The Sleeping Lady

by Bonnie C. Monte

  While I waited for Julien, I phoned my mother. She’d called and left a nervous message this morning, worried that I was about to be gunned down, apparently in some vendetta against San Anselmo shopkeepers. I did my best to reassure her that Thalia’s murder had nothing to do with me, but she wasn’t convinced. “Take some time off and come back home for a little while,” she said.

  “Ma, I am home.” I reminded her that I had a husband and a business to attend to.

  “Well, maybe I could take some time off from work and come there,” she offered.

  The idea of my middle-aged mother in her heels and power suits shadowing me made me chuckle. “Please relax. Talk to Daddy. He’ll tell you there’s nothing to worry about.” At that moment, Julien emerged from the hotel, dressed in a lilac polo shirt and skinny jeans. He climbed into the front seat. “Ma, I’ve got to go. I love you.”

  I pulled out and headed toward the Mission District. I’d promised Julien the best burrito in the city, and he’d jumped at the offer, as eager to be part of my sleuthing efforts as he was to sample the carne asada from La Cumbre.

  “Parents!” I said. “They mean well, but they can be annoying.”

  “Yeah. My mother is angry because my father made her come on this trip, and now they’re stuck in a murder investigation. We all have to go to the police station at two o’clock to make our statements. She said this is the worst vacation she’s ever had.”

  Hmm. Thalia had said it was Renata’s idea to tag along and bring Julien. At least that’s what Etienne had told her. Now, according to Julien, it had been Etienne’s idea. Why? I wondered. Why would he want his family in tow when he was visiting his mistress?

  We parked on Mission Street near Seventeenth, and I put a handful of coins in the meter. As we walked one block north, Julien was fascinated by the colorful shops, with their wares displayed out front. “This doesn’t look anything like the rest of San Francisco!” he said. Here the Victorians were painted lively purples, lime greens, and cobalt blues. The streets were crowded with mothers and young children doing their shopping.

  We turned right on Valencia Street, which was hipper, more gentrified, with vintage furniture stores and lots of twenty-some-things dressed in black. At La Cumbre, we joined the line and ordered our burritos and watermelon aguas frescas, then sat at a table up front where we could watch the street scene.

  They called our number in a few minutes. Julien unwrapped his burrito eagerly and dove in, making noises of pleasure. When he came up for air, he said, “So do you think Marcel killed your friend?”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  Julien shrugged. “He’s sneaky. And he didn’t like Thalia. I heard him call her a putain.”

  “A whore? He said that to her?”

  “No, not to her. He said it when she wasn’t there. Because she tried to get him fired.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She told Papa how she caught Marcel looking through his desk. But my father just laughed about it. He said Marcel was probably putting something away. I think Thalia was right, though, because I also caught him when I was working there during the summer.” He went on to tell me how he walked into Etienne’s office and found Marcel beside an open file drawer, a folder in his hand. “When he saw me, he stuffed some papers back in and shoved the folder back into the drawer. He had a guilty look on his face.”

  I wondered how much of this was Julien’s imagination. After all, Marcel did work there. Why wouldn’t he be looking at files?

  My skepticism must have been obvious, because Julien said, “You don’t believe me, do you? But I’m sure he was snooping. I looked in the file later—it was an orange folder, so I could tell which one it was. It was about shipments from Kenya to the company’s warehouse in Marseille. I told Papa, but he laughed at me. He said I watch too many movies. So I made him check the folder. He said nothing was missing.”

  “Maybe you were mistaken.”

  “No. All the papers in the folder were in date order, except the four sheets at the front.” He paused to take another bite. “I think those were the ones Marcel stuffed back in when I came in the room. And they were all about container shipments from Africa. Why would he be looking at those? He works on business in Asia.”

  “OK, maybe you’re right. And you think Thalia knew?” That would explain why he didn’t want her hanging around with Etienne. I decided to tell Julien about the notes Thalia had received. His eyes grew wide.

