by Susan Finlay
Simone nodded. “What happened to your son?”
“I put him up for adoption.”
“Can I tell you something, Grand-mère?”
“Of course.”
“I made a foolish mistake, too. It was fifteen years ago. I was in the height of my modeling career. I found out I was pregnant. It would have ruined my career, and the father was wasn’t interested in commitment.” The father, Jerome Degarmo, a relatively well-known photographer, was not only uninterested in commitment but had probably seduced every female model he’d ever photographed. What a stupid naïve girl she’d been. It was a hard lesson learned.
“What did you do?”
Simone felt her throat constrict and her eyes moisten. “I, oh Grand-mère, I had an abortion.”
Jeannette opened her mouth but snapped it shut again. Simone could barely keep her tears in check. To her surprise, Jeannette stood up and went to the settee, sat down next to Simone, and hugged her.
“There, there,” she whispered, stroking Simone’s hair, “I know what it’s like to carry around guilt. It’s okay.”
For the first time in years, Simone gave in to her tears.
“DO YOU REALLY think Captain Goddard will let you help with the investigation?” Maurelle asked. “Can he do that? I mean the gendarmes are military, and you’re both civilians.”
Dave and Edward were sitting at the kitchen table watching Maurelle as she prepared a quick lunch for them. Dave’s mother and grandmother had gone to Lavardin for a short outing, and Dave was delighted they were getting along. Maurelle had stayed behind. Morning sickness was taking its toll. She decided if she felt better later on, she would go visit with Coralie and Jeannette.
“Are you sure you don’t want any help with the food?” Dave asked.
“I’m sure.”
“You’re right about Goddard not letting us ‘officially’ help,” Dave said. “He can’t. I think, and I may be wrong—correct me if I am, Dad—Goddard gave us an ‘unofficial nod’. We can ‘unofficially’ poke around town, interview people, and report our findings.”
“What’s the difference, then? That sounds like you’re on the case with him.”
“It’s a matter of procedure,” Edward said. “And appearance. He can’t let it look like he’s allowing outsiders in on the specifics of the case.”
Maurelle nodded.
“Criminal law is different here, too, Dad. I’ve been meaning to ask if you know anything about the French criminal justice system. It’s a good idea for you to have some understanding of it if we’re going to help out the gendarmes.”
“I know that it’s an inquisitorial system—unlike the U.S.’s adversarial system. That’s about all I know.”
“You’re right,” Dave said. “I’ve been reading up about it. In the American system, when a case goes to court, it’s assumed that truth will arise from a free and open competition, if you will, between defending and prosecuting attorneys over who has the correct facts. It’s a fighting system. In the French system, when a case goes to court, rather than a competition between opposing sides, it’s more like a continuation of the investigation.”
“Meaning?”
“The parties in the case must provide all relevant evidence to the court. The judges, not the attorneys, then call on and examine witnesses. It’s almost opposite the American system because the judge is active and the attorneys are passive. Oh, and they don’t have plea bargains.”
Edward looked pensive, and Dave continued.
“The judges—known as a Juges d’instruction, or JI’s—are the examining magistrates and they are responsible for making the final determination. I say ‘they’ because in a serious offense such as murder, violence, and theft, which they classify as ‘crime’, three judges sit on the trial.”
“Three judges instead of a jury?” Edward said. He rubbed his chin. “I don’t know if I like that. I can see advantages to it, I guess. They would be experienced and have greater understanding of the law and human nature. But, if they’re corrupt, I wouldn’t want to be the accused.”
Dave nodded and said, “The investigation, before the trial begins, is called an ‘enquete de flagrance’. It’s authorized by a procureur to give the police or gendarmes the authorization to conduct a more in depth investigation.”
“What’s a procureur?” Maurelle asked, leaning her elbows on the counter top.
“That’s the magistrate who’s responsible for reviewing the evidence and determining whether or not to pursue a prosecution.”
“So the magistrate first decides whether to pursue a prosecution and then decides whether to turn it over to the police or to the gendarmes?” Edward said.
“No. Not exactly. Okay, well the way I understand it is that the two agencies operate in separate jurisdictions. The Municipal Police are responsible for daily urban policing and covers all criminal and public order matters within urban boundaries. Approximately half of them are agents and half are gun-carrying police.
“The Gendarmerie Nationale, or GN, is a police force under the Ministry of the Interior. They police the French countryside areas and small towns, usually with populations less than 20,000.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Edward said. “Why isn’t the whole country protected by the same police agency?”
Maurelle said, “We find it confusing the way you have Federal and State government, and then local police, sheriffs, State Troopers, FBI, CIA. How do you keep track of who does what?”
Edward raised his hands and laughed. “Good point, Maurelle. Okay. I guess I can’t complain.”
Dave grinned and said, “Yeah, it took me a while to understand both systems.”
AFTER LUNCH DAVE walked with his father along Reynier’s main street, discussing what information they had. The sun was shining and the air was still and warm. A perfect day for a stroll.
