The Death of Daisi

by Annette Moncheri

  The Death of Daisi

  Madame’s Murder Mysteries: No. 5

  Annette Moncheri

  Contents

  A Note to the Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

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  Other Books in This Series

  FREE Excerpt from Book 6: The Mortality of Matias

  About the Author

  Connect with Annette

  A Note to the Reader

  Bonne année, dear Reader! And merci for picking up this little book!

  I wanted to let you know—at the end of this book, you’ll find an offer to receive the prequel to this series for FREE if you subscribe to my mailing list at my website. Look for the link at the back of the book!

  À bientôt!

  ~Annette

  1

  Dear Delicious Reader, I am so pleased to tell you another histoire.

  In this one, we meet two monsters (besides myself, of course), but only one who is missing a part of their soul. Perhaps you have met a person like this yourself, and if you have, then I am truly sorry. Often nothing they do is really a crime, and so one cannot call for a policeman, and yet their damage cuts deeper than that of any common criminal.

  Well, allons-y—let’s meet our monsters, shall we?

  It was like any other night at Le Chat Rose, with a drawing room buzzing with mesdames and their customers, and the grand piano playing a cheerful jazz tune, when I heard an unintelligible cry of rage and saw Anaelle, red-faced, at the large fireplace on the south wall. She was ripping up a letter with tremendous fury, her long, fair hair tangled around her face. “I can’t stand her!” She began throwing the pieces into the fire.

  Mireille—she of the small, dark beady eyes and the passion for cards that had caused us so much trouble a few weeks ago—reached out but did not touch the other woman, clearly trying to placate her.

  I hurried over, tsking to myself. Anaelle was drawing attention and disrupting the conversations around her, and she was still shrieking when I arrived. “I can’t stand her! I hate her!” She spoke with such fury that her voice was turning hoarse, and her long hair was swinging dangerously close to the flames.

  I grasped her arms gently and turned her away from the fireplace, saying, “It’s not worth setting yourself on fire, darling.” As she settled down, I smoothed her fair hair back behind her ears until she took over the task herself with quick, impatient gestures.

  “Amitée again?” I asked. That was Anaelle’s sister, with whom she’d had an ongoing battle for the entire time I’d known her—some four years now.

  “Papa has sold all his bonds and given the money to her. He has so little money! And he’s giving it to her! She doesn’t need it! How can she lie to people like this? How can she use them this way?” She turned her pale green eyes on me accusingly, as if I were to answer for her sister.

  “Darling, I’m sorry. There’s no explaining some people.” I squeezed her hands. “But this isn’t the place.” I gave her a pointed look, and she glanced around and then scowled as she saw the people staring at her.

  “Go upstairs and take some time to calm yourself, all right?” I said kindly.

  She shook me off and flounced toward the front staircase. I watched her go with a sigh. Anaelle was difficult, but her sister was, as the saying goes, a piece of work. Her newest scheme, according to Anaelle, was to malinger—pretend illness—and apparently now she’d used the lie to coax money out of their father.

  “What’s the sister lying about this time?” Mireille asked me from close by, her voice lowered conspiratorially.

  “Oh, we shouldn’t gossip,” I said. I patted her on the shoulder and smiled to take the sting out of the correction. “Look, my dear, there’s a lovely man over there at the table by the door looking around longingly for a bit of attention. I think he’s a veteran of the war.”

  Mireille followed my gaze. The man in question had luxuriously tousled brown hair and a strong jaw—the kind of handsome that requires no effort. “Oh!” She smiled and smoothed her hair. “I suppose I could live with that.”

  As she sauntered toward the gentleman, I went after Anaelle up the stairs. Le Chat Rose was quiet tonight so far. I could take a few minutes away to speak with my girl.

  Upstairs, I found her weeping face down on her bed, and I sat at the edge of the mattress and stroked her back while I murmured comforting nonsense. I wished I could help. What I wouldn’t give to fly to Amitée and frighten some sense into her! It was a fantasy I sometimes indulged in—but Amitée was far away in Rouen, where I could not reach.

  Anaelle sat up with a red nose, and I brought her a handkerchief from her dressing table. “Tell me all about it,” I said.

  “Just what I told you before. She’s such a liar.” She got up and began to pace. “Papa needs the money he has. I send him money myself from my work here, and it’s not enough. And yet of course he would do anything for Amitée. She always plays this part of the martyr, and I’m the evil one! She calls me a monster!” Her voice choked in outrage.

  I got up and went to her and squeezed her shoulders. “You’re right to be infuriated, Anaelle, but you must find some way to let go of your sister’s behavior. Can’t you give me permission finally to tear up the letters that come from her so that they can stop tormenting you?”

  “But Papa hardly writes to me anymore. She’s poisoned him against me. The only way I can find out what she’s doing is by her letters. She just has to hold all her little victories over my head. I can’t walk away from Papa.” Her eyes filled with tears and she sank down onto her bed.