  “Blackmail!” he said breathlessly. “Just like in The Man Who Wasn’t There!” At my puzzled look, he explained, “It’s a Coen brothers classic.”

  “Oh.”

  “We have to find out where Marcel was on Monday night,” he said excitedly. “I saw him get back to the hotel at about seventeen thirty.” He quickly translated for me. “Nine thirty. I was down in the lobby and I saw him get out of a taxi. It was after I came back from dinner with Jerome.”

  “You and Jerome went out? What about your parents?”

  “Oh, my father was too tired after he got back from visiting a rug dealer in Sausalito. He said there was a lot of traffic, and he had gotten lost. He just wanted to take a shower and watch TV. So he and my mother ordered room service. And I went out with Jerome.

  “Anyway,” Julien went on, “when I got back, I was hanging around downstairs, and that’s when I saw Marcel get out of a taxi. He was in a big hurry to get back upstairs. Maybe Thalia found out some secret about him, and that’s why he killed her.”

  Looking through papers, disliking Thalia, taking a taxi. Not exactly proof of homicide. I wondered if my account to the police sounded as far-fetched to them as Julien’s theory did to me. Evidence was what I needed, not hunches.

  We finished our lunch and arrived at the police station with five minutes to spare. “I’m first on the list,” Julien said. “They’re taking us one at a time—except for me. They said my mother needs to go in with me since I’m less than eighteen years old.”

  As we said goodbye and he thanked me for lunch, an idea occurred to me: Marcel’s hotel room would be empty while he was being questioned. I asked Julien for the room number and decided to go have a look around.

  CHAPTER 8

  I rode the elevator to the hotel’s fourth floor. My plan was to cajole a maid into letting me into Marcel’s room, saying I’d forgotten my key. But a linen cart was in the hall in front of Room 406, two doors away from Marcel’s room. Had the cleaner already been in there, or was she heading that way? I decided to hope for the best. After about ten minutes, the maid emerged and opened the door of the next room. Good. She was headed in the right direction. I tried to look purposeful as a couple passed me in the hall. I walked briskly past them and turned the corner, waited a minute, then came back and waited some more. After another fifteen minutes, the maid emerged and wheeled her cart toward Marcel’s room. She gave a brisk knock, then unlocked the door and went in, leaving the door ajar.

  I debated. I could sneak in and try to hide inside until the maid left. But what if there was no place to hide? I decided to be brazen. I sauntered in with a cheery hello.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” the stout woman said. “I’ll be about twenty more minutes.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I need to make a phone call. Just go ahead with whatever you’re doing.”

  If she thought anything was amiss, she didn’t show it. She got her spray bottle and cloths from the cart. In a moment, the odor of bleach wafted from the bathroom. I sat on the bed pulling open the nightstand drawers. Gideon Bible. Notes scrawled on the pad: a few phone numbers in France. An address on Grant Avenue that I copied onto a scrap of paper in my purse. Noticing a jacket over the back of the chair, I rifled through the pockets. Just some loose change.

  The maid came out to retrieve some more items off her cart, then disappeared back into the bathroom. I walked over to the closet. There were a few shirts and pairs of slacks hanging there. It took only a moment to feel in all the pockets. Aga
in, nothing significant, just some coins, a book of matches, and a few receipts. I scanned the receipts: two for Yellow Cab, one for coffee and a croissant at Shaky Grounds, one for a map of San Francisco purchased at a nearby bookstore. Shoving the receipts in my pocket, I moved to the dresser and slid open the top drawer quietly. I poked around the socks and underwear, being careful not to disturb anything. Underneath the folded underwear was a sheaf of papers. I leafed through them quickly, then took a picture of each one with my cell phone and placed them back where I’d found them.

  I turned my attention to the drawer below. A few neat stacks of folded shirts. I felt underneath them. Nothing. As I was opening the third drawer, my phone rang, causing me to let out a little yelp. I was definitely on edge, even though I figured I probably had at least forty-five minutes before Marcel made it back. The maid poked her head out of the bathroom. “You all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine. My phone startled me. I didn’t know it was turned up so loud.”

