Murder in the Latin Quarter (14 page)

M
aggie didn't stop
to confirm it or ask why. If there really was someone following her, She knew she needed to lose him.
Now
.

Opting for decisiveness over analysis, she moved six steps back the way she'd come until she found a narrow alley she hadn't noticed when she'd passed before. She darted into it now. And ran.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she could hear the footsteps behind her—all pretense at stealth abandoned. She kept her hands on both sides of the rough stone walls to steady herself so she wouldn't fall on the lumpy cobblestones which hadn't been replaced in centuries. In front of her she saw only darkness but she had no other choice. She had to go forward. She'd committed to it and now she needed to follow through and pray for the best.

Looking up, she saw fire escapes hanging above her like iron aerial sculptures. Her left hand came to a gap in the wall and she realized she'd run past yet another narrow turn in the alley. Instinct made her swivel around and plunge down the new alley.

Whoever was following her would be able to look down the alley and immediately see if she'd taken it. He'd see her clearly…unless…

She came to another alley on her left and turned again.

Now she was running in the opposite direction of the one she'd taken when she had originally entered the lane. But unless her assailant had kept her in view through every twist and turn—and he couldn't have—he wouldn't know she'd turned off.

He'd look and see nobody in the alley—and hopefully—he'd go on to the next turnoff before realizing she'd taken the first one.

Her heart pounded in her ears until she couldn't hear the sounds of her pursuer over her own breath and heartbeat. She froze, trying to swallow the noise of her panting as the terror ricocheted around her brain. She tried to listen but her panic consumed all her senses.

If he catches me here he can do whatever he likes to me. Nobody would ever know.

In desperation, she looked up again and saw the lowest rung of the iron handle on one of the hanging fire escape platforms.

If he looks down this alley…

She jumped for the iron handle and grabbed it. Using her sneakers to walk up the side of the rough stone wall, she pulled herself up to the platform and lay flat, feeling dirt and flakes of rust embed into her cheek as she turned her head to listen.

She heard him. Over the pounding of her heart, she heard him.

He wasn't running. He was walking. Purposefully. Deliberately. He was looking down each alley. Maggie felt sweat form on her palms. The sound of footsteps was coming nearer. He'd be at her alley within seconds. She willed herself to be as still as possible so nothing would catch his eye.

She held her breath just as he appeared in the alley. He was tall. A knit hat was jammed on his head and he had a hand to his mouth as if trying to think. It made it impossible to see his face clearly. He hesitated at the opening but didn't stop. He glanced down the alley.

He didn't look up.

And then he was gone.

As she lay there, too afraid to move but with relief pushing through every pore, it struck Maggie that she'd escaped using the maze of alleys in the Latin Quarter—just like so many had done during the Paris occupation.

Only instead of Nazi goons…who was after her?

Her knees began to tremble.

G
erard hurried
the last two blocks up the street to his apartment building. He'd ruined his feet in the Middle East by going barefoot too many times over terrain both cold and hard. He'd lost a toe to frostbite in the desert. It was a fascinating story that he had no one to tell. There was no one to care if he'd died in the desert or a hundred times over in the souks and the tents that had been his temporary refuge for four long years.

He slowed and concentrated on making the final steps to the front door of the apartment that his aunt paid for. He grimaced when he thought of Delphine.

The sooner she died, the better for everyone
.

A homeless woman sat on the front stoop of his building. Gerard made a detour around her, but she stood up and touched his sleeve as he tried to enter the building.

“Monsieur…” she said.

“Piss off,” he snarled, snatching his sleeve from her. “I'll call the flics!”

“I have a proposition for you, Monsieur,” the woman said as she hurried into the building beside him.

“I'd rather screw a diseased pig,” he said. “Get out before I call the landlord.”

“I am not a prostitute, you bastard,” the woman screeched. “I have money you are entitled to through your aunt Delphine Normand.”

Gerard turned to look at her. She was in rags but heavyset so somehow she was getting enough to eat. Her hair hung in dark greasy strands to her shoulders. He made a grimace of distaste.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Michelle Normand,” she said, approaching him. “May we talk in your apartment? What I have to say is of a delicate nature.”

Gerard nearly laughed at the thought that this creature was delicate in any sense. But he would hear her out. She must be related to Delphine's dead husband in some way.

Inside his apartment, he tossed his key on the kitchen counter and turned to her.

“What money do you have that belongs to me?” he asked.

“Your inheritance from your aunt.”

