The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  “Good to know,” Lerens said. “I finished with Marc and have been waiting for Noelle. He checked on her and apparently she gets migraines, had one this morning, so is moving a little slowly. On her way now, though.”

  A knock on the door was followed by its opening, and Noelle Manis poked her head around to look at them.

  “Bonjour.” She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I wasn’t feeling well.” She was tall and slender, with lush brown hair and a face that might have been pale from her migraine, or her natural complexion. She was a few years shy of fifty years old, Hugo figured, but could pass for being in her midthirties. She crossed the room and offered them her hand, and a firm grip.

  They arranged themselves and Manis sat primly, her hands on her lap, waiting for the questions. Lieutenant Lerens clicked on her digital recorder and began.

  “Can you tell me where your bedroom is located?” she asked.

  “Of course. If you go up to the third floor, it’s the one furthest to the left, at the end of the hallway.”

  “And what time did you go to bed last night?” Lerens asked.

  “I think around eleven. I usually stay up a little, though, and watch something on my tablet.” She gave a sad smile. “The only one without a television in my room, which is what you get for being the youngest.”

  “Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary last night?”

  “Nothing at all. That poor girl, someone told me she’s going to be all right, but how awful for her.”

  “She’s going to be fine, physically,” Lerens said.

  “I can’t imagine who’d want to hurt her—it makes no sense at all. No one in the family, for sure.”

  “Do you know if she was having any kind of sexual relationship with anyone here?”

  “In the family?” Manis opened her eyes wide. “Good heavens, no. Do you think that’s what was going on?”

  “We don’t know,” Lerens assured her. “It’s just something that we have to explore.”

  “No, I really don’t think so.”

  “I hear Marc used to be quite the man around town,” Hugo interjected.

  “Well, yes. In years gone by, that’s true, I suppose. But not since he got engaged to Catherine.”

  “I see.” Something about her tone, the way she said the name, told Hugo that Noelle Manis wasn’t a fan. He decided to press that button. “You don’t approve?”

  “Well, it’s not my place to approve or otherwise.” She shrugged. “I did think the engagement came very quickly after their meeting. And the one time she spent time with us, at Erika’s in Luxembourg, she didn’t seem to fit in very well. Or even be a good fit for Marc.”

  “How do you mean?” Hugo asked.

  “She was very clingy. Beautiful—I can see why Marc fell for her and wants her on his arm. But she’s younger and . . . well, clingy.” Manis looked at Hugo and then Lerens. “Marc and I have discussed this. I’m not telling you anything I’ve not said to him.”

  “How did that conversation go?” Hugo asked.

  “Fine, really.” Manis shrugged. “Marc and I have always been close. By that I mean closer than with the others, you’d hardly call this a warm and cuddly family. I don’t recall much parental affection. The most physical contact I had with my mother growing up was over her lap when she’d decided I’d disappointed her.” She smiled, as if trying to make light of what she was saying. “And then the contact was with the hard side of her hairbrush.”

  “Was she harsh with the others?”

  “Yes, I think so. I mean, I think we’d all agree that Marc has always been the favorite, her favorite. But she was still hard on him, Édouard too. Belt for the boys, brush for the girls seemed to be the rule. Everyone felt like they got it more, including me. I think her patience had worn out by the time I came along, but the others will probably see it differently. My point is just that in a family where appearances and status mean more than love, Marc was the one who was kindest to me.”

  “The oldest looking after the youngest?” Hugo suggested.

  “Something like that.” She laughed gently. “Ironic, too. Erika was supposed to be born first, but Mother had some complication and they took out Marc first. He loves telling that story. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. He can be a little . . . status conscious, I suppose.”

  “Which makes me wonder why he’s not firmer with Fabien,” Hugo said. A shift in Manis’s eyes and a tightening of her jaw made him think he’d hit a nerve.

  “He . . . makes exceptions for Fabien,” she said.

  “Exceptions?” Hugo pushed.

  “Has a blind spot. To reality sometimes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As I’ve said, Marc and I are close, but one area . . . the first area of disagreement has been over Fabien.”

  “Anything in particular?” Hugo asked.

  “Yes, actually. But I don’t mean to sound rude when I say that’s family business. I can’t see how it’d be relevant and so I prefer not to talk about it.”

  “I think maybe we should decide if it’s relevant,” Hugo said, keeping his tone soft.

  “Nevertheless, it’s a family issue and that’s all I have to say on the matter.” It was the first note of steel in her voice, and Hugo let it go. For now.

  “On another note,” Lerens said, “a moment ago you used the phrase, By the time I came along” Lerens hesitated. “I’m sorry to ask, and it probably doesn’t matter in the slightest, but someone mentioned you were adopted. Is that right?”

  “So I’m told,” Manis said. “When I was a baby, I don’t remember a thing about it, of course. And, as you would imagine with this family, no one ever really talked about it. I don’t even remember being told—it was just something I always knew.” She cocked her head. “What other family secrets can I spill?”

  “I am curious,” Hugo began. “Why didn’t Marc’s fiancée come for the weekend?”

  “You’d have to ask him.” Her eyes were wary. “I really don’t know the exact reason.”

