Murder in Pigalle

by Cara Black

  The victims’ violin teacher. The woman hadn’t answered again when Aimée had tried before she’d left. “Of course, Madame’s here tonight, non?”

  “She’s en route,” Brianne said, nodding. “It’s all about music tonight.”

  In a place that could double as a wing of the Louvre, she thought. Morbier’s oft-repeated saying came back to her: look to what wealth hides and what it buys. She doubted mention of the poor girls’ assaults sat on Madame Vasseur’s agenda tonight.

  Brianne’s brow creased again. “But Renaud, a girl’s in danger.”

  Aimée flashed her PI license. “Look, there’s a serial rapist on the loose, a missing girl whose life is at risk. Madame Vasseur’s daughter, one of the victims, called from a Swiss clinic and left a message I need to hear, something that could be important to the investigation.”

  Renaud sucked in his breath. “I understand, mais encore …” He lowered his voice. “She’s welcoming the new board and the benefactors of the scholarships.”

  Noticing Aimée’s pained expression, Brianne took her husband’s elbow, her face pleading.

  “Can’t you do something?” Aimée asked. “Take over for her? Or have your father?”

  Renaud’s father, the old man who’d introduced Madame Vasseur, had to be in his late seventies.

  “The only thing that matters is that I get to listen to the message on Madame’s cell phone as soon as possible,” said Aimée.

  Several distinguished heads turned. “Shhh,” came from a dowager sporting medals on her lace cocktail dress.

  Laughter erupted, echoing off the crystal chandeliers. Madame Vasseur had warmed up her audience.

  “How can I interrupt her now?” For a moment Renaud had a lost look on his face, but it was replaced by determination. “But I’ll try to hurry her up.”

  She grew aware of two older women in designer black leaning closer, listening to their conversation. Felt their palpable disapproval and condescending looks. She wanted to shout at them, but the words died in her throat. This upper crust exuded a glacial frost. Like black crows picking gossip from another’s misfortune.

  Aimée was overcome with despair. Zazie in danger and all this time wasted.

  Renaud stepped forward into the salon and waved to the dais. From across the heads, he caught Madame Vasseur’s attention. He lifted his wrist and tapped his watch. Madame Vasseur nodded.

  “Merci,” Aimée whispered to Renaud. She hoped that would hurry Madame Vasseur up. Now she had to check in with René. “Excusez-moi.”

  She tiptoed past the vulture ladies back out into the corridor. Three young male violinists tuned their instruments in the corridor. She hurried toward a quiet corner in the adjoining room—another salon with oil paintings covering the walls. The crackled veneer and ornate frames testified to old masters and Impressionists, and she didn’t know what all else.

  A museum, all right.

  René answered on the second ring. Finally.

  “Where are you, Aimée?” He sounded cranky.

  “Me? Zut! I’ve been trying you for hours. It’s not le Weasel, René.”

  “I know.” She heard defeat and tiredness in his voice. “I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say I made a fool of myself.”

  Poor René. She could have told him if he’d answered his phone instead of playing the avenger. But this wasn’t the time to scold. “Ecoute, René, I went back to jog Cécile’s memory.”

  She gave him an edited version of everything that had happened since they’d parted, including her enlistment of Beto to check out the NeoCancan owner.

  Behind her the damn violins were tuning up. She put a finger in her ear.

  “Where are you, Aimée?”

  “Madame Vasseur’s daughter remembered something, left a voice mail.”

  Pause. She heard car horns blare in the background on René’s end.

  “Zazie’s friend in the Swiss clinic, that girl?”

  Aimée looked around. No one was listening. Just a ballerina statue that looked like a Degas.

  “Her mother said Mélanie left a message about the rapist’s description. The FotoFit tech got something wrong,” said Aimée. “I don’t know. I’m stuck waiting for her to finish her damned speech.”

  “Is that the sonata from L’Arlésienne playing in the background?”

  “You’re asking me?” One piece of classical music sounded like another to her.

  “Sounds like Bizet, Aimée. A chic soirée. So, this ‘nice man.’ How can we find him?”

  Think, she had to think.

