The Sleeping Lady

by Bonnie C. Monte

  Julien found the spot in the fence where the chain link was loose. He rolled it back, and we scrambled through just as lights came on in the first-floor windows. Then, after a few moments, more lights came on in a small window upstairs. “That’s an office up there,” Julien said. “I was in there yesterday. Downstairs are all the shipments, still in containers. Listen, I’ll go up the fire escape and take a look through the window.”

  “Wait!” Luc said, but Julien had already broken into a run across the parking lot. We watched helplessly as he got to the bottom of the ladder, which hung five feet above him. He lugged some wooden pallets in place beneath, stood on them, and grabbed hold of the bottom rung. Then he hoisted himself and quickly scaled the ladder to the fire escape one floor above. Keeping close to the wall of the building, he inched along toward the lighted window and peered in.

  My heart was beating fast. “Come on, come on,” I muttered. Apparently Julien had seen enough. He turned and made his way back toward the ladder. I exhaled with relief. But suddenly the window opened, and a figure stepped out onto the fire escape. It was Marcel. I gasped and Luc clapped a hand over my mouth, pulling me down into a crouch in the shadows. I watched in horror as Julien spun around and froze. Then Marcel grasped his arm and climbed back inside the window, pulling Julien along with him. The window closed.

  Almost simultaneously, the massive warehouse door rolled up and five men came out of the building. They opened the backs of both vans. They were getting ready to load the goods.

  “Oh my God,” I said, “they’ve got Julien.”

  “I’m going in to get him,” Luc said in a determined voice. “Call the police. Here.” He pushed his phone into my hand. “Dial one-seven. Then get back in the car as fast as you can and lock the doors.”

  “Luc, don’t leave me out here.”

  “You’ll be safe in the car.”

  “Luc, be careful—”

  “Dial!” he commanded.

  I dialed the phone, speaking to the operator in French. All the while my eyes were on Luc. The five men had gone back inside. Luc approached the building, looked around stealthily, then walked through the open roll-up door, vanishing from my view. “Yes, Pier Thirty-three. Please hurry!”

  I hung up and ran back to the car. After a few minutes, there was still no sign of the police. I could stay here and wait, or I could go find Julien and Luc. Dammit. I wasn’t going to just sit and do nothing. I left the car and hurried back to the warehouse, where the door was still rolled up. I slipped inside, into the blackness. Luc had taken the flashlight, not that I’d dare turn it on anyway even if I had it.

  I felt my way along the wall, navigating around objects. Dim light from streetlamps streamed in behind me from the open door. After a few moments, I could make out shapes better, and I moved forward with more confidence. This cavernous warehouse had no sound of voices, but I could hear footsteps overhead. I pressed forward, not knowing where I was headed but determined to find Julien. At last I saw a set of stairs. I tiptoed up a long flight and opened the door at the top. The light was bright. I gasped.

  There were three men rifling through files. And in a corner was Luc, bound and gagged, sitting in a chair. One of the men whirled around to face me. It was Jerome. At first I felt a wave of relief. Then I realized he was pointing a gun at my stomach. “Get in here,” he growled. He grabbed my arm roughly and shoved me into a chair, then bound my hands with duct tape.

  “Where’s Julien?” I demanded. “What have you done with Julien?”

  “He’s at the hotel behaving himself. Like you should have done,” said Jerome. “Too bad my driver in Paris had such poor aim. You weren’t supposed to recover from that little road accident.” He shoved a rag in my mouth. “This will shut you up.”

  Starting to gag on the dirty rag pressing on my tongue, I forced myself to take deep breaths. I couldn’t pass out. I had to find Julien. I looked over at Luc. He gave a little nod, as if to say, You’re OK. Breathe, breathe, I told myself. I wondered whether Jerome was going to leave us here. Would we survive until someone found us? How long would it be? I felt rising panic.

  “Go and start loading,” Jerome said. The men turned to leave the room. “Remember,” Jerome called out, “Ivory on the bottom, then the textiles on top, in case anyone searches the van.” He turned back toward us prisoners and smiled sadistically. “Now, what to do with you two meddlers. I hate to get the office all bloody. I suppose I’ll have to take you outside to kill you.” He looked at Luc. “We’ll start with you, I think.” He slipped the gun into his jacket pocket and approached Luc. “I’m going to untie you from the chair. If you cause any trouble, I’ll shoot her immediately. Do you understand?”

