Murder in the Latin Quarter (11 page)

M
aggie hesitated
at the intersection of rue du Bac and Boulevard Saint-Germain. Delphine had said on the phone that Amelie would soon be with her. Maggie shifted the weight of Mila on her back. The weather was fine and Maggie had plenty of energy.

The fact was, in a surprisingly unguarded moment at breakfast yesterday Delphine had causally mentioned the name of the street where Laurent had grown up. It was a throwaway comment and Maggie had done everything in her power not to react. Laurent had always refused to even hint at the neighborhood where he'd lived as a boy.

Literally five minutes after Delphine had let the name of the street slip Maggie had typed
rue Bonaparte
into the GPS on her cellphone.

Now as she stood and stared at her phone screen she could see, amazingly, that the street was situated right off boulevard Saint-Germain across from Les Deux Magots, the restaurant where she'd met Grace and André. She immediately forced away the negative reaction that was triggered by the thought. She knew herself well enough to know she'd only make things worse by overanalyzing feelings when she had nothing but gut instinct to go on. And she probably owed Grace more than that.

She reversed her route until she was in front of the restaurant—an easy ten minutes from Delphine's apartment. Mila had gone very still in her backpack which Maggie assumed was because she'd nodded off.

She spotted the street sign for rue Bonaparte right off from Boulevard Saint-Germain, across from the famous Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir restaurant. Maggie felt a burst of adrenaline.

Finally! She would see where Laurent came from! She would see the mean streets and witness the squalor and degradation that he'd had to overcome. The thought of it made her love him all the more.

I may never even tell him I saw it. Clearly he doesn't want me to see it.
But he couldn't know how much more wonderful it makes his transformation from street urchin to prosperous vineyard owner.
Maybe it's a uniquely American concept—the whole rags to riches thing.

The first block she walked down on rue Bonaparte was full of cafés, souvenir shops and upscale restaurants. Granted, she was still in the heart of the Latin Quarter. Perhaps what had been a slum in 1975 was now a polished up version of blue collar housing.

She passed a store that sold only cashmere hats and shawls. Next to it was a shop with an array of leather goods—belt, bags, shoes and wallets—that made her stop and press her nose up to the glass. If she hadn't been afraid it might wake Mila, she would have gone inside leading with her American Express card.

She continued down the street. A prickling on the back of her neck made her turn once to look behind her. A steady stream of people—office workers, shoppers, and tourists—appeared in a steady surge. Ahead, the street narrowed after a few hundred yards and the shops disappeared to reveal only apartment buildings on both sides of the road.

The buildings lined the road—their facades gleaming with the characteristic cream-colored limestone of the classic Parisian buildings. Their balconies, stark black against the light buildings, threaded across the fronts as if in a continuous line. The ornate cornices on each window were perfectly aligned.

Maggie frowned and looked down at her cellphone.

Can this be right?

Gazing back at the towering, majestic bone-white buildings that lined the road, Maggie came to the only conclusion she could faced with the evidence:
Laurent wasn't raised in a ghetto.

He came from one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the Latin Quarter
.

T
he elevator was not working
.

Amelie shouldered her heavy market bag and began the walk up the stairs to Madame's apartment.

It was bad enough she had to work like a common scullery maid and every single day face the woman who had ruined her life—and ruined her poor mother's life! When Amelie thought of her mother—old before her time, hunch-backed and bent from years of labor—she shook her head to chase away the image and the ensuing hatred that burned her like acid.

Amelie had known the name Delphine Normand from the day she could understand language. She'd known the name before she knew there was a devil or before she grasped the basic concept of evil. It was not just her mother who'd told her about Madame, but the neighbors, the village priest, her school mates, Amelie's own aunts and cousins—all of them sickened with shame to even look at her.

Yes, her mother had fallen. There was no father to help shoulder the shame of Amelie's birth. But what did it matter? Could her mother have sunk any lower? It had always been just the two of them. She and Coeur. When her mother became too old to make enough money selling her body to the village men, she cleaned other people's homes, mended other people's laundry—anything to put food on the table.

Until the cancer took her.

A blessing,
her aunt had called Coeur's death. She'd stood at the gravesite, refusing even to hold Amelie's hand, and said it like a judgment.

There was no doubt, the way she said it, that she believed Amelie's death could only be another
blessing
for the family.

