She turned to Max. “How is your French? I’m happy to convert to English if you are having trouble.” Max glanced over at Olivier, who still looked a bit surly, but he acquiesced. “Please, ask me whatever you’d like, and if there is a question of patient confidentiality, I’ll be clear about it.”
Max thought she’d like to spend a week asking this woman questions. She was imposing, but not in the least intimidating. Around sixty, her hair was a deep auburn color most often seen on French women with dyed hair. Her eyebrows were arched perfectly over deep-set brown eyes with flecks of gold, and her lipstick was earth-toned. She was slightly overweight, but she carried it well. She exuded self-confidence.
“That’s a lovely Buffet painting on the wall behind you,” Olivier said.
“It was a gift from my husband. I cherish it for that reason. Now, ask away.”
“When did you see Léa last?” Olivier asked.
“Four days before the wedding. She talked quite a lot about her former husband’s company, and how there was dissension among the de Saint-Pern members. She was thinking about selling because of some potential conflicts. But she was happy about the baby due in six months.”
“Did she talk about her relationship to Marc Durand?” Max asked.
“That’s an interesting question. Why do you ask?”
Olivier said, “We’ve had conflicting accounts. His mother said that Marc adored Léa, and others noticed conflict. Léa was worried when I spoke with her before the wedding that Marc had moved up too fast in the company. She called him ambitious, but perhaps there was opportunism in there as well.”
Adèle gave a subtle nod, and said, “I’m concerned about doctor/patient confidentiality here.”
Olivier explained that if she didn’t answer he could subpoena her, as another life might be at stake.
“Okay. Léa had been told by her husband months before he died about the son born to Louise Abel. This topic had arisen because Léa couldn’t get pregnant and she had accused Charles of being sterile and he told her his secret. Léa became more determined than ever to have a baby with Charles, but it wasn’t meant to be. She decided to try to find her husband’s son, and hired a private investigator to locate the woman and her child. But when Charles learned about it he begged her to drop it. His father was still alive, and he knew it would cause a rift. However, after Charles died, Léa started the process again and this time she was successful. She already knew that Marc was Charles’ son when Ted approached her about Marc working for de Saint-Pern. She thought it was meant to be. She was intrigued by the idea of getting to know him, and agreed to hire him. To Léa, Marc was the son of her beloved husband, and her thrill of having what she considered to be a piece of Charles still on earth superseded any thoughts of caution that might have arisen. She welcomed him into the company.”
She paused for a moment and asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?” Max and Olivier, mesmorized, shook their heads. She picked up a pack of Gauloise brunes and removed a cigarette with her elegant fingers. Max flashed back to Sorbonne days when she and Chloé went through a phase of smoking the raw unfiltered cigarettes, the dark and bitter taste of them akin to drinking a cup of espresso. Here it was incongruous, the elegant woman and the coarse cigarette.
“I used to find smoking those extremely pleasant,” Max said.
“They’ve taken the brunes off the market, but I have a great source. And when it’s gone, I’ll stop.”
Olivier brought them back to the topic of Léa and Marc by asking when Léa began to regret her decision.
“When she realized that Marc was falling for her. At first she was very touched, but then she grew worried. By this time she was with Ted, and besides, she thought of Marc as a son.
“Léa then introduced him to Chloé?” Max asked.
“He complied, and went out with Chloé, but he finally told Léa that he was in love with her and she told him it could never be. But she didn’t tell him why.”
“And Marc’s mother, Geneviève?” Olivier asked.
Adèle grew thoughtful “I have never met the woman, but my guess is that her reaction to Marc’s ‘adoration’ of Léa was jealousy and resentment. After all, Geneviève had been paid to leave Champagne and never return, which was humiliating. She may have dreamed of revenge for years and devised a plan for her son to work his way into the de Saint-Pern company and reclaim what was rightfully his as Charles’ heir. She, I learned through Léa, had pushed Ted Clay into talking Léa into hiring Marc. She must have been shocked when Marc came home raving about Léa. I would suspect that Geneviève’s resentment toward Léa grew. She no doubt expressed a lot of resentment toward her, and as she is Marc’s only family, I’m sure she wields a great deal of influence over him. He must hate her for her control.”
“He probably began to hate Léa, too,” Olivier said.
“That’s likely. Bon.” Madame Lausanne closed her eyes as though she were trying to picture something in her mind. “I want you to understand that I warned Léa that Marc’s reaction may be harsh if he ever found out about his biological father.”
“Learning from his mother the night before the wedding that Léa was pregnant must have been horribly upsetting,” Max said. “And his mother revealed his father’s name that same night.”
“She’s even crueler than I imagined,” Madame Lausanne said.
“Poor Chloé,” Max said.
“Could his rage have led to murder?” Olivier asked.
“Yes.”
“We think Geneviève may have hidden evidence,” Max said.
“She isn’t protecting him as much as she is herself. She has a lot to lose if he’s found guilty.” The sunlight that had been shining through the transparent curtains had faded and the room had taken on a gloomy cast. “This is a tragic story,” Madame Lausanne said “It was good to meet you and I’m sorry. I shall miss Léa.”