  “Or maybe it’s too late,” René said, a different shade in his voice—grim, determined.

  Her heart wrenched. Non, not that. Forced herself to try and allay René’s fears. To smother her own. Somehow concentrate on the plodding details—all she could clutch at for the moment.

  “We have to keep going step by step, René,” she said. “I left Marie-Jo’s father’s parole officer an urgent message. He’s got to be in contact.”

  “You think the father will cough up info on the ‘nice man’ if he hasn’t already? You’d trust a man just out of prison who dodged answering you?”

  “Any other ideas, René?” She rubbed her ankle.

  “Think he’ll tell you if this ‘nice man’ hums Paganini?” he said. “Get real, Aimée.”

  “Once I hear Mélanie’s message with the rapist’s real description …” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to ignore the growing knot of tension in her shoulders, this gloom and sarcasm René emanated. “I’ll let you know right away and alert Beto in Vice.”

  Pause. “You’ve always said if you hit a wall,” he said, “go back to the beginning.”

  Her father’s words drilled into her.

  “Exactement. With any luck the NeoCancan bar owner knows more—”

  René’s sigh interrupted her. “I’ve got a bad feeling, Aimée.”

  Her patience exhausted, she wanted to kick him. “So you’re giving up on Zazie?”

  But René had clicked off.

  A male voice spoke behind her. “You appreciate the Vuillard, I see. That’s what they used to call the square, Place Vintimille.”

  Startled, Aimée turned around.

  Renaud’s father, leaning on his gold-handled walking stick, smiled at her. This family smiled often.

  Old men liked to be gallant, non? She clutched her stomach. “Désolée, I need to sit down.”

  Alarm spread over old Lavigne’s face. “But of course, let me get you something to drink.” She sank down into the chair he proffered, a gilded Louis-something museum piece adorned with brocaded velvet.

  “You asked if I appreciate the Vuillard painting—but ‘appreciate’ is a subjective term, Monsieur.” She said the first thing that came out of her mouth. Stared back at the painting to study it.

  “Forgive me, my dear.” He handed her a fizzing glass of limonade and cleared his throat. “I thought since you were standing in front of it …”

  Aimée grinned and tried for charm. “But I’ve passed that square countless times. Just yesterday.” She gave what she hoped came off as a sigh of wonder. “This work breathes. I feel the wind rustling through the linden trees. Hear the leaves scuttering over the cobblestones. Timeless.”

  The old Lavigne’s eyes lit up. “Exactement. Vuillard painted from his atelier overlooking the square. Must have painted this scene twenty times over his life.”

  Madame Vasseur’s voice carried from the salon on the microphone. “… for young musicians whose careers have been made possible by the generous endowment of our host this evening …”

  Stupid. Why hadn’t she put this together before? This rich old coot might know something. “So Madame Vasseur told you I’m a detective, Monsieur?”

  The old man blinked. “Vraiment? Mais how exciting! Things have changed since Inspector Maigret, non? But I’m only her messenger—she apologizes, instructs me to ask that you wait.”

  Zazie’s life hung in t
he balance. She ground her teeth and felt like screaming.

  “But Monsieur Lavigne, with all these attacks, aren’t you concerned? Your young protégés, the ones who you’re endowing with scholarships, whose futures you’ve invested in?”

  “I’m horrified,” he said. “These girls burst with talent. They’re close to my heart. But what do you mean?”

  “Can’t you see the connection, Monsieur?”

  “Connection? But these were isolated attacks. The commissaire assured me,” he said. “Believe me, I’ve raised the issue with him.”

  She caught herself before she slapped him. With this laissez-faire attitude, no wonder the rapist got away.

  “Think again, Monsieur. The one thing all those girls have in common is your Madame de Langlet. Four girls have been attacked after violin lessons in six months. At least some of them were scholarship students of the fund you’re raising money for tonight.” She didn’t know that for sure, but it had to link.

  Worry crossed his brow. “You think I should have offered a reward? But they caught a suspect. I heard that on the news.”

  Before she could answer, another seventy-ish man, this one with a white walrus mustache, had entered and embraced old Lavigne. “Ready for my tour, mon vieux?” His accent was a burred Languedoc.