It was then that Amelie—at fifteen years old—knew she could not leave this world without killing the one person responsible for her mother's tragedy.

Amelie stopped at the landing on the fourth floor and felt her breath come in long, noisy wheezes.

What should I do, ma mère? Do I wait for the right opportunity? Or do I make my own opportunity?

The poison in the tea had only sickened Madame because Amelie had been too fearful to make it stronger.

What do I have to be afraid of? Could prison be worse than the hell I am living?

But she knew she couldn't allow Madame to destroy her, too. There had to be a life for her after the old woman paid her debt.

Je promis, ma mère
, Amelie thought, her eyes squeezed shut with determination.
I promise. I will make her pay for what she did to you and Grandmère.

She looked up at the final flight of stairs leading to Delphine's apartment. She was sweating now and her heart was pounding too fast. The exertion was too much. She couldn't go much longer like this. If she didn't find a way to do it soon she would end up stabbing the bitch in her bed with her own steak knives.

And Amelie did not want to go to prison.

She trudged up the final steps until she stood in front of Madame's door. She hesitated before reaching for the doorknob. It sounded like weeping coming from inside. Amelie held her breath and listened. Madame was crying. Had something happened? As she stood, debating whether or not to go in or what the crying could mean for her, Amelie made a slow half turn as if to survey the empty hallway. It was then she noticed the grill door to the elevator was open. She took two steps toward it and stared with astonishment.

There was no elevator to step into.

She slowly turned her head back toward the apartment door.

Je promis
,
ma mère.

M
aggie wiped
the perspiration from her brow as she hit the second landing down from Delphine's apartment lobby.

Who would've guessed the stupid elevator would be stalled at one of the upper floors?
Thank God she hadn't brought the stroller. She would have had to leave it in the lobby and carry Mila up five flights in her arms. She was also grateful she'd had the sense to switch from her flats to her tennis shoes. Although she'd taken flak for it from Grace, it made all the difference. Plus, there was the added benefit that she didn't sound like an army of cloggers coming up the stairwell of stone steps. Although not entirely silent due to her heavy breathing—
Mila was heavy
!—at least the neighbors would have nothing to complain about.

She took a quick rest on the last landing before powering through the remaining twenty stairs.

When she hit the top of the steps she saw Delphine and Amelie standing with their backs to her in front of the elevator with the door open.

Had the elevator stalled on Delphine's floor?

“I think the elevator's out of order,” Maggie said breathlessly as she came up from behind them.

Amelie shrieked and jumped back from the open elevator door. It was then that Maggie saw that the elevator car was not there. The door opened directly onto an empty elevator shaft.

“Jeez! Be careful!” Maggie said as she shot a hand out to grab Delphine by the sleeve and pull her back. “God, Delphine. That's really dangerous. What were you thinking?” Maggie looked from Delphine to Amelie. Delphine looked confused. Her face was white and there was a distinct tremor racing up the arm that Maggie was holding.

“I am sorry, Madame,” Amelie said. Maggie wasn't sure who she was speaking to but she stood with her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and frightened.

How could Amelie have made such a stupid mistake? Was she really about to help Delphine onto the elevator without looking first?

“I didn't know you were going out this afternoon,” Maggie said to Delphine who inched back toward her front door, wobbly stabbing the carpet with her cane as she went.

“I…I need to sit down,” Delphine said.

“I'll make tea,” Maggie said. She pushed Delphine's door open. “Are you coming or going, Amelie?”

Amelie flinched. “I am leaving,” she said and then turned and fled down the stairs.

“That was a close one, Delphine.” Maggie steered the elderly woman into the apartment. “Does it break down a lot?”

Delphine didn't answer but she didn't need to. In Maggie's experience, elevators in the older buildings in Paris were broken more than they worked. She never climbed onto one without major trepidation and full-on prayers for her safe arrival. Laurent said if she'd take the stairs instead she'd never have to worry about it.

She deposited Mila on the couch with Delphine and then went into the kitchen to make tea. When she returned, Mila was asleep in Delphine's arms and Delphine looked better. Maggie set the tray down on the coffee table.

“Where were you going? I didn't know you had an appointment.”

“I…I didn't,” Delphine said without looking at Maggie.

Maggie poured the tea then took Mila to put her down in the other room for her nap. When she returned, Delphine was sitting holding her teacup, but her thoughts were clearly a long way away.