Olivier shook hands with her, “You’re one of France’s quiet heroes, Monsieur Chaumont. If we didn’t have our juges d’instruction, I’m afraid of what we’d turn into.”
Olivier and Max walked briskly to the car. “I don’t want to start and end my day with an apology, though I know I owe you one,” Olivier said.
“My father would say ‘It’s the thought counts.’ You know, Olivier, I think the shit’s about to hit the fan.”
“Whatever that means, it doesn’t sound good.”
“Trust me, it isn’t.”
Chapter Thirty
Olivier and Max were quiet on the drive back to Sourières, lost in their own thoughts and processing everything they had just heard. “Tu es dans la lune,” Olivier said finally. “It’s an expression we use when someone is lost in thought, meaning you are on the moon.”
“I was thinking of Geneviève and Marc’s story. How she went into survival mode at sixteen, or maybe younger. Think of the contrast to Chloé who has never had to think about survival. You and I work for justice, but that strikes me as universal injustice.”
“Everyone is dealt a different hand in life and we all must choose how to handle it. In Geneviève’s case, there was the possibility that the next generation, meaning Marc, could transcend the unfortunate circumstances he was born into. It’s clear he didn’t have anyone in his life to balance out his mother’s fanatical determination to use him to set her life right. She purposely established his biological father as a heroic figure for him without telling him the truth about their relationship. Then decided to blast him with that truth at the worst time.”
“Geneviève wanted to make Léa pay for all the ways she felt she had been wronged, but instead Marc loved her. She should be held accountable for these murders in my mind. That makes her an accessory. Too bad she won’t be an accomplice.”
“Keep in mind that even though we both believe that Marc committed these murders, we still ha
ve no physical evidence. It was a rewarding intellectual exercise in Madame Lausanne’s office, but proving all of this is a different story.”
“We have to find that plastic bag that Geneviève denies Marc brought to her room,” Max said.
“We’re also still looking for the money that Hans is convinced Geneviève absconded with.”
“It was cash. If I were a thief, I’d hold onto it. Bury it.”
“I have a feeling Hans was told by Douvier to stop screaming about the money.” He turned off the highway. “I’m much more worried about someone getting hurt. When you were out of the room I warned Geneviève that she wasn’t to speak to Marc or anyone else about our interview. I wish now that I had put her under house arrest. I still could.”
“I can’t imagine her obeying your dictum.”
“Abdel is tapping her phone line. I received permission to do that.”
The late afternoon light was splendid, bathing the vineyards in a golden glow. Olivier felt wired, and thought again that he would like to be able to arrest Marc Durand and be done with it. But of course there was the matter of finding the evidence.
“What about the woman running through the village?” Max asked. “Delphine mentioned a large woman in a dress walking rapidly past the inn, and you said that the bartender looked out his window and saw her too.”
Olivier shrugged. “Sounds like an apparition. I’m going to speak to Chief Petit and see if the description conjures up someone in the village. What made you think of that?”
“We just passed a large woman in a dark dress.”
“I’ll feel better if I’m around Marc. You know, I think for the first time in my life I’m going to call Marie-Christine and invite myself for dinner.” He dialed and spoke for only a moment. “I’ve lucked out. Mimi is preparing la potée champenoise, a dish made of gammon, leeks, carrots, potatoes, and turnips.”
“What’s gammon?”
“The raw cured hind leg of a pig. My mother includes Monteau sausages, petit salé, which is salted pork loin, and smoked bacon.”
“Sounds enticing. It just occurred to me that we haven’t eaten since morning.”
They were in Sourières. The sunset, with multiple shades of pink, reminded him again why he loved this place. “I know this may not be the most appropriate time to discuss it,” he said, “and it may not matter to you, but Véronique and I are finis. Over.”
Max smiled sweetly. “I’m no expert, but a fight doesn’t mean the end of a relationship. I’m just glad that we’re able to finish this investigation together.”
That’s your response to me sending my girlfriend away? he thought.
“You are your father’s daughter, I think.”
“You mean I’m obsessed and vengeful and have a take-no-prisoners mentality?”
“I didn’t know about the vengeful part.”
“Hell, yeah! I’m seeking revenge for Léa’s and Antoine’s deaths.”
“What happened to justice?”
“That’s when I’m in an idealistic mood. At the moment I’m not.”
Chloé and Marc were sitting at a table on the terrace when Olivier drove in, looking content and peaceful.
“How was Paris?” Chloé asked when they walked up to them. “Maman said you had to get things from your apartment, Olivier.”
“It was an errand day. Picking up clothes from the cleaners and paying some bills.”
“Poor Max. I hope Olivier didn’t hold you hostage all day.”
“It was fine. I walked around, and browsed in a couple of shops. An easy day.”
“Good. I’ll run in for glasses and you can join us.”
“I can do that.” Marc jumped up and went into the house.
“He’s been the old Marc today,” Chloé said. “We’ve been going through so much, but today we walked to the river and talked. A no-pressure day.”
