Where Secrets Reside (The Outsiders Book 2)

by Susan Finlay

  “Are you all right, Maurelle? You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t feel well.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Maurelle told her about the flashlight and the photo, and Fabienne’s face turned white.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “CAPTAIN,” OFFICER ROLAND said over the telephone, “I’m in Belvidere on Rue Leduc with Officer Durand. A restaurant owner over here called us about an illegally parked car in front of her establishment. You won’t believe this, sir, but it appears we have found our victim’s car. Thought you might want to come here and see for yourself.”

  Goddard scribbled the address on a note pad and dashed out the door. Five minutes later he joined Officers Roland and Durand on the street, looking at a white Renault. Roland pointed out the flat tire.

  “The doors were locked. There’s a child car seat on the backseat, along with a diaper bag and even a soft toy.”

  “So she’s likely the mother of the little girl, as we suspected,” Goddard said.

  Roland nodded. “We got the local locksmith down the block to open the vehicle for us. We found her handbag and a jacket on the floor in the front. The handbag had her wallet in it with her driving license. The photo looks to me like our victim.” He handed the wallet over to Goddard.

  Yes, that was her, only in the photo she was smiling, her long hair neatly styled up in a twist, her blue eyes sparkling with life. Goddard looked at the address. Paris. That matched up with the numbers in her mobile phone’s directory. Her name was Gabrielle Thibault. From the birth date on her license, she was thirty years old, about two years older than the Martin woman.

  “Roland, I want you to go on a trip to Mademoiselle Thibault’s home. Talk to her neighbors. See what you can find out about her. Check with the motor vehicle registration department and see if they have any information. Try to find her family and her employer. Was she married? Who is the child’s father? See if you can locate him and find out what he knows. What was she doing in this part of the country? Was she on holiday, or traveling for work? You know the drill. Keep me informed.”

  “Should I go with him?” Durand asked.

  “No, I’ll need you here.” Twenty minutes later Goddard watched as a tow truck came and hooked the car up to tow away. What bothered him was the separate locations: how did the woman get from here to Reynier? He couldn’t imagine her walking there carrying a child. And why, then, would she leave the child along the path? His men had already checked with the local taxi company and no one remembered a young woman and child recently. Had someone else picked her up? A ‘good Samaritan’, perhaps? Or might she have hitchhiked from here? Did she have a husband or boyfriend? Maybe he was here somewhere.

  Durand was standing next to a woman near the restaurant’s door. He nodded to her and then walked over to Goddard. “I’ve spoken at length with Adele Raison. She’s the woman who made the phone call to our station, sir. Do you need to speak with her, too, or can she go to work? She wants to open up her business for the dinner crowd.”

  Goddard looked over at the pavement at the middle-aged woman. “What do you make of her? Is there anything suspicious about her story? Anything to make you question that she just accidentally came across the vehicle.”

  Durand shrugged. “She’s anxious about her customers, but otherwise she seemed congenial and didn’t appear to be hiding anything.”

  Goddard squinted one eye. He should have known better than to ask for Durand’s judgment. The man wouldn’t know whether Pinocchio was lying. He glanced at his wristwatch. Dinner time. His stomach was growling. If he called Chantal, she could meet him here and they could have their dinner out, after all. And he could study Madame Raison discreetly, find out if she was a person-of-interest in the case. “Tell the woman that’s all for now, but we may need to interview her again, another day.”

  Durand nodded, turned on his heel, and went over to tell the Raison woman.

  Goddard removed his mobile from his jacket pocket, flicked it open, and called his wife. Twenty minutes later, after Durand and Roland had left, he saw Chantal turn the corner and walk towards him, waving her hand and smiling. He walked over to her, meeting her halfway, and linked his arm with hers.

  “I’m happy you called and invited me here,” she said. “I’ve heard my friends talk about Le Belvidere Restaurant. They say it may not be the most elegant place but claim the food is exquisite.”

