The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  George guffawed, and spoke to the other four men. “Arnaud here looked at me like I was crazy. Like I’d lost it. He had no idea about drawing the short straw!”

  All six men laughed, and the one furthest from Hugo, a tiny old man wearing a blue baseball cap, asked, “So, what happened? Who got the short straw?”

  The two comrades looked at each other and then down at their drinks. Eventually, George spoke. “The man who’s not here. His name was JJ. Good man, could make you laugh on your worst day.”

  “He went out first, huh?” the hat man said quietly.

  “Mais, non,” Arnaud said, a look of surprise on his face. “You were never in that situation, my friend, that much is clear.”

  “He drove tanks, remember?” George said, nudging his French comrade.

  “Ahh, oui. Of course.” He took a slow sip of what looked like whisky. “First out, no, that’s not how it works.” He looked up at the man with the cap. “There was one way out. The building was on fire. That bastard knew we had to come out at some point, and soon. He was waiting, watching. And one thing he knew, we wouldn’t come out until we had to.” He waved an arm. “Maybe reinforcements would come, drive him away, and save us. Maybe it would rain and the fire would stop. No, he knew we’d only come out when we had to. And I could picture him looking down the barrel, the sights of his gun on the front door of that damned church, his finger on the trigger.” He took another sip. “George here went first. That bastard got a shot off but was well behind. This old man used to be fast!”

  “A donkey is fast when it’s being shot at,” George said. “Bet your ass I was.”

  “I went second. The shots were closer to me but I ran until I got to where George was. Safe.” He sighed and shook his head. “By then, the sniper had his eye trained, his reflexes. JJ was faster than us, but not fast enough. One shot, his brains in the dust.”

  “We told him to wait,” George said quietly. “We said we’d find the sniper and kill him, but the fire was too fast, too hot, there wasn’t time. So we tried to distract the sniper. We knew JJ was making the most difficult run, was in the most danger. We didn’t have enough bullets to shoot so we started throwing things, that barrel, you remember?”

  “Yes.” Arnaud nodded. “But it was obvious what we were doing. It was too loud, so clear to the bastard sniper it was just a distraction. And told him where we were, which made him feel safe. And so all we can do is occasionally meet on the anniversary of that day, apologize to JJ for failing him, and drink ourselves closer to joining him, wherever he is.” He raised his glass and the other five did the same. “To mon ami, JJ Hensley.”

  “Wait a minute.” The man with the blue cap sat with his drink in the air, staring at George. “Your last name is Hensley.”

  “Yep,” George said. “JJ was my little brother. He was my only brother, and I couldn’t save him.”

  There were murmurs of sympathy around the table, but Hugo didn’t hear. Didn’t see the waitress arrive with his pizza, and a flirtatious smile. Didn’t see or hear anything except the interior of Château Lambourd, and the rushing sound in his ears. It happened like it always happened, the kaleidoscope of facts jumbled and spinning in his head, colorful and confusing, jigsaw pieces tumbling around each other to show visions of what happened but no coherent picture.

  Until they did.

  In these moments, Hugo found it hard to breathe, his whole body focusing as the pieces fell into place and the picture formed. Where gaps remained his mind reached for the things he understood the least and tried them, one by one, until the edges matched up and their meaning became clear. And as exciting as these seconds were, there was always a tinge of regret that it’d taken him so long. He looked down at his phone, which he’d pulled out without realizing, and dialed Camille Lerens.

  “I know what happened,” Hugo said. “And I know why.”

  “Seriously? How? I mean who, and what?”

  “Ironically, some old men nearby. They were a distraction for me, and they were talking about a distraction that didn’t work. It was too obvious. The distractions, I knew there was something off. I knew it but I couldn’t figure out what it was until now.”

  “The paintings, you mean?”

  “No, they weren’t a distraction at all. They were the point.”

  “Then what are you talking about?” Hugo didn’t respond, a new thought swelling inside his mind. “Hugo, answer me. And how sure are you? Do we need to get over there tonight?”

