The Sleeping Lady

by Bonnie C. Monte

  Peter went on. “Garrett doesn’t want to get too excited, but I can tell he’s feeling hopeful that they’ve got the right guy.”

  “That’s good,” I said docilely. I didn’t want to fight about it anymore. “I hope this is the end of the ordeal for Garrett.”

  “Me too. Want some dinner?” Peter asked. “I’m going to grill some burgers.”

  “Maybe later. I need to finish this glassware order.” I tried to work, but I couldn’t let go of this latest development. Could I have been wrong? What if this homeless man really did kill Thalia? Maybe it was a robbery. This randomness of the murder was profoundly disturbing to me, for reasons I couldn’t fathom. No, I reassured myself. It was someone from France who was responsible. It had to be, because of the blackmail notes.

  I turned on my laptop and began looking for information about extradition agreements between France and the United States, but everything I read was couched in legalese. Giving up, I went downstairs for dinner, still unsure about whether the real murderer could even be brought to justice, assuming I found some kind of proof.

  Steering clear of Fred Gibson as a topic of discussion, Peter and I actually had a pleasant evening. At about ten, I climbed into bed with my laptop. I was reading about criminals who had been caught and convicted after years, sometimes decades, when I heard Peter coming up the stairs. I quickly turned off the light, set the laptop on the floor, and slid from seated to flat under the covers, eyes closed. I was in no mood for sex, and the headache excuse was too clichéd to even consider.

  I lay as still as I could, as I heard him come into the room and undress. I knew he was folding his clothes and laying them over the back of the chair, as he did every night. He went into the bathroom. The water ran. I adjusted my position, facing away from his side of the bed. After a few minutes, the bathroom light snapped off and he slid under the covers beside me.

  I hadn’t been much in the sex department since the murder, but I couldn’t bring myself to fake enthusiasm I didn’t feel. Was I a terrible wife?

  Peter stroked my arm. “Baby, wake up,” he said softly.

  I didn’t move a muscle and even began lightly snoring, which I thought was a nice touch.

  “Wake up,” Peter said again. He was pressing against me now and kissing my neck. I turned toward him and put my arms around him. Despite myself, I was becoming aroused as Peter stroked my breasts and slipped inside me. It had been more than a week since we’d made love.

  When it was over, I nestled in his arms, happy that things were back to normal. I was nearly asleep when a thought jolted me awake. I knew why Garrett had withdrawn all that money. “Peter. Peter, wake up.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked sleepily.

  “That money that the police asked Garrett about. It was for you, wasn’t it?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Peter,” I scolded. “Why didn’t you tell the police? How could you let Garrett come under suspicion?”

  “What are you talking about?” He was wide-awake now. “The police never asked. And I never told Garrett not to tell them! All I asked was that he not tell you. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Oh,” I said in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”

  “Damn it, Rae, you’re acting like a crazy person. First you refuse to have sex. You think the police are idiots. And now you wake me up so you can yell at me. What the hell is going on with you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He got up and grabbed his pillow. “I’m going downstairs to sleep on the couch.”

  CHAPTER 21

  I took an early morning yoga class before work, hoping to clear my mind of Fred Gibson and my fight with Peter. For the most part, it worked, and I stepped out of the studio feeling virtuous. Jasper, tied up out front, was wagging his tail in response to the attentions of a passerby. After exchanging a few pleasantries with her, I popped into the coffeehouse on the corner for a latte and a muffin to go. Then I drove to Le Jardin with the dog, not bothering to change clothes, since the shop wasn’t open that day.

  The latte fueled me through several hours of paperwork. When all the bills were paid and filed, I turned my attention to the shelves, rearranging as I dusted. Things were looking a little bare. Ruefully, I realized Thalia had spent too much time with lover boy on her so-called buying trip and not enough time scouting merchandise. She’d left me in a bind. I’d need to get to some estate sales soon, since I couldn’t go abroad right now.

