Murder in the Latin Quarter (2 page)

T
he next morning
Maggie was up before Grace. They'd talked long into the night and shared a bottle of wine although Maggie noticed that Grace most of it. While Grace seemed happy and effervescent all evening, something still didn't feel right with her. Was it the problems Grace was having with Windsor? Would he really try to get full custody of both children?

Maggie knew Laurent talked to Windsor now and then. Perhaps he knew more about what was going on. She made a mental note to ask him.

Beatrice walked into the room with a sleepy Zouzou in her arms.

“This little one has a runny nose,” Beatrice said. “I think it best to keep her home today.”

“Oh, I hope she's not sick,” Maggie said. She instantly put her hand on Mila's forehead but the baby was cool, her face placid.

As Beatrice settled Zouzou in her chair at the kitchen table and turned to make her breakfast, Maggie's phone began to vibrate. Unless it was her mother again—unlikely at this hour—it could only be Laurent. She hadn't expected him to call so soon after last night. Her stomach clenched in anxiety.

“Hey,” she said, answering. “What's wrong? Is Jemmy okay?”

“He is fine,” Laurent said. “I need you to run a quick errand for me.”

“An errand?” Maggie relaxed and spooned some stewed apples into Mila's open bow of a mouth.

“
Oui
. I have a phone call from a doctor not far from Grace's apartment. My great aunt is sick. Go check on her, yes? Five minutes, no more. Just to see she is well.”

Maggie was speechless.
Laurent had a great aunt?
He'd never mentioned having any family. Except for his lowlife brother Gerard whom he hadn't heard from in five years, Maggie assumed there was none.

“Are you serious?” she said, the spoon poised in midair toward the baby's mouth.

“Not to make a big deal of this,
chérie
,” Laurent said gruffly. “I don't have time to come up and do it myself.”

“You never told me you had an aunt still alive,” she said, putting the spoon down on the table.

“Her name is Delphine Normand. She lives at 16 rue du Bac in the Latin Quarter,” he said. “Call me once you have seen her.”

“Sure. No problem,” Maggie said. “I'll go this morning.”

“
Bon
. And
chérie
?”

“Yeah?”

“Just five minutes,
oui
?”

“Of course, Laurent. Trust me.”

She heard him exhale a long sigh before signing off.

“Who was that?” Grace said as she came into the kitchen, her eyes were bleary and her hair uncharacteristically unkempt.

“You're not going to believe this,” Maggie said “I'm about to meet someone who can confirm to me that Laurent had an actual childhood and wasn't hatched.” She picked up the spoon and aimed it at the Mila's mouth. “Oh, we are going to have such fun today, aren't we, baby girl?”

“
T
his is a very ritzy neighborhood
, darling,” Grace said as she and Maggie stood on the rue du Bac where it intersected rue de Lille. “Did you know Laurent came from money?”

Maggie jostled an unusually restless Mila in her sling as she peered up at the apartment building.

“He doesn't come from money,” Maggie said. “His aunt must be rich through a marriage or something.”

“I'd say Great Aunt Delphine isn't just well off—she's seriously loaded.”

“So strange,” Maggie murmured. “Laurent was on her next of kin contact list. The hospital called him late last night when she was ill. So she knows he's alive. And vice versa.”

“Our Laurent is nothing if not a conundrum,” Grace said, stopping to light a cigarette in the bright Paris morning.

“Well, not this time,” Maggie said. “I'm squeezing the old dame for all her secrets. Laurent will be an open book by the time I'm finished with her.”

“Remind me not to get old and feeble when you want something.”

“You just can't appreciate how long I've wanted to know Laurent's story.”

“Something tells me, darling, even after one of your famous interrogation sessions, that Laurent's secrets will still be intact.”

“Yeah, well, we'll see about that. See you back at
mi-casa-su-casa
?”

“Let's try to master French before we branch out, why don't we?” Grace said, smiling and giving Maggie a small wave before leaving her on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building.

Grace was right. It was a really nice block. And that was saying something for Paris, where all the wealthy residential blocks were gorgeous. This one, of course, was slightly different since it was in the Latin Quarter. Maybe the area didn't have its reputation for being bohemian back whenever this building was built? Maggie crossed the street and immediately saw the builder's plaque on the corner of the building. 1865.

Seriously cool before its time.

