She thought he had hung up when he replied, “I’m also glad to hear you say that.” She put the phone back in the cradle.
So he knew how she had been feeling the past few years. Though she was considered a competent detective, and had managed to acquire her gold shield, she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt any passion for her profession. Or anything else for that matter. The relationship with Joe happened because they were together a lot. It seemed easier hooking up with him than going out of her way to meet someone.
Her life since her brother’s death felt as though it was happening by default, as though she hadn’t made any conscious choices. Sometimes she thought it was because she felt overshadowed by Hank. He was always there, checking behind her, making sure she was safe. Perhaps the determination to help solve Léa’s murder had to do with her being away from that protection. She had actually never solved a crime without Hank or Joe or her boss, Captain Walt O’Shaughnessy, enabling her in some way. She had for years felt herself holding back ever so slightly, carrying the knowledge that if anything happened to her, her parents would have a hard time surviving. But, she thought, how long can I continue like this? Maybe another question to put on the future list for the therapist.
Jacques, transformed back to master of the house, paused in the doorway, and they went together to the kitchen, where they found Mimi holding Marie-Christine, who was sobbing uncontrollably.
Jacques did not go to his wife, but stood awkwardly. “So you know. How?”
“Mimi. I sent her home but she returned after a few minutes and told me.”
“The police were there then?”
“Non, monsieur,” Mimi said. “I had my little flashlight. I almost fell over Madame.”
“She was taking food to Antoine before going home,” Marie-Christine interjected.
“You two have never stopped spoiling the hell out of him,” Jacques said angily. “I’d like to know his whereabouts when your sister was killed.”
“Stop, Jacques. He didn’t kill her. We have to go tell our daughter.”
Jacques walked in front of her to the door, and Max felt a chasm widen between them. She could hear voices coming from the salon. Peering down the hall from the kitchen doorway, she saw the cop she believed to be Olivier’s assistant ushering guests in. Hans Keller entered, protesting that he couldn’t be held against his will. Chloé’s and Marc’s friends Delphine and Yves, who was disheveled, and others she didn’t know, filed in. It would take at least two hours for the police to sort through the guests and send those who had concrete alibis home.
Max took a flashlight off the wall in the pantry and set off for Antoine’s. She couldn’t be accused of nosing around, because she had told Olivier that she was going to tell family, and Antoine was family, she reasoned. She walked across the sloping yard, shielded by shadows and a row of plane trees. The voices of the forensics crew yelling back and forth pierced the night. Arriving at the tables that had been stripped of tablecloths after the earlier reception, she absentmindedly brushed her hand along the dozens of metal ice buckets that were lined up, the empty bases of the champagne bottles protruding from them. She couldn’t believe how many there were. She came to a halt when her hand touched a bucket that was still cold. She wondered if Léa had brought a bottle of champagne down for Ted and her. Or had someone else been planning a rendezvous? Should she take the renegade bottle up to the crime scene, she wondered. Showing up and proffering an ice bucket might have her accused of tampering with evidence. She would check on her way back.
She followed the path that she and Olivier had taken, and halfway down noticed lights through the trees. She jogged toward the house, calling out to Antoine.
“Qui est là?”
“It’s me, Max.” She approached the porch and looked closely at him to see if she could perceive any signs of someone who had just committed a murder. Ella Fitzgerald was singing in the background, her mother’s favorite vocalist.
“I can only think it’s ominous that an American detective is staring me in the face at this hour of the night—or morning.”
“It’s Léa.”
“Of course it is. Is she dead, and I’m being blamed?”
“No blame yet.” Max thought the two brothers’ responses as peculiar as any she had ever heard.
“Come in. I’ll get you a drink. Do you want a glass of champagne?”
She did, but thought she’d better not. The tiny kitchen was a mess, with bottles and cans all over the place. “I wasn’t expecting guests,” he said. “I know from Chloé that you’re some kind of detective. I can confess, and say you dragged it out of me, but that would only delay finding the real culprit.”
She smiled. “A French detective will be coming here shortly if you don’t return with me to the main house.”
“We don’t have murders in Champagne. We’re much too civilized.” He lit another cigarette. “Who would want Léa dead? She was a pain in the ass, but we loved her. I wish we hadn’t argued.” He stood. “Who did it, Max?”
For an instant she thought Hank had spoken. “I don’t know.”
“How did she die?”
Horribly, Max wanted to say. Face to face with her killer. Carrying a baby.
“She was bludgeoned.”
“Merde. Listen, Max, I’ll tell you something but you can’t use it.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not officially a part of the investigation.”
“Good. I got pretty drunk at the wedding, and snorted some cocaine. I shared it with some other guests but those names will go unmentioned.” Max couldn’t imagine why he was telling her this. She followed him into the rustic living room that had an ancient stone fireplace, and books falling out of shelves that went from floor to ceiling. “This house was supposed to be a temporary abode,”he said. War and Peace was open on the table in front of the sofa. “The kids were dancing late, you know that. I don’t know what time it was. I decided I had had enough and headed home. But I got turned around, as we drunks are wont to do. Anyhow, I must have passed out on my way home. When I came to and started walking again, something ran into me. Knocked me over.”
“A person?”
“It was a person but with the force of an animal when he ran into me. He stood over me, panting, and then he took off.
“Do you know who it was?”
“No. Here’s what’s really weird, though. I sensed that he was deciding whether to kill me or not while he was standing over me. I made a point of not looking up.”
It was a chilling story, and Max believed every word.
“You know how it is when you have a word on the tip of your tongue and it won’t come? I feel that the identity of that person is logged somewhere in my brain, but I can’t quite reach it. Some form of amnesia.”
Max knew that extreme fear sometimes caused forgetfulness.
“Bonjour,” Antoine said. “The whole world is coming to call.”
Max whirled around and saw a tall, olive-complexioned man standing in the doorway. “I’m Abdel Zeroual,” he said. “I need you both to come with me.”
Antoine looked over at Max. “We’re under arrest.”
Max went over and shook Abdel’s hand. “Max Maguire. Detective with the NYPD.”
“Monsieur Chaumont told me about you. Are you doing detective work here in this gentleman’s house, mademoiselle?”
Addressing her as mademoiselle instead of detective told Max what her status was with the police. Single woman visiting friend for wedding. “Monsieur Chaumont gave me permission to tell the family. Antoine is family.”
Antoine went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of beer. “I’m ready.” It was impossible not to notice the look of consternation on Zeroual’s face.
It was going to be a long walk if she didn’t do something. “Will the i
nterrogation begin immediately?” she asked.
“Once everyone is accounted for, we talk to likely suspects.” Max thought he was around her age. “I’m addicted to your crime shows,” he said. “They helped me to learn English. You are like Olivia on Law & Order, SVU, perhaps?”Max knew he was referring to the character Olivia Benson on Law and Order, Special Victims Unit that she had watched in college. They must have been showing reruns in France.
“I wish I were successful every time with my crime-solving, the way she is.”
“I’m a big fan of the United States. Especially New York.”
They passed by the tables, and Max decided to take a chance and share with Zeroual her discovery of the cold ice bucket. “You know,” she said. “I passed the reception area on my way here, and idly ran my fingers along the row of ice buckets, and was surprised to find one that was still cold. An unopened bottle was in it.”
“Show me,” Zeroual said. Max told Antoine to continue, and led Zeroual to the table. He pulled out his flashlight and ran the beam over each bucket.
“Not here,” Max said. “What the hell.” She didn’t dare voice her suspicion that one of the gendarmes had found a gift for his wife.
“We should go,” Abdel said.
The air was soft as velvet. Max felt deflated. Olivier wasn’t going to champion her wish to join the investigative team, which meant she needed to have Abdel on her side. “Somebody came and collected that ice bucket over the past half hour to forty-five minutes,” she said to Abdel.
“You can check the kitchen.” He clearly had no interest in the missing bottle.
“Who is the commissaire?”
“Thomas Girard.”
“You get along with him?”
“He’s my boss.”
“And Olivier Chaumont. What’s he like?”
“Like?” There was the look of consternation again.
“Two words that sum him up.”
Abdel shrugged, caught off-guard. “Courageous. Compassionate.”
“He will ultimately be in charge of this investigatin?”
“With luck.”
“I heard at dinner that the examining magistrates’ positions are in jeopardy.”
“President Sarkozy would like to eliminate the position. The prosecutor is easier to control.”
“You think he’ll succeed?”
“The judges have been going after politicians since the 1980s. The people need these guys, though, otherwise there would be no monitoring of public officials.”
Abdel was smart, Max decided. They had arrived at the house, and stopped to wait for Antoine.
“What two words describe you, detective?” Abdel asked.
Good, she thought. Now I’m a detective. “Curious and consumed. And if pushed, lean and mean.”
He had a goofy smile, which surprised her. “Those words go with your tattoo?”
She laughed. “I got it ten years ago in a rebellious moment. It’s as outdated as Law and Order.”
“I watch CSI now.”
“I do, too.”
Antoine finally caught up.“We’re about to enter hell, my dear, so prepare yourself.”
Chapter Eight
Olivier looked up from his work at the crime scene to see Jacques, Marie-Christine, and Chloé approaching. He went to meet them halfway, glancing behind him before speaking in a low voice to them, “I must say something quickly, and I apologize. It’s imperative that I seem neutral if I am to be appointed the judge for this case.”
Captain Canon marched up and spoke directly to the family. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
Olivier would have laughed had the situation not been so grim. “This is the family of the victim,” he explained.
Jacques said, “We’re here to say farewell to Madame de Saint-Pern.”
The gendarmes had lifted Léa’s body onto a stretcher and were preparing to put her into the Citroën CX station wagon parked a few feet away. Seeing the grieving family, they gently placed the stretcher on the ground, and Marie-Christine and Chloé rushed to her and knelt down. Marie-Christine said over and over, “Adieu, my beloved, adieu…adieu.” Olivier thought it the saddest word in the French language.
Their lamenting seemed incongruous in the harshness of the crime scene. It’s unsettling enough for those of us who choose to do this for a living, Olivier thought. I can’t imagine what it must be like for a loved one of the victim.
Jacques stood back with Olivier, looking stoic. “You will be in charge if I have to go to Douvier personally,” he said. Here was the cronyism that Olivier hated, now offered in his behalf. “Our gendarmes aren’t called often to murder investigations, but I hear Superintendent Girard is supposed to be quite good. He worked in Lyons before he married.”
“I know him.”
“I also want Max to help.”
Olivier was flummoxed by his friend’s wish. And if he were being honest, a little stung by the request. “The language barrier will make it difficult,” he said, “and we would have to go through Interpol.”
“Let’s see what Girard says. It doesn’t have to be official, you know. We can break a rule for once, Olivier.”
“She’ll be a distraction.” Olivier knew he was being recalcitrant, and didn’t care.
“She needs to prove herself. You’ll understand when you know more of her story.”
The case, involving friends and family, was going to become deeply personal, Olivier knew but not to this extent. And not when they were only a few hours into it. He rushed over to help Marie-Christine up. Captain Canon was upon them in a flash, “Madame, my men will escort you to the house.”
“Monsieur, I am able to walk to my salon without a young man with a gun thinking he is protecting me.” She took Chloé’s hand and Jacques took his daughter’s other hand, and they started toward the house. Olivier watched, feeling profoundly sorry for them.
“Interesting,” Canon said after a moment, “How these people think they’re above it all. Yet with all their wealth and power, they’re are not immune to murder, are they?” The German word, schadenfreude, which translated into the satisfaction felt over someone else’s misfortune, came to mind but Olivier elected to remain silent. “You’re not cozy with these folks, are you?”
“Non.”
“She was a beauty. I can tell she was, even with all the damage done to her. And what a figure, eh?”
“Enough, monsieur. We’re not in a bar, but in the presence of a tragic death. Please have your men place Madame de Saint-Pern in the hearse now.”
The captain gave Olivier a hard stare, but obeyed. Olivier walked into the shadows, away from everyone. He was having trouble processing everything that had happened. He sat on the bench, noticing how the full moon cast everything in a mystical light. He could distinguish the peonies, their blossoms closed, their heavy heads bent toward the earth. In the distance rose the shadowy row of plane trees, their tops sculpted to perfection.
Distraught and restless, he started walking toward the river where he and Max had been the day before.His thoughts drifted back to the scene in her bedroom. Was that just hours ago? He wondered if Max had prevailed upon Jacques to use his influence to include her in the investigation. This was to be his case, and he felt as strongly about solving it as Detective Maguire did. She was an interloper, and certain people needed to be reminded of that. He ambled back up the path. The breaking morning light, with the mist rising up from the fields, seemed like a promise of better days to come. He felt calmer, as was always the case when he was in nature.
***
The salon was full of people in various states of dishevelment when he entered. Chloé had changed into jeans and was sitting quietly beside her father. Marc, also in jeans and shirt, and barefoot, sat with his mother, who was s
aying something to him that was obviously making him unhappy. What a horrific wedding night, Olivier thought. It will take a lot for this couple to transcend the horror. Madame Durand still had make-up on, which he thought curious, but what did he know about a woman who seemed more mannequin than person. Abdel had fetched her from the inn. He told Olivier that she had been feral in her résistance. Olivier wondered why it was taking him so long to reel in Max and Antoine.
Looking around the room again, he thought it fitting that Herr Keller had been caught in his own little web of deceit, and was in fact a strong suspect. He had heard at the reception that Hans’ plane was in need of a repair and that a part had to be ordered, and that was why he stayed. Olivier hadn’t believed a word of it then, and he didn’t now. Marc moved over to where Hans was sitting, and they sat talking.
Olivier was surprised to see Bernard Martin and his wife from the de Saint-Pern Company, and could tell that they were surprised as well to find themselves in this gathering. This would give Madame Martin enough fodder for her gossip mill to last a lifetime. She must have been able to convince her husband to stay for the dancing, Olivier thought, which was why they were here. He continued scanning the room and his eyes fell on a young couple who were holding hands. He recognized them as close friends of Marc and Chloé’s, but didn’t know their names. Every time he had seen her during the reception she had been acting enamored of Hans. Ted sat in a chair tapping on his iPad, which Olivier found irritating. He would have it confiscated.
Max’s voice behind him got his attention. He turned in time to see her enter the room with Girard. He felt his face flush. “Oh, Olivier,” she said in a respectful tone, “I’m sorry you had to send Abdel after Antoine and me. Girard knows of my father’s reputation. It’s such a small world.”
There she was, with Girard already on her side, made obvious by his hanging onto her every word. “I understood half of her stories,” he said. “My English is not so good.”
“But far better than my French.”
When Olivier refused to indulge in their inanities, Girard switched to French, explaining that there were approximately thirty guests still at the party, and all but the ones gathered here had been sent home. Olivier’s mobile rang, and he saw that it was the Minister of Justice in Paris. He excused himself, puzzled as to why Philippe Douvier would be calling him. They were aware of each other as they had shown up at various social events together, but Douvier would normally be speaking with Reynard about the case, not him.
Champagne: The Farewell Page 7