  Luc nodded. Jerome went around behind Luc and started to loosen the straps securing him to the chair. I wondered if I could drag my chair over and knock him down. My heart lurched when I saw Marcel standing in the doorway holding a pistol. “Step away from the chair,” he said.

  Jerome looked up. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Step away from the chair, I said.”

  A look of resignation crossed Jerome’s face. He started to move away from Luc’s chair, then with lightning speed pulled the gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Marcel. I screamed, but the gag reduced it to a choking sound. They both fired, and Jerome fell to the ground, silent. Quickly Marcel went to the limp body and pocketed the gun. He felt for a pulse, then nodded. “He’s still alive,” he said. Then Marcel removed our gags. “You must remain quiet. Do you understand? Not a word.” Luc and I nodded.

  I wanted to ask him about Julien, but I sat in frozen silence. Were we rescued or were we about to be murdered? I wasn’t sure. I heard sirens approaching. “You called the police, didn’t you?” Marcel asked. Luc nodded. “OK. It will be OK. Not what I was planning on, but I have enough evidence.”

  I had a million questions. Nothing made sense. But that was becoming the norm in the last few months since I’d fallen down the rabbit hole of murder.

  “I’ve been after these guys for some time. And you almost screwed it up,” Marcel scolded. He admonished us again not to make a sound before leaving the room.

  My memory of what happened next is a bit jumbled. There was a lot of shouting, noise, some gunfire, sirens. Maybe not in that order. People running up the stairs. The lights came on, and a uniformed policeman untied me and Luc and led us down the stairs and outside to a patrol car. Julien was already ensconced in the back seat. “Wasn’t that spectacular?” he said, wide-eyed. “Too bad Jerome got shot, of course, but it’s his own fault.” He talked nonstop during the ride to the police station, clearly in shock. Luc sat in the middle, with one arm around each of us.

  We sipped horrid coffee at the police station. I couldn’t stop shivering, even though someone had put a jacket around my shoulders. The questions went on for hours, it seemed. Explaining why we were there, how we were connected with Jerome, with Etienne’s company. I kept trying to explain about Thalia, but nobody seemed interested in her.

  Marcel came in, his arm in a sling. For the first time ever, I was actually happy to see him. I begged him to explain what was going on.

  “I’ll tell you this much. Jerome has been smuggling ivory for years. We’ve been closing in on him. He was doing it through the company.”

  “Did Etienne know?”

  “No. We thought so at first. The company had suspicious dealings. I was placed there undercover. We paid an employee to go on leave, and I took her place. But I soon figured out—”

  “You’re a police officer?” I interrupted.

  “Not exactly. I work for the European Union.” He continued, “I soon realized Jerome was operating without Etienne’s knowledge. Your friend Thalia caught me looking through the files. I’m afraid she got the wrong impression of me—as did young Julien. But, of course, I couldn’t confide in her. I couldn’t jeopardize the operation.”

  “So . . . so you killed her?” I asked incredulously.
r />   “What? No!” He looked appalled. “Of course not.”

  “But, then who . . . did Jerome kill her? Did she find out the truth about him?”

  “That I don’t know. Jerome has broken a lot of laws, that’s for certain, but whether he killed your friend, I don’t know.”

  Finally we were free to go. A police officer drove the three of us back to our hotel. Our arrival elicited a smirk from the desk clerk, but we ignored him and trudged upstairs. Luc insisted that Julien and I take the bed. He rolled up some clothes for a pillow and slept on the floor, covered in a jacket. I climbed into bed feeling a mix of gratitude at being alive and a profound sense of disappointment. “It’s not Marcel,” I said to myself over and over. I thought of calling Peter to let him know I was OK but realized that he had no idea I’d even been in danger. And I was too tired to talk to anyone.

  The next morning I woke feeling new bruises. Sure enough, my cheek was swollen and blackened. My wrists were scraped from the rough rope. Julien and Luc were already up and dressed. Hardly a word was spoken by any of us as we packed up and started the long drive back to Paris. We only stopped once, for some coffee and a soda. We finally arrived at Julien’s home in the early evening, exhausted and bedraggled. Julien unlocked the door to the apartment, and we followed him inside.