  A young waitress with blonde hair tied in a long ponytail led them to a table next to the front window. Goddard pulled out a chair for his wife, and once she was seated, he sat opposite her and smiled, appreciating his partner. She looked lovely as usual. Her cheeks were round and rosy, making her look younger than her forty years. Her short, dark brown curly hair framed her face nicely and matched, exactly the color of her eyes. After suffering a third miscarriage ten months ago, she’d gone into a depression and taken an overdose of pills. He’d come close to losing her and had pleaded with her to go in for counseling. It turned out to be the best thing for both of them because not only had she made—as far as he could tell—a full recovery, but now their relationship reminded him of their early years of marriage, when they’d doted on each other and cherished every moment they had together.

  She smiled back and pushed her hair behind one ear, then opened her menu and began browsing through it. Goddard opened his menu, too, but instead of looking at it, he looked out the window at the spot where the white Renault had been parked a half hour earlier. What had made the woman stop there? Had she noticed the flat tire and pulled over at the first opportunity? Had anyone been standing nearby, watching her? Perhaps an employee or a customer of this restaurant or of one of the other businesses nearby. He would have to get some of his men back here to question people tomorrow. He sighed and turned his attention back to his menu. After they gave their orders to the waitress, he studied the pleasant surroundings. Clean, with a dozen tables, only four of which were occupied. Not particularly unusual for a Wednesday night, he supposed.

  “You look deep in thought,” Chantal said. “Is it about the case?”

  “Huh? Oh, yes. You know me. It’s hard to shut my work out.”

  “I went shopping this afternoon with some of my friends. They told me you interviewed the woman who ran away from England last year. The one who was suspected of murder over there.”

  Goddard stared at her. How the hell did people know who he had interviewed and how did they know about the woman’s past? It was only an hour ago. Well, an hour since the woman had left, anyway. Maybe someone had seen her brought in by the Gendarmerie car earlier in the afternoon. “You know I can’t discuss the case.”

  She pouted and Goddard reached out and covered her delicate hand with his.

  “My friends told me all about that woman, the one from England. They said there was quite a commotion around here. There are two camps—those locals who think she did it and should be sent back, and those who think she’s a victim of circumstances and a heroine for not letting the police railroad her.”

  Goddard twisted his mouth. He knew he shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t help it. “And what do you think?”

  “I think I might have done the same thing if I were in her shoes. You and I both know that innocent people can be sent to prison. I feel sorry for the woman.”

  “You feel sorry for her? Why?”

  “It must be horrible to become a suspect once, but now to become a suspect again. Awful.”

  The waitress returned with Goddard’s Cassoulet and Chantal’s Blanquette de veau and two glasses of Chardonnay. Hmm, not bad for a house vintage. While they ate, Goddard occasionally glanced at the other guests and discretely kept an eye on Madame Raison, who ran around checking on meals, refilling glasses, working the cash register, and popping in and out of the kitchen. She seemed like one of the wind-up toys his nephews played with, bobbing and twisting and constantly on the go. When the waitress walked past their table again, Goddard waved his hand at
her to get her attention. “Is your boss always this busy? Doesn’t she have any other waitresses?”

  “Oui, we usually have more help, but the storm caused problems and three of them called in and said they couldn’t make it to work. Madame Raison wouldn’t shut down. Now she’s trying to cover for everyone.”

  Goddard nodded.

  After the waitress left, Chantal said, “The mention of the storm reminds me of something. There’s a vagrant, you may have seen him—around fifty, shaggy looking, potbelly—he hangs around the marketplace here in town. Well, he showed up at one of the shops this afternoon all bruised and banged up. I was there. He told people that he’d been drinking and that he’d tried to walk down the concrete stairs in Reynier during the storm. The rain made them slippery, and he took a tumble down and nearly broke his neck. At least that’s what he claimed.”

  Goddard rubbed his chin. Now that was interesting. Of course he knew who she was talking about. Bruno Houdan. He didn’t usually cause trouble, but shop owners complained about him loitering sometimes. What was Bruno doing over in Reynier last night?

