The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense—it must be. Not exactly Stockholm syndrome, of course, but some variation of it.”

  “Hugo, you’re rambling like a lunatic. What are you talking about?”

  Hugo turned to Marc Lambourd. “Odd question, but do you know if Noelle ever locked her computer with a password, and if so do you know what it was?”

  “She didn’t, no,” Lambourd said. “She barely used it so had nothing to protect. Why do you ask? And what is this about Stockholm syndrome?”

  “Hmm?” Hugo was still lost in thought. “It’s when a captive becomes desensitized to their situation and starts to sympathize or have positive feelings toward his or her captors. Sometimes even come over to their cause, if they have one.”

  “No, no.” Lambourd waved away his answer. “I know what it is. I want to know how—”

  “Not this case, something else,” Hugo said. “Monsieur, may we have your permission to look at its contents—her computer, I mean?”

  “I . . . suppose so, yes.”

  “Thank you.” Lerens stood and gestured to the door. “Why don’t you rejoin your family? And, of course, if you can think of anything else please let us know.”

  “Yes, of course.” Marc Lambourd stood and walked to the door. He paused, his hand on the knob. “Why is this happening to us? To our family? And where is my son?”

  “I hope we’ll have answers for you soon, monsieur,” Lerens said.

  Lambourd said nothing in reply, just opened the door and left it open as he walked slowly back to the living room. Lerens turned to Hugo.

  “What do we tell the rest of the family?” she asked. “That they managed to drive their sister to suicide because she was adopted as a baby?”

  “No, not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean . . .” Hugo looked up at her. “I meant it wasn’t suicide.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Lerens hurried after Hugo as he trotted down the stairs, phone in hand.

  “Where are you, Tom?” he muttered as it rang. “Hey, there you are. Did you find out the suspects?”

  “Easy, tiger. How about a Hi, Tom, how’re you? Or maybe, I miss you, Tom, I don’t see you enough these days?”

  “Yeah, yeah, miss you,” Hugo said. “The suspects?”

  “You’re an insensitive monster. I don’t know how Claudia puts up with you. By the way, I saw her out with another guy last night. Real handsome fellow.”

  “Good for her,” Hugo said, impatient. “We’re not dating exclusively, Tom, so stop trying to snitch on her.”

  “Okay, well, it was a lie to see if you had feelings. You don’t.”

  “I do, just not for you.” Hugo couldn’t help but smile as he said it. “Now, the names?”

  “Yes, yes, you want me to list them? There’s five people at this point, and Hugo, there’s something you need to know.”

  “What?”

  “They haven’t said anything officially, not even to the ambassador,” Tom said. “But the investigation is basically out of string.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The five people are all administrators. They share log-in information for the system that keeps track of and catalogues the weapons.”

  “So?”

  “So, all five have been grilled and all deny it. Without an admission, a confession, there’s no way to tell which one made the false entry.”

  “Sounds like the system needs to be changed,” Hugo said mildly.

  “Oh, once Taylor hears about this little flaw, I’m betting it gets changed in a hurry.” Tom paused, and then said, “Wait, you don’t care that it can’t be narrowed down. Ahh. You’ve already done that.”

  “I think so.”

  “Dude, you haven’t even seen the list of administrators. How can you narrow them down without even—”

  “By their ages,” Hugo interrupted. “And just the women.”

  “It was a chick who stole the gun?” The surprise in Tom’s voice was clear. “Wow. Didn’t see that coming.”

  “Tom, focus.”

  “Right, yes. The women. Let’s see, there are three on the list and all are French. Sixty-three, thirty, and twenty-two.”

  “Do you have marital statuses for them?”

  “Err, looking . . . yep.”

  “I’m betting the thirty-year-old is unmarried,” Hugo said.

  “Was that a question?”

  “Tom.”

  “Yes, she’s unmarried. But so is the twenty-two-year-old.”

  “Too young.”

  “For what? And how did you know the thirty-year-old would be unmarried?”