  Both his parents came running to greet him. Etienne hugged the boy and kissed him, while Renata launched into a tirade. “What in the world were you thinking?” she said to him. “You could have been killed. Why didn’t you call the police?” Julien tried to stem the flow, but she wouldn’t listen. Then she turned her anger on me and Luc. “Him I could understand,” she said, nodding at Julien. “But you two are adults. How could you be so foolhardy?”

  “Maman, it was fun,” Julien said.

  “Not another word out of you,” she said sternly to him. “Say goodbye and go to your room.” Julien hugged us, then left the room. When he was out of earshot, Renata said with intensity to me, “Is it not enough that your friend carried on with my husband? Now, because of you, my son was nearly killed. Please leave my house.” She strode out of the room.

  Etienne said, “Thank you for bringing Julien home safely.” As he walked us to the door, he said softly, “I should have treated her better.”

  I said nothing, and he continued. “Thalia told me she was pregnant and that I was the father. I’m afraid I didn’t react the way she was hoping. She seemed to think we’d start a new life together with the baby. But that just wasn’t possible for me.” He spread both hands as if to say, How could I give up all this? “I suppose she talked to you about our disagreement.”

  “No, she never said anything. I had no idea she was pregnant.”

  He sighed. “She was a remarkable woman. Remarkable. The time I had with her is something that I’ll always treasure.” He looked close to tears, but I felt no sympathy for him. He’d never had any intention of leaving his family, but he’d led Thalia to believe otherwise.

  As I turned to go, he put a hand on my arm. “I understand why you and Julien did what you did,” he said. “You wanted justice for Thalia. I’m sorry it didn’t turn out as you’d hoped.” We said our goodbyes.

  Luc drove to my hotel and parked the car. “Are you going back to the farm now?” I asked. “Not yet,” he smiled at me. “Come, let’s get some dinner. We haven’t eaten all day.” We walked to a corner bistro. I ordered some soup but couldn’t eat more than a few sips. How had this all gone so wrong? I wondered. “I was a fool,” I said. “What made me think I could solve Thalia’s murder? Renata is right. I nearly got us all killed.”

  After dinner we walked through the streets of Paris, a gentle rain falling. When we got back to my hotel, Luc put his arms around me and kissed me. A real kiss. “Goodbye, Rae,” he said softly. “Please come visit me again, under happier circumstances.” I promised to do that. We kissed again. I went upstairs to my room, packed, and changed my flight home to the following day.

  CHAPTER 31

  I wallowed in self-loathing during much of the transatlantic flight. God, I’d made a mess of things. No wonder Detective Hernandez hadn’t taken my rants about Marcel seriously. He must have learned at the very first interview that Marcel was a cop. That’s probably why he wanted me to call him when he heard I was in France—to warn me to stay out of the wildlife poaching investigation. Well, I didn’t need to call him back now. I was safe, and I certainly didn’t want a lecture.

  How had I been so colossally wrong? Marcel was one of the good guys. Jerome was a slime and maybe a killer. Renata . . . well, what exactly was Renata’s role in all this? The note she’d left at Thalia’s hotel made sense, given her history of stalking her husband’s lovers. But I was stumped by the blackmail. And I was still stinging from her rebuke yesterday. She was right. I’d encouraged her son to put himself in danger. I should have simply gone to the police about the smuggling.

  All the doubts I’d entertained right after the murder came flooding back. Not only was I a failure at sleuthing, but was I also deluding myself thinking I could operate the business without Thalia? She had been the driving force, it seemed, while I tagged along. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to run the show. And look where my misguided efforts at detection had gotten me: bruised and humiliated. I had failed miserably. Then there was Peter. I’d been treating him like crap, caught up in a schoolgirl crush, running off to France.

  I was passing over the Great Lakes when I made the mistake of reading the Chronicle article about me. I’d resisted for weeks, heeding Peter’s advice to ignore it. Although the article adopted a pseudosympathetic tone, it did rehash the whole stolen-art debacle and subtly implied that it was no coincidence I was now connected with a murder investigation. But it was the 142 online comments that made me order a second Bloody Mary. People who knew nothing about what had happened had no qualms assuming I was a thief—or worse. Why isn’t she in jail? Why are we reading about this woman again? Art fraud? Murder? Why are you giving ink to this career criminal? I slammed my computer shut. Damn Barbara Abrams. I vowed not to grant any more interviews.

