The Expiration of Elise

by Annette Moncheri

  “At any rate…” he said with considerable effort, “the point is, you assert that this knife belongs to Monsieur Martin Martin?”

  “I do, and it does,” she said.

  “Well.” Baudet looked thoughtful. “I believe I will need to send Carré to fetch him to the commissariat central at once.”

  6

  I had to admit that I was at a bit of a loss. After the inspector completed our fingerprints—there was no match to those on the knife, of course—and declared us officially off the suspect’s list, and Monsieur Escoffier slunk miserably off into the night, I asked Anaelle a dozen questions, but she could think of no connection between Elise Escoffier and Martin Martin. Nor could she think of a tie between Martin and Madame Dorothée, the other attempted victim of the night.

  I paced the floor of my office in frustration.

  I am not a patient or incurious woman. I want to be part of things. I want to have the opportunity to be involved when I can still make a difference. Unfortunately, the commissariat central of the 4th Arrondissement, where Carré would bring Martin, is across the Seine, and so it is entirely beyond my power to go there.

  Well, I hadn’t yet had a private conversation with Dorothée.

  I noted on the way to her room that the drawing room was as busy as ever. Monsieur Georges was managing the drawing room admirably without me. We’d mostly managed to keep the event of Elise’s death quiet, as it was at the back entrance, and if word had spread within, it spread in a muted way, which was fine by me.

  Upstairs, in Dorothée’s pleasantly untidy room—she liked everything out where she can find it—I found her sitting with Melodie Bouvier, who is perhaps the most beautiful of all my ladies, and prone to arrogance as a result.

  Dorothée was recounting the horror of being trapped in the safe.

  “What a nightmare!” Melodie was just then saying. “And you a diabetic!”

  “Yes, although of course I’m not too severe, otherwise I would never have lived until they invented insulin,” Dorothée said as I kissed her cheek and sat next to her. She went on, “But do you know, from the first moment I ever took insulin, I realized how unwell I had felt for decades, and never really realized it? I just thought I was getting old. After that first injection, I got up and danced a jig. It is a miracle drug.”

  “But from the glands of cows!” Melodie said with a shudder. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “Oh, I don’t think about it,” Dorothée said. “I simply take it and am grateful.”

  “And we are all grateful that you are still among us,” I said, touching her shoulder. “Dear, I hate to interrupt you with such a dreadful question, but can you think of any reason why anyone would want you to come to harm? Anyone who wants you out of the way, so to speak?”

  “I’ve been wracking my brains about it,” the elderly woman said. “I can’t come up with anyone. The only theory I’ve got is that it could have to do with my jewelry. I have an expensive collection. I don’t trust banks, you know, and so I have jewelry secreted everywhere, and it would make a very good theft. But I came back to my room after the attack, and everything is in place. Some of it I fancy is hidden brilliantly, but some would be easily located. Look, they even left my jewelry box alone, and it’s not even locked.”

  She opened the top of the carved wood case, and we all admired the glittering sapphires and rubies therein.

  “Perhaps they realized you had gotten out of the safe,” Melodie said, “and decided to give up the effort.”

  “But I was in there for hours,” Dorothée said. “They had all the opportunity in the world.”

  “Unless the hallway was too busy for the thief to sneak in,” I said. “No one comes up to these rooms except in the company of the lady who is escorting them. A single man roaming about, attempting to identify which room is yours, would have brought attention to himself. Perhaps your thief didn’t think it through, and only after putting you in the safe realized he could not make an attempt on the jewels tonight.”

  “Well, if that’s so,” Dorothée said nervously, “does that mean he’s going to return and make another attempt?”

  I patted her arm reassuringly. “I’m sure nothing will come of it, but just to be on the safe side, I feel it would be most practical to relocate you for a few days. You and your jewelry, both. What if you were to sleep downstairs next to Monsieur Georges’s room?”

  “Oh yes,” she said fervently. “I would feel secure with him at hand. He’s such a strong and handsome young man, isn’t he?”

