The Paramour's Daughter

by Wendy Hornsby

  “Mom.”

  “This isn’t a dance in an opera, Casey. It’s the funeral of a murdered woman.”

  “You trying to scare me off?”

  “How’m I doing?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “I have to run to class. I’ll call you before I board. I love you.”

  I punched Bébé’s number into my phone’s directory before I returned any more calls, beginning with my neighbor, Early Drummond. Early worked for the same network I did, a technical director in the news division. He was looking after my house and the horses, and wouldn’t have called unless there was an issue.

  “Hey, Maggie,” he said. “Glad you got back to me. Something I think you might want to know. That woman, the hit-and-run in Malibu, the one you had the thing with?”

  “What about her?”

  “Cops asked us to broadcast her picture during the evening news last night with an appeal for witnesses.”

  “Anyone call in?”

  “I don’t know about that, but, Maggie, I recognized her from the picture. She was up at the house last week, a couple of days before Thanksgiving.”

  “At my house?” I asked, in case I had misheard. “What was she doing?”

  “Looking around,” he said. “Took some pictures with her phone. When she started petting the horses I went down to see what she was up to.”

  “You talked to her?”

  “I did. She said she was interested in the neighborhood. I assumed she was house hunting, or neighborhood shopping,” he said. “She was a nice-looking, well-dressed lady. Didn’t look like a burglar casing the place, so I talked to her for a minute.”

  “Did she ask about me?”

  “Not specifically, just generally asked about people in the neighborhood, you know, what sort of people live around there. Were there movie and television stars? She didn’t mention you, neither did I. Wanted to know about the horses. She asked about riding trails, so I pointed out the Bulldog trailhead across the way. She said she’d like to take a look at the trail, said good-bye and walked away.”

  “Do you have Rich Longshore’s number?” I asked.

  “I already called Rich and told him. Hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s very okay. Did he say anything?”

  “You know Rich. He said uh-huh a few times, asked me to write down everything I remember about the conversation and email it to him. Then we talked about football. He did say that if I talked to you I should remind you about what he told you, but he didn’t say what that was.”

  “He told me to watch my back and to let the local police do the investigating.”

  “Good advice,” Early said. “Good advice.”

  I was scrolling down through the contacts entered in my phone’s directory for Rich’s number when there was a knock on the door. I slipped the phone into my skirt pocket and went to answer.

  Julie, David Breton’s mother, handed me the sweater I had worn on the plane; Grand-mère had asked her to sponge out the stain on the shoulder. Julie was a comfortably round woman in her mid-forties—my age—apron tied over her sweater and jeans. David told me that his mother had an arrangement to “do for” Grand-mère when she was in Normandy, but their relationship seemed to be very casual, friendly, chatty even, unlike the formality I had seen between Grand-mère and her Paris couple, Clara and Oscar. If Julie seemed formal with me it was probably because she didn’t understand much of anything I said any better than I understood her. The Norman accent was very different from the Parisian. And, she did not know me.

  Julie acknowledged my Merci, madame with a little shrug and a curt De rien, madame, meaning don’t give it a thought. I was learning that it was as important to be able to decipher the significances of the many-nuanced little shrugs, nods, hand gestures, and frowns as it was to understand the words spoken.

  After Julie left, I put the sweater in the wardrobe with the clothes she had carefully unpacked for me. The beautiful black satchel with Isabelle’s ashes and personal effects was on the wardrobe floor. Her suitcase was beside it. I had offered nothing to Grand-mère yet, because I intended to look through Isabelle’s things before I gave them up. I needed to know what she had been up to.

  The small effects Isabelle left in her hotel room had been piled into a plastic laundry bag imprinted with the logo of the hotel where she stayed in Malibu, and the bag had been placed in the black satchel. I loosened the drawstring at the top, looked inside, saw her telephone, and took it out, tied the bag back up and closed the closet. There was only about a third of a battery charge left. I turned on the phone and opened the media file, where I found the photos Early had mentioned.

