The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  “Hugo Marston,” he said.

  “Ah, Monsieur Marston.” Hugo didn’t recognize the voice, but it was a Frenchman calling. “My name is Paul Ancette and I am the outreach coordinator for LLLF.”

  “That’s a lot of Ls. What does that stand for?”

  “La Libéralisation des Lois sur Fusils”

  “The liberalization of gun laws? You’re like the French NRA?”

  “Exactement, oui,” The man went on. “Traditionally we’re more oriented toward protecting the rights of farmers and hunters to own guns, but we’re always in favor of pushing gun ownership legislation. Anyway, we have our annual conference in just one month. We’d like you to be a guest speaker, talk about your heroic acts to stop a madman.”

  “I see. The thing is, we don’t know if he was a madman, and since there’s an investigation into him and me, I should decline.”

  “Oh. Well. What a shame.” The man sounded crushed.

  “By the way, how did you get my number?” Hugo asked.

  “I didn’t—the embassy forwarded the call to you. What about after it’s all over, the investigation, do you think—”

  “Well, thank you for thinking of me,” Hugo said cheerily, before hanging up. He pocketed his phone and turned to look out of the window again, when a voice spoke up behind him.

  “The great American hero, n’est-ce pas?”

  Hugo turned and found Marc Lambourd standing in front of him.

  “Monsieur Lambourd, nice to see you again.”

  They shook hands, Lambourd’s eyes never leaving Hugo’s face, as if he was waiting for a reaction.

  “And you. Enjoying yourself? To be frank, I’m a little surprised you were invited. My mother doesn’t hold much fondness for policemen.”

  “Too many speeding tickets?” Or something more sinister, perhaps? Hugo smiled. “Anyway, I’m not really a policeman.”

  “Then you can drink as much champagne as you like.”

  “Not too much.” Hugo reached out and swiped a cracker piled high with caviar. “But the hors d’oeuvres are delicious.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying them.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I am a big believer that you are what you eat. Just like the fuel you put in your car can make it run or foul it up, so the food we put in our bodies dictates how we function. How we live. So, I only drink the best wine, and rarely, and eat organic food and no red meat.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Well, I say that.” Lambourd smiled self-deprecatingly. “The truth is, I indulge once every couple of months, have something I’d normally consider unhealthy. But I truly believe I can do that only because I eat well the rest of the time.”

  “I wish I were that disciplined.”

  “It takes practice, believe me. So, speaking of impressive, I just found out you had an audience with our esteemed president after your heroic act.” The sarcasm was invisible, but Hugo was pretty sure it was there.

  “I did, yes.”

  “Did she know at the time an American was the shooter?”

  “We still don’t know that.” The gun, on the other hand . . .

  “Is that so? My sources mislead me then.”

  “As you can imagine, they’re not telling me much about that investigation.” Hugo shifted, wanting to change the subject. “Have you heard anything from your son?”

  A flicker of worry passed over Lambourd’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “Not yet. As you’re one of the investigating officers, I was hoping you may have an update.”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid not. I promise the moment I do, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m sure he’s just gotten into some scrape with his friends.” The veneer cracked a little, and the look of worry returned. “Everyone thinks I’m too soft on him, and maybe I am. He’s my only child, my son. And despite all of this”—he waved at the splendor around them— “he’s not had an easy life. Maybe because of all this.”

  “I’m in no place to judge or advise,” Hugo said. “I don’t have kids, so I wouldn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “All I can tell you is, most parents would do pretty much anything for their child.”

  “Most?”

  “You’ve met my mother, have you not?” Lambourd didn’t smile because, Hugo assumed, he wasn’t trying to be funny. “When Fabien was born, I vowed to do a better job than my mother did with us. To her, love was communicated by faint praise on a good day, a leather belt on a bad day, and complete indifference most other days. Maybe I’ve gone too much in the opposite direction, but if you ask me, too much love beats not enough.”

  “I’d agree with that,” Hugo said.

  “Here comes someone who doesn’t always.” Lambourd’s grim look dissipated as a beautiful woman in a white dress approached. “Monsieur Marston, I believe you know my sister Noelle.”

  “Enchantée, monsieur,” she said, shaking Hugo’s hand. As before, her grip was surprisingly strong. “What important world affairs are you gentlemen discussing?”

  “Your nephew, actually.” Lambourd opened his mouth to say something else, and then his eyes looked past Manis. “Will you excuse me? My mother needs me for something. Even at my age, and she at hers, I daren’t keep her waiting.”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” Noelle Manis said. She watched him leave and then turned to Hugo. “If I’d known how dysfunctional this family was, I would never have . . . been born, I guess.”

  “Aren’t most families screwed up in their own way?”

  “Nothing like this, I promise you.”

  “How so?” Hugo knew he shouldn’t be asking work questions, which this was, but Claudia had obviously gotten buttonholed by someone, and Manis might give him good insight, maybe even information, about the family.

  “Take Marc. I’m sure he told you of his promise to raise Fabien differently from the way he was raised.”

  “He did. And it sounded very sensible, if you ask me.”

  “Maybe.”