The sun was bright on the multi-colored dhurrie rug in the living room. Maggie went to the floor length window to pull the blinds. As she did, she noticed a letter half written on the desk by the window. Before she could stop herself, she read
Cher Victor
. She could see that the rest of the note seemed to be thanking him for coming to her party and how much she enjoyed seeing him. Delphine's handwriting, although shaky from her age, exhibited distinctive flourishes and swirls. Maggie couldn't help but think how unfortunate it was that having a lovely hand was now a lost art in this age of texting and emails.

She stared out the window for a moment. She still couldn't believe that Laurent had not been raised in poverty. How could she have gotten that so wrong? He'd been raised with every imaginable opportunity and advantage—the same as Maggie.

But whether he'd been loved was another thing.

“I'm sorry, Maggie,” Delphine said when Maggie rejoined her in the living room.

“What for?”

“I didn't mean to be rude. Amelie wanted me to go out…”

“You don't have to explain to me, Delphine,” Maggie said, pouring her own tea. “I'm not your keeper.”

“I am afraid the visits from Gerard and Michelle have…unnerved me.”

“I'm not surprised. Did Michelle really think crashing your party was the way to get money from you?”

“Crashing?”

“Barging in.”

Delphine sighed. “The girl has been difficult, always.”

Maggie grinned at Delphine's reference to the forty-plus year old Michelle as “the girl.”

“Louis—my husband—spoiled her relentlessly.
Ainsi
, she expected more when he died.”

“Did he…was she not provided for in his will?” Maggie asked gently.

“No,” Delphine said.

Maggie and Delphine sipped their tea in silence for a moment.

“Was it recent, his passing?” Maggie asked.

“Last year.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“I loved him very much,” Delphine said matter of factly. “He was younger than me and that worked out well for both of us.”

Whatever that means
, Maggie thought.

“But of course there is always one who slipped away,
n'est-ce pas
?” Delphine said. Maggie had the distinct feeling that whomever Delphine was referring to was not Louis.

There was such a melancholy air to Delphine almost always—unless she was looking at Mila. Maggie knew she'd met Delphine under very trying times—what with the murder of Isla and then Maggie dredging up all her memories of Camille and the war. And yet, Maggie couldn't help but notice that at the same time the memories saddened Delphine, they also seemed to enliven her, even bringing her to life again, as if that time so many years ago had been a period of her life when she was really and truly alive.

“I never met anyone before Laurent who made me feel like that,” Maggie ventured. “I had boyfriends—even some great ones.” An image of Brownie came to mind and she smiled. “But nobody who I connected with like I did with him. For all our language barriers. Which reminds me. How did Laurent learn English?”

Delphine turned to study Maggie's face.

“There is much you do not know about your husband. You do not even know how it is he speaks your language so fluidly.”

Maggie blushed hotly. “That is true, Delphine,” she said. “But I do know a few things. I know Laurent always remembers to make my favorite dish when I've had a rough day. I know he will whisk both kids away to amuse them when he thinks I've had too much. I know he'd give his life for me—or either of our children. I know he'd never betray me with another woman. And I know all this in the best way you can know something. I know it in my heart and in my bones.”

The two stared at each other for a moment. Maggie felt her lips trembling. She didn't know why she was getting so overwrought. Maybe because Laurent's only relative besides that low life Gerard couldn't see what the rest of the world saw when they met Laurent.

“So you can tell me he learned English in prison or in an Indian whorehouse,” Maggie continued, her voice wobbly with emotion, “and it wouldn't matter to me. Because
however
he learned it,
however
his life was before he met me doesn't matter because it's what helped create the man he is today. And for that I'm grateful.”

Delphine reached out to squeeze Maggie's hand. “I see I'm going to have to give my nephew another chance,” she said.

“I'd appreciate it if you would,” Maggie said, brushing away a tear. “Sorry I got all upset. I don't know what came over me.”

“You are defending the man you love,” Delphine said with a shrug. “I of all people know how this feels.”

“Really? With whom?”

“I meant through my friend Camille,” Delphine said. “I wish you could have known her,
chérie
. She was so beautiful. Her laugh sounded like bells on the breeze.” Delphine smiled at the memory of it. She shook her head. “Oberleutnant Bauer and the French beauty,” she murmured. “Could it have been true love do you think? I know she loved him. I know she never stopped loving him.”