  A series of images appeared on the tiny screen as I scrolled through the file, all of them taken of the environs of Maggie MacGowen in Malibu Canyon: my house, the horses, the mountains, my roses, the rustic chairs and table up on our front deck that Mike had built out of twisted eucalyptus tree prunings. Mike and I would sit on the deck at night in those chairs with a bottle of wine, hold hands and star gaze. The pictures were an intrusion into a very private place, my place—our place. I wondered, if Early hadn’t intercepted Isabelle when he did, how far would she have ventured into that private place?

  The last two pictures were taken from an overlook about a quarter of a mile up Bulldog Trail. Shot from above, looking down through the dense canopy of trees, the pictures showed the wicked curve of the road just below my house, a glimpse of the front of my yard, some rails of the corral we shared with Early, my horse’s handsome flanks, the roof and chimney, the naked mountainside behind the house that we keep stripped bare of vegetation as a firebreak. Isabelle had been up to something far more involved than simply setting up a meeting with me.

  Isabelle had forwarded the photos to someone. I wrote down that phone number and then sent the entire photo file to Rich with a brief text message: PIX FROM IM’S PHONE. I also gave him the date they were sent—two days before Thanksgiving—and the number Isabelle sent them to.

  My own phone rang, a Los Angeles area code, a number I didn’t recognize. I hadn’t finished with Isabelle’s phone, so I opened the wardrobe and slipped it into the toe of a shoe, feeling like a kid who didn’t want Mom to discover a between-meals candy bar when she put away my laundry. The phone wasn’t mine to hide, or to nose through, but I intended to keep it until I’d had a chance to go through Isabelle’s call record.

  I closed the wardrobe and flipped my telephone on. As I always do when I don’t know who is calling, I waited for the caller to speak first.

  “Hello, hello? Are you there, Maggie?” The cultured tones of Jean-Paul Bernard.

  I was so surprised to hear his voice that I felt oddly about the same way I did as a teenager when the first boy called to ask me to the movies: tongue-tied, dry-mouthed, heart pounding in my ears. I had a sudden flash of tanned wrist showing at the end of a crisp white shirt cuff as we rode together in the back seat of his Mercedes on the way to the airport, and felt that flutter I hadn’t let myself feel since Mike died.

  During the eight months that I had been a widow, the only sexual thoughts I could handle related to my too-brief time with my husband, Mike Flint. Mike had been sick—surgery, chemo, surgery, chemo—for a full year before he made the decision to sing a solo version of “Auld Lang Syne” accompanied by his service automatic.

  Vividly, I remembered how it felt to be in his arms, remembered the last time we held each other—on his last morning. But I could not remember exactly how long it had been since I had felt any interest in sex, or had felt that urges of a particular sort would be anything but a betrayal to Mike, living or dead. I know what he would have said to me: What a waste. Get on with your life. He would have cheered the stirrings.

  All I could think to say was, “Jean-Paul.”

  “You are there in Normandy and settled in?”

  “Yes. Thank you for all of your help. How did I ever get myself on an airplane before you came along?”

  He lau
ghed politely. “If I have been of any service to you, I am delighted.”

  I dabbed the sweat off my upper lip, feeling like a silly ass for having such a girly reaction. This very gracious man was doing no more than making a courtesy call to the daughter of a constituent.

  “You have been wonderful,” I managed to utter. “I am beholden.”

  “Wonderful, am I?” Again he laughed. “And you’re beholden? Does that mean I am in the position to ask for a little favor?”

  “Of course.” I must have cringed, thinking here it comes, time to pay up, fool. I also thought I needed to be careful if I could feel so vulnerable to the charms of a stranger so quickly. But it had been a while....

  “Do you know how long you will be in France?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “The funeral is tomorrow, and then there are some details to take care of. I’ll probably be here through the first of the week.”