  “Thanks, Tom. When this is all over I’ll buy you dinner and explain.”

  “When will that be, exactly? I’m pretty hungry right now.”

  “Not tonight, sorry,” Hugo said. “But very soon, if I’m right. Send me her name, will you? The thirty-year-old.”

  “This isn’t some bizarre new way of finding dates, is it? Because if so, I want no part of it.”

  “Very funny. The sooner you send the name, the sooner you get a free dinner.”

  “Already did. Now go do your solving thing.”

  Hugo hung up and wandered into the kitchen, his nose leading him in there once it caught the rich scent of something baking in the oven. At the far end, Édouard Lambourd was pouring a bottle into what looked like a coffee filter that sat atop a crystal decanter.

  “Port?” Hugo asked.

  “Non, but a good Bordeaux.”

  “I tasted a 1963 Cockburns port once. It’d been decanted, of course, and I tried it alongside a younger port.”

  “That so?”

  “I was stationed in England, years ago. I told my host I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference since I’d never drunk the stuff.”

  “Ah, I see.” Édouard Lambourd smiled. “With a ’63 Cockburns, I’m betting you could.”

  “No comparison—they were almost two different drinks.” Hugo inspected the label. “You always drink wine this good for dinner?”

  “Normally, no. We’re trying to do something nice for Marc.” He finished pouring the last of the wine into the filter, and Hugo watched as the red liquid dribbled down the inside of the decanter. “He lived in England for a while, liked it very much. So we’re preparing a nice, traditional meal for him. Comfort food, I suppose.”

  “I’ve heard he’s a big believer in food feeding the soul as well as the body.”

  “Yes, he most definitely is.” Lambourd rolled his eyes. “And I suspect that came from his fiancée’s influence, so I think tonight we can indulge him.”

  “That is nice. What are you making?”

  “Erika and I are sharing the duties, but she’s a better cook than me. I take care of the wine, and bought the most expensive foie gras. She’s making a steak and kidney pie with mashed potatoes.”

  “That’s what I’m smelling,” Hugo said, his mouth almost watering. “Delicious.”

  “It’s all a little heavy for my palate, but I grant you it smells heavenly.”

  “For dessert?” Hugo asked.

  “Ah, for dessert she’s making bread pudding.” He grimaced a little. “Sticking with the theme of heavy food, it seems.”

  “And yet, still delicious.”

  “Perhaps. Of course, the foie gras and the wine had to be French. English pâté is . . . lumps of meat, no better than dog food, and their wine is worse than vinegar. And we can hardly drink beer for dinner.”

  Hugo smiled. “Hardly.”

  “You Americans drink beer with dinner, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Americans don’t discriminate. They drink beer with lunch, dinner, snacks, whenever they want. We are less bound by tradition, perhaps.”

  “Or taste, perhaps.”

  Asshole, perhaps, Hugo thought, but just smiled, and asked, “Your mother, how does she feel about English food?”

  “Unless it’s high tea, then not much.”
r />   “I would imagine she’s not going to eat the pie or the pudding.”

  “Probably not.” Lambourd smirked. “But then again, neither will I. I think I told you, I’m a vegetarian, so just Erika and Marc will have that pleasure. After all it’s for him, n’est-ce pas? Mother will enjoy the foie gras, I’ll have a salad and maybe some pudding, and everyone will appreciate the wine.”

  “That seems like a confusing way to prepare a dinner, all around one person.” Hugo checked his watch. “Late dinner, too.”

  “We are accustomed to that.” Lambourd peered at the oven timer. “I’d guess ten o’clock, which is fine. Also, he’s our brother and while we’ve suffered one tragedy, he’s suffered two. It’s not such a great sacrifice.”

  A thought nudged at Hugo, like the first large wave of an incoming tide, and it almost shocked him with its cold touch, with the sense that there was another surge coming. Not of salty water, of course, but a second revelation that was inevitable and devastating, another blow to this noble if horribly flawed family.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I should get back to work,” Hugo said.

