The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  She hesitated again. “Oui, monsieur, absolument.”

  Hugo thanked her and hurried out of the kitchen, and up two flights of stairs to the top floor. The crime scene unit hadn’t arrived but Lerens had retrieved her “go-bag” containing gloves, booties, and face masks, and she handed one set of each to Hugo.

  “Put these on,” she said. “Then a quick look, but no touching.”

  “I’ve done this once or twice before, you know.” But he did as he was told and followed Lerens back into the bedroom. To their right a velvet-covered straight-backed chair was tucked neatly under an ornate desk, upon which sat a Gucci handbag, and an open but dark-screened laptop. Beside it was a wicker basket for trash, with what looked like a solitary crumpled piece of paper in it.

  Directly in front of them, Noelle Manis lay on her back, dressed in a white nightgown that covered her down to her knees. Her face was pale and waxy, her hands and bare feet, too. Her long, brown hair poured down the sides of the cushion that Marc Lambourd had placed under her head, and her eyes were closed. A line of deep redness looked to circle her neck, somewhere between a bruise and a rash.

  “Strangled?” Lerens was obviously looking at the same thing he was.

  “Looks like it. Our garroter back again?” He bent to look more closely at the marks on Manis’s neck.

  “If so, he’s learned from his mistakes,” Lerens said, her tone grim.

  “These aren’t . . . something not right about that.”

  “Meaning?” Lerens stooped beside him. “Ah. Looks less severe than the injuries to Tammy Fotinos.”

  “Right, which doesn’t make sense since Noelle is dead and Tammy isn’t.”

  “Marc didn’t mention how he found her, did he?” Lerens asked.

  “No, and I didn’t ask.” Hugo straightened and looked around the room, and then went to the desk. The computer was cold under his gloved fingertips and he couldn’t see inside the zipped purse, so he looked across the room, not seeing anything obviously out of place except a pillowcase lying on the floor to the left side of the bed. The pillow itself was partially stuffed under the bed. He moved toward them, and looked at the huge armoire that sat at the back of the large room. One of the doors was slightly ajar.

  “Look, don’t touch, remember.” Lerens was watching him.

  “Right, of course.” He moved to the armoire, careful not to step on the pillowcase or touch the pillow with his feet. When he got to it he peered inside. “Ah, I see.”

  “See what?”

  He got out his phone and flicked the flashlight app on, and then aimed it at the opening. He shone it up and down, then turned off the app and retreated to the more open area where Lerens stood.

  “A rope,” he said. “Looks like it’s attached to a rail inside, at the top of the armoire.”

  “And the other end?”

  “I couldn’t see it, but am guessing it was around her neck.”

  “Suicide?” Lerens asked, disbelief in her voice.

  “Possibly.” He looked down at Manis’s body. “Doesn’t seem very probable, though, does it?”

  “Merde. We’re supposed to be solving this crime, not finding more bodies.”

  “Excusez-moi.” The voice came from the doorway, where a crime scene specialist stood, dressed in white coveralls, booties, and a mask, and with a camera in her hand.

  “Bien, we’re ready for you.” Lerens gestured toward the door. “After you, Hugo.”

  Hugo watched the crime scene tech from the doorway. In years gone by, the photographers were more circumspect about what they took pictures of and how many. They were thorough, sure, but they were the ones who had to develop the pictures, so wasteful and unnecessary shots were extra work. Nowadays, with digital cameras and simple downloads, photographers took hundreds of pictures, which, while more thorough, actually meant more work for the investigators to have to comb through them. And sure enough, this tech was moving through the room, capturing everything from multiple angles and at different ranges at a pace that Hugo found frustrating. He wanted to see inside that armoire.

  The tech got there eventually, photographing it from the back of the bedroom, moving closer with more shots, and then close up, cutting it into segments. She moved to get an angle through the cracked-open door. Then she lowered her camera and said, “That’s the whole room. I’m going to open this and get what’s inside.”

