The Body in the Vestibule ff-4

by Katherine Hall Page

  “Thank you, but he'll be back soon and I'm not really very hungry." Especially for Eggs Arsenic or whatever else Valentina had in mind.

  “I'm so sorry. It would have been much easier and you see I am in a bit of a hurry to leave. A long-overdue visit home.”

  Italy. Of course. And precocious little Christophe panting in anticipation, waiting on the doorstep. With tun-tun, tonton, or whomever, although he was probably still running.

  Italy. Where Valentina so conveniently shipped artwork in great big packing cases.

  Again Faith demurred. "I'm very tired, as you can imagine." As you know would be more accurate. "Perhaps I will see you when you get back.”

  But Valentina had come prepared for all eventualities. She reached in the pocket of her very smart navy blazer, pulled out a serviceable little revolver, a twin of Chris-tophe's and said, "I think not.”

  It couldn't be happening again. Tom would come through the door at any moment.

  “Valentina, you must be insane. You can't get away with this." They were lines from a thousand B movies, but they suited the moment.

  “Au contraire, Faith, I will. Please open the door and walk ahead of me. It would be so traumatic for your small son to find his Maman dead in the hallway.”

  Faith opened the door and stepped outside. The sunlight was struggling to filter through the dusty windows. Someone would have to call the regie to have them washed.

  “Now start walking down the stairs," Valentina commanded.

  As Faith took the first step, it became clear what Madame Joliet had in mind. No bullets, no poison. Just an unfortunate accident. She grabbed Faith and deftly flung her up and almost over the railing. She'd have been successful if she hadn't teetered off balance in her high heels.

  “No!" Faith screamed as she threw her body back away from the five-flight fall. She wrapped her leg around one of the upright iron rods that supported the banister and held tightly to another with both hands.

  Valentina continued to push, using all her considerable strength. Faith took one hand away from the railing and slashed at her assailant's face with her nails. Blood streamed from the cuts, and while she tried to wipe her eye, Valentina dropped the gun, which fell to the vestibule below. Faith heard it strike the stone floor, and she clung more desperately. She'd be all right if only the whole banister didn't give way and send her over the edge. She wouldn't hear the sound of that landing. And there was an occasional missing rod, she'd noted in her travels with Ben, keeping him always away toward the wall. But she couldn't choose another place now and she willed herself to believe it was her own fears making the iron in her grip feel looser.

  Valentina was trying for a firm grasp of Faith's short hair to turn her head around to get at her face. She brought her foot up, kicking at Faith's leg, which was locked into the railing. The pain was tremendous.

  “Help!" Faith screamed again. "Au secours! Au se-cours.1" There had to somebody in the building. But it was the holiday. The offices were empty and everyone else was out enjoying the sun.

  If she let go right now, they would both go tumbling down the stairs. Valentina was both taller and heavier than Faith was, and if this happened, she'd most likely knock Faith out, then throw her over. Faith tightened her grip and tried to kick back with her free leg. It was impossible. The two women grappled in silence punctuated by oaths from Valentina and Faith's own breathing, which was fast and labored. She'd kept Valentina away from the baby so far.

  She mustn't let her get an opportunity to kick her there. She bent over and screamed again.

  She heard a sound from above. It was a door opening. Someone came to the railing and called down, "Mon Dieu! What is happening! Mesdames!" Valentina stopped her attack for a moment, surprised at the voice from above. She arched her head over the side to see who it was. Faith dredged up every ounce of strength in her body, reached for Valentina's ankles, and tipped her over.

  It seemed to take a long time for the body to reach the bottom. The woman's screams rattled the windows as she passed each floor, making vain attempts to halt her progress by reaching for the iron bars. Her shoes fell off and her skirt ballooned up around her face. The poubelle lid was closed and she hit it dead center.

  Faith sat down on the stair. Someone was next to her taking her hand and stroking her head. It was Madame Vincent. Faith started to try to explain. "Hush, ma petite. She was not a good woman.”

