The Paramour's Daughter

by Wendy Hornsby

  “So, Mom,” she said. “You’ll never guess who was on my flight.”

  “Elvis?”

  “No, someone you know.”

  “I know it wasn’t Guido,” I said, a likely prospect. I had talked to him at home, in his house behind the Hollywood Bowl, hours after Casey’s plane had taken off last night. “So, who?”

  “Uncle Max,” she said. “We sat together.”

  I wasn’t surprised, indeed should have known when he didn’t answer any of his phone lines that he was up to something. Bless his heart, watching over Casey and me, as always. He must have paid a fortune for a last-minute first-class ticket. I was very happy that he had come, because I had plenty of questions for him to answer. And I needed a lawyer right now.

  I asked, “Is Uncle Max driving with you?”

  “No. Bébé offered, but Max said he had a car reserved. Anyway, Bébé’s car is so tiny I don’t know where we would have put him. Max said to tell you he’ll see you at the church this afternoon.”

  After her call, when I was in my room with the door shut, I called Max’s mobile phone.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said as greeting. “I was expecting to hear from you.”

  “So, how’s the weather in lovely Southern California?”

  “Yesterday it was damn hot for November,” he said. “I know that by now you’ve had a conversation with a little birdie named Casey, so you know damn well I’m speeding in your direction. And I do mean speeding. These Frenchies drive like maniacs, come right up on your bumper traveling nearly a hundred MPH. Scares the shit out of me.”

  “So, Max, another little birdie tells me someone leaked a story to the press about me and Isabelle.”

  “Guido also tell you I got you more money?”

  “What if I don’t want to make a film about my own sordid history?”

  “You know you do,” he said, “because it’s a story worth telling.”

  He was probably right, but I wasn’t anywhere near as certain about it as he and Guido seemed to be. Not yet, anyway.

  “How’s it going there, Maggie?”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” I said, leaving out the morning’s occurrence. “I’m being well treated. Awfully well. Haven’t seen this many people so very happy to meet me since I went through sorority rush my freshman year of college. Something is up, Max. Everyone wants to get me off alone to talk about important stuff. Grand-mère already took her shot; she expects me to move in. I don’t know who to trust, if anyone. I’ll be very glad to see you and Casey. Are you staying at the house with us?”

  “No, honey. We’ll talk about why not when I see you. I’ll be with an old friend over in the village of Créances, just a couple of miles from you. But I’ll be at the church to watch your back this afternoon, unless one of these guys runs me off the road before I get there.”

  “Do you know a good French lawyer?”

  “You betcha. The old friend I’m staying with. Why?”

  I told him about my meeting with M. Hubert, and the document he wanted me to sign.

  “You didn’t sign, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good girl. Anything else?”

  “One little thing.” I told him about being chased across a carrot field by a man who tried to run me off the road the day before. I listened to him spout off until his battery ran low, acknowledged the wisdom of his warnings, and told him to calm down and drive safely. He was of far more use to me, I told him, if he remained intact.

  After we said good-bye, I found myself hurrying to shower and dress, magical thinking, I suppose, as if by getting ready sooner I would speed Casey to me. After the event that morning, I transferred fear for myself to fear for my daughter, and wanted her with me, under my wing, and not driving across France at what I knew would be insane speeds in a tiny car with a stranger, albeit one with a DNA link. It didn’t work. The minute hand on my watch seemed frozen, the hour hand petrified.

  When I was assembled, dress on, hair brushed, I checked myself in the mirror. The suitcase wrinkles had fallen nicely out of the gray funeral dress. An extra croissant and all that cheese hadn’t yet changed the way it fit, but give them time. For warmth, underneath I wore a silk thermal vest, opaque tights the same gray shade as the dress, with thermal knee-length pants over them. Thinking about trekking across damp gravel, my boots would have been more practical, but low-heeled black pumps were more appropriate to the occasion. I opted for the pumps.

  Again I looked at my watch. It seemed that time had hardly advanced.