Normally at this time of day the streets would be crowded— well, crowded by Reynier’s standards. But today Dave noted hardly anyone was out. He suspected that was because of yet another murder. Until now, the locals had figured the two women had met with foul play by someone they knew who wanted them dead. In the past hour Dave had spoken to at least a dozen people who now said they were worried there was a serial killer on the loose in their village.
“I think we should pay another visit to Aimee Augustin,” Dave said. “Something bothers me.”
“What’s that?”
“She represents sellers of houses and businesses in and around Reynier. She also manages rental properties for owners. In fact we bought our troglo through her. Aimee shows properties and handles virtually all property sales and rentals here.”
He stopped talking, and Edward said, “And?”
“What makes this important, is that she maintains keys for all the properties she manages. She had keys for all the properties she’s sold or rented out to someone. If she’s dishonest, and I don’t know if she is or isn’t, she might have copies.”
“I thought people ‘round here didn’t lock their doors.”
“Most don’t lock the doors of their homes, but Maurelle and I do. I think most business owners and managers do lock the doors to their businesses.”
“So, you’re thinking she might have had access to your place and the bookshop?”
Dave nodded. “Yeah. And Luc’s restaurant and house.”
As they walked across the street, Edward turned to look closer at a car driving slowly toward them, coming from the direction of Belvidere.
Edward continued to stare at it, and his forehead creased.
“Is something wrong, Dad?”
“Yeah, I know that man. What the hell is he doing here?”
“You mean the driver?”
“Yeah. He’s a known criminal.”
“How do you know a French criminal?”
“He isn’t French. He’s American. Bill Myers. He’s posted in our station and works all over the U.S.”
The car had stopped in front of
the drugstore, and the man got out. Edward walked briskly toward him, with Dave on his heels. As they neared him, the man looked up, and a look of surprise crossed his face. Obviously recognizing Dave’s father, the man turned, ran back to his car, jumped in, and sped away, spinning wheels.
“Damn,” Edward said.
“Do you think he could be connected to the case?” Dave asked.
“I don’t know, but I think we need to speak with Captain Goddard.”
“YOU’RE SURE THIS man you saw was William Myers?” Goddard asked.
“Eighty-percent sure. But if I was mistaken, why would the man take one look at me and run away? I’m not that terrifying, am I?”
Dave smiled. “I don’t know, Dad. You could always scare the truth out of me with one of your ‘I’m your father and don’t you dare lie to me’ looks.”
“Yeah, sometimes being a cop has its advantages,” Edward said, smiling back. “Do you have children, Captain?”
“No,” Goddard snapped.
Edward looked taken aback by Goddard’s curt tone. Goddard, realizing from their stares how his tone came across, suddenly understood that Chantal wasn’t the only one who was sensitive on the subject of their childless state.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be short. I’m just tired today, I guess,” he said, hiding his true reason. “Getting back to Myers, you’re sure it was him? Any idea what would bring him to France?”
“Well, as I mentioned before, he’s a crook. My department had him in custody once. He got off on a technicality. He deals in stolen goods—anything from jewels to weapons. Even involved in forgeries.”
“Forgeries? What kind of forgeries?”
“You name it, he’s probably done it.”
Goddard pursed his lips and contemplated this. “You also mentioned jewels. Do you mean diamonds and gems stolen from pawn shops and small jewelry stores or homes, or are we talking about big time heists from museums and the major jewelry stores?”
“Mostly small stuff. He works with a network of thieves and forgers.”
“Smuggling?”
“Not that I’ve heard, though he may have expanded his operation since I retired two years ago.”
“What about antiques? Does he deal in those? Is there a market for stolen antiques?”
“I expect there’s a market, but I haven’t heard of him dealing in those. I think there’s bigger money to be made with jewels and guns.”
“What about something to do with the hospitality business, such as restaurant equipment, that sort of thing?”
“You’re thinking he was here to see Bertrand Martel?”
Goddard nodded.
“That’s a possibility. I think it’s more likely, though, that Martel was involved in some kind of illicit business and was using his restaurant as a front. Might be wise to look through his financial records.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea. I want to do some research on William Myers, too.”
AFTER DAVE AND Edward left his office, Goddard made some phone calls and put together a profile on Bill Myers. Everything Edward had told him about the man was accurate. Next, he requested an order for Bertrand Martel’s financial records. It would take a day or two at least before he would gain access.
Someone who bothered him was Jeannette Devlin. She seemed out of place. She’d told him that she grew up on a rural farm raising cows and pigs. Someone else, however, had told him she was from Paris. When he’d looked around her home, it was lavishly decorated and it was obvious she prided herself on owning a valuable silver serving set that her husband had purchased from a Chateau in Burgundy. How had she ended up in Reynier and with so much wealth? Could Bill Myers have come here to see her?
He spent the next two hours researching Jeannette, going all the way to her origins in Candes-St. Martin in the Indre-Loire Region. Back then she was Jeannette Gault, and she had indeed been raised on a farm. She and her best friend, Fabienne Broussard, had left home together before they were eighteen. They’d moved to Paris. That was sixty-one years ago, several years after World War II had ended. The fact that these two young women had left their small village and ventured into the big city wasn’t unusual. Those were hard times and a big city was alluring to many. What surprised Goddard, though, was where they’d ended up: in Montmartre, and more specifically in the Pigalle area where Moulin Rouge was located. That was an area with a particularly unsavory notoriety.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“YOU’RE MY THIRD visitor today,” Jeannette said.