  “Indeed.” I held back a chuckle. To a woman in her seventies, anyone below sixty is young, and Monsieur Georges was not far below that number!

  “One more question for you, Madame Dorothée,” I said. “Do you have any connection to Madame Elise Escoffier, the woman who unfortunately met her end tonight? I ask only because it seems so strange that two women would be assaulted under my roof in one day. If they are not connected, then it is a remarkable coincidence.”

  “Well, no,” Dorothée said. “I’ve never been introduced, and I don’t know of any relationship.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Melodie interjected, straightening her back. “I think that sometimes things are orchestrated by the spirits. Sometimes they have a message for us.”

  “Oh, yes, I forget that you are a Spiritualist,” I said. It didn’t matter to me. I had no state-dictated religion in this house any more than we did in the rest of France.

  In truth, it was a matter of curiosity with me sometimes, as to whether my particular condition had anything to do with spirits or the other creatures deemed mythical, like werewolves and elves and such. At times, I thought I might like to visit an occultist in search of answers—but always I thought better of it. What if such a person perceived my true nature, and then told the world?

  No, I would have to answer all such secrets myself, or else answer them not at all.

  “But then what ghost or spirit is orchestrating this?” Dorothée asked skeptically. “I have been alive a very long time. I have known many people who have died. But I can’t imagine that any of them have a message for me.”

  “Well, that I don’t know,” Melodie said, her nose rising into the air in a way that suggested she was offended.

  “Do you know, Mireille shares your interests?” I asked Melodie. “Perhaps the two of you could put your heads together and discern some message from the beyond.” I was only humoring her, but it cost me nothing to do so.

  “Maybe,” she said, pretending disinterest. “At any rate, I’m going down to the kitchen for dinner. Bonsoir. Anything for you, Dorothée?”

  “Shrimp,” Dorothée said, “if there are any tonight. I love shrimp.”

  Once the other woman had gone, Dorothée turned to me with her eyes shining. She lowered her voice in a confidential manner. “Do you know, I think Monsieur De La Croix may be turning from customer to suitor?”

  “Really? How delightful!”

  “Yes, he was so moved to see me fainted today, and so upset that someone tried to harm me. I could see that it shook him up. Of course, at our age, you can’t count on anyone still being around in a month, let alone a year. But this incident has given him a new sense of urgency. He asked me tonight whether this is the life I want or if I would choose something different if I could.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Oh, I played hard to get,” she said with a smile and a wink. “I said that it all depended on what my options were. He didn’t say anything after that. But I have a feeling he will be proposing soon.”

  “My dear Dorothée, I would be delighted if it happened.” Smiling, I pressed her cool, wrinkled hands. “And if you wed, you must invite me.”

  “Of course I will!” she said with a huge smile.

  There was nothing else to be done that night but to go to bed. Business kept up its steady pace until four in the morning, as was typical, and then wound down by six. Shortly thereafter, I w
as in my secret compartment under the floorboards of my room, feeling the sun’s rays pressing down on me as they crept into the atmosphere.

  My final waking thought was, “I wonder what Monsieur Martin Martin said to the inspector?”

  7

  “What do you mean, gone?” I asked Carré.

  The policeman sat in my drawing room with his feet propped up on a cushion, a tray of le goûter on the table next to him, and a full plate resting on his round belly. His mouth was, at that moment, stuffed full of a pastry, so he shrugged and made an incomprehensible sound.

  “But gone where?”

  He chewed aggressively, swallowed, and slurped tea made pale with cream and sugar. “Out of town. A business trip, or so his wife said.”

  “Vraiment! And does anyone believe that?” I asked in disbelief.

  He shrugged again, his mouth now full of éclair.

  I caught a glance from one of my customers who sat near at hand, and I lowered my voice. It wouldn’t do to spark gossip.

