, though. Maybe he was the one pulling all the strings.”
“Sure, but why would he have killed the chicken that laid all the golden eggs?”
“The goose. What if the old guy was trying to get off the drugs? Maybe he was trying to go clean, and they didn’t want him to?”
“Yeah!”
“I very much doubt he was trying to get sober,” said Humbert. “That really wasn’t his style.”
“OK! You’re stuck here,” Ismène said. “But not me. I’m going to put that hound dog Borelli on the right track, and he’ll find the way out of this then. You’re going to write him a note, Cricri, and I’ll give it to someone to give to him. That way, it will all be done anonymously.” She slapped her knees. “Well, that’s it. I’m done. Dead on my feet. Homeward bound.” She stood and added with a huge grin and a quick wink at Véro, “It’s a good thing I showed up tonight, or it would have been lights
out for all three of you.”
“Can you take Véro and the baby back to their place?” I asked.
She observed the baby and to my astonishment—because she’s usually pretty cool when it comes to doing favors for folks—said, “No, sorry. I have something urgent I need to do.”
Véro was visibly upset. Ismène was out the door and back in her car in seconds flat. She couldn’t have been parked that far away. Maybe she was on the side street near the gate.
Humbert, who after all was still a mostly classy kind of guy, must have felt obliged in some way and said, “If I had a car, I’d happily take you and your baby home.”
“Well, good news, Humbert. There’s a Jag in the garage,” I said. “You’ll find the keys in the ignition.”
“A Jag?” he repeated in the most upbeat voice I’d heard him use.
I sighed. I only had to say the word Jag and this guy awoke from his stupor.
“Yes, it’s a Mark Two!” I said provocatively.
He swung his head to Lani. “Do you want to come out for a spin with us?” he asked, his tone full of hope.
Lani smiled, then appeared a little guilty and gave me a sideways glance. Everyone was gawking at everyone, eyes swiveling all over the place—a waltz of looks.
“Just get out of here,” I said as if it were my decision anyway. Who was I? The warden from Prison Break? “Don’t take too long or I’ll wind up thinking you’ve been arrested.”
In what seemed like an instant, the house was empty. Or it felt empty. A shiver ran down my spine. After so much tension tonight, being on my own felt kind of weird.
I loped around the house. All the lights had been left on, so I turned them all off one by one. I closed the shutters on the first floor. Pastis kept me company every step of the way. I know it sounds odd, but his being there was reassuring. The day had been so long. So much crap had gone down. It felt like a whole week had gone by.
