The Sleeping Lady

by Bonnie C. Monte

  “By any chance was it Chanel No. 5?”

  “Um, yes.” The young woman blushed and averted her eyes. “Mille pardons. I didn’t realize she was a friend of yours.”

  “No need to apologize,” I assured her. “You’ve been a great help.” My thoughts were swirling. What the hell? Were Renata and Marcel in this together somehow? Had Thalia’s killer served me boeuf bourguignon yesterday evening?

  “I can’t believe Thalia is gone,” Tilly said as she poured tea into two Limoges cups. “She was so very full of life.”

  I’d met Tilly years ago when she ran an antiques business in the Tenth Arrondissement. Now she was retired. We’d remained friends, and I tried to visit whenever I was in Paris. It was a pleasure to sit in her sunny apartment and gaze out at the canal Saint-Martin. “After our tea, we’ll take a walk,” Tilly said. Like many Parisians, she walked several miles a day. No wonder she was still slim and spry at age seventy-three.

  “Tilly, I want to show you something.” I took the figurine from my handbag and held it out to her. She took it in her hand and turned it over. She examined it for several minutes, then said, “This is ivory. And judging from the style of carving, I would say it’s new. That means it’s very likely illegal.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I explained what I could about Marcel and the note he’d left at Arts de l’Orient, omitting any mention of his possible role in Thalia’s death.

  “You should report it. Let the police investigate.”

  “Yes, I probably should.” I knew she was right. But I wasn’t ready to involve the authorities yet. I didn’t want to drag Etienne’s company through an investigation if the only culprit was Marcel.

  “Come, let’s have our walk,” Tilly said when we’d finished our tea. We strolled in the bright sunshine along the tree-lined canal. Bicyclists were out in full force, as were a few hardy souls sitting on the canal’s edge with their bare feet dangling over. “What will you do now that Thalia’s gone, chérie? Will you keep the shop going?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “My husband is urging a move, for his business. I may go with him.”

  “I see.” She was silent for a moment. “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

  “No, you’re right. I love the house we live in, and I love our neighborhood. I have no desire to be anywhere else. As for the shop . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I hate to sound disloyal to Thalia, but I’m actually enjoying running it myself.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable, my dear. Thalia had—how to say it—a strong personality.”

  We walked for about an hour, then turned back toward her apartment. As we were crossing the iron footbridge to her side of the street, I found myself wishing that Peter had suggested a move to Paris. That I would do in a heartbeat.

  Back at her apartment, Tilly handed me a parcel. “Just a little something for your shop. I know how much you like Quimper.” She’d affixed a rope around the box to serve as a carrying handle for the plane ride back. “And here’s a roll of tape to take with you in case customs makes you open the box.” She thought of everything.

  Before saying goodbye, I urged her to visit me in California. “You know you’re always welcome at my house,” I said. She promised to think about it.

  Making my way back toward the République Métro stop, I stood at a corner, waiting for the light to turn green. Just as I stepped off the curb, I heard someone shout, “Regardez!” and felt a hand gripping my arm, pulling me back onto the sidewalk. I stumbled and crashed to the ground as a black car sped through the intersection. I must have hit my head on the sidewalk because I had a ferocious pain in my right temple. People were crowded around me. Someone retrieved my precious package of Quimper plates. I hoped they weren’t broken. I tried to get to my feet but sagged back to the ground. People were shouting all around me. “That driver was aiming for her,” a woman in a red coat was insisting to the crowd. “He was looking right at her.”

  I closed my eyes, hoping that the dizziness would pass. Within minutes, an ambulance arrived, followed by the police. The woman in red immediately approached the gendarmes, undeterred when they tried to keep her back. “I’m a witness,” she insisted loudly. “That driver deliberately tried to run this woman over.” That got their attention. There were several other people eager to give a statement and describe the car, for which I was grateful.

  Meanwhile I was on a gurney being carried into the ambulance. I called out to the man who had pulled me back. “Thank you. Thank you for saving my life.”