“What does that have to do with you?”

“I stand between you and inheriting the money your aunt wants to leave to you.”

“What are you talking about?” He narrowed his eyes. If this stupid bitch thought she could blackmail him, she was as crazy as she looked.

“What if I told you that with a single phone call I could ensure that nobody with the name Dernier could ever lift his head without shame again?”

He barked out a laugh. “Like I give a shit about that.”

“My father told me your aunt has hidden Nazi treasure from the war! He said he lived in fear every day of his marriage that it would be discovered. I will make sure that it is!”

“Your father must have been as crazy as you are.”

“It's the truth! When I go to the police with what I know, your aunt will be impoverished!
And
she will go to prison!”

“And you are offering what exactly,” Gerard said sarcastically, “to ensure this doesn't happen?”

“Tell your aunt to put me back in the will. I only ask for what's mine. Just what my father wanted me to have.”

“So in return for carving into
my
piece of the pie you promise not to report these charges against my aunt?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I swear it. Delphine may keep her secret for perpetuity.”

“Get out,” Gerard said. He shoved her toward the door and she tripped, flailing with her arms to stay upright.

“Don't you understand me? I can ruin her! You'll get nothing!”

“And if I kill you?”

She stared at him with large uncomprehending eyes. “What?”

“
Kill
you,” Gerard said, leaning over her, one arm slammed into the wall above her head where she cowered. “If I choke the life out of you…oh, not here when so many people have seen you walk into my apartment…but later? When you are in your bed thinking you are safe? If I slip out of the shadows and wrap my hands around your throat?”

Michelle pawed at the doorknob behind her, her eyes never leaving his. “You…you…”

“Then I won't have to share my inheritance with you or worry that you might attempt to reduce my share to…how is it you put it?…nothing?”

She got the door open and Gerard pushed her out, watching her stumble to her knees before he slammed the door on her. He heard her howling from the stairwell.

“I will bury you all! I will bury every useless one of you!”

M
aggie didn't know
how long she waited but the rain had started and the shadow in the alleyway had deepened. She was cold when she finally sat up and took the measure of what had happened to her.

She'd escaped. She was okay. There wasn't a sound, not a ghost of a whisper of a noise to tell her that someone was still hunting her.

She dropped softly onto the ancient cobblestones in the alley and carefully, silently retraced her steps back to the main lane where she'd first entered. If her pursuer assumed she'd fled all the way to the end of the alley—and since he didn't see her turn around why wouldn't he?—surely she didn't need to worry about being intercepted.

But at this point, Maggie was prepared to worry about just about everything.

Who was he? What did he want with her? Was it random? Was she being targeted? Could it possibly have something to do with Isla's murder?

Maggie ran to the first lane she'd entered and saw what she'd missed before—a bare glimmer of a blinking light three long blocks away that heralded a traffic intersection. She focused on the light and ran toward it without stopping. After the first block, she began to see people again. As she reached the traffic intersection she saw the back of the
Èglise Saint-Sulpice
and knew where she was.

Thirty minutes later she was taking the stairs in Delphine's apartment two at a time to arrive wheezing and damp with sweat at her front door. It was already late afternoon. In the time it took Maggie to jog all the way back to Delphine's, she had convinced herself that the incident had been all her own doing. She'd allowed herself to get lost in unfamiliar territory and then isolated—two obvious warning flags for any mugger worth his salt. It was ridiculous to think she had been somehow targeted. She'd just forgotten her surroundings and nearly paid a high price for it.

Just because this isn't inner city Detroit doesn't mean it's crime free. Paris is a major metropolitan city.

“Maggie?” Delphine called from the kitchen. “You have enjoyed your outing?”

Maggie came into the kitchen to see Mila sitting in a high chair with a spoon in one fist and a face full of pudding.

“Hey, you got a high chair,” Maggie said breathlessly, coming over to Mila and giving her a kiss.

“Victor brought it today,” Delphine said smiling.

Maggie tried to imagine old Victor struggling with the high chair down the busy streets of the Latin Quarter and up the stairwell. There was no way that chair would fit in the tiny elevator.

“You have been jogging?” Delphine asked.

“Kind of. I went to Montparnasse to see where you used to live.”

“I understand that neighborhood is quite pretty today.”

“It was beautiful. I think you have to be rich to live there, though.” The last thing Maggie intended to do was tell Delphine about how she'd stupidly nearly allowed herself to get mugged.

“Your slacks are ripped!” Delphine said.