  THE SOUND OF someone knocking on a door awoke Maurelle from her nap. Disoriented, she looked around, uncertain of her whereabouts. Slowly the pink sheer curtains of the guest room in Fabienne’s house came into focus. She was back in the little bedroom that she had occupied last year when she was a murder suspect. Now here she was, in the same room, again a murder suspect. She hadn’t dreamt it. None of it. She sat up, lowered her feet to the floor, and stood. A slight wooziness came over her as she did so.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, p’tite,” Fabienne said when Maurelle opened the door, “but I wanted to let you know that Jeannette invited us to dinner at eight. She thought it would be good for both of us to get out of the house after such a trying day. Quite honestly, I’m not really up to cooking tonight. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Maurelle shook her head in acceptance, wondering if she would be able to eat anything.

  “Well,” Fabienne said, wagging her hand in her characteristic way, “we’re supposed to be there in half an hour. Sorry, but we need to get ready.” She turned to leave, but then she stopped and turned back around. “I almost forgot. You know me, I’m getting so absent-minded lately.” She shook her head and clucked softly. “While you were sleeping, Paul came over to offer his help. Such a dear boy, still trying to make up for what he did to you last year, you know. Anyway, I gave him my key to your house—the key that Dave gave me in case of an emergency—since you insist on locking your door. I sent him to get some of your things—clothing and shoes. I gave him one of my suitcases to take over.”

  “You did—”

  Maurelle was about to complain, but she knew Fabienne was only trying to help, and she had saved Maurelle a trip. It was for the best. She didn’t have enough energy to make it there, anyway.

  “I’m going to get cleaned up and changed,” Fabienne said. She looked at Maurelle, from head to toe, and pointing to a suitcase next to her, added, “You should do the same.”

  Maurelle felt heat rise up her neck. She hadn’t looked in a mirror since she’d first arrived at the Gendarmerie. She could well imagine what she must look like, especially after a nap during which she’d tossed and turned.

  Fabienne turned again to leave, adding under her breath, “I really should have woken you earlier, but Paul has only just now arrived back. Whatever took that boy so long? I probably could have done it faster myself and I’m an old lady.”

  Maurelle took the suitcase that Fabienne had set down by the door and carried it over to the bed. She opened it and began rummaging through it. On top was a pair of cream-colored dress shoes and a pair of white sneakers, both packed in a plastic bag. Below that were four blouses, a pair of blue jeans, two pairs of dress trousers, and a flowered skirt. On the bottom were three of her sexiest bras and three sexy knickers. Maurelle didn’t need to look in a mirror at that moment. She knew her face was bright red, as she pictured Paul looking through her dresser drawer and pulling out these items. She didn’t even want to think what he was doing that took him so long, as Fabienne had said.

  She sighed and pulled out the skirt, a blouse, a pair of knickers, and a bra. She stuffed everything else back into the suitcase and went downstairs to the loo. More than anything else right now, she needed a shower. If only she could wash her troubles away along with it.

  Half an hour later, Jeannette Devlin ushered Maurelle and Fabienne into her home. Simone and Coralie were standing in the foyer, apparently having arrived only moments before. Fabienne handed her friend a gift as she always did on occasions such as these. They exchanged kisses on the cheek, and Jeannette said her usual “Oh, il ne fallait pas”.

  Jeannette looked and smelled, as usual, like she’d spent the better part of her day at a beauty salon getting her bright red hair color restored. She wore, as usual, an expensive new dress and high-heeled shoes. Jewelry adorned her ears, neck, wrists, and fingers. Her diamond necklace glistened, and her dangling earrings bobbled as she kissed the cheeks of each of her guests. When she reached for Maurelle and kissed her on the cheeks, she said, “I’m happy you came, my child.”

  “Thank you for inviting us,” Maurelle said.

  Jeannette ushered everyone into her luxurious sitting room and, as usual, offered them an aperitif while she placed the proffered bouquet of mixed flowers into a waiting vase.