  Hugo wondered if a glass or two of champagne might help Noelle tell whatever story she’d kept to herself when they first met, but she didn’t seem even a little tipsy. He tried anyway.

  “Unless his leniency causes problems within the family,” Hugo said. “Which I gather it has.”

  “Yes, and what’s frustrating is how self-righteous Marc is about it.” Nice deflection, Hugo thought. Intentional? “About other things, too.”

  “Other things?”

  “I’m sure he gave you his you are what you eat speech.” Manis rolled her eyes. “Never mind the fish and chips he eats on his frequent trips to England.”

  “No one’s perfect,” Hugo said.

  “So true. And when it comes to raising Fabien, you’re right, his theory is sound, but if Marc didn’t turn a blind eye to the boy’s every misadventure, I might agree. That kid could punch the pope in the nose and Marc would make excuses for him.”

  “Can you give me any real-life examples?” Hugo asked.

  “I know you want me to tell you what I wouldn’t before,” Manis said. “But you’re out of luck.”

  “Fair enough.” Hugo raised both hands in surrender. “One thing, though, for being so doting, Marc doesn’t seem that worried about the car we found, or about Fabien’s absence.”

  “No one is. Because he does this kind of thing all the time.” She sighed. “It’s like he’s testing Marc to see how far he can go and, as far as I can see, it’s as far as he wants.”

  “Being a parent isn’t easy. Isn’t he doing the best he can?”

  Manis shook her head. “You asked, so let me tell you a story. And it’s one example, one incident. One of the worst, but certainly not the only one.”

  “Please, go ahead.”

  “A few years ago, three maybe, Fabien was at a party. It was at the house of one of his friends from school, the parents were away or out, and about twenty of them got together and had a party.” She took a sip of champagne.
“Normal teenage behavior, right?”

  “I’d say so, yes.”

  “Except that one of the girls claimed the next day that Fabien had raped her friend. Drugged her and raped her while she was unconscious. This family closed ranks before the kids’ hangovers had worn off. The girl making the claim was ostracized, and the girl who was allegedly raped denied it. Said she’d been awake all night, and Fabien hadn’t gone near her. Nothing would make her say otherwise, even though most people believed it had happened.”

  “What did Marc say?”

  “Oh, he was furious, with the parents for leaving the kids unattended, with the friend for making up such a destructive lie, and even with the girl at the center of all this. With everyone except Fabien, who was the only victim in Marc’s eyes.”

  “Maybe he really didn’t do anything?”

  “That’s the thing about this family, the truth is always hiding. The truth you see is what they want you to see—they create reality to suit themselves.”

  “You said ‘they,’ but you’re part of the family.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” She laughed gently.

  “That reminds me, I’m curious about something if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Anything—I love to dish on the family.”

  “Your mother married twice, but is still a Lambourd, and your brothers have the Lambourd name. Did you use that name growing up?”

  “Yes, I am divorced and am currently receiving immense pressure to take back my maiden name.”

  “From your mother?”

  “Yes. She is a force, monsieur, please don’t ever underestimate her. What she wants, she usually gets and that included this house and the Lambourd name. The story is, she only agreed to marry Alfred Fontaine if he took the family name, the real one. Sounds very modern, I know, but it has more to do with him being rich and desperate for prestige.”

  “And your mother reclaiming the Lambourd name.”

  “Oh, that was primary. She gave in a little, allowing her kids to use Fontaine as a middle name, but Lambourd had to be the surname.”

  “You all have the Fontaine middle name?”

  “All except me.”

  “Seriously?” Hugo asked, surprised.

  “Well, I added it myself when I was old enough to do so, but yes.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Figure it out.” She flashed an enigmatic smile. “Anyway, I’m doing a terrible job of explaining the family dynamic, and I’m making Marc out as a monster. He’s not. He’s loving and kind, and a good man. He just has one blind spot. Like you said, he’s so blind to reality when it comes to his son, he’s not even worried that he’s missing.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m trying not to be. I’m also trying not to hope something bad happens to him.”

  Hugo cocked his head in surprise. “That’s an odd thing to admit. You want something bad to—”

  “Sorry, what I mean is . . .” She cast about for the right words. “If nothing bad ever happens to him, he’ll never change. And eventually he’ll trust the wrong people, insult the wrong people, and then something will happen that won’t be fixable.”

  “He needs a shock to the system, you’re saying.”

  “Yes, that, instead of being rescued every time. Exactly. Maybe this will be it, but who knows?”

  “Well, the police are looking everywhere for him, I know that much.” Hugo spotted Claudia—she was throwing looks his way, her path having been blocked by a rotund older man with a red face and a tendency, or so it seemed, to lean in close when he talked to beautiful women. “Speaking of rescuing, if you’ll excuse me, my date is in need of just that.”

  Noelle Manis looked behind her. “Blue dress?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s very pretty.” Manis leaned in and put a hand on Hugo’s arm. “Let’s see if she’s jealous.”

  “Trust me, she’s not,” Hugo said with a smile.