  Satisfied, she returned to her cleaning. It was Sonia on the phone. I told her I couldn’t talk and promised to call later. Then I turned down the volume on the ringer and stuck the phone in my pocket. As I was searching the middle dresser drawer, the maid came out of the bathroom. “I’ll do the bed now, ma’am.”

  “Thanks.” I went into the bathroom and closed the door. Now what? I examined the pockets of the bathrobe hanging on a hook. Empty. That was it. I didn’t want to go back to the dresser drawers with the maid out there. I paced the small bathroom, waiting. Conscious that I’d been in there a while, I flushed the toilet to add a note of realism.

  Now the vacuum was running. I turned on the bathtub and started to fill it. I’d pretend to take a bath until the maid left and then have one last look. After a few minutes, I shut the water off and listened. No sounds of vacuuming. I stepped out of the bathroom. The bed was made, everything tidy.

  I ran back to the dresser and started rifling through the clothes. More shirts, sweaters—Aha! A manila folder. I was beginning to read through the papers inside when I heard the click of a key card in the lock. Maybe the maid had forgotten to do something. Then I heard voices. That was no maid. Marcel was talking to Jerome. How had they come back so soon? I hurriedly shut the drawer, grabbed my purse, and dashed into the bathroom. I started to close the door behind me but had the presence of mind to realize that would be a giveaway that someone was in there. Sweeping aside the shower curtain, I stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain closed.

  Great. I was standing in five inches of lukewarm water with my shoes on. Not daring to risk the noise of letting the water down the drain, I strained to hear what was going on. “OK, à plus tard,” Marcel said.

  The outer door closed, and after a minute the TV switched on. Oh God, he was settling in. OK, I’d text Julien and tell him to get Marcel the hell out of there so I could make my getaway. I had just started typing when, to my horror, Marcel walked into the bathroom. I held absolutely still behind the shower curtain.

  I could hear him peeing. Then the toilet flushed and the sink turned on. As soon as I heard him walk out of the room, I texted Julien: I’m hiding in Marcel’s bathroom. You have to get him out of the room.

  No response. I waited a few minutes, then texted him again. Nothing. Dammit, where was he? All I could do was hope Marcel wouldn’t come back into the bathroom or, worse, decide to take a shower. I imagined him pulling open the curtain and both of us screaming. Finally my phone lit up with a text: I’m on my way back to the hotel with my parents.

  This could take a while. The water around my ankles grew cold. I could hear Marcel opening and closing drawers. Then his phone rang and I heard him talking, although I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I wondered if he might be so engrossed in his conversation that I could make a run for it. No, that would be crazy. Finally, after another twenty minutes, there was a knock on the door. I could hear Julien trying to persuade Marcel to go up to the rooftop pool with him. That went on for a few minutes. Then Julien said, “My mother told me not to go into the pool alone. Just come up and sit nearby. You don’t have to swim.” Marcel apparently agreed because after another minute, the TV was turned off, and I heard them leave. The door closed loudly behind them.

  Stiffly, I stepped out of the tub, my shoes sloshing. I swished the bathmat over the puddle on the floor, let the water down the drain, and bolted out of the hotel room. Running for the stairwell, I hoped Marcel wouldn’t notice the wet trail on his carpet.

  CHAPTER 9

  I called Hernandez first thing the next morning. After three rings, his voice mail kicked in. I groaned in frustration. At the beep, I explained that I’d found some important information and urged him to call me back right away.

  I did the breakfast dishes and wiped down the kitchen counters. No call yet. Bursting with nervous energy, I emptied the refrigerator, making the just-cleaned countertops sticky. No matter. I could clean them again. I filled the sink with hot water and soap, put on rubber gloves, and began sponging down the inside of the fridge.

  Peter came into the kitchen and poured himself a second cup of coffee. “What’s all this?” he asked with amusement.