  He tipped his hat at me.

  CHAPTER 27

  The ambulance whisked me to Hôpital Saint-Louis. After looking me over, the admitting nurse told me that nothing seemed broken but they’d need to do X-rays to be certain. They wheeled me to the radiology department. I phoned Julien while I waited my turn. After assuring him I was fine, I asked what happened with Marie Resnais.

  “I showed up at her office and waited outside at lunchtime. When she came out, I pretended to bump into her. She didn’t remember me at first, but when I told her how I knew her, she acted friendly but definitely looked uncomfortable.” He went on to tell me that he’d made idle conversation, then asked about her sick aunt in Dijon. “I said, ‘I guess she’s better now, since you’re back.’ She nodded and then hurried away.”

  “Well, maybe it was legitimate.”

  “No! Don’t you remember? She told us it was her grandmother who was sick! She’s lying. Somehow Marcel got her to leave so he could take her place.”

  I had to admit his theory was making sense. “If you can, take a look at Marcel’s job application and see where he worked before—or where he says he worked. Text me.”

  Within five minutes, Julien texted me back with the name and number of Marcel’s previous employer. I phoned them. “Good afternoon. I’m calling to check on a reference for a former employee of yours, Marcel Benoit.” The receptionist didn’t know the name but admitted she was fairly new. She connected me to a man who also was unfamiliar with Marcel. “What department did he work in, madam?”

  “Um, well the job I’m considering him for is handling imports from Africa.”

  I was put on hold for some time, until finally a man came on who did know Marcel, much to my disappointment. “Yes, we were sorry to lose him after two decades. He retired.” I thanked him and hung up as a hospital attendant approached.

  He wheeled me into another room, where they took numerous X-rays. Then I was parked in a waiting room and assured that the radiologist would examine the film very soon. I sighed. More waiting. I called Peter. Naturally, he was alarmed to hear about my accident. He even offered to catch the next flight to Paris. “That’s very sweet but absolutely unnecessary. I’m just a little bruised,” I told him. He tried to convince me to cut my trip short, but I assured him again that I was perfectly fine. “Nothing to worry about. I’m waiting for them to give me the all clear so I can go back to my hotel.”

  As soon as we said goodbye, I vomited all over myself. That created a flurry of activity in the room. As one nurse was helping me into a clean gown, a young doctor came in, shined a flashlight in each eye, and concluded I had a mild concussion.

  “So am I supposed to go home and rest?”

  “No, you’ll need to spend the night here. We want to check you again in the morning.”

  Damn. The good news, though, was that the X-rays showed nothing was broken. I was wheeled up to a sunny room on the third floor. What a time to be stuck in bed. My next phone call was to Luc. I told him about Julien’s encounter with Marie Resnais and about Marcel’s seemingly bogus work history. “No way could he have worked somewhere for decades,” I said. “He looks like he’s only in his thirties.”

  Luc agreed that something was fishy. While we were on the phone, a nurse came in to check my blood pressure. Luc said, “What’s going on? Who were you talking to?”

  “Oh, um, I’m in the hospital,” I said. I grim
aced as he scolded me in rapid French for not telling him right away. More scolding followed when I told him about the accident. “I’m fine. Nothing is broken.” I omitted the detail about the concussion.

  “Listen, if we’re dealing with animal poachers—which it seems we are—killing means nothing to them. You could be putting your life in danger, Rae.”

  “No, no, it was an accident. Someone ran a red light. Luckily a man standing next to me pulled me back onto the curb.”

  “Thank goodness. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.” I didn’t see how it could be his fault, but I appreciated his concern. I assured him again that I was fine.

  “How about some company while you’re stuck in the hospital?”

  “Not today. I need to sleep. But if I’m still here tomorrow, definitely! See if you can find out more about the real Marcel.” I gave him the name of the man I spoke with who said Marcel had retired. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have more news. It was Renata who brought the first note to Thalia.”

