The Paramour's Daughter

by Wendy Hornsby

  He carried a very beautiful black leather bag. As he unzipped the top, he said, “I want you to see the contents so you will know what you carry to Madame Martin. I leave to your discretion how you wish to present them to your grandmother.”

  Inside the bag were Isabelle’s ashes in a can that resembled a large tea tin, a certificate from the Los Angeles County Department of Health identifying the contents and attesting they were harmless to transport, and Isabelle’s personal effects, packed into a plastic hotel laundry bag. There was an inventory list attached: gold stud earrings, a watch, a brown leather handbag with her wallet full of credit cards and her national I.D. cards, her passport, house and car keys, a few hundred dollars and a similar value of euros in cash. Her suitcase holding her clothing and toiletries, I was told, was in the trunk of the Mercedes and would be checked with my own bag, and should be retrieved when I landed in Paris for delivery to the family.

  “The bag, of course,” he said, zipping it closed, “is my small gift to you, Madame. A memento mori, if you will.”

  “Kind of you,” I said. I had seen the label sewn inside the bag; someone had paid a great deal of money for this memento. Made me wonder, who?

  On the way to LAX I sat in the back seat with Jean-Paul. Isabelle’s remains were in front with the driver. Through Jean-Paul, I directed the driver onto Mulholland Highway, and from there to Malibu Canyon Road and over the mountains to the ocean.

  “Have you visited the crime scene?” I asked Jean-Paul.

  “No.” He seemed surprised, indeed nonplussed that I asked. “I did not request it, but perhaps?” He shrugged as he thought things through. “Perhaps I should, if we are near. One never knows, yes?”

  Instead of taking the shortcut down past Our Lady of Malibu Church—the Virgin of Malibu?—and the civic center, I directed the driver to continue on Malibu Canyon all the way to PCH, past Pepperdine University. As he turned left onto the highway, I pointed out the market where Isabelle had waited for me, the corner where I had last seen her, and then, a little further south, the driveway at Cross Creek Center where she was hit, and the bridge next to which her body was found. There was nothing left to show that a woman had lost her life there, only asphalt, dirt and weeds.

  We crossed the bridge and continued south on PCH through the high-rent zones of Malibu, Pacific Palisades, and Santa Monica—average home price along that stretch, even after the real estate bubble burst, was two-point-one million dollars per oceanfront shanty—through the McClure Tunnel to the freeway to the airport.

  I asked the consul, “Has anyone explained to you my relationship to Isabelle Martin?”

  He shrugged, a very Gallic shrug. “She was your mother, yes?”

  “Yes. But I had never met her before the night she was killed. At least, not since I was an infant.”

  He was genuinely surprised. “I did not know. Madame Martin, your grandmother, did not tell me.”

  “I am the product of a liaison between Isabelle Martin and a scientist she worked with, my father. He spirited me away to America when I was an infant. The woman I have known all of my life as my mother was his wife.”

  He canted his head to one side, a very worldly acceptance of certain realities apparent in the gesture. “I see.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that her death happened within hours of our first meeting?”

  He nodded. “Yes. More than odd. What significance do you give this—” another shrug “—coincidence?”

  “I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”

  “No, of course not. I am familiar with your work on television, Madame, and delighted to meet you, though I regret the circumstances. I have heard you say in your programs more than once that you don’t believe in coincidence. And such a violent death. No, there was a plan at work. Someone with a grand design.”

  “Maybe you can help me here,” I said. “Who was Isabelle? Who are her family? For all I know they could be mobsters or gun runners or fanatics of some sort. I would appreciate anything that you can tell me before I meet them.”

  He laughed, a good, full-throated laugh; the suggestion that the Martins were thugs of some sort was, to him, clearly absurd. He said, “No, I can assure you, none of those things. They are a family of civil servants, bankers and farmers. The family Martin have been in possession of an estate in Normandy since the time of the Vikings, and maybe before. Good, solid citizens.”

  “Not the sort who hire hit men, then.”

  “Ah.” He paused. “Families can be very complex, no?”