  Inspector Dauvin asked us not to discuss the cause of Isabelle’s death until after the funeral, the suggestion being that he would make an announcement soon after, and from then on his investigation would become more open. At some point very soon, I would need to take Isabelle’s things from my wardrobe and hand them over. I realized that the only opportunity I might still have to look at them was now, before we left for the funeral.

  I took the black bag out of the wardrobe and pulled out the plastic hotel laundry bag into which Isabelle’s personal effects had been packed—by whom I did not know. I spilled the bag’s contents onto my bed and checked them against the typed inventory list stapled to the top: gold stud earrings, a Cartier watch, a brown leather handbag with her wallet, credit cards and her national I.D. cards, her passport, house and car keys, including keys for the Hertz rental car she picked up at LAX when she arrived. There were a few hundred dollars worth of euros and U.S. dollars and an open-ended return ticket voucher.

  There was an LA-area map on which she, or someone, had circled the Malibu Colony and drawn arrows to locate her hotel and the market where she waited for me. She had also circled my studio in Burbank and the street where I lived. I needed to know how she found my address, because I am well sheltered from inquiring minds. It had taken Isabelle some genuine effort, perhaps some professional help, to get so close to me.

  She was taking three prescription drugs, and one of them had been filled at the pharmacy next to the supermarket in the Malibu Colony. I wrote down the names of the drugs printed on the labels.

  In Isabelle’s wallet I found a clear-plastic sleeve that held two photographs back to back. One was a studio portrait of Freddy with an attractive woman and two handsome boys, doubtless his wife and children. The other held yet another copy of the snapshot of me sitting atop my father’s shoulder in an orchard, the same shot that Grand-mère Marie kept in her locket and Dad had in his den. What had been the occasion?

  Isabelle’s copy had faded over time; the edges were frayed from handling. Where she folded it to fit into the plastic sleeve, it was cracked, torn. I thought it was sad that she kept a picture of her lost daughter in her wallet. And pathetic that the photo she had chosen also captured her former lover, my dad. Surely, during the two years I spent with her other pictures were taken of me but without Dad. Made me wonder.

  In her change compartment, Isabelle had a little address book. I thumbed through it and found, written inside the front cover, two numbers with Los Angeles area codes, no names listed. One number was for the central information line at my studio. I dialed the other number and reached a recording for a private investigator that gave an address on Grand Avenue, downtown LA, near the federal and county courthouses.

  It was only eleven A.M. in France, both too late and too early to expect anyone to be picking up a business line. I would try the investigator again later.

  Isabelle’s phone was still in the toe of a shoe in the closet. I retrieved it, accessed her directory and logs of incoming and outgoing calls, and compared those numbers to the numbers in the little book. She had called Grand-mère a couple of times. There was a call or two each made to Freddy, Gérard, and Antoine, and three to her doctor in Paris, possibly about the prescription she had filled at the pharmacy in the Malibu Colony. She called both LA numbers, the second one, the P.I., several times. And, she called two numbers in France that weren’t in either her little book or in her phone’s direc
tory. I wrote down those numbers on the pad beside the bed, tore off the top page and stuffed it into my dress pocket, along with the address book.

  I returned everything else to the plastic bag, including the phone. Being careful not to disturb the inventory tag, I pulled the drawstrings at the top and tied them into a bow.

  I also went through Isabelle’s suitcase. Good quality, well-maintained clothes, a cosmetic bag with the usual things, from shampoo to toothpaste. I admired the efficiency of her packing, a few well-chosen, coordinating pieces, and no inessentials; an experienced traveler.

  Having learned very little, but with a few more questions to ask, I latched the suitcase and set it on the floor next to my bed, balanced the tied plastic bag on top of it. All of it was ready to be handed away.

  Again, I checked my watch. Basing my estimate for Casey’s arrival on the length of time it had taken Grand-mère and me to make the same trip yesterday, Casey should be at the house very soon. The call made me somewhat more anxious to see her face, safely in front of me.

  From the wardrobe, I took my camel coat and the silk-and-cashmere Pashmina scarf Mike had bought me during a trip we took to Italy, draped them over my arm, and went downstairs to wait.

