They were too far away for me to be able to hear anything through the closed windows of the car. As they talked for several minutes, punctuating their discussion with various gesticulations, one or another of them would occasionally look over at me as I stared out forlornly. Finally, the tall man came over and opened the door.
I was about to get out when he gracefully slid in, pulling the door shut behind him.
Speaking French, I pelted him with questions. “What happened to Jean-Claude? Where is Tony? Is Parker still alive? That bastard Griffin didn’t get away, did he?”
The boss cop held up his hand and I stopped. “Calm down, Mademoiselle Hendriks. I cannot answer one dozen questions at the same time, n’est-ce pas?” He looked at me for a moment, then stuck out his hand. “I am Capitaine Andre Leduc.”
“Marta Hendriks.”
“Yes, I know. I saw a performance of your Violetta in September.”
“Why have I been locked in this car?”
“It is as much for your own safety as for our investigation. This is a very complicated affair. Here, two men shot, one man with severe leg injuries, another with a suspected skull fracture —”
“Not Tony!” I squeezed my eyes shut and thought, Please God, let him be all right.
Leduc smiled and shook his head, but didn’t elaborate. “And on the other side of Paris, a bomb detonated on a crowded street with an unknown number dead and injured. You expect us to instantly sort this out? That crowd out there believes that you may be one of those responsible, that you may be a terrorist.”
After a deep breath, I asked, “Can you tell me how my friends are?”
“Which ones are your friends?”
“The man who was shot and fell off the roof; I suppose you could call him my husband —”
“And why were you up on the roof?”
That stopped me cold. “I really couldn’t tell you. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Really?”
“We didn’t know who was around. Jean-Claude wanted to get away, and then all those people started pouring in downstairs. What would you have expected us to do?”
“That is a good point.”
“Is Jean-Claude dead?”
The old cop answered my question obliquely. “You know, it is a funny thing what fear can do to someone. I have known a mother to lift the front of a car to save her child trapped underneath. Even with a bullet in his leg and another in his back, your Jean-Claude managed to jump onto that next roof. Of course, he did not land well, and I have been told he also suffered a very bad break to his right leg. It is therefore astonishing that he was actually trying to climb off the second roof when we apprehended him. Amazing.”
“But he’s going to be all right?”
Chief Inspector Leduc took my hand. His face had lost the weariness I’d seen earlier, and I felt now I was looking into the face of someone’s kindly French grand-père.
“I spoke to him briefly before they took him to hospital. Who is Gaston? He seemed quite concerned about him.”
I sighed. “His son.” When the detective looked puzzled, I added, “By another woman.”
He had the grace not to inquire any further.
Using the silence, I asked, “And in the apartment? You didn’t really tell me precisely how my ... how Tony is. Is he hurt? Do you know what’s going on?”
My answer came as Leduc swiveled around and we both watched the paramedics, bearing loaded stretchers, begin emerging from the building. On the first one was Parker, and the plastic bag of saline solution being held above him by a third man, obviously a doctor called in to help, was an ominous sign. The Mountie’s complexion was ashen, and I could clearly see a sheen of sweat on his face in the failing daylight. But at least he was still clinging to life.
The speed at which he was hustled into the farthest ambulance, which left immediately, made it clear that his injuries were grave. I said a silent prayer for the brave man who had probably saved my life, if not the lives of all of us.
Moments later, the second stretcher appeared in the doorway with that rat Griffin on it. It passed through my mind that it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if the two men bearing him were to stumble and dump him onto the cobblestones. He certainly deserved it.
I could see into the ambulance as they transferred him to a more conventional bed-type stretcher and watched his former partner, Glover, lean in to say something. I would have given a week’s salary to be a fly on that wall.
Last to appear was Tony, and he was at least able to walk, supported by one of the special forces cops. It was obvious he’d injured his left leg. He was also cradling his right hand in his left. I could see the pain in his set expression.
I waved wildly, trying to get his attention. “May I go to him?” I asked Leduc.
The old cop looked at me, then looked at the crowd now at least five people deep, and sighed. “As you wish.”
Leduc tapped on the window and one of his people hopped to it, opening the door. I got out and hurried toward Tony, dimly aware that flashes were going off. As I got closer, Tony waved away the cop supporting him.
“Thank God, you’re okay,” Tony said as I hugged him. “They couldn’t tell me anything about what happened after you and Jean-Claude ran out.”
“There’s too much for me to tell you out here on the street,” I answered, looking up at him. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“My ankle, actually, but it’s nothing more than a sprain. I had to stop playing soccer because of my bad ankle. It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”
“And your hand?”
He smiled grimly. “I may have broken a finger. Seems like Griffin had a little bit more fight in him after my tackle.”
I smiled at him. “It could have been worse.”
Tony nodded. “Yes. A lot worse.”
It felt extremely awkward standing in front of so many people, trying to tell Tony how grateful I was, how much I cared for him. I knew photos and video footage of our moment would be broadcast around the world, judging by the amount of light shining off the wet pavement, but I found that I didn’t really care.
