The Paramour's Daughter

by Wendy Hornsby

  “But how did you know your sister-in-law’s bag was, as we say, contrefaçon, a fake?”

  “Detective Longshore gave me a Web site that helps the customs people spot fakes. The stitching that attached the handle of Lena’s bag was wrong. Besides, her bag was very new, the real thing would have been extraordinarily expensive, and they were so broke they were living with his mother.” I sipped the bitter beer concoction, made a face, made the handsome Jean-Paul smile. “By the way, in case you were wondering, the bag you gave me is authentic.”

  He laughed. “I am relieved to know that.”

  I skipped saying anything about why I asked Rich about identifying counterfeits in the first place. Why risk ruining a lovely evening? And it was a lovely evening. The restaurant was as promised, small and informal. We were seated at a long table, family style, with two other couples. The meal was delicious. Simple food, expertly prepared. By the time we got around to cheese, we were the only diners left, though there were some locals at the bar in front, talking with the proprietor and his wife over nightcaps.

  “The truth is, though I hate to share credit,” I said, “Inspector Dauvin was onto Lena long before I began to wonder about her. He was happy to hear about the handbag because it makes a connection between Lena and Sergei, Junior that can be taken into court. But with bank and phone records—she transferred a small down-payment to Sergei’s account—he already has plenty. And, of course, they have the text messages Lena sent to Sergei that made him so angry.”

  “What did she text?”

  “He asked for cash to cover expenses so far. Besides the Russian mechanic in LA—twice a failure—there were those two attempts in France to run me down, the cost of an assistant, the stolen van,” I said. “Lena’s first response was, ‘Incomplete, no pay.’ When Sergei, Junior begged for one more shot at me, she responded, ‘Drop dead.’ And within a couple of hours...” I shrugged.

  “Fait accompli.” He covered my hand, aimed his big brown eyes at me. “We are fortunate that the man she hired to, if you will, terminate you, was such an idiot. Tenacious, but an idiot.”

  A mere four days ago, I asked Jean-Paul how an upstanding citizen would go about finding a hit man. Therein lay the crux of Lena’s downfall.

  When Lena met Sergei, Junior, a boaster, a braggart, a wannabe hood whose startup was selling knock-off designer handbags out of the trunk of a borrowed Lamborghini, she decided she had her man. How many street thugs does an insurance executive meet in a day? She made him an offer and, full of himself, he accepted. Evidence of Lena and Sergei’s actual criminal naïveté was the mess they made of things.

  Each mistake created new problems. Lena wouldn’t pay Sergei, Junior unless he finished the job. ’Ovich was demanding that Junior live up to their deal, though ’Ovich had screwed up twice, or he’d go to Ludanov, Senior and snitch on the kid. The mechanic’s loan payment was due. Sergei, Junior had to find a way to make it before his father found out what he’d done. The consequences for him wouldn’t be deadly, but they would be dire.

  For Lena, I was not only still a problem, I became a more immediate problem once I had spoken with Monsieur Hubert. Lena, of course, had redirected my dad’s share of royalties, in effect stealing from Mom, for over a year. If I died before Isabelle, the flow of those funds would remain unaffected. But I didn’t, and Lena knew that her tidy row of financial dominoes was going down. And her with it.

  Lena gave Sergei another chance to earn his money. Actuary that she was, she still insisted that I go out in an automobile “accident,” the most common way for a healthy woman my age to die in France. Again Sergei hired an amateur to help him, the man with the foul vocabulary, but they were foiled first by David’s skill as a driver and next by Jacques Breton’s watchfulness. And then, on Saturday when I identified him from the airport, Lena knew he needed to go.

  “You have to give Lena credit for one thing,” I said. “She knew car wrecks. But that was her business. She knew where to drive a knife into a tire to make the steel belt separate, the tire to shred. And that’s what she did to the Lamborghini on her way out of the house.”

  “How is your brother handling the situation?” he asked.

  “He’s stunned,” I said. Freddy looked shellshocked when I left him with Max and Claude at Patricia Dutoit’s office in Lessay. He asked the notaire to begin divorce proceedings, and to rewrite his will, right away. In the original, he had left all of his legally disposable assets, one-third of his estate—two-thirds by law would go to his sons—to his “beloved wife.” An affectionate generosity that damn near got him, and me, killed. “His wife sits in the local jail, waiting to be arraigned for murder, murder-for-hire, attempted murder, embezzlement.... Poor man doesn’t know what hit him.”

  “I am sorry for him, and for his boys. For them, a nightmare begins.” Jean-Paul covered my hand, looked into my eyes. “But for you, I am more than relieved that the threat is...” his free hand swept the air “...fini.”

