Where Secrets Reside

by Susan Finlay

  “I noticed you were looking at the mantel,” Jeannette said, holding her hands together. “Did you notice my new clock? I say new, but it’s really quite old. An antique nearly as old as the mantel itself.”

  Maurelle smiled. “Well, actually I was thinking about the torcheres.”

  Coralie, who was sitting in a chair near the fireplace, flashed a big smile at Maurelle, telling her that she knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

  Jeannette didn’t take notice. She stood up and walked over to the mantel. She picked up the clock and carried it as if it were the most fragile thing she owned. She handed it to Maurelle. “What do you think? Isn’t it lovely?”

  “It really is,” Maurelle said as she fingered the etchings and jewels. “I don’t know a lot about antiques, but this one looks extraordinary to me.”

  “Let me see,” Fabienne said, leaning close to Maurelle. She grabbed hold of a corner of the clock to hold it steady and adjusted her bifocals so that she could study it. “Oh, this is delicious, Jeannette. Wherever did you get it?”

  Jeannette grinned ear-to-ear. “I meant to call you to tell you all about it but—” She stopped, apparently catching herself before mentioning the murder.

  “Monsieur Lamont brought it with him. He deals in antiques, and since Paul told him that I love beautiful things, he gave me this one.”

  Simone said, “It is indeed beautiful.”

  Jeannette placed the clock back on the mantel.

  Changing the subject suddenly, Fabienne asked, “Where is that baby? Did the gendarmes take her away?”

  René looked confused. “Gendarmes? Baby?”

  “You mean you haven’t heard?” Simone said. “There’s been a—”

  Fabienne strategically interrupted and said, “Where is Alain tonight, Simone?”

  Simone shot her a look, then glanced at Maurelle. Maurelle thought she saw a brief look of something—pity, perhaps. Instead of continuing on about the murder investigation, Simone said, “Alain was planning to come to the dinner party, but he wasn’t feeling well. He has a migraine.” She shrugged. “You know how he gets those.”

  “The poor dear,” Fabienne said. She turned to René and added, “My daughter, Eloise, used to get them, too. That’s my grandson Dave’s mother. Dave is Maurelle’s husband.”

  René nodded. “And where is he tonight?”

  “Dave’s on his way home. He’s flying back from the U.S. He was there on a book publicity tour and to visit his parents. They live in Missouri.”

  Simone said, “Fabienne, you asked me about the baby. I nearly forgot. When Alain sent me to Marie’s to find dry clothes for her, I stopped first at Josephine’s house. It was on the way. But Josephine had already given her little Chloe’s things to Iva. You’ve heard that Iva’s pregnant, haven’t you?”

  A round of nods prompted Simone to continue. “Josephine doesn’t expect to need any more baby things.”

  “That’s true,” Jeannette said. “It’s a shame, though, that she won’t be having any more kids. That child of hers is lonely. It would be good for Chloe to have a brother or sister.”

  Simone waited patiently for her grandmother to stop talking.

  “As I was saying,” Simone said, “Josephine doesn’t expect to have any more children. She let it slip that she and Edmund are having problems. You know, she didn’t say this, but I think she suspects an affair. I’ve heard some gossip about him.”

  “I’ve heard it, too,” Paul said. “But I don’t think he’s the only one.”

  “What do you mean?” Fabienne asked.

  Paul shrugged. “She’s had an affair or two, herself, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Oh, this is not good,” Fabienne said. “Why can’t people behave?”

  The rest of the evening went by in the usual way, continuing for hours filled with gossip and idle chit-chat. Maurelle listened for a while and then languished in her own thoughts about the murder and investigation. Her mind replayed bits of the long interview with Captain Goddard: his questions, his demeanor, his dark brown eyes turning from warm and friendly to cold and piercing, and back, in a matter of seconds. At times, he would stare at her and make her feel like he was reaching inside her head. And it hadn’t helped that every strand of his short auburn hair was perfectly groomed, and he was dressed in a finely tailored suit instead of a uniform like his men wore. The uniforms were intimidating enough, but somehow his polished appearance made her think of a politician, which scared her more.