  “He told me she had other plans,” Lerens said. “But I’m not sure I believe him entirely. After all, this is the party of the year, and if she likes being seen on his arm, that’d be—”

  “I think I said, he likes her being seen on his arm,” Manis corrected. “Look, there’s tension between me and her, and between her and the family. What she doesn’t understand, and will need to if she wants to marry into the Lambourd clan, is that there’s always going to be tension. You just have to learn to live with it.”

  “You speak from experience,” Hugo said. “You’re married?”

  “Was. For ten years. Then he decided he liked men better than women.” Again the sad smile. “What could I say about that, other than goodbye?”

  “Not much, I suppose. I’m sorry,” Hugo said. He turned to Lerens. “Anything else?”

  “Not that I can think of.” Lerens stood and put out her hand. “Thank you for your time and candor. Can you ask either Fabien or Karine Berger to come in?”

  “Of course.” Manis shook hands with them both and then let herself out of the living room.

  “Quite the family,” Lerens said.

  “You’re not kidding.”

  “Dysfunction aside, not one of them saw anything, heard anything, or can think of anyone who’d hurt Tammy Fotinos.”

  “Correct. You’d think with all these creaky old doors and floor boards, someone would have heard something.”

  “Yeah, like a young woman being almost strangled to death.” Hugo shook his head in frustration. “Maybe young Fabien will confess to everything and make our lives easier.”

  “I don’t think so,” Lerens said, as they watched the door open and Noelle Manis come back in.

  “So there’s a bit of a problem with you talking to Karine and Fabien,” Manis said.

  Her tone caught their attention. “What’s wrong?” Lerens asked.

  “
I’m very sorry, but Mother has forbidden Karine to speak with you.”

  “On what basis?” Lerens asked.

  “That she didn’t do anything wrong and is already traumatized by what happened.”

  “Please tell your mother we will absolutely need to speak with Karine at some point. We can have a counselor present, and your mother can even be there. But we will need to talk to her.” Lerens sighed in frustration. “And what about Fabien—what’s the problem with him?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “What do you mean?” Hugo asked, not liking her tone. “He went out?”

  “It’s just . . . no one knows where he is,” Manis said. “He seems to have disappeared.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “What does that mean, disappeared?” Hugo asked.

  “No one has seen him at all this morning,” Jameson said. The Scot had returned from the hospital and been keeping the family company downstairs.

  “And no one thought to mention it until now?” Hugo asked.

  “Ay. I get the feeling this family won’t be helping any more than they absolutely have to. And that includes offering information without being asked.”

  “Do they seem worried?” Hugo asked.

  “I just finished talking to his father, for heaven’s sake,” Lerens said, exasperated. “How did he not mention it?”

  Jameson shrugged. “You want me to get him back up here?”

  “Yes, please.” When he’d gone, Lerens said, “Just what we need, a runaway teenager.”

  “He’ll turn up. Probably not a fan of authority and, as you say, he’s a teenager.”

  “Yeah, hopefully.” Lerens sighed. “So, what do you make of things so far?”

  “Well, it seems like whoever stole the paintings didn’t know what he was doing. Not if he wanted to make any money off them, anyway.”

  “Is there any other reason to steal art?”

  “To enjoy it,” Hugo offered. “But two of the paintings were of family members, and a stranger isn’t going to get much pleasure from those.”

  “The paintings themselves were on the smaller side compared to the others in here, so in one way it makes sense he’d take those. And, I suppose, he attacked Tammy Fotinos on his way out.”

  “That seems odd to me,” Hugo said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, she told us she was on her way to bed when she was attacked from behind.”

  “Right. He saw her coming down the stairs, waited until her back was turned, and attacked.”

  “But why? I mean, she’d not seen him and was on her way to bed. If he’d waited thirty seconds she’d have been out of the way and he could’ve slipped out then, or stolen more stuff.”

  “Maybe he panicked?”

  “And just happened to have a garrote with him?” Hugo gave her a dry smile. “Is that something French burglars typically carry?”

  “So you think the theft of the paintings is a distraction.”

  “Maybe, yes.”

  They turned as the double doors opened and Jameson led Marc Lambourd into the room. He was a tall man, dark-haired and handsome, wearing moleskin trousers, a pink button-down shirt, and a blue sports jacket.

  “Monsieur Lambourd,” Lerens said. “I wanted you to meet Hugo Marston—he’s helping me with this investigation.”

  Lambourd and Hugo shook hands. “Pleasure to meet you,” Hugo said. Lambourd just nodded.

  They took their seats, and Hugo let Lerens do the talking. She said, “Someone mentioned that Fabien hasn’t been seen this morning.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “You yourself haven’t seen or spoken to him at all today?”

  “He’s a teenager. I go days without seeing or speaking to him.”

  “Today isn’t your normal day, though,” Lerens pointed out. “And didn’t you just bail him out of jail?”

  “Not bail, they’re dropping all charges. I expect that’s why he’s avoiding me—he knows I’m tired of cleaning up his messes.”

  “I see,” he said “Kids aren’t as attuned to circumstances as we’d like them to be.”