  “As it turns out, I am needed in Paris on business next week,” he said. “I thought I would come over a few days early. There is an auction of saddle horses on Monday morning at the Haras in Saint-Lô, the national stud, not so far from where you are. I would like very much to see what’s on offer. So, as we will be practically neighbors for a short time, if it is not too much of a burden and your family can spare you, I would very much enjoy your company for dinner Sunday evening.”

  “Dinner?” Be still my heart. And be careful, old girl. “How could dinner with you be a burden, Jean-Paul? Yes, of course. With the caveat that some family situation might present itself. If it does, will I call you at this number?”

  “Yes. This number will always reach me. Shall we say seven o’clock, unless I hear from you?”

  “Seven is fine.”

  I still had a silly grin on my face when another knock on the door startled me out of my reverie. I opened the bedroom door.

  “Ah, you exist.” The man standing in the hall outside my room was about my age, had my eyes. He smiled, took my hand and gave it one firm downward shake as he leaned forward to kiss me on both cheeks, la bise again. “I am Antoine, your cousin, son of Gérard, your uncle. Welcome.”

  “Happy to meet you,” I said, glancing down when I caught myself staring. Among other things, I checked out what he was wearing: loose-fitting medium brown cords and a black cable-knit sweater, dark leather shoes. Grand-mère told me that the family did not dress for dinner, but I had no clue about where, on a scale that began at sweats and ended at black tie, their notion of appropriate family dinner attire would fall. So I went for the middle ground. After a shower, I had put on knee-high flat-heeled boots, a mid-calf-length brown suede skirt, and topped it with a cream-colored turtleneck for warmth. Grand-mère’s house was an ancient pile of rock that had been retrofitted with central heating at some point, but the old place still managed to be drafty and had pockets of cold lurking in corners and at intersections of hallways.

  “Pardon my intrusion,” Antoine said. “You have a visitor.”

  “Who is it?” I shut my door and walked down the hall beside him. Surely he wouldn’t refer to a member of the family as a visitor.

  “Les cognes,” he said, irony indicated by the lift of one eyebrow as he jammed his hands into his pockets and slouched gracefully along beside me. “The police. Promise me you aren’t a notorious criminal trying to hide out on our humble estate.”

  “Sorry, no.” I laughed, albeit nervously. I felt a powerful sense of déjà vu; we looked like blood kin. “It’s probably something about Isabelle.”

  “Of course.” He shrugged. “So sad, so unexpected.”

  Before I could think of the appropriate response, he asked, “Do you speak French?”

  “Like a tourist,” I said. “I studied French in school, but that was a long time ago. I can understand ordinary conversation fairly well, and I can manage to ask directions to a train station or order a meal, but beyond that...”

  “Even if you were fluent, you might not understand the locals; the Norman accent is very strong. Shall I sit in with you?”

  “Please,” I said, grateful for the offer.

  The salon at Grand-mère’s house, typical of French homes, served as living room, dining room, family room, and general domestic crossroads, and took up much of the ground floor. When we walked through, Julie was setting plates on a large refectory table that was placed in the center of the room in front of an immense fireplace. There was an arrangement of sofas and chairs at one end of the room, at the other a tall sideboard set with cider, wine, apéritifs and glasses. It all looked very cozy, very comfortable. But I saw no one except Julie.

  I looked up at Antoine. “Where—?”

  He interrupted my question by touching one index finger to his lips and pointing upstairs with the other. Obviously he did not want Grand-mère to know that the police had come visiting. He told Julie he was taking me next door to meet his family, and promised to have me back in time for dinner.

  We walked outside without stopping for coats. This would be normal for me to do, habit, because there are so few occasions in Southern California where a coat is actually needed. The day before, I left Los Angeles during a Santa Ana wind-driven heat wave, and had nearly forgotten to bring a coat at all. But we were not in Southern California now, and the night air was frigid. I wrapped my arms around my chest and shivered. Antoine seemed unaffected.