  ISABELLE LAMBERT SAT at a table in Chez Olivier and watched her friend, Felicia Beaumont, as she took meal orders from a party of ten customers. Felicia looked tired, agitated, and worried, so different from her usual bubbly demeanor. Isabelle had heard it in her voice an hour earlier when she’d called Felicia. After Felicia finished at that table, she rushed into the kitchen to deliver the orders, then came back out to attend to another table. When she finally had a break, Isabelle motioned for her.

  “I can’t talk right now,” Felicia said as she slipped into the booth, glancing over her shoulder. “The boss will fire me if he catches me gabbing with a friend.”

  “Sorry,” Isabelle said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.” Isabelle’s brother, Jacques, worked here, too. She’d heard plenty of negative things about the boss from him. Luc Olivier had a short fuse and he treated his employees like slaves—well, most of them, anyway. Jacques told her that some females got special treatment if they were willing to sleep with the creep. For everyone else it was: Step out of line, and you’ll be unemployed.

  “It’s okay,” Felicia said. “I really need to talk to you. I was glad you called. Just couldn’t talk because I was walking in the door to this place. Like I told you on the phone, something happened last night. And then today I heard about this woman being killed here in Reynier. It might not be anything important, but I need to tell someone. I need to get an opinion about what I should do. Maybe we can talk later tonight. Can I stop by your apartment?”

  “Can’t. I’m going to Vendome as soon as I leave here. I’ll be home in the morning because I have to open the bookshop. How about tomorrow after I get off work? Or before work if that’s better.”

  Felicia nodded, then got up quickly, noticing her boss giving her the evil eye.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DAVE MARTIN PULLED his car into the parking lot behind Café Charbonneau and parked in his usual spot next to Simone and Alain’s car. He’d tried to make-do without a car, like many of the locals, but finally gave in and bought one. His first problem, though, after purchasing it, had been locating a place where he could park it since there wasn’t a road going to his troglo. The closest parking was here. Simone and Alain had given him permission to use their parking lot, at least when the café wasn’t open. He sometimes had to move it to another lot on the edge of town when business peaked, but fortunately for him that was a rarity. He walked around in pitch darkness to the front of the building, where a streetlamp outside the café provided enough light to guide Dave to the trail leading home or to rue de Rennes, the single-car-width lane on the middle tier of the hillside. Not that he needed much light. He knew the village and the route home, every rock and curve, by heart. He had grown up in the U.S., but he’d spent nearly every summer here visiting his grandparents from the age of five until nineteen. He’d even managed to vacation here occasionally after he’d gone to work as a police officer in Chicago, Illinois.

  But this time, instead of walking home, he headed straight for his grandmother’s house near the middle of the lane. Fabienne had told him, when she called, that Maurelle was staying with her until he returned. He missed Maurelle. He missed the sweet scent of her hair, her bright and innocent face. The street looked deserted. He glanced at his watch and made out the numbers on the digital display in the moonlight, nine-thirty. Arriving at Fabienne’s, he opened the door quietly and entered. The lights were on, but the house was quiet. Had they already gone to bed? He’d told Fabienne he would try to ge
t back to France as soon as possible. He looked in the living room, kitchen, and bedrooms. No one.

  They must have gone out, probably to Jeannette’s or Coralie’s house. He winced. He probably should go there, but he really didn’t want to. Jeannette probably had a house full of people sitting around gossiping about their neighbors, about who they think committed the murder. He still couldn’t believe such a thing could have happened here in Reynier. The last murder he remembered in this area must have been twenty years ago when an old farmer had been drowned in the river. Fishermen had found him face down lodged between two large boulders. Dave was visiting his grandparents that summer and saw gendarme vehicles on the main street. Seeing a crowd gathering near the river’s edge, and hoping to get a view of what was happening, Dave and Jonas had left their bikes alongside the road and followed. The gendarmes pushed everyone back. Only the local fishermen—old Henri Leplante, Jacques Embry, and Charles Devlin—got to see the body. Eventually, the murderer was caught and the story released. The victim, Tristan Babineaux, had apparently tried to swindle another farmer, Gaston Houdan, on an adjoining farm out of some land. Gaston, instead of going to the police, had taken matters into his own hands. After he went to prison, Gaston’s wife sold their farm and bought a small house in town, where she lived until she passed away and left the house to one of their two sons.

