The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  “Who found her?”

  “I’m not sure.” Walker smiled. “Another question for Lerens.”

  Hugo glanced at her. “So why do you think she would lie about that?”

  “Dude, come on, you know perfectly well.”

  Hugo gave her a quizzical look. “We’ve gone from ‘sir’ to ‘dude’ in record time.”

  “Sorry, sir. Hugo.” Walker smiled, embarrassed.

  “I was kidding, I don’t mind a little enthusiasm so please don’t worry about it. What’s your theory?”

  “Simple. She was . . . visiting someone and didn’t want us to know.”

  “Maybe.”

  “One of the Lambourd kids. I mean, they’re grown up but . . . Well, not old lady Charlotte, is what I mean.”

  Hugo chuckled. “You’re probably right about that. How old is she?”

  “Ninety-something. I’d guess her days of sneaking around are over, especially after midnight.” Walker drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “But that leaves us with the five family members as five possible lovers.”

  “Six, if you count Charlotte Lambourd’s live-in nurse,” Hugo said. “Let’s head to the Lambourd house and pick one.”

  Walker didn’t need telling twice, and quickly had them in the light weekend traffic. Within minutes they were crunching to a stop in front of the Lambourd house.

  Hugo got out of the car and looked around. The house loomed in front of them, not the largest mansion he’d seen, but considering it was in the middle of Paris, impressive enough. Three stories high, the house was a shallow U shape, and each wing was connected to a one-level stone building. Less ornate, they looked like they would have held horses, and perhaps later motorcars. The house itself reminded him a little of the Petit Trianon at Versailles, a château on the grounds of the Palace of Versailles that had been built in the 1760s by Louis XV— square and sturdy, but with beautiful clean lines and many tall windows to let in the light. A stone balcony sat over the large double doors of the entranceway, where a uniformed policeman was watching them.

  “Need me to come in?” Walker asked.

  “No, head back to the embassy if you don’t mind, see if they need anything there. I’ll call if that changes.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Hugo approached the house as Walker turned the car around and drove slowly away. At the front doorway he asked for Lieutenant Lerens. The flic looked at Hugo’s credentials and spoke into a shoulder mic, waited a few seconds, and then stepped aside.

  “You’ll find everyone in the main living area, second floor,” he said. “And Monsieur Marston, thank you for what you did in the Tuileries yesterday.” He put out a hand.

  “You’re very welcome,” Hugo replied, shaking it.

  The ground floor’s staircase led them up to a large landing, and straight ahead of them the open doors to the main living area. Hugo stopped looking for Lerens and gave himself a moment to enjoy the ornate beauty of the eighteenth-century French furniture and art that adorned the landing and the living room. Books were his thing—his collection of rare and first editions was small and steadily growing—but a man able to admire the beauty of a well-preserved endpaper, a man capable of enjoying the look and feel of a cloth spine with gilt lettering was perfectly adept at appreciating the still-colorful weave of a two-hundred-year-old carpet or the exuberant decoration of a rococo chaise longue.

  “Hugo, come in, you have some catching up to do.” Lieutenant Camille Lerens waved him toward her in the living room where she stood with a uniformed officer. Hugo moved slowly forward, still taking in the grand portraits on the walls and the beautifully maintained antique pieces of furniture.

  “Am I allowed to sit on any of it?” he asked, as he shook Lerens’s outstretched hand.

  “I’ve been told to shoot anyone who tries. How are you, Hugo?”

  “Fine, considering.”

  “Considering you’re a national treasure now? I should be hugging and kissing you, not shaking your hand.”

  Hugo shot her a stern look. He knew she was joking. Almost as well as anyone she’d know how little he was enjoying the spotlight. “The case, Camille. Tell me what we know, and let’s not talk about the other business.”

  “Very well. First, meet Jean Oiseau.” She gestured to the uniformed officer.

  “Enchanté,” Hugo said, as they shook hands.