  “Good,” said Hugo. He still had his surgical gloves on and his hands were sweaty now, but he didn’t want to remove them in case there was something in there he wanted to inspect for himself.

  The tech opened the armoire doors and took another dozen photographs. That done, she reached in and then held up for Hugo and Lerens to see a length of rope with a noose at one end. She untied the other end from the rail inside the armoire, placed the rope in a plastic bag, and walked across the room to the desk and pointed to the laptop.

  “Do you want me to me to try and fire this up?” she asked.

  “Yes, please,” Lerens said. “If there’s a password then just shut it down again and we’ll hand it over to our digital forensics people.”

  “Will do.” The tech pressed the power button, and they all waited, watching in silence and not moving as the screen flickered into life. Ten seconds later, she stepped back, took five more photographs, and looked back at Hugo and Lerens.

  “You guys might want to come look at this,” she said.

  A moment later Hugo and Lerens were looking down on an electronic document that had been created and left up on the screen, with five lines of writing on it.

  I killed Fabien. He did more to me than you know. I could barely live with myself, and I couldn’t stand him being in the family, seeing him. I couldn’t take it.

  And now I can t live with myself. I’m sorry.

  I never did belong, anyway.

  “Well, well,” Hugo said. “The classic suicide note in unclassic format. How . . . helpful?”

  “You’re not buying it,” Lerens said. “Aren’t you the guy who talks about following the evidence and not prejudging?”

  “I am.” He turned to the lieutenant. “I don’t suppose it’s relevant, but I just found out that Marc and his fiancée split up last night. I saw Karine Berger in the kitchen, and she happened to mention it.”

  “Doesn’t seem like something his sister would kill herself over.”

  “No, of course not.” Hugo waved a hand dismissively. “I just didn’t want to forget to mention it.”

  “Interesting coincidence, though,” Lerens mused.

  “It sure is.”

  “And you don’t like coincidences, if I remember rightly.”

  “They happen, which is why someone invented a word for them,” Hugo said, deep in thought. “They just don’t happen as often as some people would like you to believe.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Hugo and Lerens left the crime scene folks to do their thing— video the scene, photograph it, then place numbered yellow “tents” beside pieces of possible evidence and rephotograph everything, and finally collect and bag physical evidence. Hugo was glad the tech had bagged the rope already. If there were to be telltale forensics here, they’d be on that piece of evidence for sure.

  Hugo and Lerens headed down the long hallway to the stairs, their first order of business to talk to Marc Lambourd and the other family members to see if anyone knew anything. As they approached the double doors of the living room, Hugo saw that the entire family was now assembled there. Lerens stopped, seeing the same thing.

  “We need to talk to Marc alone,” she said.

  “We do.”

  “I feel like if we walk in there and make that request we’ll be devoured alive on the spot.” She gave Hugo a small smile. “Then again, we’re the police and they’re just incredibly rich and well connected. Let’s go.”

  Hugo followed her into the room and immediately heads swiveled their way, but Hugo didn’t particularly like the looks they were getting. Édoua
rd Lambourd and Erika Sipiora stood by the large fireplace, as if drawn by the absent paintings to fill the gaps on the walls with their own visages. Marc sat on the sofa with his head in his hands and an empty teacup on a low table in front of him. Charlotte Lambourd sat in a comfortable armchair closest to him, and when she turned to look at Hugo and Lerens, her eyes glittered and her jaw clenched.

  “Good afternoon,” Lerens said. “First of all, I am very sorry for your loss. Please know that we are working diligently to find out precisely what happened and what is going on.”

  “Not for long,” Charlotte Lambourd said.

  “Excuse me?” Lerens cocked her head, clearly not understanding.

  “I called the préfet de police. You will be replaced, due to your intrusive and ineffective techniques and investigation.”

  “No one has mentioned that to me,” Lerens said stiffly. “And until they do, I will carry on with my duties.”

  “And I don’t work for the préfet de police,” Hugo said. He turned to Marc Lambourd. “Monsieur, may we speak with you in private for just a moment?”