“That was his name? Bauer?”

Delphine withdrew her hand and sat up straight on the couch. She didn't answer.

“You know, Delphine, I think I can help you with what happened to Camille.”

“Whatever do you mean? How can you do anything? It is over seventy years ago.”

“I don't mean I can change what happened.”

“
Chérie
, could you go to the kitchen for some bread to go with our tea? I'm afraid I forgot to have lunch today.”

Knowing she was being asked to drop the subject, Maggie stood up. “Sure. Be right back.”

Maggie checked on Mila who was still sleeping soundly, and then went to the kitchen to collect an assortment of cookies and croissants on a dish. Out the kitchen window she saw Notre-Dame in the distance. There was something claustrophobic about the Latin Quarter, she realized. It was only when you got up high and were able to see out beyond the Seine and the Île de la Cité that you sensed it.

She returned to the living room and set the dish of bakery goods down on the coffee table.

“Oh, that looks lovely. Thank you,
chérie
.”

Maggie picked up a cookie and dunked it in her tea. “It was great meeting both Victor and Noel last night,” she said.

Delphine's face cleared. “I am so glad Noel came,” she said. “He is a true credit to the family. He is in politics in Switzerland, you know.”

“I did not know that.”

“
Oui
. He has a position for which he was elected. We are all very proud of him.”

Maggie knew there was only Delphine, Gerard and Laurent left in the family and she was pretty sure the two brothers never thought of Noel let alone felt proud of him.

“And Victor is like having a husband without the downside,” Maggie said.

Delphine laughed and covered her mouth, her eyes merry. “It is true,” she said, nodding.

“How do you know him?”

“Through Jacqueline. He and I were better suited and so he became more my friend. Especially after Louis's death.”

“I didn't want to bring down the party last night by asking him about his experience in the war,” Maggie said. “Remember you said I could ask him about what happened to him?”

Delphine nodded. “His family was the target of a reprisal by the Nazis.”

“By reprisal, you mean…”

Delphine grimaced. “When we French did something—killed a German soldier or blew up a truck depot—the Gestapo would murder dozens of innocent people in retaliation. Either they would execute French soldiers they already held prisoner or kill random people off the street. This time they massacred twenty people in a village just outside Paris, including Victor's parents and two sisters. Victor only survived because he was a small child napping and was missed.”

“That's horrible.”

Delphine shrugged. “It was the war.”

“I can't imagine how any of you lived in that kind of environment.”

“Where we lived was safer than the rest of Paris.”

“How so?”

“You understand the whole of the Latin Quarter is bisected by two roads,
oui
?”

“Boulevard St-Germain and…” Maggie ventured.

“Boulevard St-Michel. Everything else is a maze of crooked streets and narrow alleys—many too small to accommodate a vehicle.”

Maggie knew about the confusing labyrinth of the area firsthand and had gotten lost more than a few times. Each twisting alleyway looked much like the other.

“It was easier here than the rest of Paris for hiding and fleeing the Germans,” Delphine said. “There are so many places to lose yourself.”

A soft moan came from Mila in the bedroom.

“She's waking up,” Maggie said.

“It was bound to happen,” Delphine said with a laugh.

“Can I ask you a quick question before I go get her?” Maggie asked.

Delphine smiled but her eyes were questioning. “
Bien sûr
.”

“I couldn't help but notice that you have a locked room in your foyer.”

The smile dropped from Delphine's face and her eyes went involuntarily in the direction of the door.

“I was wondering what it was,” Maggie said.

Delphine licked her lips, her eyes on the door. “It is nothing,” she said. “A storage room only.”

“Why is it padlocked?”

“Louis had some paintings from his collection stored there. I simply have not gotten around to going through all that is in there.”

“I'd be happy to help you do that.”

Delphine looked startled. Her eyes darted from the locked door to Maggie's face.

“Why ever would you want to?”

“If I were able to find out what happened to Camille's daughter, would you like that?”

Delphine didn't answer. She stretched out a hand to pick up her teacup. Her hand shook.

“But of course,” she said finally.

“I might be able to discover something that will help ease your mind about what happened.”

Delphine glanced at Maggie and then at the locked door but her shoulders sagged with resignation and even the sounds of an increasingly awake Mila didn't bring a smile to her lips.

“I seriously doubt that,” she said bitterly.