  The flic gave a small bow and said, “Monsieur, let me say thank you for what you did yesterday. I know you will say anyone would have done the same, but I suspect I would have missed. So thank you.”

  “You are welcome. I barely had time to think.” Hugo smiled. “If I had, I might have missed, too.”

  “I doubt it,” Lerens said, and turned to Oiseau. “Would you please relieve Jameson at the hospital, have him come here?”

  “Of course, lieutenant. Right away.”

  Hugo expected a snap of heels, but Oiseau gave them both a nod and strode from the room, his back straight and his cap tucked under one arm.

  “Good policeman,” Lerens said. “He doesn’t quite know what to make of me yet, and he needs to relax a little. Otherwise, smart and efficient, I like him.”

  “He’ll get the hang of it. Of you.”

  “Or else, right?” Lerens chuckled. “Did you manage to talk to the American girl?”

  “I did.” Hugo gave her a summary, including his theory that Fotinos had paid a nocturnal visit to one of the Lambourds, and watched the frown on Lerens’s face deepen.

  “Merde, I was hoping she’d seen her attacker. Or could tell us something about him. Or her.”

  “Me too. Anyone here see or hear anything?”

  “No one has offered any information, no. This is one of those families . . . I don’t know if they love or hate each other, but each one seems to be more tight-lipped than the last. And they want us out of here by lunchtime, to set up for this famous party they’re having.”

  Hugo raised an eyebrow. “Going ahead with that, then?”

  “So they say. People have come in from all over France, and beyond, I was told. A murder might have been different, but not . . .”

  “Not a mere garroting. Of course. Makes perfect sense.”

  “Hugo, I’ve not had a lot of dealings with people like this. French nobility, whatever you want to call them. But I know enough about them to say they think differently from normal people. There’s a degree of . . . I don’t know, hardness of heart, I guess. Or maybe it’s just that their priorities are different. I don’t know, exactly, but keep an open mind and don’t judge them by normal standards.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I don’t think I know what normal standards are anymore.”

  “Bien, me neither, despite a lifetime of people trying to tell me what normal is and isn’t.” They both smiled, knowing exactly what she meant. “Anyway, I’ve had initial words with everyone, but wanted to wait until you were here until I got into too much detail.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that,” Hugo said. “Who found her?”

  “The nurse, Karine Berger, at around three in the morning.”

  “That’s odd. I glanced at the chart at the end of her bed, and it says she was admitted around six am.”

  “Yes,” Lerens said. “She refused an ambulance and instead they got her into her bed and called a doctor. Before he arrived, though, her throat began to swell and she had trouble breathing, so they called for an ambulance.”

  “That explains it. So what’s the deal with the stolen paintings?”

  “I don’t know yet. Charlotte Lambourd noticed they were missing and told one of my men, who passed it onto me right away. He took a note of what they were and where they were hanging, but nothing other than that. I figured the family could tell us more.”

  “I certainly hope so. Where are they all?”

  “Either sulking in their chambers, or downstairs in the impressive kitchen. They let me have this room for interviews.”

  “I see.” Hugo looked around
the room. “Trying to intimidate?”

  “That was my thought.”

  “Charming,” he said. “So, where do you want to start?”

  “Well, if you’re right about Miss Tammy having an illicit dalliance, I suggest we focus on finding out who that might be with.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lieutenant Lerens went to the ground floor to find their first interview subject, and Hugo took the opportunity to step out onto the broad landing to see the scene of the crime. There was nothing to look at, really, just an open landing with a few pieces of plush furniture and planter pots to make the area seem warm and comfortable. Nowhere looked less like a crime scene, he thought, but nevertheless took a couple of photos with his phone, and then made his way back into the large living room. He took a moment to evaluate the space. As well as the old art and antique furniture, there was a smattering of family photos in heavy silver frames, and Hugo studied several of them, trying to figure out where they might have been taken. None at the château, he concluded.