  Sonia picked me up at the airport, wearing striped bell-bottoms and a shaggy faux fur vest that on anyone with less panache would have brought to mind a gorilla. During the drive home, I poured out the whole story about Jerome and Marcel, Luc’s farm, nearly getting run over, the trip to the warehouse, the shooting. I left out the part about kissing Luc. We were almost in Fairfax by the time I’d finished my saga.

  “Holy crap,” she finally said. “I’m glad you made it back in one piece.”

  “Me too.”

  “So you’re giving up sleuthing, I hope.”

  “Yes,” I said emphatically.

  A few minutes later, Sonia dropped me off in front of my house. It was a relief to be home. Back to my garden, my dog, my long-suffering husband who put up with me. Both Jasper and Peter greeted me with enthusiasm. Peter made a fuss over my bruises, but I assured him I was none the worse for wear.

  “Something smells delicious,” I said.

  “I made moussaka for you. I know you love it.”

  OK, that settled it. If he wanted to move to Arizona, we’d make that work. He could go soon, while I concentrated on boosting business at the shop. I’d learned a thing or two from Thalia, hadn’t I? Then I’d sell the business for a nice profit and join Peter. I was exceedingly grateful that I hadn’t slept with Luc. I’d come close, that was for sure. Perhaps, I thought, it was guilt over Thalia’s death that had pushed me toward ruining my own life. Luckily, I’d made it back from the brink.

  We had dinner by candlelight, and I told Peter the whole story about the smuggling and the shooting in the warehouse. When I was finished, he pretty much said the same thing Sonia had said: time to give up playing detective. “Stop this dangerous nonsense and let the professionals handle it. Jasper and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  We went upstairs to bed, leaving the dirty dishes until morning. I’d missed him, more than I’d
realized. When Peter took me in his arms, I told him that I was willing to move to Arizona. “Whatever makes you happy,” I said. We made love, then fell asleep with our legs entwined.

  CHAPTER 32

  The next day was Wednesday. The shop was closed, but thanks to my new resolve to make it a smashing success, I was there by eight, dusting and rearranging merchandise. Tilly’s precious Quimper cups and saucers received a prominent place on the shelves. I was looking forward to a busy day of work tomorrow.

  I tackled the mail next, sorting it into stacks. Bills to pay, receipts to file. A letter from the insurance company said the claim had been settled and the money would be in my hands within two weeks. Fabulous! I had some improvements in mind for the shop. And some of the money would help Peter get his debts paid off and even work on the rental properties. The rest would go in the bank. It felt good to know there was extra cash on hand in case of an emergency.

  My contented state of mind didn’t last for long, though. Thoughts of money got me pondering that blackmail note again. Who had written it? Renata, as far as I knew, had no reason to resort to extortion. Maybe Peter had been right all along. Maybe that first note hadn’t been about money. What if it was just a warning to Thalia to leave Etienne alone?

  Then what? I considered the possibilities. Suppose she’d told Garrett about the affair. Maybe she’d decided to leave him after all. I rejected that idea. So maybe Garrett had figured it out for himself. Thalia hadn’t exactly kept her infatuation with Etienne hidden at the party. Yes, he could have figured it out. And Garrett was shrewd enough to keep the knowledge hidden. That’s what made him such a good attorney.

  I began pacing the store. OK, so he writes a second note to lure her to the park. He doesn’t really want money, of course, but he thinks she’ll show up, and he wants to get her alone. As the police said, he was close by at what’s-his-name’s house. He could have slipped into the park and killed her. Oh, and his gun was missing. Garrett as cold-blooded killer? Well, yes, it was possible. Especially if he knew Thalia was pregnant. That might have pushed him too far. Maybe he found a pregnancy test kit in Thalia’s bathroom. Or maybe—no. Well, maybe. Maybe she told him. If she was planning to leave him for Etienne, why not tell him everything? Despite Garrett’s insistence that he had no idea of the pregnancy until the autopsy, if you were capable of murder, I reasoned, you were certainly capable of lying.