  “Really!”

  I went on to tell him what I’d learned from the hotel clerk. We theorized for a while about what it all might mean. “So maybe the notes really were about the affair,” I said. It seemed a little far-fetched that Renata would lure Thalia to the park to kill her. But, Luc pointed out, not if Etienne was planning to leave Renata. “People kill their spouses’ mistresses all the time,” he said. “And Thalia being pregnant might have sent her over the edge.”

  “True. But where would she get a gun? My gut tells me that Marcel is involved somehow. All his lies—he’s not who he seems.”

  I had to end the phone call then because two police officers strode into my room, accompanied by a frowning nurse who told them they had only five minutes to speak to me. They agreed to be brief. They took down all the information I had, which wasn’t much. I hadn’t seen the driver’s face, and all I remembered of the car was that it was black. I was certain I’d looked both ways before stepping off the curb and that the nearest car had been some distance away.

  One officer showed me a sketch, based on the description by the woman in the red coat. “Do you recognize this man?”

  I shook my head, which hurt like hell.

  “Do you know of any reason that someone would want to injure you?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Well, yes, I actually did. I seemed to be pursuing a ring of animal poachers. But I decided to say nothing about that. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything else except what I’ve told you.”

  “Bien. We have a description of the car, along with conflicting reports of the license number. We’re still searching.” They promised to call me when they had more information.

  That night, I slept fitfully, dreaming about Marcel slaughtering elephants while Renata showed me her extensive diamond collection.

  Early the next morning, a neurologist came in to examine me. After having me parade around the room, touch my nose, stand on one foot, and perform other acrobatics, he pronounced me fit to go. I walked out into a crisp autumn morning and was helped into a taxi. Luc had offered to pick me up, but with my swollen face, I wasn’t eager to see him right now.

  The hotel clerk made a huge fuss over me when I showed up limping and bruised. He insisted on riding in the elevator with me and helping me into bed. “Madame Sullivan, do not hesitate to ring if there’s anything at all you need.”

  I thanked him and popped a few pain pills. As soon as I lay down, my phone rang. I saw that it was that awful reporter Barbara Abrams. Naturally, I didn’t answer.

  CHAPTER 28

  The next day, the hotel clerk had breakfast brought up to my room, for which I was grateful. I was even more sore than the previous day, with ugly purple bruises on my left arm and my temple. I was buttering my toast when Sonia phoned.

  “Are you OK? Peter told me you were in an accident. Why in the world didn’t you call me?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Really. How are things there?”

  “Are you actually fine, or are you just saying that?” she demanded. It took a while, but she was finally satisfied that I was OK. “Joe and I went out for coffee,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Detective Levine.”

  “I thought you couldn’t date until the investigation is over.”

  “It wasn’t a date. Well, not really. He asked me some questions about Thalia. So that makes it an interview, right? Actually, I could tell he was really reaching to come up with anything to ask. So I guess it was a date.” She sounded happy.

  “Did he say anything about the case?”

  “Not much. He can’t really talk about it. Fred Gibson has been charged with being in possession of stolen property. Not murder.”

  “So they don’t believe he did it?”

  “I’m not sure what they believe. But they don’t have enough evidence tying him to the murder. There were only a few tiny spots of Thalia’s blood on his clothes. And Joe said those clothes hadn’t been washed since the Clinton administration.”

  I laughed. “What about Garrett? Are they still hounding him?”

  “Joe hasn’t said anything about that. He did tell me that Hernandez has been putting in extra hours working the case,” Sonia said. “He’s due to retire in a month, and he’s determined to nail the killer before he goes. Oh, and he was not happy to find out you went to France. I told him you had to go for business and that you’d be back in ten days.”

  We talked for a while longer, then I hung up and returned to my breakfast. My phone rang again. It was Luc.

  “You were right!” he told me. “Marcel is not who he says he is. The man who retired, the real Marcel Benoit, was sixty-two years old.”

