Max put down her journal and the two old friends climbed into Max’s bed, just like the old days, and began to talk. Chloé admitted that she had been distraught and Marc had finally had it with her snuffling.
“I don’t know what’s going on with him,” she said. “He’s drinking too much. Maybe I’m sensitive about Antoine.”
“Two of your family members have died. Give me a break!”
“Marc and I talked tonight about going to New York for at least a year. We both want to get away now. This place feels cursed.”
“What about the company?”
“Who knows? For now, let’s talk about something other than death and business. Like Olivier.”
“I like him, Chloé. He’s different from any man I’ve ever known.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know another man who goes around sniffing flowers.”
Chloé giggled. Good, Max thought. They froze when they heard a tap on the door. Marc entered, and looking at his wife, asked if she was coming to bed.
“I’m staying here tonight, chéri. I’m already tucked in.” He stood in the shadow for another moment, then abruptly turned and vanished.
“He doesn’t understand how you and I are like sisters,” Chloé said. “We don’t have BFF’s in France.”
“Best friends forever. The French don’t know what they’re missing.”
“I’m going to go to him,” Chloé said, climbing out of bed. “I don’t want him angry.”
“Do what you need to do. Bonne nuit!”
Chapter Twenty
Olivier returned home to the half-prepared dinner and put it all in the refrigerator. Once again, an evening gone awry. He wondered if he shouldn’t heed the message to let go of his attraction to Max; after all, it was, for both of them, an interlude. She would be returning to New York and he would move to Bordeaux and start a new life there. What was interesting was that he didn’t feel that the time spent with her compromised the investigation in any way. They were both pros, and even this evening, when he wanted nothing more than to bring her back home with him, he understood Jacques’ request for her to stay for Chloé.
He poured a glass of cold beer and went outside to look at the sky and inhale the fragrance of the late hour. He could imagine Antoine doing much the same. After a few drinks he had invited Ted back for more, and when Ted left, he probably walked down to the river with his bottle and glass to toast the stars, or perhaps to fish, while waiting for Mimi to show up with dinner. He thought that Mimi and Marie-Christine had been enabling Antoine for years, making sure that he ate and that his house was occasionally cleaned.
Olivier had felt the vulnerability of the human race as they brought Antoine’s naked body to the shore and laid the stretcher on the ground. Had Antoine accidentally stepped into a hole? No, he knew the riverbank too well. Max was convinced that Antoine had been murdered. That was one reason he had ordered the forensic autopsy, surprising everyone. Well, why not? They had nothing to lose.
Olivier resolved not to let the story of the blue vase lead him down the wrong path. As much as he tried to fend off any speculation, he began, standing in solitude in the garden, to wonder who would want Antoine dead. He had been clear that someone had bumped into him right after the murder, and that was likely true, but he never gave a hint of who it might have been. Was Max right to think that he knew, but wasn’t ready to reveal the information? How ironic that Ted Clay had been with him in his last hours. No investigator could come up with a reason for Ted to want him dead, though, unless Ted had killed Léa and thought that Antoine could identify him.
What was broken about the entire investigation, he realized, was that he knew all the suspects. He thought that if it dragged on much longer, he would surrender and allow another juge d’instruction to take over. It had been painful listening to Marie-Christine during her interview talking about her husband and her sister, and now he dreaded what Jacques would have to say about his brother. There would be regret, surely, and remorse. He didn’t want to allow himself to think that Jacques and Léa had argued, that their old passion had flared and Jacques killed her out of jealousy and rage. Then told his brother, who had threatened him, forcing Jacques to kill him too by getting him drunker than usual and pushing him into the river.
He had to get some sleep and stop this imaginary journey to nowhere. Tomorrow was Léa’s funeral, which he also dreaded. He wasn’t in the least religious, and to sit through the rituals and throw holy water on the coffin felt hypocritical. Now in the kitchen, he poured more beer into his glass and put on the last twenty-three minutes of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony, a favorite. He loved the comment of one critic who had said that the symphony allowed Mahler to “weep without apology.” He turned the sound up and sat as though in meditation, wishing that he could weep.
***
The church was packed for Léa’s funeral, taking place in the same church where Chloé and Marc had married. Olivier saw Max standing with Chloé as he drove up and parked. Though Jacques had invited him to sit with the family, he had declined for professional reasons. He stood at a respectful distance from the crowd and watched the pallbearers remove the coffin from the hearse. Girard, looking ill at ease in a suit, joined him and they shook hands. “I suppose it’s a myth that the murderer often shows up at the funeral.”
“We’ve all heard it,” Olivier said. “I find myself scanning the crowd, and hoping that he’ll stand out. It’s never happened.”
“Me, too.”
It was a long queue, and Olivier and Girard were among the last to enter the church, which resounded with the music of Bach. Olivier turned his head slightly and saw Ted Clay stop mid-aisle, wondering where to sit. A surge of compassion overtook Olivier as he realized that this man had every right to be considered innocent, and yet he had been banned from the Marceau family from the start. Ted’s late arrival with Geneviève that night at the dinner had made an awful impression, and even if the murder had not occurred, Jacques and Marie-Christine would have shunned him. The autopsy should arrive today, he thought, and they would know for sure if the baby was Ted’s. Ted sat near the aisle, making the sign of the cross before sitting.