  Lambourd looked surprised. “Non, it’s late. Have a glass of wine, relax for a moment.”

  “I’d love to, but right now there’s something I need to take care of.” He ignored Édouard Lambourd’s suspicious look and hurried from the kitchen. Camille Lerens was headed down the stairs, her face like thunder. “Camille, I wondered where you’d—”

  Lerens glanced over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed by anyone. “The old lady. A witch. Not enough that she wants me removed from this case, but she had to list all my failings one by one, while making very obvious allusions to my gender and sexuality, heavily dosed with racism and—”

  “She’s awful,” Hugo agreed. “But I need a couple of things. I think I have an idea what’s going on.”

  Lerens stopped three stairs from the bottom. “You do?”

  “I do.”

  “What do you need?”

  “An autopsy report, if it exists, which I doubt, and some medical records.”

  “I heard you ask for one earlier. You need me to get the same one?”

  “No. That was for the Tuileries case, this is for ours. Two different people—autopsy report and medical records for one, just medical records for another.”

  “But who . . .” Lerens frowned in thought. “I assume the medical records are for Tammy Fotinos for some reason. But the autopsy report . . . we’ve only had one person dead and there’s not been an autopsy performed. Yet.”

  “Wrong on both counts,” Hugo said with a smile.

  “Merde. I hate it when you’re like this, so smug.”

  “Sorry. But you like it when I’m right, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Fine, tell me what you need and I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks,” Hugo said. His phone buzzed and when he checked the screen he saw Mari Harada’s name. “I need to take this.”

  “But who do you need those records for?” Lerens asked, exasperated.

  “Hi, Mari. Hold on just a second.” He had the phone to his ear but looked back at Lerens. “Camille, if you don’t mind can you head back to the prefecture and start drafting the search warrants, or whatever you use to get that medical information. We need them as soon as possible. I’ll text you the names once I know both of them.”

  “How can you know you need medical records, but not know the names?” Lerens asked, incredulous. “You know what, never mind, I’ll just do as I’m told, but it’s late so we won’t get anything until tomorrow, probably in the afternoon.”

  “That’s fine,” Hugo said. “I can have a relaxing dinner with Tom, maybe Claudia, and sleep late tomorrow.”

  Hugo smiled and gave her a friendly wave as Lieutenant Camille Lerens stomped out of Château Lambourd toward her car, muttering to herself but, Hugo hoped, with hope in her heart that they were close to catching their killer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Hugo stepped outside of Château Lambourd barely a minute after Camille Lerens did, his boots crunching on the same gravel that her tires had kicked up as she sped from the property. The sun had drifted downward in the western sky, and was now floating behind the trees that separated the château’s manicured lawns and the public lands of Parc Monceau, casting long shadows over the grass and the driveway in front of Hugo.

  He started walking toward the exit that would lead through a private gate, down a small alley, and then onto the Boulevard Malesherbes, which was busy at this time of night with people looking for somewhere to grab a late bite to eat, or a nightcap if they’d already dined. The smell of grilled lamb drifted over to him, quickly overtaken by a closer and familiar odor of freshly baked pizza.

  He decided to eat alone, not wanting to wait for however long it might take Claudia or Tom to get to him and, in any case, he’d been around people all day and welcomed the idea of a few minutes to indulge himself, by himself. He might even eschew the house wine for something more sumptuous. Not anything the Lambourds would drink, no doubt, but something that would linger on the tongue rather than just wash the day from the back of his throat.

  He walked with one eye on the sidewalk cafés and restaurants, not caring about the type of food or name on the awning, looking instead for just the right seat—one looking out onto the sidewalk, with his back to the wall (not window), and preferably away from any heavy smokers. A quarter mile from the Parc, he spotted the perfect dining spot and slid quickly through several rows of happy eaters and squeezed himself behind the small round pedestal that bistros and cafés used as tables.