  “Oh, my God.” Hugo rose slowly to his feet as he realized what was about to happen. “Not just tonight, Camille. We need to get over there right now. Hurry!”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Hugo scrambled in his jacket pocket for his wallet and felt a wash of relief at the stack of euro notes. He threw two twenties on the table and ran. It took him five minutes to get back to the château, but it felt like an age, his fingers clumsy and fat on the keypad that let him through the private gate, his boots slipping on the gravel as he charged toward the front door. He was prepared to kick it down, but the family hadn’t locked it for the night yet, a security failure that otherwise would’ve annoyed him given what the Lambourds had suffered recently. But the threat wasn’t from any outsider, from some kidnapper or debt-collector—no, the threat was from within and was far more insidious, far more evil, than any outside danger could have been.

  Hugo raced into the main hallway but slowed to a walk to give himself a moment to catch his breath. He was sure he was right about who was behind it all, he knew he was right, but he was dismayed by how cold and vindictive this killer was.

  He heard voices coming from the large kitchen and strode in to find the family gathered around the long wooden table, which had been covered with a tablecloth and decorated with candles and two small bouquets of daisies. Karine Berger was at the stove and stared as he came in. The room was full of the smell of cooked pastry, meat, and garlic, but Hugo almost gagged at the rich aroma.

  “Monsieur Marston, what are you doing here?” Marc Lambourd asked.

  “Monsieur, you were not invited to dinner,” his mother snapped. “You can’t just come in whenever you want. I don’t care who you think you are.”

  Hugo looked at the table and was relieved to see they’d just finished the first course of foie gras. The steak and kidney pie, Erika Sipiora’s creation, sat on a wooden cutting board on a counter in front of Karine Berger, who drifted over to them, her eyes on Hugo.

  “Should I get another plate?” she asked Charlotte.

  “Non, he is leaving. Is the pie ready?” She waved a hand over the table. “Clear these and bring it over. The American will show himself out.”

  “No, he won’t,” Hugo said firmly.

  “Why are you here?” Édouard Lambourd asked.

  “Because I know what happened. I know what happened to Tammy Fotinos, why the paintings were taken.” He turned to Marc Lambourd. “I know pretty much everything.”

  Lambourd’s voice was quiet. “So you know what happened to Fabien, too.”

  “Not all of it. I was hoping for some enlightenment here.”

  Charlotte Lambourd pointed her knife at Hugo. “Are you accusing someone in this household? Because if you are, you better be very careful about what you say.”

  “I agree with my mother,” Erika Sipiora said. “And if you know who is behind this, why are you here without the police?”

  “They are on the way, trust me.”

  Charlotte banged a tiny fist on the table with surprising force, and the silverware and plates on the table rattled. “We will not say another word until the real police are here.”

  Hugo thought quickly. He knew it would be best if at least Camille Lerens was there. He didn’t want to tip his hand, and even though he was armed, and presumed none of them were, he was still outnumbered. And he had no doubt at all that, given the chance, his quarry would slit his throat and sip fine wine as he bled out.

  And this crazy family might even help bu
ry my body, he thought.

  “If you won’t leave, then stand over there,” Charlotte Lambourd said, pointing to the far corner of the kitchen.

  “With all due respect, Madame, I’ll stay where I am,” Hugo said. “And I’d ask you all to do the same.”

  “We can eat, surely,” Marc Lambourd said.

  “No, you can’t,” Hugo said, and moved to the table. He picked up two bottles of wine and put them on a sideboard behind him.

  “Nonsense, how dare you?” Charlotte Lambourd said. “Let us have our meal, for God’s sake. This is an outrage.”

  Karine Berger was clearly more intent on obeying her mistress than listening to Hugo, and she carried the pie on the cutting board and put it in front of Marc Lambourd.

  “Here you are,” she said. “You serve those who are eating it. I will get the mashed potatoes.”

