***
Hans Keller and Marc were playing chess in the far corner of the salon, and Chloé was reading a magazine when Max entered. “You’re here at last! We were getting worried.”
“We thought you’d been swept away by a French cowboy,” Hans said.
“I’m surprised to see you,” Max said.
“I have to be interrogated tomorrow, and what I have to say will cause an explosion I think you say in English.”
Her ears perked up.
Marc looked up from the chess board, “My mother said that you and Olivier paid a social call that wasn’t a social call?”
“Olivier thought a change of scenery would be nice for me.”
“Aha!” Marc’s didn’t take his eyes off her. “How considerate of him.”
Max smiled. “Your mother and Olivier were in conversation and I was having a hard time keeping up, so I nosed around. I went into your room, with all the airplane models and photographs.”
“It was a passion for most of my childhood.”
“I can teach you to fly,” Hans said. “My interest in it came from my father.”
“My father’s dead, so okay, I’ll take you up on your offer.”
Max was surprised, as she knew Marc’s father’s identity was a mystery, but no one had said he was dead.
Marc changed the subject. “Ted called, by the way. Olivier is also interrogating him tomorrow, and he’s staying at the Oiseau Inn for the night.”
And Ted isn’t invited here to dinner, but Hans Keller is? Max thought.
Hans got up, “Marc and I are going to the local bar later. Care to join us? Chloé said she’d come if you came.”
Max accepted readily. What she had almost said to Olivier before he could see no reason for her to go with him was that she wanted a drink. Not a little glass of champagne with the family, but a fat glass of red wine, or maybe even a tequila.
“Sure.”
***
Le Bar was a classic village hangout, where the farmers stopped in mid-morning to have a Pernod or a vin blanc, and where a few unexceptional dishes were offered up for lunch and dinner. Max, in jeans and cowboy boots, was happy to be away from the pall that hung over the house. She had come to the conclusion over dinner that Marie-Christine and Jacques were simply too weary to say no to Marc’s request to have Hans Keller to dinner, though she could tell that Chloé was not happy about what was going on. Max secretly thought there was a good chance that Keller had killed Léa and was a sociopath who could carry on as though nothing were amiss. She hoped that after she and Chloé had imbibed a couple of drinks that they could find a place to talk. She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see that it was ten o’clock.
She climbed in the car with Marc, Chloé, and Hans. They stood in the center of the dimly lit room for a minute and allowed their eyes to adjust. Peering out from a corner was Olivier, who raised his brandy glass when he caught Max’s eye.
I wasn’t the only one in the mood for a drink, she thought. The second thought was upon her before she could waylay it: the bastard could have invited me.
The others had moved up to the small bar. Marc asked her what she wanted.
“The forensics special,” she replied, making sure Olivier could hear her.
Marc looked puzzled.
“What the magistrate is having. A brandy.”
Olivier walked over. “I’ve had a chance to think about our discovery.”
Our discovery. Nice.
“And I’m now convinced that we have the murder weapon.” She could barely hear him he was speaking so low. Marc came up to them with her drink and handed it to her.
“Oh, you’re a fan of brandy?” Olivier asked her, one eyebrow perched higher than the other.
“Sure am.”
Which means I’ve drunk it twice in my life.
“That’s impressive.” She took a sip and felt the narrowest imaginable streak of heat race laser-like to her belly button.
A loud scuffling from the doorway got their attention. Max ran toward the commotion and saw two people going at it, both tall, both slender, both fair-haired—one German and one American.
Chapter Fourteen
Max grabbed Hans’ right arm and brought it up behind him. When he turned with a vengeance on his assailant, ready to hit with his left fist, the shock of seeing Max threw him off guard. He lost his momentum and staggered, falling clumsily onto a chair. For a suspended moment, Olivier, like everyone else in the bar, stood transfixed.
Hans quickly picked himself up. “You bitch!” he yelled, shaking her off and looking around to see who had witnessed him being overpowered by a woman. “You’ll pay for this!”
Olivier, feeling slightly out of his element as an enforcer, stepped in and quietly commanded Hans to sit at a nearby table, then switched his attention to Ted, who was doubled over and gasping. Max was standing over him, and obviously knew what she was doing as she checked for injuries. Olivier called Abdel, and told him to come to the bar immediately, then announced to the bar patrons that they should remain for a short time, as the police needed witnesses.
Chloé and Marc were at the bar, where Marc’s hand was wrapped in a towel. Olivier went over and asked Marc what had happened. Marc spoke quickly, the adrenaline still pulsing, “It all happened so fast. Monsieur Clay attacked Monsieur Keller, and I jumped in to help Max.”
Chloé interjected, “I saw Hans say something to Ted, but didn’t hear what it was. Then Ted reacted.”
Max joined them. “Ted should go to the hospital,” she said. “I think his jaw is broken. He’s bleeding from the mouth, and there’s a sizeable lump on his jaw. He also seems to be having difficulty breathing properly.”
“Does he need an ambulance?”
“I didn’t mean to hit him that hard,” Marc said.
Max reached for the drink she had left on the bar, took a sip, then said, “According to Ted, Hans Keller accused him of murdering his fiancée, and added that he had no intention of taking the blame.”