  Sirens were wailing outside, but in the building, all was quiet. They stood up and peered over the railing down the dizzying stairwell at the limp figure clad in navy and white with the chic splash of red resting on top of the trash bin. The hat, the chapeau rouge, had never budged. It must have been pinned on.

  Eleven

  French country weddings, Faith Fairchild decided, were either an endurance test or a question of habit. They'd set off for Beaujolais early Saturday morning for Act One—the civil ceremony at the mairie in the groom's small village, where the couple was officially wed in the eyes of the state and the mayor of the village. Then they adjourned to a church where the bride's mother and grandmother had been married, in the neighboring village of Matour, for the eyes of God. Coming down the aisle of the ancient Romanesque stone church on her father's arm to kneel at the side of her betrothed, Adele, the Veaux's niece, looked as radiant as she was supposed to in a simple long ivory satin sheath, carrying one perfect calla lily and replacing the traditional veil with a short wisp of tulle that floated about her short dark curls. The groom, who worked for France Gas and Electric, seemed ill accustomed to his wedding finery and tugged at his cuffs nervously as if to make the suit fit better. His name was Jean-Jacques and he smiled so continuously that Faith wondered whether his jaw muscles would ever function normally again. The happy couple left the church in a hail of rice, accompanied by their gargons et demoiselles d'honneur, a dozen or so angelic-looking small children in bright, flowered frocks and long white Bermudas, which as the day advanced took on new and different hues. Wide-eyed and preternaturally solemn during the mass, the children exploded out of the church laughing, calling to the newlyweds, and scooping up the rice from the steps to hurl at each other. Quickly collected by mothers and fathers mindful of village opinion, they were hustled into cars to be tidied and transported to Act Three, the brioche and champagne reception for the entire village at the family farm.

  The farm appeared as old as the church. Delphine took Faith and Benjamin into the house to use the salle de bain and explained that very little had been changed since Clement's great-grandfather had settled on the land. Portraits of sober-looking individuals peered down on her in the stiff company parlor where Faith had been placed to wait her turn for the amenities later Veaux had fortunately deemed essential. Meanwhile, out of sight of the ancestors, the village was toasting the bride and groom in mounting merriment, filling the courtyard that separated the house from the immense stone barn and other farm buildings.

  Clement took Paul Leblanc away to the orchards as soon as decency allowed. He was eager to get Paul's advice about his experiments with hybrid peaches. The two men strolled companionably across the fields as if they had been friends from childhood. The Fairchilds and Ghislaine were left to make conversation with the locals. Tom was soon caught up in a discussion with one of Clement's brothers, who explained there had been six boys in the family. One stayed to farm, one became a priest, and the others split fifty-fifty—two going north to Paris to learn to be bakers and two going south to Lyon to train as butchers and charcutiers, sausage makers, which was the pattern for villages like this. Coming together for weddings, baptisms, even funerals was more than an old custom. It was a way to maintain their ties.

  Faith wasn't sorry they'd brought Benjamin. He could have stayed with the Leblanc children and Paul's sister Michele, but as she watched her son, in his own long Bermudas, blue seersucker ones, and a white polo shirt, climbing the gnarled old apple trees near the wisteria-draped house with the garcons d'honneur, she knew he was having an experi
ence she, if not he, would remember all his life. Besides, she wanted him near and she had a strong feeling he felt the same.

  She had taken him to school most of the week, not wanting him to miss the fun of playing with Leonard and the others, but had stayed, leaving only to go to the market. In the end, sitting at a low table at the garderie and helping to play a variety jouets educatifs—educational games like pasting beans in designs and of course Legos—turned out to be just what she needed to regain her own equilibrium. Looking at this gathering of well-wishers, happily sipping grape juice and eating the best brioche she'd ever tasted in her life, Faith resolutely turned her thoughts away from where she'd been a week ago. And it might have remained that way, except for the car just now pulling to a halt at the gates, scattering gravel and discharging none other than Chief Inspector Ravier.

