The Sleeping Lady

by Bonnie C. Monte

  “Maybe. But I don’t think so. I was on the bus, and I called out to her as she passed. She turned toward me, then as soon as she recognized me, she put her head down and sped off. Something isn’t right. I’m going to try to find out where she lives and talk to her.”

  I wasn’t convinced of the significance of his encounter, but Julien was clearly excited. “OK, but be careful,” I cautioned. “If this person is mixed up with Marcel, it could be dangerous.”

  CHAPTER 23

  A few days after the Marie Resnais sighting, I heard from Julien again. “Guess what?” he said excitedly. “Jerome is going to visit the Legrande warehouse next month.” I remembered that name from the papers I’d spied in Marcel’s hotel room. “He’s negotiating a new lease. And Marcel talked his way into the trip. He said he has a relative in Nice, and he’s going to combine the warehouse visit with a vacation in the south. Jerome seemed very annoyed, but my father agreed to it. So then I told my father I want to go too.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, why not?” He sounded offended. “I said I want to learn all about the business, since I’ll be taking it over some day. Of course, that’s not true,” he said with a laugh. “But I just know that something big is happening in Marseille, and I want to find out what it is.”

  So did I. Fred Gibson was still in custody, the police had made no further announcements, Sonia had been unable to pry any information out of Levine, and I was feeling that Thalia’s murder might never be solved. The business couldn’t really afford it, but I was taking a trip to France. I didn’t know what I expected to accomplish with the journey, but I felt compelled to go.

  Three weeks later, I was blearily riding up the snaking escalators at Charles de Gaulle Airport. I had barely slept on the eleven-hour flight. Now my all-nighter was catching up with me as I made my way to the Métro for the twenty-five-minute journey into the city.

  Leaving town wasn’t as hard as I’d feared. Sonia was helping out Susan at the shop, and I’d hired a new person, as well. I wasn’t sure if the police still expected me to stick around, but since they had a suspect in custody, I decided they wouldn’t miss me. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?

  The other hurdle I’d anticipated was Peter, but, to my surprise, he didn’t object. Of course, I didn’t tell him about pursuing Marcel. As far as he knew, my trip was purely business. Oh, and I also left out another little detail: I’d called Luc and arranged for him to accompany me and Julien to Marseille. Since it was his sister whose murder we were trying to solve, it was only natural that he should be included. At least that’s what I told myself, realizing that Peter was unlikely to see it that way.

  So there I was on the other side of the Atlantic. I emerged from the Métro at Gare du Nord into the chilly air of an October morning, hailed a cab, and settled in as the driver took me to the Fifth Arrondissement. The streets looked dirtier and more crowded since my last visit two years ago. But Paris was still Paris. A short nap, I thought, and then I’d have the whole day to wander at leisure. I’d start my sleuthing in earnest tomorrow. I still had more than a week ahead of me before the trip to Marseille.

  The hotel was exactly as I remembered it from prior visits. After checking in, I squeezed into the tiny elevator with my suitcase and ascended to my room on the second floor. I liked this room because it faced the street and had a balcony. In any other city, I might have preferred a quieter locale, but I found the bustling street below intoxicating. I flung open the tall casement windows and drank in the scene, the flower stands, the bakery that made the most incredible brioches, the corner pharmacy stocked with glamorous beauty potions. Sighing with pleasure, I decided to forgo the nap.

  I considered phoning Peter but realized he’d be asleep. Later, I decided. Then I spent a few leisurely hours roaming the neighborhood, stopping at the Tuesday market on rue Mouffetard to buy some fruit and cheese. I carried my provisions to the Luxembourg Gardens, where I found a vacant bench. Before eating, I phoned Luc. “I’ve arrived,” I announced.

  “Welcome. I’m coming to Paris on Thursday.”

  “You are?” I said, delighted by the thought of spending time with Luc ahead of the Marseille journey. Purely to plan our strategy, of course.

  “Yes. I’m going to stay in town for a few days to attend to business. And then perhaps I can spirit you away to the farm before we head down south.”