  In the salon, Grand-mère’s Paris couple, Clara and Oscar, were setting the table for lunch. After I hung my coat and scarf on a peg by the front door, I ventured into the kitchen following voices and found my grandmother, Grand-mère Marie, Julie, and Kelly. All of them were dressed for the funeral, with big white aprons protecting their clothes.

  “Can I help with anything?” I asked.

  “Oh, my dear, what a smart costume,” Grand-mère said, giving me a top-to-bottom inspection. “The dress suits you well.”

  She wore a trim charcoal gray suit with black leather buttons, and no jewelry. Grand-mère Marie, in black, held a long wooden spoon over a soup pot, steadying herself with her cane, looked me over and nodded approval. Kelly and Julie exchanged glances, sly little smiles. I suspected that they, Kelly in a simple forest green dress and Julie in navy blue, had also passed inspection.

  After first-of-the-day greetings were exchanged all around, Kelly stayed close beside me. Very close. Obviously, Antoine had told her about the morning’s kerfuffle.

  “I think we’re all set. Just waiting for everyone to get here so Grand-mère can strike the gong,” Kelly said. “Lunch is Grand-mère Marie’s famous potato leek soup, followed by braised beef—not horse or goat, don’t worry—and, of course, fruit and cheese after. Clara and Oscar will serve. They’ll stay behind to clear away after lunch and set up tea and cakes after the service.”

  Kelly gave me a spoonful of the soup to sample, but didn’t pause for comments. “There could be as many as two hundred people dropping by. This is a small village, and everyone is related to everyone else to some degree, so they will all make an appearance. Isabelle’s work friends may come; don’t know how many. We have plenty of cakes, and Jacques has brought cheese for the masses.

  “The issue is teacups,” Kelly added. “Several women have brought theirs over, as is the custom. With theirs and ours we have a good start. But we still need to be vigilant. When an empty cup is set down, we need to scoop it up, bring it here to Clara and Oscar for washing and reuse.”

  “The logistics need a general,” I said.

  Kelly hugged Grand-mère. “We have one.”

  Grand-mère patted Kelly’s hand. “Bien sûr. But the true general is tradition. We merely do what is always done.”

  My telephone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out, recognized Casey’s new number on the readout.

  “My daughter,” I said, and started to leave the room to take the call. “Excuse me.”

  “No, no.” Grand-mère reached for my arm. “No need to go.” She nodded at the phone in my hand, expectation on her face. She wanted me to answer it right there, where she could overhear.

  I opened the phone. “Casey, what progress?”

  “We’re here,” she said, jubilant. “We just turned into the drive. I can see the compound wall and the houses.”

  “I’ll be outside waiting for you.” I closed the phone and looked at the four faces watching me. “Casey and Bébé are just driving up.”

  All of the women in the kitchen followed me outside, everyone grabbing coats and sweaters from the pegs by the front door on the way. The day had grown colder, the sky heavier, portending rain, soon. Perfect funeral weather, I thought.

  We stood together and watched as a small convoy of cars approached. In the lead was Antoine’s red Mini station wagon, followed by a tiny, bright yellow and black Smart Car. A sleek green Jaguar sedan brought up the rear.

  David, driving Antoine’s Mini, pulled up beside Grand-mère’s door and got out, opened the back hatch and took out a tall, thin wicker bread basket, a panier, with a dozen or so yard-long baguettes sticking out of the top. I remembered Antoine asking David to pick up the bread for lunch.

  “Such a nice greeting committee,” he said, grinning, as he came toward us.

  “It’s good to see you,” I said. “My daughter and Bébé are right behind you.”

  “I wondered who that was with Bébé.” David turned to watch the arrivals with the rest of us, arms wrapped around his long panier. The warm bread it held smelled wonderful. How could I be hungry again?

  With much stirring of gravel, the Smart Car came to a quick stop next to the Mini. The passenger door opened and two incredibly long, thin, denim-clad legs emerged. Boot-shod feet found the ground, and then all six feet of my Casey unwound from the tiny car.