  Or could I? I was the boss, after all. True, the police had cautioned me to stick around. But it wasn’t as if I were on a no-fly list or anything. How would they know if I left? No, I told myself sternly, I’d just come back to work. And the business really shouldn’t be spending all that money on another trip to France. OK, that settled it. I was staying put.

  Ready for a break, I walked with Jasper to the nursery down the street and bought some fragrant herbs to spruce up the containers on the patio. On the way back, I stopped at my favorite deli, but instead of my usual takeout salad, I opted for a huge cream-filled donut, telling myself that my morning yoga exertions cancelled out the calories.

  As soon as we got back to the shop, I devoured the donut. Coffee. I needed coffee. I brewed a pot and then set to work planting the herbs. The dog sprawled in the sun while I worked. I envied his serenity. Not a care in the world. He barely blinked when I turned on the hose.

  Now with caffeine and sugar sending me into overdrive, I decided to update the window display. It was time to replace the summery vignette of a table set for an al fresco lunch. I briefly considered delaying until tomorrow when Susan would be at work to help, but I was too antsy to wait. Removing the party lights strung overhead, the dishes, and the table and chairs didn’t take long. I laid down a wool kilim rug that I’d bought at an estate sale, then dragged a vintage French leather chair to the window. Maneuvering the bulky chair took a while, and my back protested. But at last it was where I wanted it. I added a floor lamp, a small bookcase (I’d bring some books from home to fill it), and an iron fireplace screen embellished with curlicues. Jasper promptly lay down on the rug. I stepped outside to survey my handiwork.

  Perfect, especially with the dog completing the cozy tableau. I had to admit, much as I missed Thalia, it felt good to be running the business myself. I’d need to add another salesperson now that she was gone. But I’d already lined up two people to interview tomorrow for a bookkeeping job.

  I was back at the computer placing table linen orders when Peter called, apologetic about last night’s argument. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said. “You were right. I phoned Garrett today and insisted that he tell the police the money was for me.”

  “You did? That’s terrific.”

  “No more secrets. I promise.” Peter offered to make amends by taking me out to dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant. Naturally, I said yes. I suspected a discussion of Arizona would be on the agenda, but the prospect of house-made gnocchi and a big glass of vino won out.

  First, though, I had a few errands to run. At the dry cleaners, the young woman ahead of me in line carried a sleeping baby in a front pack. All that was visible was a mop of dark hair and chubby legs clad in stripes. I smiled at the mother and we talked for a minute.

  As I got back in the car with my plastic-wrapped dry cleaning, I thought again about Thalia’s pregnancy. Surely she hadn’t known. Wouldn’t she have told me? I had to admit that if she wasn’t planning to have the baby—as Hernandez had speculated—that might not have been something she’d want to share. The question of whether or not Thalia knew nagged at me. I still had a few hours before I needed to meet Peter. I dropped the dog off at home and drove into the city.

  The chic, gray-haired receptionist at the ob-gyn on California Street expressed her condolences when I told her I was a friend of Thalia’s. “Thank you,” I said. “The reason I stopped by is that I was in the neighborhood and was wondering if the doctor is accepting new patients. Thalia always spoke so highly of her t
hat I’ve considered switching gynecologists.”

  “I’ll check with her, but I think we’re at capacity,” the receptionist said with regret. “Of course, we’re always happy to give you a referral.”

  Actually, I had no intention of switching doctors, but I feigned disappointment. “Oh, dear. Thalia was so fond of Dr. Alvarez. In fact, I think she had been in for an appointment shortly before her death.” I paused and tried to sound mournful. “You know, to confirm the news.”

  “Yes, of course. That’s what makes it even more tragic,” said the receptionist, shaking her head. “Two lives lost.” Aha. So Thalia did know. My first reaction was anger that she hadn’t confided in me, but I squelched it. There was time to stew over that revelation later.

  “I suppose she was overjoyed at the news,” I said. “I mean, I know she’d been trying for some time.”

  “Oh, yes, she immediately made a phone call and sounded so excited.” The woman sighed. “What a horrible turn of events. I hope they catch whoever did it and charge him with two murders.”