  “Don’t touch that,” Hugo warned. “I mean it.”

  “For heaven’s sake, this is ridiculous.” Marc Lambourd picked up a large serving spoon and was about to plunge it through the crust when Hugo barked at him.

  “I said no!” Hugo pulled his Glock from his shoulder holster and pointed it at Lambourd, who stared back at him in apparent disbelief. Charlotte Lambourd and Karine Berger gasped, while Édouard and Erika Sipiora froze in their seats, mouths gaping.

  “Are you insane?” Marc Lambourd finally asked.

  “No, but I’m very serious,” Hugo said.

  The sound of approaching sirens grabbed everyone’s attention, and gave Hugo the time he needed to holster his gun, step forward, and scoop up the pie from in front of Lambourd. He put it behind him, beside the wine.

  “What the— ?” Lambourd started to protest, a large serving spoon in his hand.

  “No alcohol, and definitely no English pie,” Hugo said.

  Moments later they heard the sound of tires skidding in gravel, and then footsteps running into the house and through the grand hall.

  “In here, the kitchen!” Hugo shouted, and two flics followed by a hard-breathing Camille Lerens ran into the room and came to an immediate halt. The policemen had their weapons drawn and held in the sul position, clutched close to the chest with the barrel pointing to the ground.

  “What’s going on, Hugo?” Lerens demanded. She scanned the room for the apparent danger, the emergency Hugo had transmitted over the phone, but all she saw was a family sitting down to a late supper.

  “We have a killer at the table,” Hugo said, his tone mild.

  “This is outrageous,” Charlotte Lambourd stuttered. She rose to her feet. “You two . . . you are maniacs set on destroying this family, and I will see to it that it’s you who are ruined. Your careers, your lives, how dare you come in here—”

  “That’s enough,” Lerens snapped, and the old widow glared at the lieutenant for a moment before sinking back into her chair, a thin arm reaching for her water glass.

  “Hugo, with me,” Lerens said, not any more kindly. She looked at the police officers. “No one leaves. No one so much as moves.”

  “And no one gets any goddam pie,” Hugo said quietly, ignoring the inquisitive looks from the flics.

  They moved out of the kitchen into the large hall, and Hugo could see Lerens was unhappy. Not just at being yelled at but also at Hugo for putting her in a position where she didn’t know exactly what was happening.

  “Camille, listen,” he started, knowing he owed her an explanation. “I would have explained everything on the phone but there wasn’t time. I had to get back here and stop that.” He waved a hand toward the kitchen.

  “The family meal?”

  “Actually yes. Okay, here’s the story as I see it.” He looked around and, not seeing any chairs, steered her to the wide steps, which creaked gently under their weight as they sat. “Like I said on the phone, this was about the paintings after all. And before we do anything else, you need to get someone to retrieve them from the evidence locker and strip them down, take the frames off, the backing if there is any. Every part that can come off needs to.”

  “We’ll need a search warrant.”

  “Then get one,” Hugo said. “Until that happens, we won’t have any hard proof of what I think happened.”

  Lerens looked at him for a moment. “Fine, I can get the process started, but not until you’ve laid out your case. A magistrate is going to want new facts, supportable facts, before essentially ordering the destruction of Lambourd family heirlooms.”

  “Understood,” Hugo said.

  “And even if we get a signature tonight, we won’t be doing anything until the morning.”

  “But you can still make an arrest tonight?” Hugo asked.

  “If you convince me, yes.”

  “Good,” Hugo said. “Which takes us back to the theft of those paintings not being a distraction.”

  “You mean, because if it was a distraction, it was too obviously one?” Lerens ventured.

  “Exactly. But our killer jumped on the fact we thought it was and provided several other distractions, the more the merrier to lead us down all the wrong paths.”

  “Such as?”

  “Édouard being followed and Erika Sipiora being assaulted.”