But he wasn’t to be alone for long as Geneviève walked dramatically down the aisle, looking quite exceptional in black and white. Her suit appeared to be linen, and he wondered if it was one of her creations. He knew she was known for sewing a rose into the hem of each of her garments, which he thought was a clever gimmick when he had learned about it from Véronique. According to Abdel’s extraordinary financial sleuthing skills, Geneviève had a shrinking bank account and in fact had been asking Marc for help. These days her fashion line was not in vogue, and a year without a subsidy from her lover was probably taking a toll. She slid in beside Ted and whispered something, causing him to lean his head down in order to understand. It was an intimate gesture and would create gossip.
Max, who had turned out to be a storehouse of information gleaned from various people, claimed that Ted had had a brief fling with Geneviève a few years back when he arrived in Paris. This when she had been the mistress of Philippe Douvier? He knew that Douvier had to be following every moment of this investigation, but who besides Girard was feeding him information? His ex-mistress? Keller?
Chloé telling Max about the triad trying to invest in land had to be filed away for now, but Olivier thought he would slip out to Serval and talk to a few people. An old classmate of his lived there. Could Geneviève manage to have gotten her hands on the missing money? It would give her some financial breathing room. Now that her best-laid plans around the de Saint-Pern Company seemed to be falling apart, she might have felt desperate enough to take it all, or consider it restitution money from her ex-lover.
Girard leaned over, and Olivier got a whiff of a strong men’s cologne that almost caused him to sneeze. “That woman,” Girard sai
d, staring at Geneviève. “She’s the mother of the groom?”
“Exactement.”
“Thin, huh?” Olivier glanced at him and saw that he was saying it with compassion, as though she had a cancer. Looking around, Olivier saw that almost everyone who was at the wedding was here, and wondered who would be around to attend Antoine’s funeral.
Girard leaned over again, “Madame Durand knows the American, I understand. I wonder if she’s aware we’re locking him up today.”
Olivier was shocked. “When was that decided?”
“The higher-ups, and the public, are demanding an arrest. Our chief prosecutor Reynard has pointed the finger at Monsieur Clay. Reynard didn’t call you?”
Olivier was furious. It was up to him to decide, or at least he should have been in on the decision. It was clear to him that Reynard was enjoying the attention of his superiors and the press, and that kind of basking was bound to bring mistakes. He would explain to Max that Ted would be okay for a few days, and in fact, with him locked up they could move more judiciously. The music swelled, and Girard and Olivier returned to watching people walk down the aisle.
The priest told a couple of stories of Léa when she was a child, and brought up her rise to power in her husband’s company to be among a short list of women who had made a name in the champagne world. There were readings and prayers, but Olivier barely paid attention. French funerals were rarely personal, though in some regions they were becoming more so. The hearse would take the body to the crematorium after the service and they were to meet again mid-afternoon at the burial cemetery. Close friends and family were to go back to the Marceaus for lunch now. Olivier wanted to somehow make the time to read the documents from Léa’s office and home, which had been secured by the police hours after her death.
Everyone started filing out, and he had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard the end of the service. Once outside, he caught Max’s eye, and she fluttered her fingers, a funny little habit that he found charming.
“Max is coming to have a dinner with me once all this is over,” Girard said. He hadn’t begun to give up on seducing the blond American, Olivier thought.
“Sounds like fun.”
Max approached. “I spoke with my father, and he quoted from Crime and Punishment.” Olivier quoted the lines that he knew she was referring to and which he had known since he was an adolescent. He was pleased to see Girard looking a bit lost in the conversation. He was also pleased to realize how easy it was to connect with Max.
“I’d like to go to Antoine’s house,” Max said.
Girard nodded. “Why don’t we go together? Either later, or in the morning I could make some time.”
Olivier thought Girard had backed off in his pursuit of Max, but something had re-ignited his flame. Olivier didn’t want to bring up the private luncheon to be held at the Marceau house, so he excused himself discreetly. As he was leaving, Marc and Chloé walked up and invited Max to come with them. Marie-Christine and Mimi had organized a lunch of cold salmon and salad, and lovely meats and cheeses. Trays of champagne were brought out. Approximately forty people came for lunch, and after looking around, Olivier thought Hans Keller the only surprise. Marc and Chloé’s friends, Delphine and Yves, were wandering around, so he took the opportunity to let them know that they had to come in for an interrogation and why.
He went searching for Max, and finally asked Chloé, who said she had gone to be with Ted at the inn. He rushed over. Girard was standing in the lobby with Ted and Max, who was obviously fighting back tears. “Bien,” Girard said, “On y va.”
“Yep, let’s go,” Ted said.
“Where’re you taking him?” Max asked.
“To a Maison d’arrêt in Châlons en Champagne,” Girard said.