  A few minutes later, the matriarch of the family came in first with Camille Lerens. She’d insisted on it when she intercepted Lieutenant Lerens the moment she entered the large kitchen. “You will speak with me first,” the old woman had said, brooking no disagreement. Now, she settled onto the sofa, sitting in the middle to force her interviewers to bring chairs over to sit opposite her.

  Lerens introduced Hugo, and the widow nodded but did not offer a hand to shake. For Hugo’s part, he couldn’t help but glance at the tiny hands and fingers knobbly with arthritis, and wonder if they’d once held the knife that cut the throat of her husband.

  Lerens placed a digital recorder on a small Guéridon table to her left and to Madame Lambourd’s right. The old lady glanced at it but made no comment.

  “Thank you for speaking with us,” Lerens began. “And I’m sorry your family has had to suffer this trauma in your home.”

  “In a way, I’m quite pleased,” Charlotte Lambourd said. “By that I mean it could have been so much worse.”

  Lerens nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “I want you to ask your questions and get out of here. I don’t mean to be rude, Lieutenant, but my family gets together once a year, and only once a year.” She straightened her back. “And at my age, every get-together has the potential of being the last. As I’m sure you know, we have an event this evening. We would like to put this nasty business behind us and focus on celebrating France this evening.”

  Interesting, Hugo thought. Not only does she want us out of here as soon as possible and with minimum fuss, but no apparent concern for the condition of Tammy Fotinos.

  As if reading his mind, Lieutenant Lerens pushed back against her apparent callousness. “Madame Lambourd, a young woman, working for you no less, was almost murdered in your home last night. In a horrific way, if that matters. I need to be clear with you that finding out who did this is infinitely more important to me, and to my colleague Monsieur Marston here, than a party.”

  To Hugo’s surprise, Madame Lambourd relented, giving them a soft smile. “Of course, I understand completely. And please, forgive me if I sound uncaring or unsympathetic. For one thing, I didn’t know the girl, though I’m told she worked for us a year ago. My memory, you know. But, much more important than that, you have to remember the . . . tragedies, yes, that’s the word. The tragedies I have seen in and around this house. The loss of family members, my two husbands, and of course the house itself. For the young lady last night, I am sure it was the most traumatic experience of her life. For me, it is not even close to being that. So you see, for me, it’s not a matter of being indifferent or uncaring, nor of pitting her attack against what you see as a mere party. The Bastille Party is a Paris tradition, it is history. Like this house itself, and these are the things that help us live through the tragedies of life, make sense of them, perhaps. The large tragedies, and the lesser ones.”

  “Indeed,” Lerens said. “I just have a few questions, then we’ll let you get back to it.”

  “Thank you.” Madame Lambourd shifted forward on the sofa, as if prepared to answer one quick question before she left.

  “Did you see or hear anything last night after midnight?”

  “I did not.”

  “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Mademoiselle Fotinos?”

  “I do not.”

  “Do you . . . and please excuse me for asking this so directly, but do you know whether Mademoiselle Fotinos was having a relationship with anyone?”

  “Anyone in my family, you mean.” Her spine stiffened again.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Well, my eldest, Marc, used to play the field but is now very much in love with his fiancée, so not him. My other son, Édouard, despises Americans, so I highly doubt it was him. And my grandson Fabien is barely old enough to tie his shoelaces, and he’s certainly not capable of doing anything discreetly, so not him either. He’s a wild boy, that one, but he is still a boy so I insist an adult is present if and when you speak to him. Anyway, as far as someone having relations with the young lady, that would be a resounding no.”

  “Well,” Lerens began, carefully. “That’s only half the family.”

  Madame Lambourd looked directly at Lerens, then Hugo, and then back at the lieutenant. Then she sighed heavily. “Good heavens, people. I understand that that sort of thing takes place, I’m not a fool. But I can assure you that neither of my daughters is that way inclined, and even were they, that sort of thing doesn’t take place here.”