  He caught the proprietor’s eye and signaled him with a lift of the chin. After some apparently complex computations, a handwritten bill, folded, on a saucer, was set next to Jean-Paul. He gave it the barest glance, and placed a stack of euros on top.

  “Thank you,” I said, rising. “You’re good company.”

  “My dear Maggie,” Jean-Paul said, holding my coat for me. “Now that l’Affaire famille Martin is resolved, how am I to entertain myself? I have a lovely title, but what the consul general actually does is, frankly, quite dull: receptions, funerals, lost passports, occasional mischief by my countrymen abroad. The events of the last week have been more interesting than all of the last two years combined.”

  “Maybe we’ll think of something,” I said, slipping my hand through his arm. I had several fairly interesting ideas.

  We walked out into a cold, clear night, a sliver of a moon, a few clouds in the distance. Except for the light coming from the restaurant’s windows, and the occasional burst of laughter from the patrons still standing at the bar inside swapping their stories, the night was black and silent. Could have been any small town on a Sunday evening.

  As we drove out of the restaurant lot, Jean-Paul asked, “How long will you be staying in France?”

  “I’m not sure. Depends on how things go tomorrow in a couple of meetings. Casey has a flight out of de Gaulle Tuesday morning, and I would like to be on the plane with her. I need to get back to work.” I looked at his profile, lit only by the dash lights. “And you?”

  “I have the horse auction in St-Lô tomorrow and then I’m in Paris until Wednesday. If you’re staying over in the city, please call me.”

  We settled into an easy conversation, the sharing of life stories that comes early in a new friendship. I felt comfortable with him.

  He took a shortcut, turned into a dark lane, shielded on both sides by heavy bocage, the hedgerow. The only light came from his wide beams.

  “This is a beautiful car,” I said, running my hand over the burlwood veneer on the glove box. It was a beautiful car, an older model Mercedes S-class, a stately vehicle powered by a thrumming diesel engine.

  He patted the steering wheel. “This fine lady is the same age as my son, just a youngster.” That made the car eighteen.

  I asked about his son, and the conversation naturally segued into a discussion between two widowers, both emerging in fits and starts from under the cloud of grief, both with children on the threshold of adulthood. Clearly, this shortcut was the long way around, a ploy to give us more time together.

  Jean-Paul was telling me about his son’s plans for college, when I felt the first bump. Something in the road? I thought, startled.

  “Merde,” Jean-Paul swore, eyes on the rearview mirror. When the second bump happened, he jammed down on the accelerator, pushing the big diesel Mercedes forward. I turned, saw the profile of a black Range Rover, lights out, riding our bumper. The Range Rover hit us a third time, an assertive thump.

  I pulled out my phone, s
aw there was service, dialed 17, Police emergency. I asked, “Where are we?”

  “Road between Pirou and Créances.”

  When Emergency picked up, I couldn’t understand the operator’s questions. I held the phone against Jean-Paul’s ear, and he gave our location, explained what was happening, listened, told me to keep the line open, told the operator when we turned, all four tires squealing, onto the road toward Lessay; I could see the spires of the abbey, black against a night sky.

  The Range Rover stayed with us, occasionally dropping back to make some space to build momentum so he could bump into our rear again, jerking us against the seat belts. The old Mercedes took the abuse like a tank.

  Ahead, I saw the lights of Lessay and, approaching fast, the flashing blue lights of a police car. As quickly as it appeared, the Range Rover was gone, turned down a side lane, slipped off into the night.

  Jean-Paul spoke rapidly into the phone, told the operator where the other car went. The police car passed us with a flash of its headlights. Following Jean-Paul’s information, it turned.

  Shaken, Jean-Paul pulled to the side of the road. He turned to me. “Who knew where we were going tonight?”

  “My uncle, my daughter, my grandmother.”

  “I’m sorry, a silly question to ask.” He took my hand. “We were easy to follow. But who?”

  I shook my head, dialed Uncle Max. Jean-Paul put the car in gear and drove on toward the village of Lessay. Max answered, but the signal dropped. I said my usual prayer to AT&T and dialed again, reached him again.

  “Honey, where are you?” Max demanded, voice gruff.

  I checked the dash clock. “Did I wake you?”

  Like a black bat out of hell, the Range Rover came out between the hedgerows, clipped the back corner of our car, a perfect maneuver that sent us into a spin. Jean-Paul fought to steer into the spin, to regain control. As I braced, I dropped the phone. I could hear Max calling my name. Maybe I answered, but I was trying to see what we were going to hit, to prepare for impact.

  Jean-Paul jockeyed the car, got it straight, still moving fast, but on the street. The Range Rover came back for another go at us. The air was full of noise, Range Rover revving, Mercedes roaring, tires scudding sideways along the pavement, the crash of metal on metal.