It occurred to Olivier that it would be convenient for just about everyone if Ted was proven to be the murderer. The Marceaus—Jacques and Marie-Christine, Chloé and Marc—would be far wealthier now than they had ever dreamed of being, and that wealth would more than likely end up coming from Hans Keller. Geneviève Durand would also benefit, with her son ensconced in the company and able to support her, and Antoine could continue on as he had always done. For a fleeting moment, Olivier didn’t like any of them, and a second later chastised himself for his cynicism. What brought relief, however, was the realization that a murder case never unfolded exactly as expected and the outcome that seemed completely obvious was rarely correct. In Ted Clay’s case, people needed a target, and he was looking like the perfect scapegoat.
“Neither of you should have reacted in the way you did,” Olivier said. “Technically, all of you could be arrested for assault.”
The door swung open and Abdel entered, followed by the village police chief, Petit. Olivier suspected that a patron had called him. After all, it was a small village where everyone knew everyone. Petit nodded to a couple of the patrons as he surveyed the room. His eyes rested on Ted, holding an ice pack to his face.
“Looks like a hell of a lot more than a minor altercation. Should I call anyone?”
“It’s related to the de Saint-Pern case,” Olivier said quietly. Petit nodded, then lumbered over to the table where the locals had gathered and took a seat.
“Then you don’t need me. But I’ll be at the bar if you do.”
Olivier instructed Abdel to take a statement from Hans Keller. Olivier had overheard Hans saying that he was going to make sure the American detective paid for the injury she had caused.
“Make sure Monsieur Durand gets a drink on me for saving my
life,” Hans yelled to the bartender. Olivier looked over and Chloé rolled her eyes. “Can we go?” she mouthed to him, and he nodded. It was obvious that Marc was on the verge of being inebriated. Chloé said something to him, he shook his head, but she whispered in his ear, and he smiled and took Chloé’s hand and she led him out. He’s lucky to have her, Olivier thought.
Though it was difficult for him to speak, Ted confided in Olivier. “I know they’re all thinking I killed her. Even the Marceaus. They didn’t invite me to dinner, but they had that sociopath Keller at their table?” Olivier secretly agreed, but said nothing.
“We’re going to get you to the hospital,” Olivier said. “I’ll have a gendarme posted there for security purposes.” He made eye contact with Abdel, who indicated that his interview with Hans was over. At midnight, just when Olivier was starting to experience relief that he and Abdel had managed the fracas without the police or gendarmes involved, Commisssaire Girard walked in wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and made a beeline to the local table now also inhabited by Max.
Olivier glanced at Abdel, who shrugged ever so slightly as if to say he hadn’t informed his boss that he was here. After greeting those gathered at the table, Girard ambled over and they shook hands. Not until then had Olivier noticed a slight swagger in his walk.
“Pierre there called me,” Girard said, pointing to a man at the table with Petit. “Everything under control?”
A burst of laugher from the local table distracted them for a second, and they glanced over to see that Petit was being entertained by Max, who was trying to tell a story in French, gesticulating as she did so. She’s incorrigible, Olivier thought. Was this payback for not bringing her with him to the bar? Or was it her crime-solving technique to connect with everyone of importance to the case? So far she had Girard, Petit, and he would even say the chief prosecutor, Reynard, in her corner. He wondered if this method worked as well in her personal life. Certainly not as far as he was concerned.
As though reading his mind, Ted said, “They all fall for her, but she doesn’t allow anyone in.”
Abdel escorted Hans out to the car to be taken to the hospital. Max came over. “I didn’t abandon you, Ted, though that may be what you’re thinking. Trust me, I’m doing everything I can to help you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Swear to me that you’re innocent before I stick my neck out for you.”
“Good god,” he said. “I swear.”
Girard and Petit joined them, “I’ll take les Américains to the hospital and then drive Max back to the Marceaus’,” Girard said.
He calls her Max, thought Olivier.
Girard, Olivier noticed, had taken on the guise of the stereotypical American detective. Much less formal than the French.“That works. I’ll finish up with Petit, and see everyone tomorrow.”
Max joined them. “I can stay if you want to go over everything,” she said to Olivier.
I refuse to compete, he thought, but he said, “Go and be with your friend.”
“You’re a jackass. Un crétin.” She wheeled around to follow Girard out.
Only the bartender, Olivier, and Petit remained. “Want another brandy?” the bartender asked. Without waiting for a response, he pulled a bottle of Courvoisier from behind him and poured one for Olivier and another for Petit.
“I’ve heard of you for years,” Petit said. “I understand that Sarkozy has it in for you after you went after him for corruption when he was the Minister of the Interior.”
Olivier smiled to acknowledge the compliment, then asked if there was a witness among the patrons. “The locals blame the German,” Petit said. “But since he spoke in English to Monsieur Clay, no one seems to know what really happened. A lot of conjecture.”
“Anything else?”
“Not related to the fight. But one of the patrons said that Antoine told him he knows who killed Léa de Saint-Pern and he’s going to prove it.”