  I waved over Monsieur Georges and then beckoned him to lean down. “Monsieur Georges, at what time did Monsieur Martin Martin depart my premises last night?”

  He stared straight out into the distance as he thought over my question, then leaned back down to answer the question. “It must have been eleven, Madame, because he passed Elise Escoffier as she came in, and I recall checking the clock just then—I was surprised to see her as I had thought I had seen her much earlier in the night already. As Monsieur Martin went toward the door, I asked whether he had any interest in finding another lady for the night, but he demurred. I believe he was embarrassed as to the state of his face, which resembled the end of an eggplant.”

  “Well,” I said to Carré, “at least he’ll be easy to pick out in a crowd.”

  Carré shrugged amicably, his mouth full of croissant.

  “But if he truly left at eleven,” I said to Georges, “he could not have committed the murder, which occurred at almost exactly midnight. You say he passed Elise as she came in? Did they exchange any words?”

  “He appeared distressed when he saw her, Madame. But whether that was due to the state of his face—because she did give him a long, horrified look—or for some other reason, I cannot say.”

  “Very well, thank you, Monsieur Georges,” I said, and he went toward the kitchen.

  To Carré, I said, “So Martin could have doubled back and come in again after he saw Elise enter. As I told De La Croix yesterday, we have more than one door and many members of the public come and go at all hours. It would be difficult to prove that he was not present—unless someone can vouch for his being elsewhere.”

  Monsieur Carré dabbed at his face with the napkin that was tucked into his collar. “His wife does say that he came home before midnight last night.”

  “Oh.” My certainty of Monsieur Martin’s guilt wavered. “But then, few are the wives who would not protect their husbands. Does Inspector Baudet accept this alibi?”

  “It’s hard to say, Madame,” Carré replied. “Inspector Baudet is… opaque, n’est-ce-pas?” He smiled broadly, showing that his observation carried no ill will.

  “Indeed,” I said. Frustratingly so, I would have added.

  “However, the inspector has required that Monsieur Martin return from his business trip at once. The telegram was sent but has not received a reply. I wonder whether the gentleman will actually return, or whether he will pretend he did not receive the message.”

  “So do I,” I commented.

  We were interrupted by the giggling presences of Melodie Bouvier and Mireille Patrix—which was odd, as both tended to be among my more serious mesdames. But with them was Hélène Bachelet, and that made perfect sense, as Hélène stirred up both mischief and happiness wherever she went.

  The three women bestowed cheek kisses upon me—I felt like the recipient of a refreshing spring rain—and threw themselves into the nearest chairs.

  “We have the most excellent plan,” Melodie said breathlessly.

  “And we have you to thank for it,” Mireille said.

  “Well, and me, of course,” Hélène said with a big smile.

  “Hélène came up with the idea, that’s true,” Mireille said.

  “But I brought the whole thing up,” Melodie pointed out.

  “What are you all talking about?” I asked with a benevolent smile. Their enthusiasm was contagious.

  “A séance,” Mireille breathed.

  “A what?” Monsieur Carré said, nearly dropping his cup of tea.

  “We will talk to the dead,” Melodie said dramatically. “The departed friends and relatives of Dorothée.”

  “Someone among them will know exactly who it is who tried to kill Dorothée,” Hélène said with satisfaction, lighting up a cigarette.

  “Well, this is where I take my leave,” Monsieur Carré said. “No offense, mesdames. But God is always watching, I say.” He bowed and went.

  The ladies paid little attention to him.

  “We will do it exactly at midnight,” Mireille said, her beady eyes gleaming. “Everyone knows that is the witching hour.”

  “And will you use a medium?” I leaned forward, entranced despite myself. I was awfully curious as to whether anything would come of their little experiment.

  “No, we have a Ouija board,” Mireille said, all but clapping her hands in glee.

  “Melodie has one,” Hélène clarified.

  “I got it from my aunt years ago,” Melodie said. “Did you know the Ouija board named itself?”

  “No!” the other ladies exclaimed.