  David was transfixed as he watched her rise to her full height and stretch. Kelly caught the panier as his grip around it faltered.

  “Careful, son,” she said, setting the basket on the stoop next to her. “Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.”

  The two grandmothers tittered with delight as they watched his reaction to my daughter. I wondered if they were scheming about great-great-grandchildren in their future. I wouldn’t put it past them.

  Casey scanned the assembled faces, smiled back at them, slung her duffel over her shoulder, and said, “Hey, Ma, meet Bébé.”

  Bébé, a compact, more hip version of Antoine—tight jeans, close-cropped dark hair, the ubiquitous three-day beard—joined the group. I thanked him for taking care of Casey, and he assured me that picking her up and having her company for the drive had been his pleasure. When Grand-mère Marie teased him about fitting all of Casey’s length into his ridiculous little car, it was Casey who responded to her, in very nice French.

  “The car actually has plenty of room inside.” Casey hefted her duffel higher on her shoulder. “But it’s a good thing I didn’t pack a trunk.”

  “No problem.” Bébé shrugged, with a pixie-ish smile. “I would simply have strapped either the trunk or the girl to the roof of the car.”

  Antoine told me that everyone loved Bébé. Almost everyone, anyway. Certainly, he had charm. And dimples.

  Grand-mère moved forward and claimed Casey right away. Gripping both of Casey’s hands, she said the same thing to Casey she had said to me when we first met: “I would have known you anywhere.” Indeed, there was a marked family resemblance.

  Grand-mère made general introductions, initiating a full round of les bises. David blushed furiously when Grand-mère formally presented him to Casey. As the two young people offered each other their cheeks, I caught Casey giving David a quick, but full, appraisal that ended with a smile of approval aimed my way.

  During this noisy, kissy exchange, no one paid much attention to the green Jaguar that pulled up in front of Isabelle’s house. All four car doors opened simultaneously. I recognized the three passengers as the woman and two boys with Freddy in the picture Isabelle kept in her wallet: Freddy’s wife and sons. The driver was an older man, maybe in his late sixties, early seventies; feathery remnants of gray hair on an otherwise bald head, stooped posture as if carrying too much of the world’s weight on his narrow
shoulders. He gave us the barest of glances before he began taking luggage out of the trunk.

  Freddy came out his front door, kissed them all, rough-housed with the boys a bit. He waved to us, took a leather bag from his wife’s shoulder, and gathered his family to come and join our clutch. The older man picked up luggage and went into the house without another glance our way.

  I leaned my head close to Grand-mère and asked, though I thought I knew the answer, “Who is that man?”

  “Claude Desmoulins, your stepfather.”

  We were introduced to Freddy’s wife Lena—pronounced Lay-na—and his two boys, Philippe and Robert. Freddy was very gracious when he introduced himself to Casey as her long-lost uncle. She had the oddest expression on her face, puzzlement, as she leaned toward him for the exchange of la bise. I thought she might have recognized the family resemblance she and I shared with Freddy. I still found my resemblance to this group of strangers to be more than a little bit disconcerting.

  Robert, the younger of Freddy’s sons—I had been told he was sixteen—after a foot-to-crown visual measurement of Casey, asked her if she played basketball.

  “No,” she told him. “Volleyball.”

  “Super,” Robert exclaimed, eyes alight. It was Philippe, the eighteen-year-old, who asked her to show them the game sometime. They had watched beach volleyball on TV—the names of gold medalists Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh came up—and apparently thought the sport was indeed très cool. I wondered which was more interesting to them, the game or the statuesque bikini-clad Olympic champions?

  David jumped at the idea of a game. He said there was a nice sandy beach nearby at Anneville-sur-Mer. Maybe tomorrow they could set up a net of some kind, borrow one from a fisherman. A soccer ball would have to serve as a volleyball, but they would make do. Anyone who was interested could join the game. He feigned a jab at Bébé’s flat midsection and added, “Those who are fit enough, of course.”