  “Darling,” I said. “I’m so sorry. But listen. The best way to handle the anger is to distract yourself. Wash your face, then come downstairs. Redirect all that passion into your work.” I found myself smiling mischievously. “Your next customer won’t even know what hit him.” I winked, and she rolled her eyes—but I saw her smirk, too!

  As soon as I returned downstairs, Monsieur Georges brought me an envelope, and when I caught the carefully scripted name and address on it, my breath quickened. It was from Inspector Baudet. What could this be?

  I tore it open quickly with my face turned toward the wall, just in case the message sparked an emotional reaction I didn’t want anyone else to see.

  It read, “Dear Madame, I hope to enjoy the pleasure of your company at nine o’clock this evening at L’Arbre à Cannelle. Répondez, s’il vous plaît.”

  I pressed the envelope to my bosom while I breathed deeply, my eyes closed for a blissful moment and a smile spreading across my face.

  Yet, at the same time, I began to worry. I couldn’t go to L’Arbre à Cannelle! It was in the 5th Arrondissement—just across the Seine, across running water. So close and yet… How could I explain this to him? I tried to remember the old excuses I’d given to past lovers… which way would work best this time…?

  “Aha!” A feminine voice spoke very near and a delicate hand plucked the envelope away from me.

  I turned my head to discover Hélène Bachelet, my dearest friend, her eyes sparkling in glee. “What have we here?” she asked as she unfolded the letter.

  “Hélène!” I protested.

  She read quickly. “Oh!” Her eyes widened in delight and she bounced happily, her black bangs jouncing along. “He’s asked you to dinner!” she announced as if this was news to me.

  “Yes, I’m aware,” I said, attempting nonchalance, but I could feel th
e blush spreading across my cheeks and my eyes shining.

  “Oh, you!” she cried happily. “He’s so handsome! Oh, those cheekbones… Are you smitten?”

  “No, of course not,” I insisted. “The inspector is handsome, I will grant you that. But he is of course, only…” I struggled for words.

  “’Only’?” Hélène asked merrily. “Only an incredibly attractive man? Whom any woman would rightfully swoon over?”

  “I am not swooning,” I protested.

  “Oh, you are,” Hélène said delightedly, her eyes sparkling.

  Just then, a hard, insistent knocking came from the front doors, and then came the harshly voiced word “Anaelle.”

  2

  Just in front of the doors and visible to all of the drawing room stood a woman who looked almost exactly like Anaelle, with long, golden hair falling to her shoulders like the sun’s rays. The woman’s fair face was flushed with some emotion.

  To my right, Anaelle stood up slowly from where she’d been sitting with a customer, her face sober and worried. The room quieted as everyone looked on, and I gave Hélène an apologetic look and began to close the distance to the newcomer, wondering what she was about to say and certain it couldn’t be good.

  “This is what you deserve, Anaelle,” the woman shouted. “This will make you sorry for all you’ve done to me—your very own sister.” She unstoppered a vial of clear liquid.

  “No!” I called, putting all my pouvoir into it. “Stop!”

  She looked at me and hesitated. She wavered slightly and put her hand to the side of her neck. “Don’t move!” I shouted. I hurried closer, while Anaelle stood frozen in place.

  “For all the selfishness and cruelty,” the woman said with deep sadness. “You will regret everything.” She blinked back tears, then cried out, her throat raw, “Everyone will regret everything.”

  And then, in one smooth motion, she turned the vial to her lips and drank it down, even as I again shouted, “Stop!”

  I was at her side in an instant, but too late—I pulled the vial away from her just as she swallowed. She groaned and her knees buckled. I eased her toward the floor, horrified, and let her lie down. My hand came away from her neck with a trace of blood on it, and I looked for a wound but saw nothing.

  She struggled for breath, turned pale, arched her back, and then exhaled in a long groan that ended in silence. I sensed the stopping of her heart and how abruptly the blood ceased to move in her veins.

  Gasps arose from the customers and mesdames around us. Various people stood, ready either to help or flee, I didn’t know.

  Anaelle shrieked and ran to us, sobbing. “Amitée, no!” She fell at her knees at the woman’s side. “Please… Mon Dieu…” She shook the still form.

  The fair hair came loose from the brunette hair beneath it… it was a wig. Anaelle drew a surprised breath and then suddenly leaned back, consternation on her face. “Wait… this isn’t…”

  A shadow fell across us and we looked up.

  Another woman who looked even more like Anaelle stood at the threshold with her arms crossed and her back straight. Long, blonde hair, fair skin scattered with tiny freckles. She smirked contemptuously. “Now are you sorry for how you’ve treated me, Anaelle?” she asked.

  Anaelle scrambled backwards from the body and the woman standing in front of her. “You—"

  “So you would cry if I died,” the other woman went on arrogantly, clearly enjoying her sister’s upset. “It’s nice to know you care so much. But the question remains, are you sorry?”

  Anaelle scrambled up, her dress in disarray. Her fair face, flushed from tears a moment ago, was flushed again but this time with some other emotion, and her eyes flashed brightly. “How dare you?” she screamed.

  She leaped toward Amitée like a snake striking, and I stood quickly and caught her arms to stop her. “Hold fast,” I said firmly.