  “It would explain why Mademoiselle Fotinos was up and about around midnight,” Hugo offered. He liked that Madame Lambourd was a little off-balance at the idea something so improper as homosexual behavior might occur under her roof.

  “Yes, as an American I’m sure you think that sort of unnatural behavior is perfectly acceptable. However, as libertine as we French can be, love and . . . yes, lust too . . . are displayed and acted upon the way God intended, between a woman and a man. At least in this residence.”

  “I see,” Lerens said. “Can you tell me about the paintings that were taken?”

  “The two over the fireplace were family portraits. The other two . . .” She furrowed her brow in thought. “I’m so sorry, in all the excitement I can’t seem to recall.”

  “That’s fine,” Lerens reassured her. “We’ll ask the other family members.”

  “Yes, I suppose you will.” She stood. “Now, if that’s all, I have things to do.”

  Hugo and Lerens stood out of politeness, and watched as she walked slowly from the room, leaving them alone.

  “She was lovely,” Hugo said. “But ‘as God intended’?”

  “Absolutely delightful.” Lerens raised a scornful eyebrow. “Do you have any idea how much I wanted to tell her I was born into a man’s body?”

  Hugo smiled. “I’m guessing quite a lot.”

  “More than that. Desperately.”

  “Well, if that should ever come to pass, please make sure I’m there. I would love to see that old shell rattled good and hard.”

  “With pleasure. I mean, she can stab her husband and move into this place like a murderous cuckoo taking over the family nest. But God forbid two women want to make love.”

  “Yeah.” Hugo thought for a moment. “You believe that? That she killed him?”

  “I have no idea. But having just spent time with her, I’d hardly rule it out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As they waited for the second member of the family to enter the drawing room, Camille Lerens checked her watch. “If they really want us out of here, do you think we should split up and do one-on-one interviews?”

  Hugo thought for a moment. “How many are there?”

  Lerens flipped through her note pad. “There’s still Charlotte’s kids—Marc Lambourd, Erika Sipiora, Édouard Lambourd, and Noelle Manis. Oh, and Marc’s son Fabien.”

  “Don’t forget our jolly widow’s nurse.”


  “Karine Berger, yes. So that’s six altogether.”

  “No one we can rule out immediately?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Hugo looked at his own watch. “Then maybe we should get to it. Is there somewhere else we can use?”

  “I was told I could use the parlor, through there.” Lerens indicated high and ornate double doors to their left.

  “Remind me of the difference between a drawing room and a parlor,” Hugo said, only half-joking.

  “Easy. One is here, the other is over there.” Lerens smiled and got up, making her way to the doors. “Just make sure everything is recorded. Your French is good enough, yes?”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  “That’s not reassuring, Hugo.”

  “If I screw up a question or answer, we can always come back. It’s not like they’re homeless vagrants that will be moving on to somewhere we can’t find them.”

  “That’s for sure.” Lerens looked around at the splendor of the large room. “Paul’s downstairs. I’ll radio him and have him bring up two people at once.”

  Hugo was pleased that Jameson brought him Erika Sipiora, the one he knew least about and the only one with an official royal title. He rose when she entered the room.

  “Princess Erika, my name is—”

  “Please, please.” The woman waved a hand to shush him. She was almost six feet tall and strongly built, with auburn hair that was pulled back into a practical pony tail. Judging by the cut of her matching tweed jacket and skirt, she had an eye for the finer things in life, but the smile she shone on Hugo was of humility. “None of that princess stuff, I beg of you. I didn’t marry my late husband for his title, or to get mine. I had no choice in that matter. Because he made me a princess, he was the only one who was allowed to call me one.” She reached Hugo and thrust out a hand. “Hugo Marston, I presume.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Oh, don’t look so surprised. As of yesterday evening, you’re a national treasure. They’re preparing a spot for you in the Louvre as we speak, I believe.”