  “Excusez-moi, but I promised to show Gerard around.”

  Great.

  Old-man Lavigne pointed with his cane and tugged Gerard forward to his wall of paintings. “My father collected works by the locals here.” His voice swelled with pride. “Vuillard, Degas, who met with Pissarro and Manet just around the corner, Gauguin, Delacroix, Ingres, Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec, though only because his doctor lived below …”

  He droned on. It was obvious the old man relished the opportunity to expound on his collection to a semi-captive audience. She stifled her impatience, crossed her legs.

  Gerard nodded, gave her a wink as if to say, humor the old man. She checked the time again. Fumed. If she didn’t hear Mélanie’s message soon, she’d scream.

  Oblivious, the old man carried on. The lecture had moved on to connecting painting with music, two related forms of symbolic art. “Take Debussy’s violins in La Mer, conveying the rising storm waves as a string of color,” Lavigne was saying.

  Her dress chafed her expanding stomach. She’d give anything for a cigarette. Or a nicotine patch. She craned her neck toward the salon, checking on Madame Vasseur’s progress. Lavigne paused, noticing her look. “Forgive me, it’s my passion.”

  Was he tasked with keeping her occupied so she didn’t disrupt the reception?

  Gerard mopped his brow with a handkerchief. How could she grab the conversation back with politesse and glean more while Madame Vasseur toadied up to her benefactors?

  Gerard glanced at the champagne. Helped himself to a flute. “Santé. To Renaud and his beautiful new wife,” Gerard handed Monsieur Lavigne a glass and clinked his to it. “Going to carry on the tradition and family business, eh?”

  “Renaud was our unexpected blessing late in life,” said Lavigne. “His mother passed away when he was a child.”

  Translation: spoiled, privileged brat expected to continue the dynasty. Yet given Renaud’s rarefied upbringing, he seemed down-to-earth. She’d liked him and Brianne.

  “Ah, Gerard, there’s not enough music in the world.” Old Lavigne raised his cane, moved it back and forth across the polished parquet in time to the violin quartet.

  Maddening.

  “But of course you know this piece—from Bizet’s Carmen, Madame?”

  “It’s Mademoiselle.” But play along with him. She pretended to recognize it. “Ah yes, of course.”

  “You hear, yes?” His mouth pursed. “But do you feel it?”

  She gave a quick nod. Parched, Aimée sipped the limonade. She saw Madame Vasseur on the dais, awarding certificates to benefactors amid applause. When would she finish? In the meantime Gerard checked his cell phone, bored, no doubt, and timing a getaway. “Désolé. I’ve got to take this call.”

  Gerard disappeared. She wished she could join him instead of enduring the art and music lesson. But now that he was gone, she could try to get something new out of the old man. Her father’s words sounded in her head: never leave an interview without a name, an address, a hair color, a type of tree—even the most insignificant-seeming details, he’d drummed into her, would add up. Instead of stewing until Madame Vasseur ended, she needed to try a hunch.

  “Is the actress Béatrice de Mombert, your neighbor a few streets over, one of your Conservatoire benefactors?” Maybe there was a link to the “nice man.”

  “De Mombert? I knew her father.”

  “I’d imagine Béatrice’s ex-husband Zacharié and his business associates must donate.”

  “Never met him.” Old Lavigne shrugged. “Or her.”

  Another dead end.

  Yet she had to reach him somehow. She went back to their earlier conversation, determined to press harder.

  “But the rumors must concern you, the implications that the Conservatoire’s bright talent is being targeted by the rapist.”

  Old Lavigne looked confused for a moment. “Rumors? Targeted? But the attacker is in custody.”

  “Last night another girl was followed after her lesson at Madame de Langlet’s. She escaped, thank God.”

  “That’s news to me.” Old Lavigne shook his head. His cane wavered on the floor.

  “The attacker’s loose. Still on the street.” She took a gulp of fizzing limonade. “The girl remembered him humming her Paganini piece. Madame de Langlet’s been questioned by the police.”

  His face reddened. “Terrible. But why? I can’t understand this … Non, I don’t believe there can be a connection. Impossible.”