“We’d all be dead by now if it hadn’t been for you,” I said.
Tony shrugged. “I did what was needed. And if you really want to know, it was one of your damned drumsticks that caused me to twist my ankle.”
I grinned up at him. “Sorry. That was all I could come up with.”
“It was effective. I wouldn’t have been able to spring at Griffin if it hadn’t been for that bit of distraction. Actually, that was pretty quick thinking. We make a good team.”
Yes, a good team, I thought. “We should get that ankle and hand looked at. I think the ambulance is waiting for you.”
“There’s your hand and all those scrapes, too.”
I realized I’d completely forgotten about the slice that must still have been oozing blood, judging by the sodden state of the towel tied around my hand.
I put Tony’s arm over my shoulder and we started moving. “When they’ve got you squared away at the hospital, we need to talk.”
Tony stopped and looked at me piercingly.
I laughed, and it felt good. “Relax. I’m not giving you the big brush-off!”
I was aware that around us more flashes were popping and the camera light had increased. The gossip magazines and websites were going to have a field day with this.
So be it.
I put my arm around Tony’s waist and let the paparazzi shoot away to their hearts’ content as we walked to the ambulance.
Leaning my head back against the waiting-room wall, I rubbed my tired eyes. My watch told me it was not yet even midnight, but this day already felt at least a week long. Since the meal at the restaurant twelve hours earlier, I’d had two cups of coffee and no food. My head throbbed and I was finding clear thinking increasingly difficult. At least that annoying buzzing in my ears was a lot less.
It had been more than six hours
since they’d wheeled Jean-Claude into surgery, and I felt that could be either ominous or good, depending on which minute you asked me. Next to me, Tony, his ankle heavily bandaged and his hand with a large splint on his middle finger, was slouched in his chair, asleep. Even dead to the world, I appreciated his company, because across the waiting room from us sat Jean-Claude’s other wife, Marie, and her occasional glances were filled with quite enough venom, thank you. Even though it had been me who’d gotten Leduc to order her brought to Paris so she could be near her husband in his need, she obviously blamed me for everything that had happened.
The expression on little Gaston as he slept peacefully against her chest was quite angelic by comparison. He was a beautiful child.
Finally, a doctor appeared in the doorway. “Madame Lachance?”
We both started to answer, but I quickly suppressed my response. Whatever happened from here on in, I was definitely not Madame Lachance anymore.
“Might I speak with you out in the corridor?” the doctor continued, after looking at us in confusion.
Marie sighed, clearly at odds over what to do with her child.
“Would you let me hold him while you speak with the doctor?” I asked.
At first I thought she’d refuse, but in the end she accepted my offer. Standing, she transferred Gaston into my arms. The child barely stirred.
I walked to the far end of the room and sat, looking down at the child who might have been mine. Despite his age, it was clear he had the nose and chin of his father. He was also a solid little guy and would probably grow up to be thick and muscular like his dad. But around his eyes and mouth there was a softness that was his mother’s gift. If he continued growing as his face and body hinted, he’d break more than his share of hearts when he got older.
Knowing the discussion in the hall could go either way, I said a silent prayer for Jean-Claude, Gaston, and even Marie. They deserved to be a family, and Gaston should have the chance to grow up happy.
Barely daring to breathe, I waited for an outburst from the hall, signalling that the worst had transpired, but with each tick of the second hand on the clock on the wall opposite, I dared to feel more hope.
About five minutes after she’d left, Marie appeared in the doorway, but I could not read from her expression what the doctor had told her.
“Is he ...” I began.
She answered simply. “He will live.”
Looking at me piercingly, I could detect multiple emotions sliding across her face. The overwhelming one was uncertainty, and I thought I could guess why.
I patted the seat next to me. “Come and take your child.”
She sat down heavily but made no effort to take Gaston back.
“I knew that he was coming to meet you today. Luc ... Jean-Claude made up some stupid excuse, but I can easily tell when he is lying. That is how I know that you two were ... are married. I made him tell me last night.”
I snorted. “That’s a lot better than I could do. That man could talk the hind leg off a mule and make me believe anything.”
Marie didn’t respond for a moment, then unexpectedly grinned. “I did not know what you meant at first. We don’t have a phrase like that in this country, but yes. I agree. He is too easy with his tongue for his own good.”
I handed back her son and she waited, looking at me nervously.
“My, um, our husband,” I said, “has made a right mess out of all of our lives, and I guess it’s up to us women to sort it all out. Jean-Claude ... Marc ... Oh hell! Luc’s life has moved on from me. He has you and he has a son and you should be a family. My time with him is over. I know that.”
She seemed startled. “You do not mind?”
“I’m too tired to know what I think.” I paused, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Yes, on some level, I do mind. That man profoundly transformed my life when we met. I was so desperately in love with him ... but now? Too much water has gone over the dam for me to go back. Jean-Claude has you two now,” I finished, lightly ruffling the sleeping child’s hair.
He smiled in his sleep.
“But what about you?” his mother asked.