  “Indeed,” I said. “But I can’t imagine a family of bankers, civil servants and farmers would have the contacts necessary to hire an international hit, can you?”

  “Well, such a thing can be quite easy to arrange,” he said, matter-of-fact about it. “A Russian mobster will do the job for less than two thousand dollars, I understand, plus expenses if he comes in from Russia. Of course, your local prison gang, the Mexican Mafia, will perform the same service for half what the Russians ask, but they prefer heavy firepower, and that can be risky: noisy, untidy, perhaps traceable. And they brag. Part of machismo.” Again, a shrug, just an elegant little lift of one shoulder. “I could go on, mention the Vietnamese and Cambodian youth gone astray, perhaps skinheads with certain proclivities.”

  He smiled, a world-weary submission to reality. “So, there are many possibilities if one wants someone removed.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to look for a hit man,” I said. “Does one run an ad, Help Wanted?”

  “Perhaps not.” He smiled again. “Searching for the contacts to make lethal arrangements, that is where the vulnerability lies for someone such as you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “But the question remains, why was Isabelle killed the very night she found me?”

  We were approaching the Century Boulevard exit for the airport. Jean-Paul gave scant notice to the row of strip clubs that greet airport visitors as they exit the freeway. He was lost in thought that seemed to have nothing to do with billboards promising TOTALLY NUDE LUNCHTIME BUFFET. Was he deciding what it might be safe to tell me? How close were his ties to the family? Or was he sincerely considering my question?

  He turned in his seat to look squarely at me. “Ma chère madame, have you thought at all about your expectations?”

  “Are you asking whether I am expecting too much? Too little? The wrong things?”

  “No, my dear lady, expectations for inheritance.”

  “Hadn’t given that a thought.” I had not. Had no reason to expect anything other than information about my own history.

  “In France, all inheritance follows the blood of the deceased. And you, Madame, legitimate or not, are of the blood.”

  We pulled up in front of the Bradley international terminal. He said, “Perhaps you should consider them.”

  The car had diplomatic plates, so apparently we could park anywhere we wanted to. While the airport police aggressively kept traffic moving—curbside waiting is verboten at LAX—one of the officers opened my door for me and promised the driver he would keep an eye on the car. That was, by itself, worth remarking upon. But once we were inside the terminal we did not stand in a line. Instead, we were greeted by a young woman in an Air France uniform who escorted Jean-Paul, the driver carrying my bags, and me into a side office. My passport was scrutinized, but my carry-on and the bag with Isabelle’s ashes were given only a quick peek. And then I was handed my boarding pass and assignment to a first-class seat, as well as a first-class ticket with an open return.

  The check-in bags were tagged and whisked away, and so was I, with Jean-Paul at my side, again following a crisp Air France uniform. I don’t know where the bags went, except that I hoped they went into the correct aircraft. Jean-Paul and I were shown to a VIP lounge where we were seated in big club chairs, each poured a glass of very good Côtes du Rhône. A tray with a selection of French cheeses, tiny gherkins, and slices of baguette was set on the low table between us.


  Jean-Paul indicated a small, round cheese. “This one is very good. Very typical of Normandy. Camembert. Do you enjoy Camembert?”

  “Very much.” To be polite I spread some of the creamy white cheese on a slice of baguette and took a nibble.

  “Fortunate for you.” He was smiling at me as if he had a private joke. “When you are with Madame Martin, there will always be good Camembert on the table.”

  “Grand-mère likes Camembert?”

  He nodded. “Some of the best is made on the Martin estate.”

  The cheese I tasted was very good. Very rich. Perfect with the wine. But I wasn’t really interested. I set the cheese and the wine aside and turned to look directly at the consul. “What happens when a crime is planned in one country but carried out in another? Assuming that the perpetrator is found, who prosecutes?”

  “If arrangements were made in France, France could.” A Gallic shrug that seemed to convey infinite possibilities. “If the crime occurred in Los Angeles, Los Angeles would. Or there could be prosecution for solicitation of murder in one country, extradition and prosecution for murder in the other.” Jean-Paul straightened the perfect knot in his perfect tie. “The prosecution is not difficult in a situation like this. Finding the ‘bad guy’ usually is.”