  We saw him coming at us yet again, this time aimed at my door.

  Jean-Paul managed to swerve, avoided impact, but only by jumping the stone curb and driving on the lawn. The convent was straight ahead and there wasn’t time to stop the car before it collided with stone wall.

  “I’m braking hard. Get set to bail,” Jean-Paul said.

  “Ready.” I gripped the door handle with both hands, braced; he stomped the brake, both doors flew open.

  “Now,” he said.

  I hit the lawn tucked and rolling. The empty Mercedes collided with a corner of the stone building and stopped dead no more than five yards from me.

  “Jean-Paul!” I heard him groan, found him piled against the base of a marble fountain. The Range Rover squealed into a U-turn. It was coming back. I thought the hesitation was the driver deciding which of us to go after first.

  In the distance, there were sirens. Help wouldn’t get there in time.

  I scrambled to the Mercedes, found my bag, and ran toward Jean-Paul. The Range Rover’s big V-8 motor revved, laid rubber as it surged toward us.

  I stood in its path, put my hand in my bag and pulled out the German Luger Grand-mère forced on me as I left her house that morning—the one she took off a dead soldier—aimed into the approaching windshield and pulled the trigger twice as Mike had taught me. Then I shot out both front tires. As the Range Rover hit the stone curb it cart-wheeled, ass over teakettle, and landed on its roof.

  Nuns in their white nightclothes began to pour out of the convent, Ma Mère in the middle of the pack, like a flock of angels in the night. Several of them went straight to Jean-Paul, rendering aid.

  Luger held in front of me, ready to fire again, I went over to the upside-down beast, which was groaning and leaking fluids. The driver was slithering out a broken window when I got to him. He, also, was groaning and leaking fluids. I had winged him. His right arm hung limp from a shattered shoulder.

  “Who the hell are you?” I demanded. The young man wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt was no one I knew.

  “Don’t shoot, lady.” He held up his one good arm. I recognized the voice, Sergei’s buddy who was swearing the whole time that he chased me across a carrot field the day before. “Jesus, don’t shoot, lady. Where you think you are, Texas?”

  Ma Mère reached over and put her hand on my right wrist. I lowered the Luger and gave it to her. It disappeared somewhere into the folds of her gown.

  The driver managed to sit, back against the wreckage. Several of the nuns fluttered to his side, expertly assessing his injuries.

  “Who hired you?” I asked the driver.

  He squinted at me with one eye while a sister of mercy sponged blood from a cut above the other one. He was pumped on adrenaline and probably a few other mood enhancers. Hyper at the moment, he started rattling off his tale of woe.

  “That bitch who hired Sergei,” he said, as if I should have known. “I called her. Sergei was dead, and I never got paid. I wanted my money. No one else was going to give it to me except her. So she says, finish the job tonight. I’ll pay you tonight.”

  “When did you talk to her?”

  “This afternoon. What’s it to you?”

  “Not a lot, except it’s me she hired you to kill. And I’m taking that fairly personally.”

  Any number of car doors slammed at once. I heard Dauvin giving orders, turned, found him among a clutch of emergency responders and uniformed gendarmes.

  “What kept you?” I asked him.

  I have no idea what he was saying to me, though I got the gist: What the hell was I doing with a gun?

  I said, “I just got real tired of car chases and decided to put a stop to it.”

  I walked off to check on Jean-Paul. Behind me I heard Ma Mère laugh heartily.

  Jean-Paul wanted to sit up, but the nuns wouldn’t let him. Paramedics were right there, got his head and neck into a brace, got a board under him and lifted him from the ground.

  He managed a smile as he reached a hand out to me.

  “Hey, Jean-Paul,” I said as I took it. “What should we do for our second date?”

  About the Author

  Wendy Hornsby is the author of eight previous mysteries, six of them featuring Maggie MacGowen. Hornsby won an Edgar Award for her story “Nine Sons,” which appeared in Sisters in Crime IV. Her books have won the Grand Prix de littérature policière, and readers’ and reviewers’ choice awards, as well as nominations for the Prix du Roman d’Adventures and the Anthony Award.

  Hornsby lives in Long Beach, California, where she is a professor of history at Long Beach City College. She welcomes visitors and e-mail at www.wendyhornsby.com

  Also by Wendy Hornsby

  The Maggie Macgowen Mystery Series

  Telling Lies

  Midnight Baby

  Bad Intent

  77th Street Requiem

  A Hard Light

  In the Guise of Mercy

  Other Mysteries

  No Harm

  Half a Mind

  Nine Sons [stories & essays]

  Table of Contents

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  About the Author

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