Olivier realized that the sensation he was feeling that was causing dizziness was doubt. He and Max had been almost cocky about an arrest when they left Madame Lausanne’s office, quickly taking the onus off Hans Keller, who remained the most logical suspect. But he and Max weren’t alone. He had conferred over the phone with Girard, Abdel, and Claude Reynard, who had decided it was time to arrest Marc before something happened. This would be a second arrest in the case, and there was still plenty of room for error.
Max excused herself, saying that she didn’t feel well. Olivier wondered if she was having similar thoughts.
***
Max opened her door and turned on the light and began looking for the journal. She was sure she had left it on her bed, but it wasn’t there. She calmly rifled through her suitcase, then searched the closet. As her nervousness grew, she began throwing clothes and looking under everything. Writing Marc’s name down last and underlining it would tell him what he wanted to know. That he was a key suspect.
She opened her door and peered out into shadowy hall, then pressed the button on the wall and the hallway was flooded with light. She started toward the stairs, then paused. Maybe she should take a quick peer into Chloé and Marc’s room to see if her journal was there. She went quickly across the hall, stopping to listen to the voices down below on the terrace. The aroma of the potée champenoise wafted up and she was almost overcome with hunger. She turned the knob of Chloé’s door and quickly stepped into the room in her bare feet. She reached over and flicked the switch of the lamp. If Marc took my journal he wouldn’t leave it in the open, she thought. She opened a drawer, and looked, then another. Her nerves were on edge. The doorknob turned and Marc entered, quickly closing the door behind him.
“Looking for something?” He took a cigarette out of his pocket and stuck it between his lips, making him look like a gangster from the 1930s.
“No. Well, yes. I’m missing my journal.”
“And you think Chloé or I took it?”
“I thought maybe I had left it in here.” They were speaking in whispers.
“When were you in here?”
“Yesterday. Only for a minute. But I had my journal with me.”
He flicked an ash into the ashtray. “What’s in it? I’ve never understood journal writing.”
“Oh, thoughts about this and that.”
“Kind of like your friend Ted’s thoughts about my mother’s life that he felt compelled to write on his blog?”
“My writings aren’t public.”
“You weren’t taught that the minute you write something down it’s no longer yours? I was.”
“I think we should join the others, Marc.”
“I wish you liked me.”
“I do. I mean, we don’t know each other very well yet, but I have no reason to dislike you.”
“I think you’re disappointed in Chloé for choosing me.”
She found her voice returning. “That’s not true.” She reached over and turned on the ceiling light. “Sorry. But I can’t see in that dim light.” The bright light surprised him and emboldened her. She thought she could take him down if she had to, thanks to the years of jiu-jitsu training, but she hoped she wouldn’t need to. “I’m going downstairs.”
“Okay.” His cell phone rang and he turned his back to her to answer. Max scanned the room and her eyes alighted on a dress draped over an easy chair. Black. She grabbed it quickly, then ran to her room, threw it under her bed and made a loud noise bounding down the stairs.
Marie-Christine had joined Chloé and Olivier. “Where’s Marc?”
“He’s making a call. I just saw him.”
“Dinner will be in five minutes. I wonder where Monsieur Clay is.”
He came around the corner as she spoke. “Madame Marceau, pardon, I was writing my blog and the time flew away. I could smell the potée champenoise all the way from the inn. Everyone, incl
uding the owners, wanted to follow me here.” Marie-Christine laughed, and Max could see that Chloé and Olivier were as surprised as she was to see her response to the man she had resented until recently. Max noticed that his jaw was almost healed. Marc arrived and put his arm around Chloé, managing to avoid shaking Ted’s hand. They entered the dining room together. As they were all settling into their chairs for dinner, Jacques brought out a 1996 Hortense champagne. Mimi came from the kitchen and began serving. Max wasn’t hungry, and looking over at Olivier she noticed that he wasn’t eating either.
Marc was unusually animated, telling a story about a trip he took to Los Angeles once, but Max was barely listening. When the conversation hit a lull, Ted asked what time the service was for Antoine and Marie-Christine said ten. “We shall keep the attendance limited to mostly family but of course you are welcome to attend, Ted,” she said. “According to Antoine’s wishes, there won’t be a church service. It will be brief.”
Marc said, “My mother is coming for the service. She’s family now.”
Max thought she could have sliced through the sudden tension with a knife.
“There’s no need,” Marie-Christine said. “It’s a long way for a fifteen-minute service.”
Before Marie-Christine could reply, Chloé said, “I think it’s lovely of Geneviève to make the effort. She’s coming.” Marie-Christine’s lips pursed, but she didn’t say anything else. Mimi arrived with the gâteau au champagne, and Max commented on how wonderful it was. Marie-Christine, glad for the chance to change the topic, explained that it was a sponge cake made with champagne that had gone flat. She then reminded Chloé that she had promised to lead a tour through the chalk caves the following afternoon.”
“Marc and I wanted to go into Paris. What will you do, chéri?” she asked, turning to her husband.
He shrugged. “You can join me in the evening.” Max sensed that Marie-Christine was finding reasons to keep her daughter close. When dinner was over Ted excused himself and went back to the inn. Half an hour later Olivier said his good-byes and Max offered to walk him to his car. She took the opportunity to fill him in on what had happened upstairs with Marc.
Champagne: The Farewell Page 27