  “You’ve been through a situation like this before, haven’t you?”

  “Not exactly like this, no. But from time to time my countrymen get themselves into difficulties within my region of responsibility, and, yes, I am then involved, as now.” He picked up a gherkin—cornichon he would have called it, a baby pickle—and bit off half. After he swallowed, he said, “I had some dealings with your late husband, Detective Flint; Mike, wasn’t it? Once, a situation of two young Frenchmen who wandered off into the wrong place—South Central Los Angeles—looking for the ‘extreme’ tourist experience.”

  “They found what they were looking for?”

  “And more. Forgive me when I say this,” he said, tapping the handle of the black bag, “but they also went home in little cans.”

  “Did you give them a send-off as lovely as this one?”

  “No, madame.” Sardonic grin. “They went home parcel post.”

  “Well, then, the Martin family must be very special for you to extend the courtesies you have shown me.”

  Jean-Paul took my hand in both of his and looked deep into my eyes. “Did Madame consider that any courtesy I may have shown was for her benefit, and her benefit alone?”

  God, he was smooth. I would have bought that line simply because I wanted to, not because I believed it. Before anything could develop from it, a uniformed attendant interrupted our tête-à-tête.

  “Madame may board at this time.”

  Jean-Paul and I were escorted to the departure gate and straight onto the waiting aircraft, bypassing the hoi polloi standing in line with not so much as a queenly wave to them. Diplomatic privilege extended beyond the departure gate, it appeared. Jean-Paul saw me to my seat in first class and stowed the black bag in an empty overhead compartment. After he closed the hatch, the compartment was not opened again until I reached Paris, even though the flight was full and space was scarce. He bid me au revoir and actually kissed my hand before he deplaned.

  Belted into my very comfortable seat, sipping my second glass of Côtes du Rhône while other passengers lumbered to their seats under the weight of their chattels, I wondered again, who travels this way, and who, indeed, were the Martins of France?

  I wanted to share the experience I was having with someone who would appreciate the fuss, so I called Casey. She had just come in from a class and was on her way to volleyball practice when I caught her. During Thanksgiving weekend I had told Casey the true story, the new true story, of my origins, at least what I knew of it. It was her history as well as mine.

  Casey was more intrigued than she was upset. When I told her I would be carrying Isabelle’s ashes to her family in France, she asked—begged, actually—to come along. I reminded her that she had finals to prepare for, but meeting the “other” family seemed more important, certainly more interesting, than school at the moment. We’ll go to France together, later, I had told her, without adding, after I’ve scoped out the issues.

  “I can come over and meet you,” she pleaded anew after I told her about Jean-Paul and my VIP treatment. “I’ll talk to my profs, get class notes.”

  “Not a chance,” I said, though I would have loved to have her company. “Do me a favor, though, and call Gran every day until I get back. I’m a little worried about her.”

  “Sure, but why?”

  “This whole thing has been pretty tough on her. Imagine how she feels.”

  “I’ll call her. But you know they have telephones in France,” she said. “She’ll expect to hear from you, too.”

  “Yes, of course. But as Gracie would say, it would be a mitzvah for you to reassure your grandmother that nothing has changed between the two of you.”

  “As if anything would,” she said, matter-of-fact about her feelings for Mom. “Just promise that you’ll think about letting me come over. Early Christmas present?”

  “I’ll think about it.” That’s where we left it.

  The flight was uneventful, luxurious. I actually slept through much of the night. But it was a nine-hour flight, and plush seat or not, when I was wakened for breakfast I felt stiff and crusty from reclining fully clothed overnight. After I ate, I went into the lavatory to pull myself together before we landed in Paris. I washed my face and patted some foundation on the dark circles under my eyes. Before I had the cap screwed back on the plane hit some turbulence. A glob of makeup popped up out of its bottle and landed on my shoulder. You can’t blot foundation out of navy blue wool with a stiff paper towel.