  To his left, six old men had pulled tables close to sit together and were ordering, some in broken French but some fluently, which intrigued Hugo. He listened. It was a new mystery to solve, how these men of different nationalities knew each other, were eating together.

  It turned out to be not much of a mystery. They were comrades from the Second World War, a mix of French and English survivors whose paths had crossed seven decades previously in the worst possible way. Here they were, together again, to share as many bottles of wine as they wanted instead of sipping stale water from mud-spattered canteens. To enjoy plates of escargots and duck confit instead of chewing on stale bread and scooping franks and beans from a can. The waitress brought him a basket of bread, and Hugo pointed to a mid-range-priced bottle on the menu for himself, more interested in the conversation to his left than whether he’d ordered a Bordeaux or a Burgundy. From what he could tell, two of the men knew each other well, one Frenchman with a fine, white mustache and the American who sat beside him. The American seemed to know the other four, but he’d introduced them to the Frenchman as if they were strangers, swapping not just names but also regiment details from their war service.

  Hugo was distracted for a moment when a waiter slid between the close tables in front of him with a large pizza dripping over the edge of a plate, the scent of blue cheese and caramelized onions reminding him to order, and order fast. But his ears tuned back into the old boys’ chatter, mostly because they were telling literal war stories, and Hugo had long been fascinated with both world wars. He was almost annoyed when his phone rang, but when he saw it was Claudia he gladly answered.

  “It’s a sad day when I get news about my lover, the great American cowboy, from the internet before I get it from him,” she chided.

  “What now? Did I mastermind the heist of the Mona Lisa or something?”

  “Quite the opposite. That Marchand character was saying nice things about you, how the Tuileries shootings case is closed, and you’re a hero after all.”

  “Closed? I never said it was closed, not at all.”

  “Hugo, it’s his case, not yours. He gets to decide that.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Are you outside? You’re not on a date, are you?” Hugo smiled. “Would you mind if I was?”

  “I’d dash over there and murder the bitch,” Claudia said, with a giggle. />
  “I’m having a bite at a bistro before heading home.”

  “With Tom?”

  “No.”

  “Camille?” Claudia guessed.

  “With Hugo, and only Hugo.”

  “Are you serious?” She sounded genuinely outraged this time. “Hugo, you should’ve called me. I have nothing to do tonight and haven’t seen you for months. Or it feels like months.”

  “Days, technically. But I know what you mean.” Beside him, one of the old Americans had launched into a tale about being stuck in a burning church in the middle of nowhere with a sniper just waiting for them to come out. He tried listening to both the old man and Claudia, but he missed her question. “I’m sorry, what did you ask? A little noisy here.”

  “About how the case is going. But call me when you get home, if you’re not too tired. You can tell me from the comfort of your couch.”

  “I could do that,” Hugo said. “Or, if you want to meet me there in an hour, I can tell you in person from the comfort of my bed.”

  “I like the sound of that. Want me to bring anything?”

  “If you have a decent bottle lying around, you can bring that,” Hugo said. “And maybe that French maid costume.”

  “We just call them maids here, Hugo.” She laughed again. “And you must be thinking of one of your other girlfriends. I have no such thing.”

  “I’ll take you how you are, my dear, costume or not.”

  “Same. But maybe greet me at the door in a double-breasted suit and that fedora I like.”

  “We’ll see. Make it ninety minutes. I haven’t ordered yet and need to get back home somehow.”

  “And find that suit.”

  Hugo chuckled. “Yes, and find that suit.”

  The waitress appeared as Hugo hung up, and he ordered the same pizza that had wafted past his nose. It would be too big for just him, of course, but leftovers were always a good idea. That done, he sat back, took a large mouthful of wine, and tuned back into the war stories flowing over the table next to him. The Frenchman with the white mustache had a hand on his American friend’s shoulder, and they were taking turns with their story about the sniper.

  “There was one way out,” the Frenchman was saying, and in impressively good English. “And George, he finds three twigs for the three of us. Breaks one in half and holds them so we can’t see the broken one.”