  “Why in private?” Charlotte demanded. She was still in charge, but Hugo could see how the news about Noelle had rattled her. And Marc Lambourd, for once in his life, looked unsure. He glanced at each member of his family, none of whom seemed to give him any visual cues. He stood slowly and sighed, then nodded and walked toward Hugo and Lerens.

  “There’s a small study, not open to the public—we can use that,” he said. He led them out of the living room, turned right, and passed the top of the staircase and then stopped in front of a wooden door that had a discreet keypad beside it. He punched in a code and pushed the door open and beckoned them to enter.

  Small? Hugo thought, amused. It was at least three times the size of his office back at the embassy. A large walnut desk sat to their left with a solid oak chair behind it. Opposite them, with its back to a window, was a chesterfield suite—a deep-buttoned three-person sofa and matching armchairs in a rich brown, and well-used, leather. The room smelled a little musty, and Hugo soon understood why—bookshelves filled with leather-bound books, maybe law books, filled the wall space to his right.

  “This was my father’s study,” Marc Lambourd explained. “We’d only come in here to get yelled at, or when he wasn’t here to find his secret stash of postcards. I wonder if all fathers are so obliv—.” He stopped himself midword, realizing the import of what he was saying. “Jesus. I guess we are.” He sank into one of the chairs, and Hugo and Lerens perched on the sofa across from him. “My God, my poor boy.” Lambourd looked up. “What’s going on here?”

  “We’re close to finding out,” Hugo said, ignoring a look from Lerens.

  “I mean, first Fabien, then Noelle. Am I next, am I on someone’s hit list?”

  “Monsieur, when did you last see Noelle?” Lerens asked. “Yesterday evening.” He shook his head. “She had a migraine this morning, so I didn’t see her.”

  “That happens often?” Hugo asked.

  “I’m afraid so.” Lambourd looked pale, exhausted. “She’s seen every specialist there is, but the only thing she can do is lie in the dark and wait for it to pass. We all know not to bother her, there’s nothing we can do, and trying to help just makes it worse.”

  “You two were close?” Lerens asked.

  “We were. The closest of all the siblings, I’d say.” A hitch in his voice reminded Hugo what he’d heard before. “Until Noelle made those accusations.”

  “They weren’t accusations, not really.” Lambourd’s tone was firm, absolutely certain, but he didn’t look at either Hugo or Lerens. “Just a misunderstanding. We all got past it.”

  Unless you all didn’t, Hugo thought. Was it bad enough to give Noelle a reason to hurt Fabien, or Marc to hurt Noelle maybe?

  “May I ask why your engagement ended?” Lerens asked. Lambourd looked up in surprise, and she said in a kind voice, “Yes, we know.”

  “Of course you do. This family has the darkest of secrets but can’t keep that one for more than an hour.”

  “Why was it a secret?” Hugo asked.

  “Because it was no one’s business but ours,” Lambourd said. “Who told you?”

  “Can you tell us,” Hugo said, ignoring the question, “did you break it off, or did she?”

  “How is this relevant to anything? I mean really?” Lambourd stared at him for a moment, and when Hugo didn’t reply Lambourd seemed to give in. “I’m not even sure. I think she was starting to, then I got angry and finished breaking it off.”

  “Why did she start to?” Hugo asked, his tone gentle.

  “Many reasons. We’d had problems, she and Fabien hadn’t been getting along. And no, nothing like with him and Noelle. Then my mother . . . she’s been making comments throughout the engagement and I suppose they finally got to her. She said she didn’t want to be part of such a, excuse me for repeating her words, a fucked-up family.”

  “How was she not getting along with Fabien?” Hugo asked.

  “I told you, not like that. And it doesn’t matter. My mother was the main problem, if you ask me.”

  “Why didn’t she like your fiancée?” Lerens asked.

  “She never got to know her,” Lambourd said, his tone bitter. “Took one look at her lineage, or lack of it, saw she had olive skin, and concluded she wasn’t good enough for her son. No matter what her grown son himself thought.”

  “And she made her feelings known, obviously,” Lerens said.