  “Yes!” Melodie said. “The people who devised it asked it what to call it. And ‘Ouija’ was the answer. The board said it meant, ‘Good luck.’”

  “Oh, it gives me goosebumps,” Mireille said passionately, rubbing her bare, skinny arms.

  “We’ll have more than goosebumps tonight!” Hélène said. “Madame, may we have extra candles brought to Dorothée’s room?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “I’ll have the staff fetch every candle in the house and turn out the chandelier in there, to give us proper atmosphere. Is there anything else the spirits need to feel welcome?” I finished this comment with a wink to Hélène to show I was mostly just playing along, and she winked back. Dear Hélène, mischief-maker! But always up for a good time.

  “We’ll offer them champagne and paté on crackers,” Melodie declared. “No one eat or drink them afterward! It’s bad luck.”

  “I will see you all at midnight,” I said with a smile, and the three of them went off together.

  I had to confess to some amount of curiosity. Who knew what information the Ouija board might reveal?

  8

  Monsieur De La Croix visited in the late evening, and I hoped to stop by later to see if Dorothée’s dreams had come true, but I was too caught up in ensuring the night went smoothly. We seemed to have a larger than usual crowd. Perhaps that was because word of the murder had spread, but I was pleased nevertheless.

  At least, I was pleased right up until the copper bathtub sprang a leak at a most inconvenient moment for one of my guests. I had to send servants out to find a metalsmith in the middle of the night, assign more to mopping up and to placing buckets downstairs under dripping spots in the ceiling, and then placate my guest.

  By the time the mess was dealt with, it was nearly midnight, and I hurried to touch up my makeup and smooth down my hair. For whom, I didn’t know—as I was not prone to believing in spirits, and even if any attended, I doubted they would judge my appearance. Then I hurried to Dorothée’s room.

  As I stepped inside, I had to murmur in awe at the beautiful sight of all the candles on every available table. They cast a dancing yellow glow, soft and enchanting, through the room, which was elaborately decorated, as was every room in my maison—full of tapestries and cushioned settees and armchairs, heavy floral-print drapes, floral-print wallpaper, and a teeming assortment of gold-framed portraits.

 
; Dorothée and Melodie and Mireille had placed four armchairs around a small tea table, and on it lay the Ouija board, the letters and numbers burned into the wood in semi-circular arrangements, with Oui and Non at the top corners and Au Revoir at the bottom. The wooden planchette, lined on the bottom in felt, lay to the side of the board.

  “Are we excited?” I asked.

  “Oh! We are,” Dorothée said. “And perhaps a bit nervous.”

  “Any new developments with your Monsieur De La Croix tonight?” I asked her.

  “Not yet,” she said, sounding a little disappointed, “but I still think it’s coming.” She held up crossed fingers, and I showed her mine as well, with a conspiratorial smile.

  “Hello, ladies!” Hélène exclaimed as she swept in and tossed her hair out of her eyes. She pulled off her coat and threw it carelessly across Dorothée’s bed. “Are we ready to converse with the spirits?”

  “We are,” Melodie said. She set out the final few crackers with paté and arranged the champagne glasses.

  “Three glasses?” I asked.

  “We don’t know how many spirits might come,” she said with a shrug.

  “Fair enough,” I declared. “Well, let’s sit.”

  We closed and locked the door, and we all took our seats. We were very close to one another, our knees bumping under the table, causing us all to giggle like schoolgirls. Melodie set the planchette on the center of the board, and each of us placed two fingertips on the planchette’s edges.

  All at once, we all grew serious. Even I felt a chill run down my spine. The thrill of a small adventure!

  Melodie cleared her throat dramatically and cast her gaze to the empty center of the room. “We call the spirits and ghosts of the family of Dorothée,” she intoned. “We call you that you might help us determine who attempted to murder her. Is anyone there?”

  At first, there was nothing—or almost nothing—just the slightest twitches of the planchette, while we all watched with bated breath.