  Denial.

  She wanted to explode. Instead, she took a deep breath, wished she could burp and rubbed her stomach. “Madame Vasseur’s daughter’s traumatized,” Aimée persisted. “But of course she’s told you.”

  He nodded, and weariness settled in his face. “It sickened me,” he said. “We’ve offered all our support to Mélanie’s family. But Madame Vasseur’s a trouper, keeps soldiering on for the Conservatoire.”

  And neglects poor Mélanie, shipping her off to a clinic.

  “It’s a village here,” he said. “We met with the Brigade des Mineurs, offered to help in any way we could.”

  And look where that led. Nowhere. Another do-nothing unit whose captain assured Zazie’s mother she’d run away or gone partying. No break in the rape case. All static.

  His thin shoulders sagged. “It is troubling, though …”

  “More than troubling, Monsieur,” she said, leaning forward to relieve the pressure on her back. “How can you think there’s no connection? Madame de Langlet won’t answer my calls. She’s afraid.”

  Understanding shone in his eyes. The light gone out of them, he looked his age. “I promise I’ll talk to Madame de Langlet,” he said. “She’ll confide in me … but I don’t want to spoil this evening for her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Delayed.” He shrugged. “How can I get back to you?”

  She thrust her card into his hand.

  Brianne approached the salon with Madame Vasseur, helping her with her white jacket. About time. Behind them she saw Renaud mounting the dais, leading the applause.

  “Monsieur Lavigne, I’ve been called back to the office,” said Madame Vasseur. “Renaud’s stepped in. Sorry to run short.”

  Short?

  Aimée followed her out, tried to keep her impatience down as they reached the elevator. She needed to hear this message and question the woman in private.

  But a duo of branchée sisters, both with heavy seventies-style bangs, boarded the elevator with them. In loud voices they gushed over the event all the way to their taxi at the gate, talking about how excited they were to support the Conservatoire. In a whoosh they’d gone.

  “Now if you’ll let me listen to Mélanie’s
message—”

  But Madame Vasseur already had the phone to her ear, deep in a conversation with someone else. Looking agitated, she shook her head. Aimée caught the words “stalled negotiation.” Couldn’t this woman even give her two minutes?

  Aimée kept up with her as she strode along the pavement. The dusk had turned the street into a shadowy canyon of buildings. No Fête de la Musique quartets playing on street corners here, no impromptu courtyard concerts—quiet reigned. No ballyhoo of rabid World Cup fans drinking at bars in this part of town.

  Her damp collar stuck to her neck. Madame Vasseur stepped out into the narrow, cobbled street, heading toward her black Mercedes.

  “Let’s talk in your car,” said Aimée.

  “No way, I’m running late as it is,” said Madame Vasseur. Her voice was tight. She rooted in her Hermès bag. “Can’t find my damned car keys.”

  “How can you say that?” Aimée said. She was hot and tired of wasting time. “I’ve waited for you for almost three hours, come all this way to hear one voice mail that may save a child’s life! I’m asking for two minutes of your time here.”

  “You know what, forget it!” said Madame Vasseur. “Between you and talking to the flics over and over—I can’t deal with any of this.”

  Aimée grabbed her arm. “How dare you?” She’d had enough. “How would you like all your music friends to know you didn’t help find a missing girl? A girl taken by the same man who raped your daughter?”

  Madame Vasseur backed away. Surprised, Aimée realized her eyes were brimming with tears. “Shame,” she said, her voice low. “I can’t deal with this shame. But my daughter’s safe now.”

  For a moment she felt sorry for this woman. “You think sending Mélanie to a Swiss clinic will make it go away?” said Aimée. “Your daughter needs you, her mother.”

  Madame Vasseur stood helpless, tears dropping into her purse. Was there something else? Was she holding back? Afraid?

  In the sudden silence, Aimée felt a chill. The quiet street was too quiet.

  “Give me your phone.” She reached out, and Madame Vasseur relinquished her phone. “Where’s Mélanie’s message?” Aimée asked, flicking through the log. “Was the rapist familiar to her? You said she mentioned his hair …”