Maggie rubbed at the knee. “Yeah, I fell not looking where I was going. No biggie.”

T
hat night
after Mila was put to bed, Maggie put together a meal of takeout leftovers with a bottle of Côte du Rhone. Maggie couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Delphine so relaxed.

Ah, the magic of Mila
, Maggie thought fondly.

“So you are determined to write my biography, eh?” Delphine said with a smile as she sat at the dining table, their finished meal before them.

“Well, yours or Laurent's,” Maggie said. “Learning about your past helps me learn about his past. And as you know, I don't know squat about his past.”

“I have been thinking about that. And I have a gift for you,” Delphine said. She slid an envelope across the table. Inside was a key.

“This is to the storage room in the foyer?”

Delphine nodded. “It is time,” she said solemnly. “I have felt for so long that I was protecting these…items for the boys.”

“By
the boys
, you mean…?”

“Laurent and Gerard. It is their birthright.”

What the hell is in there?
Maggie wondered with bewilderment.

“For years I felt I was keeping them safe, keeping all of us safe. But perhaps I was doing just the opposite.”

Maggie waited for Delphine to explain but she just took a long sip of her wine. She looked over Maggie's shoulder in the direction of the locked door.

“I trust you, Maggie,” she said. “You are family.”

“Thank you, Delphine. I promise not to treat that trust lightly.”

Delphine shrugged. “You cannot change the past. I know that. It's time.”

Would it be rude to jump up and go unlock the door right now?
Maggie thought wryly as she slipped the key into her slacks pocket.

“Finish your dinner,
chérie
,” Delphine said as if she could read Maggie's mind. “It is a long walk from the old neighborhood. You must be tired.”

You have no idea
, Maggie thought, dutifully eating the last of her Thai chicken.

“It was interesting to see where you all lived as teenagers,” Maggie said. “I'm always trying to find out more about Laurent's family.”

“It's true I know very little about Laurent's parents,” Delphine said. “But I can tell you that his grandparents were very much in love.”

“I'm glad,” Maggie said. “Great dynasties should start with great love stories.”

“My father however was not happy with my sister's choice. Marc Dernier was a rogue, you see.”

“You mean like…a thief?”

“No, no. I mean he had a dangerous kind of style.”

“Sounds like Jacqueline had a thing for bad boys.”

“My sister was very strong-willed. She would need a strong-minded man to be happy.”

“Why didn't your dad like him?”

Delphine shrugged. “Fathers have different ideals for the men of their daughters. If Papa had not relented in the end and blessed the union, Jacqueline would have defied him.”

“What did Marc do for a living?”

“He was a leader during the war. Afterward, he was in business. I am not sure what kind.”

So mysterious. Is it possible Delphine really doesn't know?

“Marc and Jacqueline had two sons. Nicolas, the younger son, did well for himself although he never married. He moved south and grew his grapes and never returned to Paris.”

Jeez, way to stay close family.

“And Laurent's father, Robert?”

“A disappointment.”

Maggie could see that Delphine was tired. She'd babysat all afternoon and had obviously been thinking about family a good part of it too—something Maggie knew was emotionally draining for her.

Maggie had had a big day herself and not time enough to process much of it. Her response to Herr Schmidt—delivered hastily via her smartphone before its battery died—had prompted a reply with the name and email of Helmut Bauer's grandson. Maggie was vibrating with eagerness to send an email to him to see if they could meet.

After she said goodnight to Delphine and cleaned up the kitchen it was still relatively early. Laurent would probably call in another hour or so depending on what time he got Jemmy to bed. Maggie moved to the far corner of the living room, forcing herself not to go to the storage door and wrench it open to reveal all of its secrets. Not yet.

She put a call into Grace who answered on the first ring. Unusual for her.

“Hello?” Grace said breathlessly.

“You know it's me, right?” Maggie said. “I mean it should say so right on your phone screen.”

Grace sighed. “I didn't look before I answered. Hello, Maggie.”

Clearly, she'd been hoping it was someone else.

“Are you home for a change?” Maggie asked.

“I am. Is that why you're calling? To check on my whereabouts? You're starting to sound like Windsor.”

“Sorry,” Maggie said. “No, I'm calling because I have great news. Remember how I was telling you about Delphine's best friend during the war? The one who was arrested for consorting with a Nazi?”

“Of course.”

“I think I've found a way to track down her daughter—”

“For what possible purpose?”