  “I’d love that,” I said. We arranged to meet for dinner on Thursday. I unwrapped my parcel of Brie and grapes and slowly savored my meal as I watched two young boys throw crumbs to a cluster of sparrows. After lunch, I phoned Julien, who invited me to meet him at his father’s office on Thursday at noon. I wrote down the directions. “I found Marie Resnais on Facebook, and I think I’ve finally figured out where she works,” he said proudly. “I’m going to try to find her. I want to talk to her in person. Oh, and I told my father you were in town. He’s insisting that you come to dinner at our house. My mother will call you tomorrow.”

  I walked for another two hours, soaking up the sights and musing about the wisdom of sitting down to dinner with Thalia’s former lover and his wife. Things could get awkward. Maybe Julien could wangle an invitation for Luc, too. That might take some of the pressure off. Finally, at four o’clock, my feet aching, I went back to the hotel, intending to nap for an hour. When I opened my eyes again, I was astonished to see that it was nine o’clock the following morning.

  I had never called Peter! I sent him an email telling him all was well. I had a voice mail from Hernandez, asking me to call him back, but I ignored it. Then I showered, dressed, and went downstairs to the breakfast room off the hotel lobby. A smiling waitress with a North African accent poured me a steaming cup of coffee and brought a small pitcher of warm milk. Across the room, an array of pastries, yogurt, and juices was set out. I chatted with a German couple at the next table about the hills of San Francisco, taking my time over a flaky croissant and a second cup of coffee. Then I walked up the winding marble staircase rather than taking the elevator. If I was going to be eating croissants every morning, I’d better get some exercise.

  I gathered some things and set off across town to the small and very posh Hôtel Sainte Bernadette. I approached the gleaming mahogany front desk, illuminated by a crystal chandelier. “Hello. I’m wondering if you can help me,” I said in French to the man on duty. “I’m a friend of one of your regular guests, Thalia Holcombe.”

  “Ah, Madame Holcombe,” said the man, nodding. “Yes, yes, of course. How is she?” he asked with a smile.

  “I’m afraid I have some sad news,” I said. “She met with an accident. She died last month.”

  “Mon Dieu!” the man exclaimed. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that. She was very well liked by the staff. My condolences.”

  “Thank you. I’m trying to track down a friend of hers, someone who may have come to see her here at the hotel.” I took out a picture of Marcel, which I’d printed at home. “Do you remember this man coming to see her the last time she was here? I have something of Thalia’s that I need to give to him.”

  He looked at the photo carefully and shook his head. “No, I don’t recall seeing this gentleman. But perhaps someone else who works here has seen him. Would you like to leave the photo?”

  I hesitated. I should have made photocopies. “All right,” I said. “But I’ll need it back. It’s the only one I have.”

  “Certainly, madame. Come back for it whenever you like.” He wrote down my cell phone number. “I’ll be sure to ask the rest of the staff if they know of this gentleman.”

  As I left, I wondered if they had video surveillance cameras aimed at the front desk like American hotels and, if so, whether there was any way to get a look at the tape from a month ago. Did they even keep those tapes? Once again, I was struck by just how little I knew about detective work.

  Feeling discouraged, I decided it was time for fortification. I stopped at the first café I passed and ordered an espresso. So
mehow I’d thought the visit would be more productive, that someone would have recognized Marcel and remembered that he’d brought a note for Thalia. It had been nearly two months ago, I reminded myself. Maybe whoever worked that night didn’t even work at the Sainte Bernadette anymore. Well, at least they had Marcel’s photo. Maybe someone would remember him.

  My thoughts turned to what to wear when I met Luc for dinner, followed by a twinge of guilt for focusing on fashion when I was supposed to be investigating Thalia’s murder and shopping for Le Jardin. OK, time to scout out some merchandise. I took the Métro to Village Saint-Paul in the Marais district, where numerous antique dealers were clustered in the network of quaint courtyards and alleyways.