  I brushed back the hair from my sweaty forehead and said curtly, “I’m waiting for a phone call.”

  “From who, Martha Stewart?” I refused to smile, even though I privately admitted his remark was funny. “OK, I won’t get in your way,” he said. “But you know Fiona is coming tomorrow. She’ll happily clean the fridge.”

  “Fiona does a fine job, but it’s not the same as the person who has to live in the house, is it?” I felt rather mature saying this, although it was patently untrue. Fiona, a motherly middle-aged woman who had cleaned Peter’s house since before I came on the scene, put my domestic skills to shame. Peter refilled his coffee cup and retreated back upstairs to his office, no doubt wondering at my newfound commitment to domesticity.

  The refrigerator was shining, the countertops were cleaned for the second time, and I was considering tackling the stove when Julien called, saving me from further housework.

  “Detective Warren showed me his gun,” he said excitedly before I had even finished saying hello. I smiled despite myself. How could I fault Julien for enjoying this whole mess? After all, he’d hardly known Thalia. “So how did the interview go?” I asked.

  He launched into a detailed account, starting with the detectives’ questions about his age and where he lived. Clearly, being interrogated by the police was a high point of his visit to the States. “They asked me about where I was that night, where everyone was—Marcel, Jerome, my parents. I made sure to tell them about Marcel getting out of the taxi.

  “My mother kept trying to answer for me, but the police made her be quiet. She wasn’t happy about that. Then they asked me about—how do you say—anonymous notes. Whether I knew about any notes that Thalia had received. That’s when my mother spilled her water and we had to stop while it got cleaned up. Anyway, I told them I didn’t know about any notes. I wasn’t sure if I should say you told me. So I said maybe they should ask you, since Thalia would have told you. That’s when my mother started questioning me about why I was spending time with you. The police made her be quiet again.”

  Julien continued with more details: how the detectives asked if he knew about his father and Thalia, when it had started, and so on. “Oh, and they asked about whether I had gone outside during the party at Thalia’s house. And about everyone else, too. Not out back but out front.”

  This was good news. Maybe they were looking into who might have left the note on Thalia’s car. “Did you talk any more about Marcel?”

  “I told the detectives I didn’t trust him, that I saw him spying on my father’s business. Then my mother said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ That’s when Detective Warren told her she’d have to leave the room if she interrupted again. I could see she was really mad, but she didn’t say anything. I told the detectives that Marcel and Thalia hated each other. />
  “Good!”

  “Maybe.” He sounded doubtful. “I hung around in the hallway when it was Marcel’s turn to be interviewed. When he came back out, they all shook hands and the detectives thanked him for his help. And Marcel was smiling.”

  “Crap! He’s got them completely fooled.” I had been hoping they’d lead him out in handcuffs. “Listen, I saw some papers in Marcel’s room,” I told Julien. “Some I photographed—they were the itinerary for a trip to Hong Kong. There was another stack, though, that I didn’t have a chance to read through or take photos of because Marcel came back. I saw something about a Legrande Warehouse in Marseille.”

  Julien said that was one of the two warehouses in Marseille that Etienne’s company used for receiving shipments. He promised to investigate when he got home, and we said goodbye.

  I stepped out the door into the garden and began cutting herbs for dinner. The basil was growing like mad. I decided to make pasta with pesto for Garrett. And a salad with the Indigo Rose tomatoes and some fresh mozzarella. The phone rang.

  “Hello, Mrs. Sullivan. I understand you have some news for me,” Hernandez said. He listened as I explained my find. Then he asked, “Where exactly did you discover these papers?”

  “In Marcel’s hotel room.”

  “When were you in Mr. Benoit’s hotel room?”

  “Um . . . yesterday. I went to talk to him, but the maid was cleaning his room so I waited inside.”

  “And you looked through his personal papers?”

  I had no choice but to confess. “Yes! Don’t you see, he’s about to leave the country! I had to do something. Maybe it’s not legal for you to snoop in his room, but it’s not a crime for me to take a look, is it?”