“Like a county jail in the U.S.,” Olivier added. “He will be in a quartier semi-liberté which means he will have more freedom. You can visit him there.” Ted turned toward Max and she held him in a long embrace.
“I’ve been writing my blog these past few days,” Ted said. “Read it if you find yourself bored.”
“I will. And I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
Max and Olivier stood on the street and watched the two men enter the police car, Girard in the front and Ted in the back. Olivier knew what a humiliating moment this must be for Ted.
“I only learned of the arrest a short time ago,” he said by way of apology.
Max’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to prove him innocent before I leave France,” she said. It wasn’t what she said that made Olivier believe her, but the fierce determination in her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-one
They watched the car carrying Ted to jail until it was out of sight. Proving Ted innocent would mean stepping up the pace of the investigation, but how to convey that to the plethora of authorities who were constantly stepping on each other’s toes, then backing off, Max had no idea. Even she had wavered briefly when all the facts were presented to her about Ted—his lack of an alibi, proof of his quick temper at the bar, his belief that he would inherit half of Léa’s estate, which would solve all of his money problems, his being the last to see both Léa and Antoine alive—but singly none of them stood up to close scrutiny. She had seen too often what happened when too many facts stacked up against a suspect, how authorities jumped to conclusions in their relief over having someone in custody. Too often the investigation stopped there, and innocent people were sent to trial. She knew Ted. His need to please and appease was something she had called him on in the past, but his overall character was stellar in her mind.
She turned to Olivier, “I’m aware that Antoine’s death is presumed to be accidental drowning, but I want to go back there to look around before anyone else does. Will you accompany me?”
He gave her a skeptical look, then glanced at his watch. “I can’t stand the idea of throwing more holy water on Léa’s grave. Shall we go now?” She hoped she wouldn’t be missed at the cemetery service. They crossed the street and walked to the hidden drive that led to Antoine’s.
Marc called out to them, and they waited for him to catch up. He looked exhausted. “We are preparing to go to the cemetery to bury Léa’s ashes,” he said. “Are you coming?”
“No,” Olivier said. “I have said adieu to Léa, and so has Max.” Max recalled that adieu was used to indicate a permanent farewell.
“Tell Chloé I’ll meet her back at the house,” Max said.
Marc lit a cigarette. “My mother is here, Max. She likes you, and I know would like to spend a little time with you. Chloé…”
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
When he seemed about to follow them, Olivier said, “We’ll be at Antoine’s on official business.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“I’m concerned that a drug dealer came after Antoine, Marc. We need to talk, as I want the names of everyone you know who has sold drugs.”
“But we have talked,” Marc said, and walked in the opposite direction.
“I know these deaths are taking a toll on our newlyweds,” Olivier said once Marc was out of hearing range, “but Marc’s not who I would have expected Chloé to marry. Have you spent any time with him?”
“We talked last night for a few minutes. He’s arrogant, and I don’t know if that ever changes. He and Hans Keller were at Le Bar earlier in the evening, and he made a point of telling me that Ted went to Antoine’s for drinks. He has that je ne sais quoi, a need to tell. We call someone like that a tattle-tale. He has called Girard twice, to report the necklace and to report Antoine missing.”
“I’ve noticed, too, but isn’t that just being responsible?”
“I’m speaking more about his character. He latched on to Hans Keller, and I don’t know what happened but that’s not going well, and now he seems to want to be in Girard’s favor.
”
“I had the sense that he knew how to bend the truth when I spoke with him.” Olivier paused and she knew he was deciding if he could confide in her. “I want you to know that I decided last night to recuse myself from this investigation if we don’t make headway soon. I find myself floundering a bit when it comes to being objective. This conversation is a good example.”
“But in interrogations you are seeking these small clues to the inner workings of the interviewees, right? My father taught me to listen to the ‘words beneath the words.’ What is the interviewee really saying? For example, what is Marc saying when he feels the need to tell me that Ted went off with Antoine. Is it a blame game? Or is it something else?”
They had entered Antoine’s yard when a gendarme approached. “What’s going on?” Olivier asked him. “This isn’t officially a crime scene to my knowledge.”
“Captain Canon thought it the most efficient way to keep curious people out, monsieur.”
“D’accord.” Olivier and Max continued talking as they headed across the lawn toward Antoine’s house. Olivier told her that he had requested a forensic autopsy just in case. She understood by the term that Antoine’s body would be dissected because there was suspicion that his death was a criminal matter.
He explained, “I agree with Jacques that it wasn’t a suicide, but for different reasons. The medical examiner told me that he saw evidence that Antoine struggled to save himself, which was one reason he ruled it an accidental drowning after a physical examination. He could have stepped into a hole or tripped in what I’m sure was an inebriated state, but with the information you gave me from Ted Clay, I want to know more.”
“A thorough autopsy can guide the investigation in the right direction and a careless one can throw us off track. I’ve been to a few, and it’s surprising how much information is in the body.”
“It’s macabre.”
“It’s the stench that almost does you in at first, but then it’s like being in a lab. Where the truth often lies. I know how big you are on truth.”
Champagne: The Farewell Page 18