  It was a productive excursion. My big finds were two oversize mirrors with gilded frames and a fabulous iron child’s bed. I also snapped up as much enamelware as I could find, since my customers loved it: coffee pots, pitchers, kitchen utensil sets.

  Anything with French writing on it was always a hit too, no matter how beat-up. I found several old gas station signs in beautiful condition that I knew would fetch a good price. I finished the day shopping for garden decor: a marble-topped bistro table, some terra-cotta urns with a weathered patina, a dozen olive baskets, and a pair of decorative iron gates. Le Jardin’s credit card got a good workout. I arranged to have everything shipped back.

  Pleased with my finds, I decided to indulge in a little shopping for myself. When I finally boarded the train back to my hotel, I had a shockingly expensive but absolutely gorgeous new pair of leather boots with me.

  CHAPTER 24

  I checked my watch as I hurried along rue Norvins on Thursday. I was due to meet Julien in five minutes. As I approached Etienne’s office building, a man who looked like Marcel stepped out onto the street. I ducked into the nearest doorway. As he passed, I got a closer look. It was most definitely Marcel, wearing dark slacks and a tan zip-up jacket. On an impulse, I decided to follow him.

  I stayed close behind as he retraced the route I had just walked and descended into the Abbesses Métro station. It took me a minute to fumble for my ticket, but when I got to the platform, he was still there. A train was just pulling in.

  I watched him board, then got in two cars behind him. Now what? How would I know when he got off ? I stood near the doors, even though there were plenty of seats available. As the train picked up speed, I phoned Julien. “Sorry, I’m going to be late. I’m following Marcel.”

  “I can barely hear you,” he said. “What’s all that noise?”

  “I’m on the Métro. I’m following Marcel,” I said louder. “I’ll come later. Can you go to lunch later?”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  “Good. Ciao.” I hung up. When the train stopped at the next station, I poked my head out the door, scanning all the passengers disembarking. Not seeing my quarry, I released the door and pulled my head back in. The train started up again. I repeated the move at the next stop and again at the third. There he was! I slipped through the doors and followed him, keeping my eyes on his tan jacket. He rode the escalator to the platform for the Line Four train heading north. I kept my distance. Once I was certain he was going to stay put, I turned my back to him as we waited for the train. When it pulled in, I again got on two cars behind him. This train was nearly empty, with only two stops to go until the end of the line. Marcel got off at the last stop, Porte de Clignancourt. I followed him up the stairs.

  I knew this area of Paris well. Les Puces—the flea market at Clignancourt—was one of my spots to scout out merchandise for the shop. Bargains were scarce, but the quality was good at many of the vendors. I followed Marcel through the crowd of stalls on the perimeter of the market. Here, vendors hawked T-shirts, knockoffs of pricey running shoes, watches, and all manner of junk. After a few blocks, we reached rue des Rosiers and entered the flea market proper, which was actually a hodgepodge of fourteen different markets, each crammed with shops and stalls. Some markets specialized in art, some in furniture, others in books. I had my favorite vendors, some of whom knew me by name. But this was no time for browsing. I kept my eye on Marcel’s tan jacket, staying about twenty feet behind him. He made several turns through the narrow alleys, walking rapidly. I cursed my new French boots, which were starting to pinch.

  Finally, he entered a small shop. Painted on the none-too-clean front window was Arts de l’Orient in gold and black lettering. Behind the glass was a jumble of Asian artifacts: gold-leafed painted screens, porcelain figurines, a large brass gong. I peered in. Among the clutter, I could see Marcel. He was standing in front of a glass case on the far wall, talking to a silver-haired woman and pointing at something in the case. She opened the case and handed him an object, which he examined, then handed back. After the woman locked the case, Marcel pulled a manila envelope out of his jacket and handed it to her. They turned toward the front of the shop, and I pulled my head back so I was concealed from view behind the gong. When I dared to look again, the two were standing by the front counter. Marcel’s back was to the door, and the woman was behind the counter, facing the street. She tucked the envelope below the counter, near the cash register. Words were exchanged, then Marcel turned toward the front door. I scampered away, ducking into the next shop.