  Mom had insisted that I take along two scarves from the atelier of Hermès, Paris—which means extremely expensive—that had been gifts to her during the family’s year in France forty-four years ago. She had rarely worn them, but they were among her treasures. In France a woman needs a good scarf, she kept telling me. One could not go to France without a good scarf or two. So I brought hers home with me after Thanksgiving to appease her, and at the last minute tucked them into my carry-on, in case she was correct. At the very least, I thought, I would put one on, get someone to take my picture, and send it to her as proof that I had worn her Hermès.

  Back at my seat, I pulled out one of the scarves, a huge silk square with a pattern that looked like Art Nouveau flowers—red, blue, gold—with sinuous green stems, as seen through a kaleidoscope. I folded it into a triangle, tied it loosely around my neck, and turned it so that the triangular ends of the scarf draped over the stain on my shoulder and the tails hung over the opposite shoulder. I felt like a Girl Scout.

  The other piece of advice Mom gave me before I left: Don’t smile a lot or the French will think you’re a simpleton.

  It does not take long to get spoiled by pampering. I admit that I felt a little peevish upon landing when I had to carry my own things—two carry-ons and a coat—down a long corridor into the customs area, and then wade through the mosh pit of sleep-deprived tourists from my flight who were waiting, like me, for their bags to appear on the luggage carousel so that they could then lug them through Customs and Document Control. I hoped I would recognize Isabelle’s bag; every second bag seemed to be imprinted with the same designer logo as hers.

  Élodie Martin, Grand-mère, told me there would be a driver waiting for me. She had been so efficient about making arrangements so far that I was sure someone would be waiting. But until I got through Document Control, it appeared, I was on my own. Damn.

  I staked my claim to a small patch of floor space and waited for the baggage conveyor belt to start moving. From about four people over, a tall, imperious-looking woman took a bead on me with an intensity that reminded me of Isabelle that night in the parking lot. The woman ruthlessly shoved her way through a resistant mass to get at me as I clutched my carry-ons tightly and looked
for an escape route or some beefy help. Before I had moved more than a few steps, trapped as I was between two very large ladies and their mounds of stuff, she was upon me. She gripped the end of my scarf, all but put her nose into it, and declared in a strident tone, full of British certitude, “Vintage Hermès. Wherever did you find it? Such good condition. No sign of wear. Must have been in a collection.” She looked at me, accusatory. “Are you a collector?”

  I gently retrieved the end of the scarf and smoothed it back over the stain on my shoulder. “Excuse me.”

  She put her face close to mine and whispered hoarsely, “You do know what it is worth?”

  She reached for my scarf again, but was distracted when the alarm went off announcing that the baggage conveyor was moving—empty, but moving. As the crowd surged forward, I saw my salvation: a young man wearing a three-day beard—how do European men manage to have a three-day beard every day?—and a perfectly tailored dark suit, stood on the far side of the Document Control booths among a clutch of other dark-suited hire-car drivers, holding a card with my name MME MACGOWEN, printed on it. This would be the driver Grand-mère arranged for. I raised a finger, caught my man’s eye, pointed at myself and toward the baggage conveyor. He nodded, he would wait.

  Gripping the handles of my carry-ons as if they were nunchucks, I maneuvered into a spot where I could see the bags as they came out of the chute, and waited for mine to appear. Before they did, a uniformed airline employee waded into the crowd, stopped beside me and touched my arm.

  “Madame Flint?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, surprised to hear my name. Margot MacGowen Flint was the name on my passport. I thought it odd that Grand-mère’s driver had written MacGowen on his card because she never used that name, dismissed it, I thought, as an affectation for television. But then, I do have a confusion of names. I looked around for my driver, but did not see him.

  “Please come with me,” the woman said. “Your bags are in your car and your driver is waiting.”

  I wondered how this miracle had been achieved, but was delighted that it had. I walked away with my escort as if VIP treatment was what I expected. After all, I was the lady wearing vintage, if borrowed, Hermès. Sic transit gloria.