  “Nonsense. All women are, to some degree.” Manis removed her hand and looked back at Claudia. “I’ll let you go save her because that man is Roger Gallant, who most certainly does not live up to his name. Plus, he’s drunk already so you better get over there before he falls on top of her, which may be his plan all along.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Monsieur Roger Gallant, as it turned out, did not have a red face from drink, as Noelle Manis had suggested, but from outrage. And that outrage only grew when he first recognized Hugo from the Tuileries news coverage, and then realized that Hugo was attempting to prize the beautiful Claudia Roux from his clutches.

  “Do you know who I am?” Gallant said testily, when Hugo put a hand on Claudia’s elbow and asked to have a quiet word. “I believe Roger Gallant is your name.”

  “Yes, of course, but do you know who I am?”

  “No, monsieur, I have no idea, I’m sorry.”

  “I am the head of one of the largest news organizations in Europe, that’s who I am.”

  “Congratulations,” Hugo said, starting to steer himself and Claudia away.

  “And I’ll have you know, my organization doesn’t much care for what you did.”

  Hugo stopped. “What I did?”

  “What right do you have to walk the streets of Paris carrying a gun?”

  “It’s perfectly legal, I assure you. My embassy—”

  “I’m not interested in whether it’s legal. It’s immoral. Laws can change, but morality stays the same. You carrying a gun is wrong, and I won’t stand for it.”

  Hugo felt the heat rising under his collar. “Well, to be frank, I don’t think there’s much you can do about it.”

  “There are a lot of people who do my bidding—politicians and government leaders.”

  Hugo took a small step back, having discovered that it wasn’t just beautiful women Gallant leaned into when he spoke to them. “I’m shocked they allow you . . . you . . . cowboys to roam the boulevards of our beautiful city armed to the teeth, like it was Texas in the 1800s.”

  “Texas nowadays, too, as it happens.” Hugo smiled cheerily, deciding to needle the man if he couldn’t escape him. “And I don’t think I was armed to the teeth.”

  “And,” Claudia chipped in, “there are a lot of people who are very glad that he was there, and carrying a gun.”

  “Exactly!” Gallant exclaimed.

  Hugo and Claudia exchanged confused glances. “Exactly what?” Hugo asked.

  “How fortunate that you were there. How lucky that you happened to show up right when another armed American was about to murder people.”

  “Ah, I see,” Hugo said. “First of all, no one knows if he was an Amer—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, young man.” Gallant waved a finger. “I don’t know that I believe that conspiracy stuff, but I can certainly understand why people do. No, that’s not my concern. What I don’t want to have happen is for the small group of pro-gun people here in France to think they have a reason to be right.”

  “I don’t really think—”

  “I imagine you’re now their hero,” Gallant interrupted, disgust in his voice. “But my point is, you’ve already poisoned our system for too long—this would be the last straw.”

  “Poisoned what system?” Claudia asked.

  “Americans. With your crass films, with your rap music, your revolting fast food, and your bland, foul, chain coffee shops. France has been forever altered, diluted, by your country. Like pouring water into a glass of fine wine. Everywhere I look, something American looks back at me. Clothing, those stupid peaked hats, even. And now you want to bring guns to our country?”

  “I have no plans to do any such th—”

  “I told you not to interrupt me. I’m just getting started with you.”

  Gallant looked startled as a hand grasped his upper arm, and Ambassador J. Bradford Taylor spoke in his most authoritarian voice. “No, Roger, you are not. You are finished with Monsieur Marston and his lovely companion, because I need them much mo
re than you do.”

  “Well, I . . . just . . .” Gallant blustered, but he fell silent as Taylor led Hugo and Claudia away to safety.

  “Your phone is turned off,” Taylor said to Hugo when they were in the clear. His mood seemed to have soured considerably.

  “No, I don’t think . . .” Hugo turned to Claudia, who was smiling her most innocent smile. “Did you pickpocket me?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said mildly. “And I’m shocked and horrified at such an accusation.”

  Hugo took out his phone and discovered that it had, in fact, been powered down. “Probably wiped your fingerprints off, didn’t you?” he said to Claudia.

  “Lieutenant Lerens has been trying to reach you,” Taylor said. “She called my cell when you didn’t answer her calls or texts, asked me to let you know.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mr. Ambassador,” Claudia said sarcastically. “I’m already fighting a losing battle for his attention, and you’re not helping. I know, I know, important investigation, lives at stake, I know all that.”

  “This is something he needs to know about.” Taylor turned to Claudia and forced a smile. “Make it up to you with a fresh glass of champagne?”

  She smiled and took his arm. “And something to eat, please.”

  Hugo watched them wander off and powered on his phone. The noise level had risen in the drawing room, throughout the house it seemed, and he headed downstairs to see if he could slip into the garden. He managed to tail an electrician outside, angling away from where the final touches were being applied to the fireworks display.

  “Camille, sorry about that.”

  “Claudia turned your phone off?”

  “Yes, actually, how did you know?”

  “It’s not the first time she’s done it to keep your attention,” Lerens said, laughing. “She’s very ingenious.”

  “And very light-fingered,” Hugo added. “What’s going on?”

  “Well, as much as I hate to interrupt your party it occurred to me that while you’re there you might be able to get a few answers.”