  Dave left Fabienne’s house and stood outside a moment debating with himself what he should do. He wanted to see Maurelle, but he was too damned tired and stressed. Stress had been getting to him for days, ever since he’d left Reynier, and it was making it difficult to think straight. He took a deep breath and let it out, then another, and then another. It was part of a sequence of exercises to calm oneself which he’d learned in the police academy years ago. As his brain cleared, he realized he shouldn’t have come back to Reynier tonight. Not only because Maurelle wasn’t home but because if she had been, he would have blown his cover story. Fabienne had called him only five or six hours ago. A flight from Missouri to France would take thirteen hours minimum, and then the drive from the airport another two hours. If he showed up this early, they would know he’d lied about being in the U.S.

  Well, that made his decision for him. He strolled back the way he’d come, toward the café and the trail. He would go home instead and get a good night’s rest, then deal with the problems in the morning when his head was clearer. When he reached the trail, he remembered his car parked behind the café. Damn. Better move it now. He went back to the car and drove down the hill, onto rue Corneille. He needed to park in the public parking lot on the other side of town where it was unlikely anyone would notice it. In the morning he would pretend he’d just arrived.

  SHORTLY AFTER SUNRISE Dave shaved, showered, dressed, and set out on the trail. The morning was quiet, with only a few birds chirping, already into their daily routine. The grass and foliage was damp with overnight dew, but the warm breeze would soon take care of that, promising a pleasant day. Five minutes into his walk he saw police tape in the grass, bringing back into focus his worries about Maurelle and everything that was happening to her right now. In spite of what he’d heard in London over the past few days, he couldn’t now imagine Maurelle killing anyone. Hell, he mused, she couldn’t even kill a spider.

  When he reached the village proper and the rue de Rennes, he passed by the café and town hall and headed straight for his grandmother’s house. On his way there he spotted a blue metro Gendarmerie car parked half on the sidewalk and half on the street. Only they could get away with that.

  Two uniformed gendarmes wearing their standard blue-black-and-white kepis, or hats, got out of the vehicle. Unbidden, Dave was suddenly reminded of a pet name the villagers had for the cherchimidis insects that he had played with as a young boy visiting here during the summer. Dave hadn’t thought of those beetles in years, but for some reason at this moment, seeing the officers brought back the old memory. The villagers had referred to the pesky insects as ‘gendarmes’, a name that always evoked laughter and smiles for the villagers, particularly as they walked over the insects, crunching them.

  He tramped along the lane and finally stood in front of Fabienne’s door. Gazing up at the old house, he realized that this always felt like a second home to him, a place where he could find comfort, and he damn sure needed that comfort right now.

  He caught a sudden whiff of perfume, drawing his attention to the purple bougainvillea planted next to the front door. He shaded his eyes as he looked up at the top of the tall plant, where its vines entwined with the ivy near the top of the door. Fortunately, the storm hadn’t damaged Fabienne’s beloved plants. He knew she would have been devastated if anything had happened to them.

  Dave pulled open the arched front door and entered. Still no one. He raised an eyebrow and walked over to the bottom of the walnut staircase. He gazed around the cozy white and brown room, his eyes stopping momentarily on the open fireplace edged with dressed stones and then moving on to the ornate winged chair his grandfather had bought Fabienne for their fortieth anniversary. It was angled toward the fireplace, its back to Dave. Near the chair was the ivory sofa which had practically turned into a marshmallow after years of use. From where he was standing, he could only see the backside of it. As he approached, Maurelle popped up to a sitting position and Dave involuntarily jumped, startled.

  She smiled and said, “You’re home. I’m so happy. When did you get back?”