  “We are just there.” He indicated a house about a dozen yards from Grand-mère’s, an obviously new confection built in the style of the grand châteaux of the Loire Valley, but on a much smaller scale. It looked ridiculously opulent tucked into the same compound as Grand-mère’s ancient, unadorned rectangular block of stone and the house opposite, a modern, austere version of Grand-mère’s, with steel where hers had wood, sharp corners where hers were worn round by age and weather.

  Antoine followed my line of vision, and, indicating that starkly modern house, said, “That is your mother’s house. Your brother and his family will be staying there this weekend.”

  Mention of Freddy reminded me of my conversation with Casey and the overheard conversation after lunch, something about a baby, or, in French, bébé. I asked Antoine, “Who is Bébé Martin?”

  He turned toward me, smiling broadly; apparently this was a happy topic. “He is my brother, Charles. When we were little, I called him my bébé and to this day he will not be called by any other name. Not even in school. How do you know of Bébé?”

  “He’s picking up my daughter at the airport tomorrow and bringing her here.”

  “Don’t worry then, she is in very good hands. She will love Bébé, she must, everyone loves Bébé.” Then he glanced at his house and his smile took on a wry cast. “Almost everyone loves Bébé.”

  As we approached his front door, I asked, “Did you build this house?”

  He bent his head closer to mine and whispered, “My father built it. I won’t ask you what you think of it.”

  He opened the front door, and what I saw stopped me in my tracks. I forgot to feel cold as I found myself looking into the deep, warm brown eyes of a beautiful woman.

  A portrait, nearly life-size, hung on the foyer wall facing the front door, centered so that it could not be missed by anyone who entered the house through that door. The woman in the portrait was more than stunning, painted in the reverential fin de siècle style of John Singer Sargent. The pale skin of her face, her bare arms, and her décolletage was luminescent, as if lit from within. Fathomless brown eyes, amazing eyes, had a fire of their own. Her dark and gleaming hair was parted in the center and pulled back into a classic chignon. A long green-black gown was a dull shimmer of silk that skimmed the curves of a slender, graceful body. A woman in her prime, her beauty timeless.

  Awed, I asked Antoine who she was.

  “My mother, the angel of this house. Bébé painted her from memory.” He kissed the fingertips of one hand and touched them to the frame. “She keeps the devil from our door.”

  “She is beautiful.”
/>   “Yes. She was.” A shadow crossed his face. He turned from her, indicated the passage to the right of her wall, her shrine. “Inspector Dauvin awaits.”

  We walked into a large salon. I was surprised to find that, within those opulent walls, the furnishings were very simple and functional. I was also surprised to see David Breton there. He sat at a round table at the far end of the room, facing two teenaged boys whose backs were to us. Spread out on the table in front of the boys were textbooks, notebooks, and a pair of laptop computers. We had, obviously, interrupted a tutoring session.

  There was a man with them, fortyish, dressed very much like Antoine in casual slacks and a sweater. I quickly decided that he was the father of the smaller of the two boys because of their obvious familiarity with each other, the man leaning over the boy’s shoulder and interacting with him as the youth puzzled through a problem. They all turned toward us when David waved a greeting. The adult nudged the boys to rise to their feet: A lady had entered the room.

  I saw no policeman, and began to wonder if there actually was one.

  “You know David,” Antoine said. “We are taking advantage of his visit. Usually he tutors Chris and Gus online, so this is a treat for them. The boys are preparing for their baccalauréat exams in June. If they work very hard and score exceptionally well, as David did, they will qualify to prepare for the grandes écoles. If not...” He turned and, with a teasing scowl, jabbed his finger at the boys. “If not, they will milk cows for the rest of their miserable lives.”

  The boys scoffed.

  “Chris.” Antoine presented his son to me. “Greet your cousin. Cousin, here is Christophe.”

  Chris obliged with the handshake and la bise, and the formal “Delighted.” Then, with an impish grin, he said, “My parents are wondering, but are too timid to ask, how shall we address you?”

  “Please call me Maggie,” I said as Antoine feigned boxing the boy’s ears for his sauciness. “Among all the available choices, I prefer Maggie.”