  “How could you?” Anaelle screamed at her sister, her face so near mine that her voice hurt my ears. I firmly moved her backward, and she violently broke loose from me and stepped back.

  “And who is this?” I asked Amitée calmly, indicating the woman on the floor.

  “Just a friend who owed me a favor,” Amitée said dismissively. “She’s only pretending.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong about that,” I said steadily. “Your friend is dead.”

  “No,” Amitée said with a small shake of the head. “That’s ridiculous.” She nudged the other woman with the toe of her foot. “Daisi. Get up. The gag is finished.”

  “Check her pulse,” I said, gesturing in an invitation. I looked around for my night butler. “Monsieur Georges?”

  He was already at hand, of course. “The police, Madame?” he asked.

  “Not quite yet,” I murmured. I took Anaelle’s hand in mine, trying to lend her my strength as I came to understand for myself, with a dark sense of finality, that her sister was every bit the monster she’d always said.

  Amitée knelt and shook her friend, lightly at first, then harder. She made a sound between a gulp and a sob as she realized Daisi was gone from this world. She rose up and stared at us. I could see her mind working, devising schemes. “It wasn’t my fault,” she said loudly. “You can’t blame this on me! There was no poison, it was just water. I gave her a vial with water in it!” She scanned the room and saw no friendly faces. She turned belligerent. “You don’t know! You don’t know me!”

  At my signal, Monsieur Georges caught her shoulders.

  She struggled. “Let me go!” she screamed. “I did nothing wrong!”

  “Oh, that’s a matter of some opinion,” I murmured. “Hold her fast, Monsieur Georges. Hélène, call the police.”

  She nodded and went.

  3

  Not long after, several of us had collected in my office. Anaelle, Hélène, myself, Monsieur Carré (while two more agents dealt with Daisi’s body), and Monsieur Georges all gathered around Amitée, but her attention at this moment was fixed on her sister. All our attention was.

  “You are a burden and a curse,” Amitée said to Anaelle, her lips trembling and her tone so dark that it brought weight to her words. “From the very first moments, when you killed our sainted mother—” Her lips trembled.

  All our gazes turned to Anaelle, our expressions all equally horrified at the accusation.

  Anaelle flushed and her lips worked silently for an instant. “You cannot place the blame on the baby who is born! It is not the baby’s fault when the mother dies.” Her tone veered toward the hysterical, telling us all that this was a defense she’d had to mount many times.

  Our gazes turned back to Amitée, now doubly horrified that someone could lay such a heavy burden on her own sister.

  “From that moment on,” Amitée went on, still firmly committed to her line of argument, “you have caused nothing but grief and sorrow to everyone in your path.” She looked on the rest of us. “You don’t know. You don’t know what this woman is capable of.”

  “That’s entirely enough of that,” I said firmly, with just enough pouvoir in it that no one would dare to argue with me.

  To my astonishment, Amitée blinked languidly at me and then said, “Don’t you think, Madame, that some lives are simply a terrible mistake?”

  “Yes,” I said, and fixed her with a glare that could not be mistaken for anything other than a comment on her own person.

  She pursed her lips and looked away.

  Every so often I encountered one such as this—a human lacking normal conscience, a human perhaps missing a piece of their soul. Such a person was difficult to bend to my will—but I would bend Amitée’s—yes, I would.

  It would take more than one night. I would have to ensure that Amitée did not cross the Seine for several days so that I could ensure access to her. If I had anything to say about it, Amitée would soon be so terrified that she wouldn’t speak for a year—perhaps enough time to reflect on her behavior and make some new choices.

  “M
onsieur Carré,” I said with authority, “we need Amitée to remain on the Île until we have determined her innocence, is this not the case?”

  “Ah, well, since there is a possible murder we must involve the inspector,” he said, clearly taken off guard by my unconventional idea. “He will surely wish her to come to the commissariat at least for initial questioning.”

  “That’s not fair!” Amitée wailed. Her face turned pale and she burst into sobs—an impressive display. “I did nothing! My friend is dead and you blame me? I am the one bereaved!”

  I grimaced, as it pained me to agree with the villain in any way, but I spoke with conviction: “Yes, you’re entirely right, it’s absurd.” I turned my attention back to l’agent. “It will be far better for Mademoiselle de Gall to remain under house arrest here at Le Chat Rose for tonight. I can have servants stationed outside her door to ensure that she remains on the premises. Or you can leave another agent.”

  Amitee’s mouth opened to protest, and I quickly said, “Think of it, Amitée, you shall have our chef prepare your dinner and breakfast, and our servants will tend to your every need. I can arrange whatever little luxuries you might enjoy in the meantime. It is a far more comfortable place than a jail, is it not?” I gestured to the elaborately furnished room, with its ornate tapestries and window curtains, its rugs and table runners, gold-framed portraits and gold lamps.

  “Well, I suppose,” she said, still presenting herself as heartbroken, her lips still trembling. “I suppose I… I could endure.”

  “No,” Anaelle pleaded. “No, Madame, please—I don’t want her here.”