“If another time would be better, I can come back.”
“Nonsense. It’s nice having guests, and you are always welcome here. Now tell me, have you heard any more about the latest murder? I miss having Fabienne around. Between the two of us we can usually keep up with the village activities. I do hope her daughter isn’t staying in Reynier long.”
Maurelle lowered herself onto the sofa and tried not to smile. The woman loved to gossip more than anything else and Eloise being here was interrupting her fun. Gossip penchant aside, Jeannette was generally a sweet woman, but she didn’t always come across that way. In fact, on their first meeting during an informal luncheon at Fabienne’s house, she and Fabienne had Maurelle totally intimidated.
“Maurelle?” Jeannette asked, jerking Maurelle out of her musings. “What are you thinking about?”
Maurelle shook herself. “Oh, sorry. I was remembering the first time we met.”
Jeannette chuckled. “It’s hard to believe we became friends, isn’t it? Fabienne and I were determined to make Dave fall in love with Simone. Oh well, it worked out for the best didn’t it?” She patted Maurelle on the knee. “Fabienne is going to have a great-grandchild. I always thought I would be the first one. Looks like she’ll beat me to it, unless Paul is the father of that little girl.”
Maurelle tilted her head.
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you hear? The gendarmes ran DNA tests to figure out who the father is—Alain or Jonas or Paul. You saw her up close, didn’t you? Oh, silly me, of course you did. You were the one who found her. I’m just hoping Paul is the father.”
“The girl did have beautiful big green eyes. Paul has green eyes, doesn’t he? I remember her eyes because she looked like a little doll.”
“Paul looked like a doll, too, when he was that age. Of course, I guess most babies do. Simone was especially doll-like, and we used to dress her up in the most adorable—”
The doorbell rang, and Jeannette paused, excused herself, and mumbled, “Now who could that be?” as she walked to the door.
Maurelle couldn’t see who was at the door, but she heard a man’s voice, and then Captain Goddard entered.
“Ah, Madame Martin, good to see you.”
“Were you looking for me?”
“No, no, not this time. I came to talk with Madame Devlin.”
“I guess I should be going.” She stood up.
“Don’t go, Maurelle,” Jeannette said. “She can stay, can’t she? Both of you sit. I’ll bring coffee. I’m sure I have something to eat, too.”
Goddard sat down on the stiff brown chair across from the sofa and glanced around the room.
Maurelle watched him as he eyed the oil paintings and family photos on the walls, then the candelabras, and then the antique clock and swords on the fireplace mantel. When he turned his attention back to her, she asked, “Should I go? I don’t want to be in the way.”
At that moment, Jeannette returned. “Here we are.” She was carrying her best silver serving set, the one Maurelle had only seen her use on special occasions.
“That was quick,” Goddard said.
“I always have coffee prepared. I never know when I’ll have company.” She turned her head and winked at Maurelle.
“Now, what can I do for you, Captain?” Jeannette said after she’d filled the coffee cups, handed each of them plates with pastries, and sat down next to Maurelle.
“I, uh, need to ask you som
e very personal questions. I’ll leave it up to you whether you want Madame Martin here or not.”
“She’s practically family. She can stay.”
He shrugged. “Very well. Earlier today, Monsieur Edward Martin saw a man, a known criminal, he recognized from the U.S. here in Reynier.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “This is a photo I printed off the computer. Do you recognize this man?”
She took the paper and held it up close to her eyes. “Why, yes, I do. That’s Richard Anderson. I met him last night. He’s staying in a hotel in Belvidere.” She stopped and looked up at Goddard, her eyebrows scrunched up. “You said he is a ‘criminal’?”
Maurelle peeked over Jeannette’s shoulder at the photo. She didn’t recognize the man.
“I’m afraid so. Where did you meet him, and why?”
As Jeannette set down her coffee, Maurelle noted Jeannette’s hand was shaking. Apparently the implications of what Goddard revealed was sinking in. Her face looked a bit ashen.
“Monsieur Lamont introduced us. He heard about him from an acquaintance of his, someone whom he knows through someone else, or something like that. Monsieur Anderson said he’s from New York, I think.”
“Who is Monsieur Lamont?”
“He’s a businessman, my grandson’s friend and mentor. My grandson is an artist.”
Captain Goddard looked puzzled. “How well do you and your grandson know this Lamont fellow?”
“I only met him this week, but Paul’s known him for several years. He said he trusts the man.”
“I met Monsieur Lamont,” Maurelle said. “He was friendly.”
Goddard nodded. “Did you meet the other fellow, too?”
“No,” Maurelle said. “I haven’t seen him.”
Goddard turned his attention back to Jeannette. “What did this Richard Anderson want with you?”
“He told Monsieur Lamont that he might be able to help Paul show his artwork in a gallery in New York. He said he has connections. So, since he was here in France on other business, he stopped by to meet Paul and see some of his work. He wanted to verify that he was a good enough artist to sponsor.”
“Why did he want to meet you?”