  Maurelle bit her lip as she followed the group. Something was niggling the back of her mind. It must be something important, but she couldn’t put a finger on it.

  The doorbell rang and Jeannette rushed back into the foyer. Maurelle, hearing a man’s deep voice coming from the doorway, stopped and glanced back toward the door. The man was a stranger, but Jeannette was smiling and had invited him in.

  Moments later, Jeannette came back into the living room and said, “Everyone, I would like you to meet Paul’s friend, Monsieur René Lamont. He’s an art expert impressed with Paul’s work. He’s going to help him get a showing in a New York gallery. His friend from New York is flying in to meet with Paul and view his work next week.”

  “Where are you staying, Monsieur Lamont?” Fabienne asked.

  “I checked into Chateau de Reynier this afternoon. It’s a lovely hotel.”

  “Oh, dear, where are my manners. I forgot to introduce everyone. This is my oldest and dearest friend, Fabienne Laurent. And this is my daughter, Coralie Charbonneau and her daughter, Simone.

  “This is Fabienne’s granddaughter-in-law—is that a real word?—Maurelle Martin, and my grandson—oh dear, you already know Paul.” She laughed girlishly and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “I’m delighted to finally meet all of you,” René said. “I’ve heard so much about you from Paul. I feel like I already know you.”

  He seemed nice, but Maurelle didn’t want to socialize with anyone, especially this apparently urbane aesthete—though he looked rather more like a well-to-do financier than a cultural impresario. What she really wanted was to go back to the house and curl up on that little bed and sleep some more. She looked around the room at the walls, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone. If she didn’t look at the people, maybe they wouldn’t ask about her day and she wouldn’t have to keep reliving it.

  The wall color had changed from medium sleet grey to a deep azure blue since her last visit here three days earlier. Jeannette might be ritualistic in hosting her parties, but she was the opposite in her house decorating, constantly changing everything from wall color to furniture to curtains. Maurelle suspected that Jeannette had missed her calling. She would have been a fabulous interior decorator.

  Maurelle gazed at the ornate eighteenth-century marble fireplace mantel topped with a gilt mirror, Jeannette’s crown jewels, so to speak. She loved to tell everyone that she and her departed husband, Charles, had bought it years ago from an antique dealer who assured them it had come right out of a castle. On top of the mantel, she displayed her husband’s antique knives a
nd an ever changing array of treasures. Today, those treasures included a clock that Maurelle had never seen before, a jeweled sword, and two matching antique crystal vases Jeannette had picked up at an auction in Burgundy when Simone and Alain had taken her there on a weekend getaway last spring. Jeannette liked to collect things, and she loved to display them for everyone to admire. An upper-class packrat, unlike Fabienne who was a middle-class minimalist. How had these two elderly women who had grown up together in Paris but who were so different from one another managed to sustain their friendship all these years?

  Out of the corner of her eye, Maurelle noticed a long crack on the wall next to one of the elaborate candelabras that hung on either side of the mirror. Focusing on it, she realized that the dark blue paint accentuated a crack that had barely been visible before the new paint. Her eyes left the crack and moved to the candelabras, which made her smile to herself as she suddenly remembered Fabienne’s telling her about them. Years ago, when Jeannette’s and Fabienne’s husbands were still alive, they had gone on a trip together. In a quaint little village, one even smaller than Reynier, they had stumbled upon an antique shop, where these lovely torcheres, as they called them, hung. Both women had fallen in love with them, which was unusual because Fabienne didn’t normally fawn over antiques. As Fabienne had told her, Jeannette had pouted and cried until Fabienne finally gave in and let Jeannette have them. But both husbands, complaining that the torcheres were gaudy, decided to name the pair after the two women, which of course infuriated their wives. Now that one of the golden light fixtures was broken and showing more than its fair share of age, Fabienne and Jeannette squabbled over which of the pair was her namesake.

  Maurelle, sensing eyes on her, realized the conversation had stopped. She forced herself to rejoin the group. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her cheeks burned. “I was distracted and didn’t hear what you said.”