  Michel Ravier had cursed himself repeatedly all week for not having sent the guard to the Fairchild's apartment sooner. They knew Christophe had not been acting alone and it should have been obvious that another attempt would be made to keep Madame Fairchild from talking. Michel knew she didn't know who else was involved, but whoever they were did not. Now, it might or might not be over. Christophe had vanished, presumably to Italy. Valen-tina Joliet had miraculously survived her fall—much to Faith's relief, who, while not relishing the idea of joining the clochard in the poubelle coffin herself, did not want to be the cause of another human being's death, however justifiable. Also, knowing a bit about the French legal system, she realized she had been spared an endless amount of questions and paperwork that would have made grandmother's sister's husband's place of birth seem a mere bagatelle.

  Valentina would be hospitalized for a long, long time and would never walk again, but after some days, she was able to talk. She just wouldn't. Meanwhile, Ravier had had Faith discreetly followed all week, deciding to take on today's duty himself. He loved country weddings and it wasn't often he had the chance to attend one, particularly since becoming a police officer. Besides, the Fairchilds were leaving on Monday and it would be his last chance to see Faith—and Tom—until the trial.

  “Inspector Ravier, how nice to see you," Faith said in genuine delight, thinking what a stupid word nice was. "Friend of the bride or groom or both?"

  “Neither, but they were gracious enough to allow me to come.”

  In fact, Adele Picard nee Veaux was looking upon her wedding as one of the events of the decade. The press had gotten wind of the missing Americaine's attendance and reporters and photographers had surrounded them at the mairie and the church before the bride's father had ordered them off. All week, Faith had been having her fifteen minutes of fame over and over and now Adele was having hers. It would be something to tell her grandchildren. When Chief Inspector Ravier asked to come to keep an eye on Madame Fairchild, they had not only agreed, they had been honored. Then there were those big boxes from Cambet in Lyon that arrived, expensive crystal and china underneath the shredded tissue. No, Adele was not unhappy at all. All this and Jean-Jacques, too.

  Ravier had arrived just as Act Four was about to commence. The wedding guests bid adieu to those from the village and jumped in their cars to report to a scenic spot for the photo. The cars pulled up to an open field, grass neatly mown, surrounded by Lombardy poplars. A small Renault truck roared to a stop and in the twinkling of an eye, two young men had pulled stacks of risers out of the rear and assembled them at the far end of the field. Then rapidly, they began to assemble the group for the wedding souvenir. It was like her eighth-grade class picture, Faith recalled, thankful that her braces were off. The children flanked the newlyweds in front on the first level, Ben included, and all the rest stood on the risers behind them. The photographer took a long look at the group and made a few adjustments. You there, you there. Madame, remove your hat. Then click, click, click and he was hurrying them off. They'd packed the gear and were gone in a cloud of dust before the wedding party had reached their cars for, at long last, the reception.

  The salle des fetes was indeed a room for parties, actually a hall with several rooms. There was a dance floor with a small stage overlooked by a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. This room was filled with long tables covered with white paper punctuated by small colorful bouquets of flowers at regular intervals, besides the requisite glassware, cutlery, and napkins. The kitchen was behind some doors on the left and the smells made Faith faint with hunger, not an unusual state for her these days. What a happy baby he or she was going to be! They'd located their place cards and she sat expectantly between Michel and Tom. Ben had joined the children again, twirling about madly on the dance floor to the lively music produced by an elderly but accomplished accordian player and an only slightly younger drummer.

  “You won't hear any heavy metal here tonight," Paul said. "Maybe 'le canard,' some tangos, walzes, an apache dance, if people really loosen up, and so forth. What was played at their parents' and even grandparents' weddings and all the village fetes."

  “ 'Le canard?" Tom asked. "The duck?"

  “Wait and see." Paul laughed.