  Recovering, Dave bent down and wrapped his arms around her, careful not to pull her too close because he didn’t want to rock the old sofa and make it tilt backwards. He remembered climbing around on it as a child and tilting it until it overturned. He had been scolded many times for that.

  “We thought you would be home last night. We waited up for you. Well, after we returned from Jeannette’s dinner party.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dave said. “It was an incredibly long day. I didn’t get home until this morning. I should have called, but it was really late and with the time difference, you know, well, it gets complicated.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve really missed you.”

  “I thought I heard a man’s voice,” Fabienne said, entering the room from the kitchen. “Sit down and rest. I’ll pour you both some coffee.” She disappeared.

  Dave sat down next to Maurelle. “I really missed you, too, do you know that?”

  “I’m sorry that you had to cut your trip short.”

  “I don’t mind that. You look pale. Are you sleeping okay?”

  Maurelle looked toward the kitchen and then leaned in close to Dave. “Not really. It’s pretty hard to sleep at all under the circumstances.” She hesitated, and Dave gave her a puzzled look, assuming further entanglements had ensued in the murder case. “I didn’t want to tell you this way,” she began in a trembling voice. “I’ve rehearsed the way I would tell you. I had a romantic scene all planned out in my mind.”

  “Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Take a deep breath and start over, okay?”

  “I’m pregnant,” Maurelle said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I found out several day ago. I suspected it for a while but didn’t take a test until then. I saw the doctor on Monday morning and he confirmed it. I’ve been having morning sickness, especially yesterday at the Gendarmerie.” She started crying and Dave moved around, sat on the couch, and pulled her close, stroking her hair and muttering meaningless words of comfort.

  He glanced over at his grandmother who had come back into the room. Fabienne set down the coffee cups on the coffee table and dabbed at her eyes.

  Maurelle said, “I somehow entangled myself in another murder investigation, and now this isn’t a happy occasion at all. You’ve been hoping for a baby, and now . . . well, I wouldn’t blame you if you want me to go away.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m happy about our baby,” he said. “As for the rest, we’ll get it straightened out.”

  “I’ve been replaying everything in my mind. I can
’t for the life of me figure out what I should have done differently. If I’ve made some big mistake, I’ve no idea what it was.”

  He hugged her tight and buried his face in her hair, knowing he should tell her what he’d found out in London because she would have to know eventually, but he didn’t have the heart to bring it up now. She had enough to worry about. And besides, it would spoil their happy news, and that was not how he wanted to remember this day: the day he learned he was going to be a father.

  “We’ll be fine,” he said. “Now tell me about the baby. How far along are we? When is he or she due?”

  She looked at him, drying her eyes on an embroidered hanky Fabienne handed her and said, “You’re really excited about it?”

  He looked into Maurelle’s eyes and smiled. “I most definitely am. This is the best news I’ve heard all week.” He kissed her, perhaps a bit too long, he thought, because he noticed his grandmother sitting nearby, stirring her coffee and staring down into the cup. Embarrassed, he pulled back slightly, smiled, and reached down to pick up Maurelle’s coffee cup. He handed it to her and then picked up his own cup. He looked over at his grandmother who was now watching them and smiling broadly as Maurelle told them that she was six or seven weeks along, and that the doctor had said everything was looking perfectly normal.

  GODDARD SAT IN his office reviewing the post-mordem report that Roland had handed him five minutes earlier. The report had come in more quickly than Goddard had expected, considering the Medical Examiner’s claim of being very busy. The report confirmed the victim’s name as Gabrielle Thibault and her age as thirty. The cause of death was Traumatic Brain Injury from a blow to the head, as he’d expected. Signs of strangulation on the neck, as well. The marks he’d noticed weren’t shadows. So, someone had tried to strangle her first.

  Picking up the page with photos of the body, Goddard studied a close-up photo of her neck. Round contusions and abrasions that matched the tips of the fingers and the pads of the thumb were clearly visible. The major bruising was on either side of the trachea with smaller bruises on either side of the neck, meaning the assailant was facing the victim. Merde.