  I waited a moment before peeking out. No sign of Marcel. I entered Arts de l’Orient, whose aisles were as crammed with merchandise as the front window. The woman behind the counter smiled. “May I help you, madame?” she asked in French.

  “I think I just saw a friend of mine leaving,” I said. “Was a man named Marcel just in here?”

  The woman pursed her lips. “I don’t know the gentleman’s name,” she said. “He was here to see my boss.”

  At this I had no further ideas. “OK. Thanks.” I browsed, trying to get an inkling of what Marcel had been after. I strolled over to the display case that he had seemed interested in. It was filled with figurines carved of jade, ivory, and wood.

  “May I show you something?” the woman asked.

  “These are lovely,” I said, desperate for inspiration to strike.

  “Your friend is quite the collector,” the woman volunteered.

  “Yes. Yes he is,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound moronic. Then I added, with a coy smile. “Actually, he’s more than a friend.” The woman smiled in return. “Ah, oui.”

  “I’d love to surprise him with something. For his birthday. Was there anything in particular he admired?”

  The woman unlocked the case and removed a small carving of a Chinese island village, exquisitely detailed, right down to the miniature men poling rafts through the water.

  “How much is that?”

  “Seven hundred euros.”

  I was shocked but tried not to show it.

  “It’s ivory, of course,” said the woman.

  “Of course.” I stared at the carving, feeling it was important to buy it if I was going to gain any more information from this woman. But how could I justify spending so much money?

  “It’s an antique,” the woman said. “It dates back to the late 1800s.”

  Peter would kill me if he found out what it cost. I could always sell it in the shop, I rationalized. That’s what I’d do. I’d charge it on the business credit card and sell it. Peter wouldn’t even know about it. “Very well, I’ll take it,” I said.

  As the woman rang up the sale, she said, “Your friend will be disappointed when he comes back to find it’s been sold.”

  “Oh, is he coming back?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “I believe so. He wants my boss to phone him about some other ivory pieces.”

  “Well, please don’t tell him I bought it. I want to surprise him.”

  “Don’t worry, chérie, I won’t say anything. Would you like me to wrap this for you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s no trouble. I have some ribbon in the back.”

  “All right, if you don’t mind.” The minute the woman disappeared through a curta
ined doorway, I scooted behind the counter. There was the envelope from Marcel. I grabbed it and stuffed it in my purse, feeling immensely guilty. I vowed that if there was money in it, I would mail it back.

  The woman returned with the ribbon and proceeded to painstakingly wrap the carving in a small box. I was fervently hoping she wouldn’t glance down and notice the envelope was gone. Finally, package in hand, I walked slowly out the door. As soon as I turned the corner, I broke into a run.

  “Never!” Julien said emphatically. “My father would never condone poaching. It’s impossible.”

  We sat at an outdoor table at a café near Etienne’s office. Between us lay the letter that I’d snatched from Arts de l’Orient. We’d each read it twice. Julien had to help with some of the French, because it was written in convoluted language that avoided any outright mention of wrongdoing. Still, its meaning was clear: Marcel was offering a shipment of contraband ivory for sale. Apparently, he’d have the merchandise in hand sometime in the next ten days.

  “It’s got to be in the shipment coming in next week!” Julien said with excitement. “That’s why Marcel has been so insistent on going to Marseille.”

  “And you’re sure your parents are not involved in this?” Images of slaughtered elephants swam in my brain. An online search had revealed more than I’d ever wanted to know about the illegal ivory trade. Despite the ban on ivory, some ten thousand elephants are illegally killed each year for their tusks. The brutality was mind-boggling.

  “Of course! That’s why we can’t call the police. They would shut down my father’s business.”

  I suspected he was right. We sat silently as we considered our next move. Finally, Julien said, “Let’s stick with our original plan. We’ll follow him to Marseille. Maybe he’s picking up merchandise that has nothing to do with my father’s company, which would be great. It’s too soon to call the police.”