  After the melon au porto and the saumon a I'oseille, perfectly poached salmon with sorrel sauce, and while Tom, Michel, and Paul were proclaiming the Beaujolais Leynes the best Beaujolais ever to cross their lips, the music changed from stately Strauss to something more sprightly. Couples waddled onto the floor for "le canard," which looked exactly like its name, performed with much enthusiasm and high spirits. Faith declined when approached by Clement, saying all too soon she would look like the dance. The others were also content to watch and wait for the next course. The whole affair reminded Faith a little of the dance she'd gone to on an island off the Maine coast the summer before. Grown-ups danced with children, women with women, men with men, as well as the more traditional pairing of men and women. There were all ages, all sizes, and all abilities. Watching the couples alternately glide and jump about below her in a series of remarkably athletic dances, Faith wished the evening could go on and on forever. Of course at that point relatively early in the evening, she didn't know that it would.

  It was Ghislaine who first broached the subject on everyone's minds.

  “Faith, cherie, be honest. We are here together and you are safe. Could we ask Michel some questions? There is still much I am unclear about. But if it brings back bad memories, we will watch the ducks and feed ourselves."

  “I had actually been going to suggest something along those lines myself. Michel and his buddies have been asking me questions all week, but I have a few of my own." She raised an eyebrow in Ravier's direction in an attempt at a Gallic gesture. He replied in land with a shrug. It sent a slight tingle up and down her spine.

  “For myself, I don't mind. Tom?"

  “I know my wife very well, my good inspector"—the ambience-inspiring phrases normally absent from the good reverend's speech, Faith noted—"And if you don't answer her questions, she'll try to find out some other way, and we know what happens then.”

  Faith was glad for the Beaujolais. Tom's glass was empty and she tipped some more in, though strictly speaking, it was impolite for women to pour wine in France. The stricture was loosening, yet she was fairly certain in the country, the last bastion of tradition, it still held.

  “Shall I begin then?" Michel asked.

  “Not until we are there," came Clement Veaux's voice from the dance floor, and he and Delphine, hardly out of breath, climbed the stairs, grabbed another bottle of the Beaujolais from an empty table, and settled down next to Ghislaine.

  “There is no one else expected?" Michel asked

  “I wish Madame Vincent were here," Faith said a bit wistfully. They'd been spending a great deal of time together during the week. "I think she suspected Valentina all along."

  “I have spoken with that excellent lady and you are correct. She watches much of what happens in the building and had formed a very negative opinion of Madame Joliet. But all in good tune, Faith. I think I will tell it as a story, be
cause we are at a celebration and that is where stories get told—and where this one will be told for many years, I suspect." Ravier was clearly relishing his role.

  “Your part of the story, man petit chou, started perhaps with a bored young man, smart, yet not smart enough to do very well and be interested in his studies or applauded by the adults around him. But he is handsome and has a great deal of charm. He has no trouble attracting girlfriends, particularly those like himself who are bored. His parents are busy and have little time for him. It is enough for them that he has grown up with a certain degree of politeness and intelligence. They suppose after his military service, he will study to be an avocat like his father or work in the bank of his uncle. Not the uncle who has disgraced the family, the d'Ambert upon whom all hopes once centered. The d'Ambert who was at ENA, the National School of Administration in Paris. The d'Ambert who was going to be, dare we say it out loud, perhaps President of the Republic. And eventually, the d'Ambert who discovered drugs and alcohol. We found this man, Guy d'Ambert, and that is how we know the story. He was trying to hide in a brothel in Marseille in the Old Port, although I do not think he has much sex drive left," Michel added reflectively.

  “Does he know where Christophe is? And Valentina— did he know about them?" Faith asked.

  “He does not know where Christophe is. Nor do we, unfortunately, but with all the police in Europe looking for him, it will not be long. I am convinced his parents had no knowledge of his activities. His mother has gone into seclusion with the younger children at her family house in Normandy and Monsieur d'Ambert is staying here to help us. He is as eager to find his son as we are and perhaps for some of the same reasons.

  “Now getting back to Christophe's uncle. He vastly preferred being found by us to being found by his nephew and those he worked for. And yes, he knew about Valentina, has known for a long time. She and Christophe have been lovers for several years.”