  I murmured my agreement, then asked casually, “Do you happen to know who Thalia called to share her good news?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. You know, the police asked me the very same thing. I assume it was her husband. Is he Italian? I think she was speaking Italian.” She smiled. “Now, if you’d like a referral to a doctor, there’s someone else in the building I can recommend.” She handed me a business card, which I pocketed.

  So Thalia had known she was pregnant and had shared the news with someone. Someone who spoke French, I was sure—Thalia didn’t speak Italian. I considered the possibilities. Etienne? Luc? Her mother? I needed to tell Hernandez about this. But I wasn’t ready to call him and have my theories dismissed yet again.

  “She was a wonderful lady,” the woman continued. “What a tragedy. She was so overcome with emotion at the news, especially after she spoke to her husband. She was weeping. So many women break down, you know, after trying for so long.”

  I thanked her and said goodbye, crumpling up the referral she’d given me as soon as I got to the car. What if Thalia’s tears had not been of the joyful variety? I wondered. Suppose she had called Etienne, and he had not been pleased at their looming parenthood? That could sour their relationship, couldn’t it? But that certainly wasn’t a reason for him to kill her!

  I mentally reviewed everyone’s whereabouts on the night of the murder. Etienne had been in Sausalito talking to a rug merchant. Or so he said. And Renata had stayed at the hotel. Naturally, the police would have confirmed all that. But it wouldn’t hurt to double-check.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Thalia was pregnant,” I announced to Sonia.

  “What! When did she tell you?”

  “She didn’t.” I explained that I’d found out from Garrett, who’d been told by the police. “And this is the worst part—at least for Garrett. Etienne was the father.”

  “No! Did they do a DNA test?”

  “Yes. But they didn’t need to. Based on how far along she was, she got pregnant in France.”

  “Oh my God. This just keeps getting worse.”

  We sat in silence for a while, sipping coffee in Sonia’s backyard. The resident goat was munching on Sonia’s ailing rosebush, and Jasper was snoozing in the sun with Sonia’s two dogs, worn out from romping.

  “She told Etienne,” I said. “At least I think she did. All I know is she called someone as soon as she found out.” I filled Sonia in about my visit to the gynecologist. “The receptionist said she was happy at the news. But I know Thalia was still smoking and drinking, even after she found out. So she couldn’t have been planning to continue the pregnancy.” Sonia nodded. “I’m guessing Etienne said he didn’t want any part of it,” I said.

  Sonia winced. “Harsh as it is, it kind of makes sense that he wouldn’t want to have a child with Thalia,” she said. “That would really be a messy situation.”

  “Yeah. You know, I don’t think Etienne was as committed to her as Thalia thought. First of all, he brought his family along to her house. Why would he do that? And then you told me how he was flirting with you.” I shook my head ruefully. “I don’t know. Maybe to him it was just a fling.”

  “Maybe. Poor Thalia.”

  After a minute I said, “Do you think Etienne could have killed her?”

  “What? No! Thalia was mugged in the park. Why would you think Etienne did that?”

  “Well if Thalia was going to have his baby—”

  “You just said she wasn’t,” Sonia pointed out.

  “OK, OK,” I conceded. “But what if he didn’t know that? Or what if Renata found out and she made a stink, threatened to leave him? She’s the one with the money, so he might be desperate to hang on to her. I need to check both of their alibis for the night of the murder.”

  “Don’t you think the police have done that?”

  “Sure. But they’re not infallible.”

  “Sweetie, I think you’re becoming a little obsessed. Thalia was in the park after dark, and she was mugged by Fred Gibson. Can’t you just accept that?”

  “No. Not yet. How about you ask your new pal Detective Levine about Renata and Etienne’s alibis?”

  She shook her head. “You know he can’t discuss the case with me.”

  “OK, then ask him more generally. Ask him how they check alibis. Then steer it around to the Duchamps somehow. Use your charms.”