  “I see.” Lerens sighed. “You’re not going to tell me who the killer is right away, are you?”

  “You need to see how I got there. I don’t want to start with the conclusion and explain my reasoning, Camille. I want to show you my calculations and see if you agree with the answer.”

  “I don’t see why,” she said.

  “Because we can’t get the proof until the morning, at the earliest. And even then, it will support my theory and maybe not point to the actual killer.”

  “Are you saying Fabien is definitely dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Are you a hundred percent sure about that?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Hugo, listen.” Her eyes narrowed and she looked hard at him. “These people. They can destroy careers, just like the old lady said. Unless you have enough for me to walk out of here with a suspect in handcuffs, enough that they stay in handcuffs, you’ve put me in a very difficult position indeed.”

  “I know, Camille.” He swallowed, suddenly worried she might not see it the way he did. He was right, he knew he was right. But would she? “So listen very carefully to what I have to say. If you think I’m wrong, I’ll do everything I can to take the fall for this evening. I promise.”

  “Oh, I’ll listen.” Lerens nodded her head slowly. “But it better be good.”

  “It’s not.” Hugo smiled grimly. “It’s absolutely abominable.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THE KILLER

  There we were. Sitting around the table like the happiest family in the world instead of the most dysfunctional. Two cops with their hands on their holsters looking for an excuse to shoot the overstuffed, overfed, and overrich family that their own lower-middle-class upbringings had taught them to despise.

  I don’t know if anyone had been suspecting poor Noelle of being the killer. Obviously not, at this point. The suicide note was a slightly obvious touch, but I needed finality, I needed the case to be closed, and she was more expendable than anyone else. I mean, the lumbering oaf Karine Berger maybe, but if she’s not around to take care of Mother, who’s going to do it? Not me, nor the other siblings. Plus, poor Karine is a few IQ points shy of a mongoose, and I may have underestimated the American and his trans sidekick, but I never thought they’d buy into Karine being a criminal mastermind.

  And that leaves three.

  The American seems very sure of himself, which is consistent with every American I’ve ever met, but the policewoman, Lerens, she’s not. I’m guessing she’s smart enough to know that her career is riding on what happens in the next few minutes because my mother isn’t joking about ruining careers, lives even. I think she’s where my ruthless streak comes from. Of course, I enjoy it more than she does, or maybe she just hides her pleasure as well a
s I do.

  We’re starting to look at one another, around the table. We’re not allowed to move and no one knows what to say, so here we are with our thoughts. With our doubts and suspicions.

  Even my mother. I think part of her would be proud of the coldblooded machinations of one of her kids, but I also think she’d be very angry. Mostly that she’d not figured it out, that she’d raised a monster in her own image without realizing.

  And yes, that means she killed her husbands, of course it does. I don’t have any proof that would stand up in court, but I know the facts and circumstances of their deaths. And I know her. Know that just as I am her, she is me. And in her situation, I know exactly what I would have done.

  There’s a test for psychopaths, developed by some doctor named Robert Hare in the 1970s. Seriously, it’s a test—you answer twenty questions and you can score zero, one, or two for each. If you end up with thirty or more points, congratulations—you made the cut. I diagnosed myself, by the way. I didn’t need that in some doctor’s notes or computer, waiting to be spotted by someone ready to blackmail me.

  Here’s where I scored two out of two, to get me to my final score: lack of empathy, lack of remorse, superficial charm, glibness, impulsive, don’t learn from mistakes, need for stimulation, cunning and manipulative, a frequent liar, a shallow affect, living a parasitic lifestyle (although who in my family doesn’t?), sexual promiscuity, early behavioral problems, irresponsible, no long-term goals, failure to accept responsibility, and many short-term marital-like relationships.

  I was at a thirty-four, which was disappointing—I don’t like others scoring higher than me. I want the maximum. I’m competitive that way.

  In that vein, I would also love to know if that American has really figured out the extent of what I was doing. I actually think maybe he has.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO