Champagne: The Farewell

by Janet Hubbard

“It could have caused an argument that became lethal when he went back to Madame de Saint-Pern.”

  Olivier rolled his eyes, and was glad that Abdel hadn’t seemed to notice. “What Girard hammered away about was why Monsieur Clay ran to his friend Max’s room instead of to the host, Monsieur Marceau, who could have called the ambulance right away. Clay’s answers were vague, and he seemed somewhat disoriented when trying to recall the facts. I think Girard felt his emotionalism a little off-putting.”

  “Did you?”

  “Are you referring to the behavior of guilty defendants who tend to weep uncontrollably when asked about the victim?”

  “Exactly. What about a murder weapon?”

  “Nothing. We’ve scoured the grounds. It had to be a heavy object to have done that much damage. We found a stone carved rabbit and are having it examined. Perhaps there will be something lodged in Madame’s face or skull that will give us a hint.”

  They had arrived at Olivier’s parents’ house in Val d’Or. Abdel turned off the ignition. “The American detective wants me to condone her snooping around on her own. It came through Jacques Marceau.”

  “So are you asking me what I think?”

  “I said that I would. I can’t rule out that she might be an asset.” Abdel lit another cigarette, and they both got out of the car.

  “You have to stop smoking, by the way. We’ll enroll you in a program in Bordeaux.” He led the way to a large perennial garden on the side of the two-story stone house that hosted a wild array of color.

  Abdel said, “First impression?”

  “I quite liked her. Very clever at getting people to disclose things they normally wouldn’t.”

  “Such as?”

  “She asked for two words that describe you.”

  “And?”

  “I said courageous and compassionate.”

  “That was generous.”

  “She wanted to understand about the role of the juge d’instruction, and I explained. Then I asked her for two words that would describe her.”

  Olivier couldn’t hide his interest. “What did she say?”

  He smiled. “Curious and consumed. And on a bad day, lean and mean.”

  Abdel told Olivier about the ice buckets, and how she had been frustrated that the cold one had disappeared. They continued strolling along the garden path, as though they had all day, stopping to look at the vista behind the house—the bushy vines with the grapes now visible, the red poppies looking saucy between the rows, and the vineyards stretching across the hill that ended at a forest. “I think the Commissaire would say yes. He just divorced, you know, and he told me he likes the detective’s smile.”

  “The perfect reason to invite a stranger to join an investigation. Let’s go back to Monsieur Clay. How explicit was he with Girard about running to Max’s room to seek help?”

  “He said he pushed the door open to the detective’s room, and that she was near the wash basin wearing panties and bra, and you were standing in the middle of the floor.”

  “That has nothing to do with the case at all. It casts Detective Maguire in a bad light.”

  “Somehow I don’t think she cares.” Olivier knew she didn’t. “Here’s what I think about her snooping around. If she doesn’t get verbal permission, she will do it anyhow.”

  ***

  Olivier’s parents were in Australia visiting his brother and the housekeeper, Zohra, was spending time with her family before making the move to Bordeaux. He showered and changed into jeans and a clean shirt. Abdel was back in exactly forty-five minutes, and when Olivier joined him, he said, “Monsieur Dupuis will have his driver bring him to meet with you. He claims that he had dropped his wife off at home after the reception when she realized that she’d forgotten her handbag, so he had his driver take him back to the Marceau property to retrieve it. He’s furious that we’re making him come in, and has threatened to call Douvier and Sarkozy if he has to.”

  “No surprises there. I can’t imagine a handbag needing to be picked up that late at night. They could have returned the following day.”

  They had arrived in Sourières and when they saw the chief of police walking, Abdel stopped. “How’s the investigation going?” Petit asked.

  Abdel said, “Slow. Have you learned anything?”

  “I was just heading over to the Marceau house to find you. The owners of the Oiseau Inn said there was quite a bit of coming and going as the night of the wedding wore on. A Kraut—their words, not mine— named Keller had a room there, as did the groom’s mother, Geneviève Durand. The groom was there with his mother prior to the wedding and they had a quarrel. The owner heard the mother yell after her son, “You are nothing to them, and trust me, you’ll get nothing!”

  “I noticed she was upset at the wedding dinner.”

  “And a tall American male escorted the mother of the groom to the inn. The owner said she was acting faint and clinging to him like he was her last chance. The little village is abuzz,” Chief Petit said. “To think that a murder has happened behind that wall is almost more than we can take in.”

  Their eyes followed his gaze. “You know,” he added, “a wall says a lot.” The stone wall separating the Marceaus from the rest of the world was at least eight feet high, and all that was visible from the other side was the mansard roof of the Marceau house. “Most people in this village have never been on the other side of that wall. I’d only been there once myself before this happened, when Antoine got into a little trouble.”

  Olivier didn’t know how to respond and remained quiet. “It’s a class thing. I know that,” Petit said.

  “Thank you for your help,” Olivier said, and Abdel pulled away slowly. “The police chief, I think, has turned up more information than anyone else.”

  “Unless the American detective has brought the case to a close since we left.”

  Olivier burst into laughter.

  “You haven’t called her by name, you know.”

  “It’s Max.”

  “I know. If I were you I’d start practicing saying it.” Olivier was about to offer a rebuke, but was won over by the Arab’s wide-toothed grin.

  The table was set on the terrace, and as they approached it, Olivier saw that Girard and Max were deep in discussion, only glancing their way before they went tête à tête again. It appeared that Max had taken the time to shower, for she looked fresh. She wore very little make-up. A light tint on the lips was about it. Olivier noticed for the first time that Girard would be quite attractive to women with his large shoulders and raspy voice. He laughed, displaying even teeth, and Olivier felt a twinge of jealousy when Max responded by leaning toward him, and smiling.

  After perfunctory greetings were issued, Olivier sat and listened to Marc and Hans planning a tennis tournament, which he found offensive under the circumstances. On the other hand, he thought, it might rid them of some testosterone, then felt like a fuddy-duddy for thinking it. Chloé sat in conversation beside Geneviève, whose make-up looked garish in the natural light. Olivier, seeing her plate empty, decided she didn’t eat. It reminded him of Véronique.

  “I will take you to the train at four,” Jacques announced to Geneviève.

  “Bien.”

  Observing her through the corner of his eye, Olivier decided that tomorrow he wanted to meet with her in Paris on an informal basis. And giving a quick glance across the table again at the newly-divorced Girard conversing with the American, he thought he would ask Max to join him. By nightfall tomorrow, he would know if he was to be in charge of the case. Mimi entered with the white pudding tart, and Jacques began to serve everyone.

  The day could be called flawless were there not a murder overshadowing everything. All that was visible from the crime scene now was the orange tape that was extended almost up to the terrace, but Olivier was cer
tain that the appearance of Léa’s battered face would not be far from his mind for a long time to come.

  A tray of champagne glasses was brought out, and Jacques dutifully poured. The pièce de résistance, though, was the native cheese, cendré, that Mimi brought out on a tray. Olivier thought the cheese, refined in ashes, and a little like a brie, was one of the great treasures of the area. He put some on bread, and took a bite, and was transported back in time to his childhood when he had spent weekends with his grandparents. He accepted a serving of the grape tart, and noticed that only he and Max were indulging themselves. It spoke volumes about her, and he decided he would like to cook for her.

  Thomas Girard said, “I must excuse myself. Monsieur Dupuis is arriving soon.”

  Geneviève was passing the door, a small suitcase in her hand, which Olivier took from her. “Madame Durand, we didn’t have a chance to get to know each other. I have to go into Paris tomorrow and wonder if I might stop by.”

  They were at Jacques’ car. “I don’t know,” she said, looking flustered. “I have appointments.”

  “It would be for a short time.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It would be better to meet there than the interrogation room in Epernay, don’t you think?”

  She stood still, pursing her lips. “In that case, alright.”

  “Good. I’ll see you around two.” Jacques came forward and lifted the suitcase into the trunk of the car. She opened the passenger door and once inside, slammed it shut, not bothering to look back.

  Chapter Eleven

  Max was surprised when Olivier invited her to go into Paris with him to pay a call on Geneviève. He asked her not to reveal the purpose of the trip, which made her think this could be a test run to see if they could work together. She scratched a few reminders in her journal: Practice discretion. Prudence. Patience.

  The sky was overcast, and she picked up her short, black trench coat as she left the room. Ted had taken the train into the city the day before, and it might be possible to check in with him. She realized that she was excited to have a day in the city that she loved passionately—and left behind eight years ago. I have a grandmother there, she thought, whom I’ve never met. One day.

  Jacques was in the dining room having coffee, and Max joined him. Marie-Christine entered from the kitchen. She had circles under her eyes. “I’ve had no sleep,” she said. “I barely know what I’m doing.”

  Jacques reached over and took her hand, which Max could see surprised her. “I received back the report on the Durands,” he said. “Especially Madame Durand.”

  Marie-Christine’s eyes popped open. “What did it say?”

  “Not as much as I had hoped. Madame Durand moved to Paris in 1980, and studied at the École de la Chambre Syndicale de la Couture, the school that turns out the most skilled seamstresses and tailors in the country. Within five years she had listed herself as designer and had a small shop, where she sewed suits and other items for women. Marc was born six months later in 1981. There is no father listed on the birth certificate.”

  “Most of this we know. Why wouldn’t she have listed the father, I wonder?”

  Max understood where Chloé got her naiveté. It made her feel like a seasoned old broad around the mother and daughter. Did wealth create ignorance of evil, she wondered. Hadn’t the high stone wall surrounding the Marceau property succeeded for many generations to do just that? Until now. The family had invited a sick mind to move among them. That someone had driven through the portal in the wall and shared meals with them, and listened to their stories. To Max that scenario was more horrifying than the nasty street killers she targeted in New York.

  “Maybe the father refused to accept her claim that the child was his,” Jacques said. He sipped his coffee, and leaned back, sharing more of the story. “Geneviève was quite fashionable and beautiful in an odd way. Men were drawn to her. In 1990 she became involved with the man who is now Minister of Justice, Philippe Douvier.”

  Max dropped her spoon and bent down to pick it up, hoping she wasn’t showing the shock that she was feeling.

  “They were lovers for nine years. He left her last year.”

  “Incroyable!” Marie-Christine said.

  “Why so shocked? This isn’t unusual. Look at Mitterand, for god’s sake.”

  “Still. To be with someone of that caliber. It must have put her in the center of politics.”

  “Oh, I get it, you’re impressed,” Jacques teased. “I thought you were being morally indignant.”

  “Well, that too.” He laughed, and her lips turned up in a smile. Max wondered if he had confessed about Léa, and the relief was so great that they had made up. She hoped so.

  Max’s mind was racing. Geneviève had slept with her friend Ted, and she had been her uncle’s mistress. Max wondered if she being morally indignant, or if it was it all too close to home. She wanted to talk to her mother. Hélène, the wife of Philippe Douvier, was her sister, after all.

  Jacques said to Max, “Don’t you have some uncle with an important position in Paris?”

  Max tried to appear casual. “By marriage, and I don’t know him. My mother and her sister don’t speak.

  “It’s a pity, but more common than we realize. You’re off to Paris with Olivier? What’s he doing there?”

  Marie-Christine perked up. “Paris?”

  “He has to get clothes, and see Monsieur Reynard on the way back.”

  Jacques sat up, interested. “Reynard means fox in French. The man is appropriately named. He wants to announce an arrest as soon as possible. You will find that he and Olivier don’t get along well, though they are from the same school. The same club, you might say. Both are magistrats, only in different positions. The prosecutors have more power now than they ever have before, and Olivier will chafe under that. Be prepared.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  He turned to his wife, “Do you think a man would find Max intimidating?”

  “What a question. What men find intimidating is power and power and power. And maybe beauty.”

  Jacques, looking stunned, was about to reply when a light tapping on the door stopped him. Olivier entered and shook hands with Jacques, and kissed Chloé, who had just wandered in before him. “Ça va?” he asked.

  “I finally slept,” she said, taking the chair beside her father, who put his arm around her.

  Olivier turned to Max and she stood and slipped her feet into black sandals with low heels. “We’ll be back at the end of the day,” Olivier said. Max turned to give her finger wave, and felt self-conscious all of a sudden. The trio sat at the table, transfixed. The door hadn’t closed behind them when Marie-Christine said, “Was that why you were asking me if I found Max intimidating, Jacques?”

  Max felt the blood rush to her face.

  They had gone a few steps when Olivier asked, “Should I be intimidated?”

  “You didn’t hear the first part of the conversation, and I’m not going to tell you.” He laughed.

  Once in the car, Olivier turned to business. “Madame Durand did a good job of remaining aloof from all the chaos of yesterday, which made me curious. This visit is unofficial.”

  “But you want to unnerve her, right?”

  “I’m waiting to see. It piqued my curiosity that the owner of the inn told the local police chief that she and Marc had had a fight before the wedding.”

  Max thought that didn’t sound unusual, with all the tensions mounting before the big day. So far nothing had come across as blatantly unusual, and yet everything was. Why was Léa sitting on a bench in the moonlight waiting for Ted, instead of waiting inside, or going home on her own? Had someone heard her tell Ted where she would be and followed her? Or had she agreed to meet someone? And why was Jacques in his room with a bottle of brandy and his
shirt hanging over his pants. When she knocked and entered, had he just killed Léa? How odd that the maid stumbled over Léa’s body. Did she witness Antoine running from the scene? And what about Antoine thinking that someone who almost knocked him over considered killing him? It had seemed true when he told her, but now it sounded like madness. Should she share these thoughts with Olivier? She decided not to. They weren’t even close to being partners, the way she and Joe had been. It took a while to trust.

  “Girard told me that your explanation for me being in your room was that you were quite ill and that I had walked you to your room.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “What changed your mind? I had accepted that you were right and that the truth should prevail.”

  “My decision to lie was selfish. I didn’t want everybody thinking me a slut.”

  “I see. I thought you did it to protect me.”

  Their conversation felt like the most subtle flirtation she’d ever engaged in. So subtle that she wasn’t sure if it was that at all. Maybe he was just being his pedantic self. She would volley one more comment back at him.

  “Why would I do that?”

  She hadn’t realized until he smiled that he had a dimple.

  ***

  Geneviève lived at 38 rue des Saint-Pères, in the Sixth Arrondissement on the Left Bank. It was a few blocks from where Max had shared an apartment with Chloé. Jacques had already rented the apartment for Chloé, and insisted that Max’s parents only pay tuition. It was a chic area, which Max hadn’t appreciated at the time.

  Olivier entered the code on the building’s main door, which Geneviève had given him when he called to confirm their appointment. Once the door buzzed, they walked into a quiet, inner courtyard. Olivier led the way to the small elevator that took them to the third floor, where Geneviève stood in the doorway, her dark hair encircling her face. Max thought the casual hair made her look younger, not that forty-six was ancient by any means.

  The entry room had a high ceiling, and as they followed Geneviève into her salon, the sun shone through lace curtains, creating a beautiful effect the way it highlighted the red and gold colors in the Oriental rug in the center of the room. It struck Max as the home of a cultured woman, albeit a cold one, with the baby grand piano in the corner and the paintings that ran from abstract to traditional landscapes arranged in orderly fashion on the white walls. A vase containing an impressive array of red roses was on the mantle. Max thought about her parents’ apartment where they were lucky to afford a new sofa every ten years. Her mother was so elegant and yet never complained about not having enough money. She could easily have spent her life in such a place as this.