I looked at Marie. “It is not difficult in Canada to end a marriage. From now until then, no one has to know he’s also married to you.”
“My mother is going to be so angry with him!”
“If I know Jean-Claude, he’ll have her eating out of his hand again in five minutes flat.”
I remembered something and went over to my purse, thoughtfully returned to me by Capitaine Leduc.
Handing Marie JC’s wedding ring, I said, “Your husband will probably want this back.”
She looked quite puzzled. “Why do you have it?”
“Long story.”
We shared a sisterly smile.
Marie got down to business. “The doctor said that Luc ...”
“I know the confusion you’re feeling. I’ve been there, too. His name is Jean-Claude, regardless of who we know him as, that’s probably easiest.”
“Jean-Claude,” she said thoughtfully. “He sounds much more Québécois like that.”
She playfully imitated the French-Canadian accent in the word “Québécois” and we shared a little additional bond. Too bad. I could have liked this woman a lot if we’d met under different circumstances.
The doctor had told her that Jean-Claude would be a long time recovering. The wound to his leg had been very clean, the bullet luckily just missing an artery on its way through. The bullet to his lower back had been much worse, having broken a rib and damaging his spleen. The broken leg required surgery to try to put it right. He was very lucky to be alive.
He’d always had more than his share of luck.
Eventually, a nurse came back for Marie and I was left alone with my thoughts — and a snoring Tony at the other end of the room.
Walking over, I gently shook him.
He had been deeply asleep. Even though I’d been up just as long and had as little sleep the previous night as he had, I was beyond tired but unable to sleep, in that twilight land where you keep moving simply so you don’t fall over.
“What’s happening?” Tony asked groggily.
“Time to go.”
“Where?”
Clearly, his brain hadn’t slipped into gear yet.
“To find a nice warm bed,” I said, looking down at my watch, “at twenty past midnight. I don’t suppose you bothered getting a room after I threw you out yesterday morning.”
He had the grace to look sheepish. “No, I asked at a café up the street if I could leave my bag there.”
“We’re going to look so respectable, showing up at a hotel in the middle of the night with no bags.”
Tony’s eyes showed a bit more life. “Does that mean you’ll stay with me?”
I touched his cheek and smiled. “Tonight, I think I need someone to hold me.”
“I’ll do the best job holding you that anyone’s ever done.” He stood up quickly and winced, then looked into my eyes. “I don’t want to lose you, Marta.”
Leaning forward, I kissed him tenderly. “I know.”
Nine months after that awful day, on a sweltering August afternoon in Toronto, Tony and I married. Even though neither of us wanted it, the Lusardi family would hear of nothing less than a big Italian wedding. Nonna Lusardi’s insistence on doing all the cooking was what clinched it for me.
As we ran out of the church, the entire Lusardi clan playfully blew soap bubbles at us. My brother and sister and their families were there, as were Lainey and Chloe, my manager Alex and his wife, all with broad smiles. Over to the side, I spotted Lili with a thoughtful expression on her face.
The reception was held at the restaurant in Woodbridge where Tony and I had first gone out to dinner. Part of the choice was due to the fact that the owner was more than happy to give Signora Lusardi the run of his kitchen. Personally, I think he wanted the opportunity to observe her.
We’d invited Inspector Parker to the weddin
g, but he was spending the summer fishing at his cottage in the Eastern Townships of Quebec while he finished his extended leave to convalesce. It had been a close thing for him, but he pulled through, more by sheer cussedness than anything else. He wanted to be healthy for the trial of Griffin and his biker bosses when they got Jean-Claude back to Canada to testify.
I’d only seen my former husband once since that horrible day. It had been in early April. I was performing in Stockholm, and on my way to Montreal for the Chicks with Sticks concert (a roaring success), I had planned a very quick stopover in Paris — for a costume fitting at the opera. That fall, most of my honeymoon would be spent singing the title role in yet another fill-in gig in their production of Norma. This time, though, I expected to see my husband every day and as often as possible.
Paris in April is absolutely lovely, gently warm with the whole city decked out in spring colours. I had wished that Tony could have been with me to see it. He’d been back in Toronto with Lili, being run through her vocal ringer to get him ready for a minor role in Fidelio that he was given at the last minute. I had the distinct feeling that the COC was hoping some smaller roles for my soon-to-be husband would keep me closer to home and on their stage. I was thrilled for Tony regardless, and under Lili’s tutelage, his voice was improving tremendously. We all harboured no illusions that he’d ever be a major soloist, but his voice was clearly too good to be relegated to the chorus forever.
But I’d also come to Paris for another reason. The previous month, I had arranged with Marie to bring some documents to her.
I again took the train out to Beauvais and grabbed a taxi to take me to the small cottage that Jean-Claude and Marie had rented a few miles out in the countryside. I felt a wrench in my heart as Marie and I stood in the kitchen, looking out on the backyard where our husband sat in a garden chair, throwing a ball to be chased and picked up by a laughing Gaston. Next to the chair lay two canes.
Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle Page 28