Olivier would pay a call on Antoine and see if there was any truth to the rumor. He thanked the police chief and told him to come to him anytime with information. They shook hands and Petit departed
“Do you live here?” Olivier asked the bartender.
“All my life. My name’s Michel.”
“What’s the talk about Madame de Saint-Pern?” The bartender’s head jerked up and Olivier added, “Whatever you say is unofficial.”
Michel hesitated. “Antoine Marceau was in here the night before the wedding claiming that he was thrown out of a dinner by his sister-in-law.”
So that’s where he went, thought Olivier.
“He practically predicted her death. Said she was selling out. He also said she was in dangerous waters dealing with the German.”
“Did he stay long?”
“He left when Monsieur Durand came in with a very thin, dark-haired woman. Antoine told me she was Durand’s mother.”
“What time?”
“It was late. I was getting ready to close up.”
“Did they stay long?”
“Marc Durand didn’t. He ordered a brandy, but ran out before he finished it, looking upset. She came to the bar and ordered champagne, and asked me how old I was. I told her twenty-one, and she said she wished she could go back in time to when her son was that age. Then she asked me something very strange. She asked me if I would want to be told the identity of my father if I didn’t know. I said I didn’t think so.”
***
After a few hours of sleep, Olivier arose early and by eight was briskly entering Girard’s office in Epernay. “Thanks for coming in,” Girard said, indicating a chair, and pouring a cup of coffee for him from the machine in the corner. “I know you have a hell of a day ahead. Max was right, by the way. Monsieur Clay’s jaw is broken. You should have seen her with him. Loving like a sister.”
Girard, Olivier thought, was glad to have such a major case on his hands, with interesting characters that lifted him out of the ordinary day-to-day grind.
“Aren’t these ‘gentlemen’”—Girard put up two fingers of each hand to indicate quotation marks—“supposed to be civilized people?”
“I’ve never, quite frankly, found one class of people to be more civilized than another.”
“Abdel told me about finding the bottle this morning. You could call Philippe Douvier and he’d pull some strings to put Max officially on our team. I’m sure we have reciprocity with the NYPD.”
Olivier thought Girard was angling toward more communication with the American cop. He became more determined than ever to keep her at arm’s length. “Let’s not go there yet. I much prefer her being in an unofficial capacity.”
“I don’t want her to be an unsung hero. I hear she was impressive the way she tackled Keller last night.”
Things had gone too far. Olivier gave him a hard stare and Girard straightened his shoulders and got down to business. “There are already some problems,” Girard said. “It’s the German, Keller. His arm is sprained. His defense lawyer, a woman who is acting half smitten with him, says that she needs to understand why an American woman was struggling with a German citizen in a French bar, and claims that Max should be arrested for assault.”
“Neither the American detective nor Monsieur Durand thought before they acted. I’m worried that an altercation between two men is being turned into a scandal. Keller is an instigator. It makes me wonder what he’s up to.”
Girard leaned back in his chair. “Monsieur Clay was unable to control his rage, it seems. According to Abdel’s report, he was the first to physically attack. Marc Durand gave me the details.”
“But he was incited to do so by Keller, and that is the part that interests me. I don’t believe his claim that Monsieur Clay said something first, because there wasn’t time for such an exchange. There are witnesses that can verify this
. I am concerned, though, that he might have grounds for accusing Detective Maguire of assault.”
Girard’s lips turned up slightly, “It would be my pleasure to go and arrest her.”
So arrest me, she had said the night of the wedding when they were dancing and he told her it was against the law to threaten a judge. He had playfully taken her hand…
When Girard realized that a response from Olivier wasn’t forthcoming, he said, “Let me ask you. What’s a NYPD detective doing hanging out with aristocrats?”
Olivier wanted Girard on his side throughout the investigation, so in order to make that happen, the civil discourse they were engaging in was unnecessary. It was the French way. But Girard was lowering it to the gossip level and Olivier didn’t have time for that. He stood up. “I don’t know her personally. She’s a friend of Chloé Marceau’s. C’est tout.
Olivier could see that Girard knew he had overstepped a boundary when Olivier stood up, but it was clear that he had no idea which one. “I’ll have Keller in your office within the hour. I allowed Bernard and Caroline Martin to leave without questioning them. The woman was driving me crazy. I couldn’t get one straight answer from her, and the husband looked so weary I thought he might have a stroke.”
Olivier nodded in understanding. “I’ll bring them in.”
“What about Monsieur Clay?”
“The hospital released Keller and kept Clay in for the night because his jaw is broken. Might need surgery.” Bad news, thought Olivier.
Girard continued, “It’s strange. He left Madame de Saint-Pern for half an hour to walk the groom’s mother to the Oiseau Inn. They sat in silence. “Imagine for a moment if he hadn’t left her.”
“I have.”
“Okay. Madame Durand backed up that he was with her, but she contradicts his statement that he remained in her room and put her to bed. Do you know anything about her?”
“I only just met the two of them.” Olivier saw no need in confessing to having been at the family dinner the night before the wedding, nor would he dare mention the name of Philippe Douvier in conjunction with Geneviève.
Champagne: The Farewell Page 12