  “I knew he was a fake! And somehow he convinced or bribed Marie to leave her job and recommend him.”

  “You haven’t heard the best part yet,” Luc said. “My friend at the Val-de-Marne Préfecture did some digging about Etienne’s company. She didn’t find any dirt on the business. But two years ago a restraining order was filed against Renata Duchamp by someone named Laurette Girard.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Apparently, Etienne was having an affair with her at the time. Renata began harassing her, sending threatening letters, phoning her at all hours.”

  So what did this all mean? Luc and I batted around some ideas, but we couldn’t come up with a cohesive theory. Were Marcel and Renata in it together? Was the blackmail just a ruse to lure Thalia to her death? If so, why wasn’t she killed right away at six thirty? We had no answers, just lots of questions. “So what’s our next move?” I asked.

  “Your next move, my sweet, is to come to the farm with me. I need to get back to work, and you need to get out of Paris before any more motorists try to run you down. We’re taking the train tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up in a taxi at eight thirty. Be ready.”

  A trip to the farm sounded wonderful. But I felt a twinge of guilt. Shouldn’t I be pursuing Thalia’s killer, rather than having a holiday with Luc? Not to mention the fact that I was married.

  The next morning, Luc and I puzzled further over the revelations about Renata as we sat sipping coffee at a café in the station. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Why would she blackmail my sister? She doesn’t need money.” Neither of us spoke for a few minutes. Then Luc said, “Do you think Renata is somehow involved in the smuggling?”

  “Maybe. I spent hours online before bed last night, reading about the ivory trade. It’s heartbreaking. How can people be so evil?”

  He reached out a hand and put it over mine. “Come on, we have a train to catch,” he said.

  Our train pulled out of Gare du Nord right on time, traveling slowly through the Tenth Arrondissement and then the grimy outskirts of the city. Luc read the newspaper as I looked out the window. Dreary tenements marred the view, the same kind of thoughtlessly designed housing that blighted big cities back home. Graffiti was everywhere along the walls bordering the train tracks. We crossed into
morose-looking suburbs filled with more of the same grim-looking housing. “This is where the riots were in 2005,” Luc said. “People set cars on fire.” After about fifteen minutes, the landscape became less urban. The houses were smaller and modest, but at least there was some green space around them. I leaned back and closed my eyes, hovering on the verge of sleep. When I opened my eyes again, the landscape had given way to flat fields. Every so often we passed a group of cows munching grass. “We’re nearly there,” Luc said.

  We alighted in the pretty town of Chantilly, then walked uphill to where Luc had parked his truck. It was a half hour drive from here to the tiny village where his farm was located. The narrow main street was lined with stone buildings, their facades burnished to a golden patina by decades of sun and storms. There was a small grocery shop, a post office, a butcher shop, and a bakery on one side of the street. Opposite was a barn-like store that sold animal feed and other farm supplies. Carved over its front door was the original blacksmith’s sign. I stood trans-fixed at this town that looked frozen in time. As the noise of the train faded in the distance, a deep quiet filled the space, punctuated only by birdsong. But it was the earthy scent in the air that made me swoon. “What’s that smell?” I asked Luc.

  “What smell?” he asked, hoisting our bags and crossing the street.

  I followed. “Don’t you smell it?” I asked incredulously.

  “Nope.” Luc stopped at an old pickup truck, once red but now faded to a dusty brown. He tossed the bags in the back. “Probably the grass. It’s hay season. Come on. I need to check the mail.” Leaving the bags sitting in plain sight in the open bed of the truck, we walked down the block to the post office.

  Luc introduced me to the postmaster, a wiry old man who tipped his tweed cap at me. The man handed Luc a bundle of letters and a package, then asked him about eggs. Luc promised to deliver a basketful tomorrow. The old man tipped his hat again as we left. Luc opened the passenger door of the truck for me. It wasn’t locked.