With its angled mansard roof, garret rooms, and dormer windows, the building was classic Haussmann—like any idealized version of Paris rooftops from
Madeleine
to
Rattatouie
. The building was fronted with the local cream-colored Lutetian limestone that gave the whole street a light, elegant presentation which continued on to the next building and the next, each with balconies and cornices perfectly aligned.

Maggie glanced at the GPS map on her cellphone. This was definitely the place. Not fifteen minutes from Notre Dame and five from the Université Paris-Sorbonne. Maggie felt a squeeze of sadness at the thought. Her sister Elise had attended the École des Beaux-Arts ten years ago.

A massive pair of towering walnut double doors were tucked into an ornate shelf of cut stone in the building she now faced off rue du Bac. Maggie looked to see if there was a directory to show the names of who lived inside but wasn't surprised not to find one. She gave Mila a quick kiss on the head and pushed open the doors to reveal a large green courtyard within. The windows and balconies of the apartments that looked down onto the little garden were full of the usual geraniums and climbing roses and while the building looked understated and sedate on the outside, inside it was clear that the wealthy of the Left Bank lived here.

Maggie followed the brick walkway through the courtyard to another set of doors, wondering how a ninety-two year old woman easily came and went across the bumpy brick walkway. Maybe she didn't have trouble walking? Most people Maggie knew back in the States were on walkers by the time they hit eighty but perhaps a lifetime of perambulating Paris had kept Aunt Delphine limber and sure footed.

Laurent said his aunt had become ill yesterday and her housekeeper had called an ambulance for her. He didn't believe it was a particularly close call—but at Delphine's age anything out of the ordinary was cause for alarm. She had a home health nurse but it had been the woman's night off. By the time the hospital had presumptively called Delphine's next of kin a friend of the family had come to drive her back to her apartment.

Even so. The call had been made and Laurent clearly felt he needed to respond in some way.

Was there bad blood between them?
Maggie wondered. Knowing Laurent, it was a pretty safe bet that Aunt Delphine didn't even know Maggie existed—let alone her little great-grand nephew and niece. Perhaps this was a good opportunity to heal any family rifts? Laurent was a family man now. It was way
past
time to embrace the concept of family.

And that included his own.

T
he soldiers
and their dogs swarmed the baggage claim for the Amsterdam carrier. Noel Lorraine carried his leather valise across the hectic setting and headed toward the taxi stands outside Charles DeGaulle Airport. He didn't really have time for this trip but his last conversation with his aunt had worried him. She'd sounded weaker than ever. Something in her voice had convinced him she was declining. In many ways it was what he'd been waiting for. He couldn't ignore it now.

Not with so much at stake. Could there be more at stake than one's own identity
?

He waited in the taxi queue and scanned the skies over Paris.

Welcome to springtime in Paris
, he thought dismally. Grey clouds ready to burst with rain any moment. He walked to the next taxi in line and climbed in. He was proud of his agility at his age. Seventy-one and still limber enough to carry his own luggage. Some of his friends were hobbling along on walkers at this age or at least used canes. But Noel had taken good care of himself. Always plenty of exercise and he watched his diet.

And of course thanks to the loving Fouquet sisters, money had never been an issue.

“
Ou vas tu
?” the taxi driver asked.

“
Le Quartier latin
,” Noel said, leaning back into the seat.

This time he wouldn't take no for an answer. She wouldn't turn him away again. Not when time was running out for both of them. What did she possibly have to lose at this point?

He gripped the handle of his valise, his face falling into tight, tense lines.

She's dying anyway
. This time, no matter what it takes.

Delphine will tell me the truth if I have to throttle it out of her.

G
race settled
into the leather couch of the corner brasserie. Even though it was not yet noon, she ordered a martini. Her hand rested on her cellphone. She'd just disconnected from André. He was late but hurrying toward her even now, striding down the rue Dante. She smiled at the image of him in her mind. His hair dark and wavy around his chiseled perfect cheekbones and eyes as blue as sapphires. She felt a delightful flutter in her stomach and her fingers tightened around the phone as if it was the closest connection she had to him.

Was there anything more exquisite than anticipation? She looked at the door to the restaurant. He would appear framed in that door at any moment. She would watch him scan the room with expectation—looking for her, hungering for her. She wouldn't move a muscle; no wave or eyebrow rise would indicate where she was.

Let him find me as a wolf finds its mate. Let him sense me and be drawn to me.

Her drink came and she downed it in one long swallow.

Her skin tingled as she resumed her focus on the door. Was it the alcohol or the anticipation? The sensual tingling, the anticipation…

Her phone rang and she snatched her hand away as if it burned her.