  Hugo spoke up. “Plus, it’s my understanding that you and Fabien have an unusually close bond.”

  Lambourd shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean by that. If it’s unusual for a father and son to love each other, then maybe so.”

  Hugo smiled. “I think maybe it’s more that father and son like each other.”

  “Ah, perhaps,” Lambourd conceded. “At the very least, we are very alike, and I am very lucky that I have his friendship.”

  “I assume you’ve tried calling him?” Lerens asked.

  “Of course. About thirty minutes ago, I called as soon as I was told he’d not been seen, but it went to voicemail. And he’s not read the texts I sent him.”

  “Do you have a tracking app?” she asked.

  “No. I give the boy his independence as much as possible.”

  “If you could write his number down, I can have someone ping his phone, find out where he is.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “Monsieur Lambourd.” Lerens held his gaze for a moment. “A woman was almost murdered here last night. Your son should be here, and he’s not. Are you not concerned?”

  “I am not concerned that he’s involved, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Nor am I concerned that he’s in danger. He is an expert in martial arts and is a sensible boy.”

  “Martial arts aren’t much use against a gun,” Hugo said. “Or even the element of surprise.”

  “This is not America,” Lambourd snapped. “Not everyone has a gun on their hip.”

  “Monsieur Lambourd, please,” Lerens said. “I need his phone number. If we locate him and he’s fine, then we can clear him, leave him alone, and start worrying about other things.”

  Lambourd dictated the number and Lerens typed it into her phone, dialed the prefecture, and spent a few moments talking to someone back at the Brigade Criminelle, passing on Fabien’s phone number. “They’ll get a warrant and have it tracked. Shouldn’t take an hour.”

  “Fine. Please let me know what you find out.” Lambourd stood. “Is that all you need from me?”

  “Actually, there is one thing.” Hugo remained seated. “Would you mind having a word with your mother on our behalf?”

  “What about?”

  “She doesn’t want us to talk to Karine Berger.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s not clear to us,” Hugo said. “And, as you might imagine, not wanting us to talk to her makes us want to talk to her even more.”

  “Probably because you’d be wasting your time.”

  “Meaning?”

  “My mother is a very loyal person. And Karine . . . has her issues.” He pursed his lips, as if wondering how much to say. He continued. “Look, Karine is perfect for my mother. She does as she’s told, doesn’t talk a lot, and doesn’t require . . . a lot of time for herself. My mother’s needs are great and she’s a demanding person. Karine isn’t the sort of person likely to get a good job anywhere else, so while she works a lot and spends her life with my mother, she is paid well. And my mother will protect her.”

  “Why does she need protecting?”

  “She’s . . . we call her a nurse but she’s not trained or anything. She’s more of a companion and she’s . . . a very simple person. She could be bullied into saying something that she shouldn’t. Or something that wasn’t true.”

  “That’s not how we operate,” Lerens said.

  “Maybe not. But my mother doesn’t know that. And wouldn’t believe it if you told her.”

  “What exactly does she do for your mother?” Hugo asked. He wanted to change the subject, make both Lerens and Lambourd less defensive.

  “Whatever Maman needs. From trips to the store to trips to Bordeaux and beyond. She takes care of her when she’s sick, and generally makes sure my mother is comfortable. I’ve seen Karine carry her from the car to her bed severa
l times. She’s as loyal to my mother as my mother is to her.”

  “I wasn’t clear about something,” Hugo said. “Were you implying that Karine has some kind of learning disability or mental impairment?”

  “I have no idea. I barely know the woman.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When they were alone in the room, Hugo and Camille Lerens sat in silence for a moment. A heavy wooden clock on the mantle above the fireplace tick-tocked in a hollow, almost baritone voice, and Hugo thought about the people who’d passed through and lingered in this room before him. Like many Americans, he was a sucker for history, real history. Stories of kings and queens, art that was hundreds of years old, homes that had survived wars and, or so it seemed to Hugo, held onto family secrets of people like the Lambourds.

  Hugo wandered to the windows overlooking the garden, and beyond it the park, where Charlotte Lambourd’s first husband had been found murdered. Had she done it to get the house back? But who would kill their husband and marry a man and bear three children for him just for a house? The truth was, he’d seen people kill for less. Far less—a handful of coins, or just an insult.

  “You’re looking pensive,” Lerens said.

  “Just thinking about this house. All that it’s seen over the years.”

  “You think houses see things?” Lerens was amused. “You know what I mean.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “I think people project their emotions onto things, invest their lives and even their souls into places just like this.”

  “That’s a . . . very un-Hugo-like sentiment.”

  “Let me ask you this, then. If you were blindfolded and led into a building, do you think you could tell whether it was newly built, or old like this?”

  “Could I tell the difference?”

  “Right. Do you think you could?”

  Lerens thought for a moment. “I would have to say yes.”

  “Right. Because there’s something intangible, unexplainable, about old houses like this.”

  “They smell of dust and polish. What happened to Mr. Logical? You’ll be turning to religion next.”

  “No, that’s not fair,” Hugo said, laughing gently. “I’ve always told you that I believe in a person’s ability to sense when something’s not right. Either in the moment or more generally.”