  “It’s one of the reasons she called the préfet about you,” Lambourd said. “She’s a racist old woman. God knows what she thinks of the whole gender-swapping thing.”

  Hugo bristled at the words, which in his mind intentionally were thrown like darts, but Lerens ignored them.

  “You said it didn’t matter about what happened between Noelle and Fabien,” she said. “But no one has said exactly what it was, and it might matter. Can you tell us, please?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then snorted. “If I don’t, I’m sure a member of the family will be happy to. Édouard, most likely—he does love a salacious story whether it’s true or not.” He sighed and sat back. “About six months ago, Noelle said Fabien had been peeking at her.”

  “Peeking?” Hugo asked.

  “Like in the shower. Once there, and once in the bedroom.” Lambourd waved a hand. “I talked to him about it. Both times it was accidental.”

  “How so?”

  “The first time he was wanting to borrow a book from her, the second time . . . I don’t even remember. But she’d not locked the door either time, she admitted that.”

  “I see. So basically no big deal, as far as you were concerned,” Lerens said.

  “Not at all. To her, I guess it was. We talked about it, but she never really believed him—not because he was lying, but she just . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know, sometimes I get the feeling she resented him for coming between her and me.”

  “Monsieur.” Lerens cleared her throat. “Can you describe as precisely as possible how you found Noelle? And why you went in?”

  “Huh?” Lambourd looked up, as if remembering that Noelle was the reason he was in there with two investigators. “Yes. Of course. I went in because no one had seen her all day. I thought maybe she’d recovered and gone out. She’ll go for a walk in the park sometimes after it clears up. But she’d be gone so long. That was unusual so I wanted to check in case . . . I don’t know, in case she was still in there and needed help.”

  “And where was she exactly?” Hugo asked.

  “I saw her as soon as I came through the door.” Lambourd’s eyes glazed over as he remembered the scene, and his voice became a monotone. “It didn’t make sense at first. Like, why she’d be there, in front of the armoire. I could see her head but it was too high for her to be sitting on the floor. I knew something was wrong so I ran over and she was just . . . dangling on the end of that rope.” He shivered and took a deep breath. �
��I held her up with one arm and managed to get the rope off with the other. It was so tight, I had to really . . . it was hard to get it off. And you arrived soon after. How did you know to come?”

  “You cried out, monsieur,” Lerens said. “We heard you and came immediately.”

  “I don’t recall doing that,” Lambourd said.

  “That’s normal,” Hugo assured him. “Let me ask you this, if I may be blunt. You said earlier, first Fabien and now Noelle. Do you doubt that she committed suicide?”

  “Of course I have doubts. Why would she do that?”

  Lerens shrugged. “Her role within the family, perhaps? Did she have depression? Any other mental health issues?”

  “She seemed sad sometimes, bitter maybe, but that’s the Lambourd family motto. And if there was any depression it was very mild,” Lambourd said. “She certainly hasn’t tried to hurt herself before, nothing like that. Not that I know about, anyway.”

  “How long did you know your fiancée?” Hugo asked.

  “Eighteen months. We’ve been engaged for the last six.”

  “When were you planning to get married?” Lerens asked.

  “We were supposed to discuss that with the family this weekend. We never got around to it, obviously.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “She had a joke about us.” Lambourd closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them and went on. “It was no secret that she had trouble fitting in, anyone would. But she’d say that maybe if she hung around the family long enough then she’d get Stockholm syndrome and live with our craziness.”

  “That’s one way to do it,” Lerens said, with a sympathetic smile. She glanced at Hugo. “Hey, what’s with you?” Hugo had fixated on a space somewhere over Marc Lambourd’s right shoulder. “Hugo. Anyone in there?”

  “That’s it.” Hugo turned his head and looked at her. “That might just be the answer.”

  “Stockholm syndrome? The answer to what? This case? How?”

  “Enough with the questions.” Hugo stood. “But not exactly.”

  “Not exactly to which one?” Lerens asked him, exasperated.