  Sonia rolled her eyes. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Peering through the plate-glass window, I spied a small, olive-skinned man seated at a gleaming mahogany desk. I knocked on the door. He rose to his feet and hurried to let me in.

  “How do you do,” said Mr. Akbari.

  “Thank you for meeting with me after hours. It’s difficult for me to get away from my shop.”

  “Of course. Would you care for some tea?”

  I accepted, and he poured me a glass of fragrant mint tea from a small pot that rested on a brass tray. The store was more like an art gallery than a rug shop. A selection of plush carpets covered the center of the gleaming wood floor. The walls had thick wooden shelves holding dozens of rolled-up rugs.

  Mr. Akbari motioned to two leather chairs with a small table in between. I sat. Clearly, this was a shop where customers took their time and personal attention was paramount.

  “I very much enjoyed meeting your friend Etienne,” said Mr. Akbari. “I appreciate his referring you.”

  “Yes, he’s a lovely man,” I agreed.

  We chatted for a few minutes, then got down to business—the business I had concocted as an excuse to meet. I explained that every once in a while, when I made purchases for the shop at estate sales, I came upon a beautiful rug. But since that wasn’t my area of expertise, I didn’t know how to price the rugs for sale in the shop. At Etienne’s recommendation, I was hoping Mr. Akbari could help me. “Would you be willing to do the occasional valuation if I brought a rug to you?”

  “Of course, of course, my dear. It would be my pleasure.”

  When I confessed that my knowledge of Oriental rugs was somewhat spotty, Mr. Akbari launched into an in-depth tutorial, pulling out merchandise in various styles as examples. I spent nearly an hour learning about knotting techniques, dyes, and the origins of different motifs. It was fascinating stuff. “Come, I have a treasure I must show you.” He led me into the back room. “This one has been purchased by a decorator for a high-end client. She’s picking it up tomorrow.” He unfurled a breathtaking carpet with every shade of blue mingling with deep red and chestnut. “Feel it,” he urged. It was velvety soft. “This is from the Caucasus. Woven in the nineteenth century. It’s in pristine condition. Rugs like this don’t come my way often.”

  “Etienne must have enjoyed seeing your beautiful merchandise,” I ventured.

  “Yes, and he’s quite knowledgeable. He told me that he has an eighteenth-century silk Kayseri in his bedroom in Paris.”

  “I wonder, did he
have a chance to explore Sausalito when he was here?”

  “We went for an early dinner, and I showed him the downtown. But he left soon after. He was eager to get back to his family. He’s very devoted to his wife, you know. He told me all about the trip to Bali he was going to surprise her with for their twenty-fifth anniversary.” Oh, dear. I wondered what Thalia would have thought of that. Mr. Akbari continued, “I do hope he didn’t get stuck in traffic. It was about seven, so that shouldn’t have been too bad.”

  “No, not too bad,” I agreed, calculating that Etienne could have easily made it to the murder site in Golden Gate Park by eight if traffic was light. But wait, Julien said he’d returned to the hotel at 7:45. Could he have left again? Presumably, the police had confirmed all this.

  Feeling like I’d wasted my time, and too tired to even think about checking Renata’s alibi, I hoped that maybe Sonia would have some luck getting intel from Detective Levine.

  When I got home, I got out my laptop to finish up a few work-related things, then checked my personal email. There was a message from Julien asking me to call him right away. A string of exclamation points reinforced the urgency. I checked the time. It was very early morning in Paris. He might still be asleep, but the exclamation points won out. Julien answered on the third ring.

  “I saw Marie Resnais,” he said excitedly as soon as he heard my voice.

  “Who?”

  “She’s the person Marcel replaced at my father’s company.” He went on to tell me how Marie had given notice abruptly, claiming she needed to move to Dijon to take care of her ailing grandmother. She’d referred Marcel as a replacement, saying he was an old family friend. “But I saw her riding her bicycle here in Paris,” Julien said. “I’m sure it was her.”

  “Maybe she was just in town for the day,” I said, frankly disappointed that this was the big news. “Or maybe her grandmother died and she moved back.”