Her heart seemed to hiccup in her chest.

No
. He wasn't calling to cancel. She had just talked to him.

The screen on her phone showed a smiling photo of her ex-husband Windsor.

She let out a snort of impatience.
Need to make this quick
.
André will be here any moment.

“Yes, Windsor,” she said coolly into the phone. “Now what is it?”

“I was hoping we could do this the friendly way.” Windsor's voice was soft and so familiar. For a minute, Grace couldn't believe that this voice she knew so well was connected to the monster who was trying to ruin her life.

“What do you want, Windsor? I'm in a meeting.”

“You haven't responded to anything my lawyer has sent to you—”

“Nor will I.”

“I don't know why you need to make this as bad as it can be!”

“Why are you calling?” she said, her eyes going to the door but now fearfully. She didn't want Windsor to ruin this moment for her. Damn him. He ruined everything.

“I'm giving you a heads up, Grace. Come home with Zouzou or lose her for good. I am not kidding you. You need to quit ignoring—”

Grace disconnected the phone and set it down on the table. She had to. André had just walked through the door and he was looking for her. He didn't see her yet. Maybe she was sitting too far back? She shifted in her seat thinking the movement would catch his eye but he turned and stepped deeper into the restaurant just when she moved.

With a small soundless moan of frustration she saw the waiter watching her. She nodded for him to bring her another drink.

T
he foyer
beyond the second set of doors was dimly lit, with only one small vertical window allowing a muted glow of light from the outside. It had looked like rain all morning and the light was murky at best. Maggie could see the floor was a pale yellow marble and again she couldn't help but wonder how an elderly woman walked across it without falling. Glancing at a brass mailbox on the wall, she noted the name
Madame Normand
was in apartment nine.

The stairs—also marble—curved around and disappeared upward in a steep spiral. The elevator was small. Its protective grill looked like it hadn't been replaced since the last world war.

What is with the French?
Maggie thought with annoyance as she stepped into the elevator. She pulled the wrought iron grill back with a screech, waking Mila and causing her to begin crying.
You live in a multi-million dollar Haussmann era building smack in the heart of the Latin Quarter and you can't afford to put in a new elevator?
Is the plan to wait until you plunge to your death in the old one first?

Maggie knew the vast majority of Paris elevators located in nineteenth century buildings were retrofitted to the available space, which meant the elevator was often crammed into the shaft in the middle of spiral staircases leading to the upper floors. Depending on the size of the staircase, this often meant extremely small elevators were only able to comfortably accommodate one person at a time.

And that person not the normal sized American.

After a lifetime in Atlanta of everything brand new and virtually never-failing, it made Maggie nervous to trust her life—and the life of her baby—to a Frenchman's often relaxed work ethic.

Laurent said she was prejudiced because she assumed only Americans could build an elevator that worked every time. But Maggie knew you didn't have to live in France very long to know that many French workmen preferred to drink their lunch and show up at their job site every other day.

She jabbed the elevator buttons and sent a prayer upward, hoping that would cover her for her less than generous thoughts about French workmen and their work habits.

The elevator lurched to a stop on the fifth floor and Maggie quickly disembarked. Mila still hadn't calmed down—not that Maggie could blame her—but she was hoping that her first contact with Laurent's only living relative wouldn't be to the accompaniment of a screaming baby. Even Maggie knew that was off to a bad start.

The hallway that led to Delphine's apartment was as dimly lit as the foyer. The carpet was worn and thin. The pattern in it was still discernible, however, and went beautifully with the towering ten foot walls in the hall. It was quiet too. Enough so that little Mila's whimpers sounded particularly loud to Maggie.

“Shush, Mila!” she whispered. “We're going to meet your Auntie Delphine. Let's have a sweet smile when we meet her, okay?”

Mila blinked at Maggie as if listening. She stopped crying.

Aunt Delphine's door—number nine—was at the end of the hall. They must be large apartments, Maggie thought. There was only one other door in the hallway. The stairs curved upward to more apartments on the higher floors.

She squinted down the hall and in the gloom saw something dark lumped on the floor at the foot of the stairs opposite the door to apartment nine, which was ajar.

Maggie knew the French were always having garbage strikes and got ready to hold her breath as she neared. But usually the bags of trash were outside in the courtyard or on the sidewalk, not in the hallway.

In two steps, she saw the dark lump was not garbage at all.

But a woman's body.