Maggie hesitated. “To give Delphine the peace of mind she's been missing all these years.”

Grace made an impatient sound. “What if you discover something awful? After being tarred and feathered, what if Camille became a prostitute or ran for public office? Then what will you do?”

“Camille wasn't tarred and feathered, Grace.” Maggie said with irritation. “Do you even listen to me? She was
hanged
. Besides, I'm not looking for Camille. I'm looking for her daughter.”

“Fine. Whatever. But if Camille's daughter ended up having a terrible life of poverty and shame because of what happened to her mother, my question is the same: what will you do? Tell Delphine the truth? Or lie to her to give her the peace you think she craves?”

“God, Grace, you are so negative! How about I find out the truth first?”

A silence extended between them and Maggie tried to remember a single other time when Grace hadn't been fully ready to jump in and tackle a mystery with her.

“In any case,” Maggie said, “I did a little online research and I found a guy who knows the name of the grandson of the guy Camille was having the affair with. He lives in Heidelberg. So I was thinking, maybe you and I could pack up the kids and take a day trip to Germany. What do you say? It'll be fun.”

“Are you serious? What in the world would you say to him? ‘
Sorry you lost the war. Sorry your dirt bag grandfather had an affair with a Frenchwoman who was then executed. How's the rest of your life been?
'”

“I intend to phrase it differently.”

“It's absurd to think this guy would know anything about the daughter of his grandfather's girlfriend! From seventy years ago? He probably didn't even know his grandfather's girlfriend
had
a daughter.”

Maggie had to admit the way Grace put it, it sounded pretty weak.

“Maybe I should just call him?” she ventured.

“Yes, darling. Call him instead. Great idea. Especially since it's so much easier to hang up on you than close the door in your face.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of it?”

“I'm not trying to do anything except say that even if I wanted to go, I can't leave town right now.”

“Don't tell me it's because of your online business, Grace, because that dog won't hunt.”

“Much as I love all your southern slang, darling, the truth is I promised André I'd be his plus one at a big gallery event tomorrow evening.”

“I'll have you back in time. It takes three hours to get to Heidelberg.”

“That is an egregious lie, Maggie Newberry Dernier. It is five hours one way if it's a minute. The answer is no.”

“Fine. I'll go alone. Are you sure you don't want me to take Zouzou to give you a break for the day?” she said sarcastically. Instantly, she regretted the barb.

“Thank you, darling,” Grace said coolly. “But I have that handled. Have a nice trip.”

A
fter hanging up with Grace
, Maggie did a couple laps around the living room to work off her frustration. Grace wasn't interested in her friends, her family, or her own children! André wasn't a boyfriend. He was an obsession. And everybody knows obsessions are unhealthy. She glanced at the locked door of the storage room.

Mila moaned and Maggie turned away from the door and went to check on her. Once Mila settled down, Maggie poured herself another glass of wine and sat down at the dining room table with her laptop.

She typed out an email introduction to herself to the contact name that Herr Schmidt had given her. The Gestapo officer's grandson's name was Dieter Bauer. Maggie knew absolutely nothing about him and a quick Google search turned up nothing. In her email she explained that she was a friend of a friend of his grandfather's—
only a tiny lie
—and that she was hoping to find out what happened to his grandfather and any other information he might have about his grandfather's life during the occupation of Paris in 1944. She ended by saying she would be happy to meet him in Heidelberg if that was convenient for him.

Maggie finished off her wine and was about to close her laptop and give Laurent a call when her eye fell on Delphine's wine glass on the table which reminded Maggie of their dinner conversation. Delphine said she didn't know what Laurent's grandfather did after the war but that he'd been in a leadership position during the war.

Maggie opened up a new browser window and typed in the name
Marc Dernier WWII France
. The list of topics that resulted surprised her. She clicked on the one that said
France's hero
and a picture of Marc Dernier materialized on her screen.

Instantly she saw Laurent in the man's face and she felt her heart beat faster. This was Laurent's grandfather.
This was who he came from
. His eyes were dark like Laurent's and just as impossible to read. He had Laurent's full lips and thick brown hair. Maggie stared at the picture for a long time, trying to see if he were a kind man or tortured or complex or simple…or anything.

She finally gave up and scanned the two paragraphs of copy under his picture and then reread them again slowly before sagging back in her chair with her mouth open in astonishment.

The name
Marc Dernier
was known by every French schoolchild in the sixties and seventies.

He was a decorated war hero for the French Resistance.