Murder in the Latin Quarter (27 page)

<
He was trying to hide a facial deformity. Plastic surgery not so easy in those days.>

Deformity? Maggie looked around the kitchen in bewilderment trying to imagine what Dieter could be talking about. Then she felt her hands go cold.

The truth came to her like a lightning bolt to the brain.

That's
what was off about him! Dieter's nose was smaller than it should have been. His face was created for a larger nose. Dieter had had a nose job! She looked down at the phone in her hands, her thoughts racing faster than she could keep up with them.

<
Your grandfather had a big nose
?>

There was no response. Maggie didn't want to ask again. If she had to, she'd call him. Dieter probably knew that. Why was this exciting? Why was this important? What did this mean?

Her phone dinged again.

<
I'm sending the only photo I have of him without a hat. Please to not contact again
.>

Maggie waited while the photo downloaded.

She was about to see the face of Camille's lover, the man who had murdered thousands of innocent people and ruined so many lives.

The black and white photo uploaded. Maggie stared at it. Helmut had blond hair and a cruel gaze. His lips were full and he had high cheekbones. He would have been a strikingly handsome man if not for the protrusion of the bony hawk nose centered in the middle of his face.

The very same nose on Noel Lorraine.

N
oel was
the Gestapo officer's child.

Maggie stood up from the kitchen table. The revelation hit her like a train slamming into a brick wall.

Noel was Helmut's son.
And since Noel couldn't be Camille's son—he was born six months after she was killed—it meant someone else had slept with the German.

Someone in addition to Camille?

Someone
instead
of Camille?

Maggie thought back to the women in the nursing home who had referred to “that slutty Fouquet girl” and the fact that they'd never seen Camille with a German.

It wasn't Camille with the German. It had never been.

Maggie put a hand to her mouth to stifle the moan.

Delphine.

Noel was right about Delphine being his mother. Does that mean he knows about his father? Noel holds political office in Switzerland. A scandal of this magnitude—that he was the son of a Gestapo officer convicted of war crimes at Nuremberg—would be bad. If Noel knew…if the world knew…

A terrible thought came to Maggie.

Had Noel discovered the truth and killed Delphine in a rage? Or to keep her secret forever sealed? No, that couldn't be right. Delphine wasn't murdered.

Maggie wrung her hands. She had to talk to Noel again. He was the last person besides Maggie to see Delphine alive. She glanced at her phone. He was probably with Laurent and Amelie talking to Delphine's attorney right now.

Unbelievable. And on top of everything else he was collecting a third of her estate.

Don't jump to conclusions,
she thought.
Talk to him first. See if he knows about his father.

Her phone chimed indicating another text and she snatched it up, thinking Dieter had more information for her.

It was from Laurent.

<
Delphine to be buried in Cimetiere du Montparnasse. Memorial mass scheduled for Friday at ten o'clock.>

Maggie's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. She knew Delphine had been tormented by what she did to her friend over seventy years ago. Many horrific things had happened in the war. But Delphine carried the knowledge with her that what had happened to Camille was
her fault
.

The door to the apartment opened and Maggie was surprised to see that Beatrice and the children were already back for lunch.

“It is a beautiful day,” Beatrice said to Maggie. “And Monsieur Jemmy is a most clever boy. He can count to twenty. Did you know?”

Jemmy beamed and ran to Maggie. She knelt and wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck.

“He gets smarter by the hour,” Maggie said, her voice catching with emotion.

He giggled. “Tickles, Mommy!” he said, pulling away.

Maggie stood and kissed Mila in Beatrice's arms.

“Is Madame Van Sant still in bed?” Beatrice asked, nodding at Grace's door.

“Appears so. Beatrice, can I ask you watch the children a little longer today?”

“You are going out? Of course, I am happy to!”

“Great. I won't be long and I really appreciate it.”

Before she went down this road, before she convicted Delphine without any real evidence, Maggie was going to find out the truth once and for all. If she had to go to her grave with the secret of what Delphine did, she would.

But she wouldn't let it tarnish the memory she had of Delphine if it wasn't true.

She grabbed up her tote and quickly texted Laurent to let him know she was running a few errands and would be back in time for dinner. He was planning on driving back to St-Buvard in the morning and she intended to have everything wrapped up in a nice big bow by then.

She hesitated at Grace's bedroom door but decided not to bother checking on her. She kissed Mila and Jemmy and gave a grateful look to Beatrice and then left the apartment.

A
melie stood
in the square with her arms wrapped around her shoulders and her breath coming in short, labored pants.

So Madame was dead. Finally.

She took in a long breath and tried to expel it to see if she felt different. Nothing. The pain that sat in her heart like a malignant growth was there still.

Does the old bitch think it is over? That death has released her?

She looked at the ancient sycamore. In seventy years it had grown. Which branch was the one they'd thrown the rope over? Had her grandmother watched in terror and disbelief as they threw the rope into the branches of the tree?

Her phone vibrated in her purse but she didn't look at it. Madame's attorney. It seems Madame Normand had left Amelie some money.

I am fifty-four years old. No husband, no children, no education. Her money might have helped before. I don't know. Would it have changed anything? Would I have taken the money and forgiven her the crime?

When I die, could I look into Coeur's eyes or Camille's? And explained to them how much the money was needed?

No. However I might have reacted, I don't need to worry. That temptation was never offered to me. And now?

Now to be thrown a few crumbs from a grateful employer? And never to admit the truth for the world to know?

Amelie wished she'd had the courage to tell Madame before she died. She was sorry for that.

But it's not too late. Not as long as there is a single person with Delphine Fouquet's blood running in her veins.

The baby will be enough. She will replace the one who provoked such shame and infamy.

Amelie had been too meek before now.

She would be meek no more.

I
should have come here first
.

Maggie stepped from the train platform at Brétigny-sur-Orge. The little village was less than an hour outside Paris.

Instead of tracking down descendants of German lovers or thinking about going to Heidelberg—all along the answer was here and if I'd only doubted even a little of what Delphine told me about the story, I would have known to come here first.

This is where Camille Victoire came from.

The story of who Camille was and what happened to her daughter was here.

Why didn't I come here first?

Because Delphine said that Camille's daughter was taken to the south.

If I hadn't believed everything she told me, I would have come here first.

She glanced at her cell phone and checked the address of the Catholic church. It might be just a chapel or it might be something more grand, but there was always a church. And in Maggie's experience, the French Catholic clergy rivaled the Mormons for keeping records of their parishioners.

She was counting on it.

Brétigny-sur-Orge was a pretty village, especially in spring. The gardens that lined the walkway leading from the train station to the center of town were spilling with wood violets and cowslip. It was a perfect picture of tranquility and serenity. Maggie tried to imagine a child being raised here in disgrace. She tried to imagine what Camille's daughter's life must have been like so soon after the war.

As she stepped into the village Maggie could see the grey stone medieval church at the end of town. Maggie thought it had at least been there for generations and generations of villagers—for baptisms, communions, confirmations, weddings and funerals. Birth, life, death.

The village itself was only marginally more active than any typical day in St-Buvard. Maggie nodded at the grocer, a stout frowning woman who stood in front of her store with her hands on her hips openly observing Maggie as she passed. Most small villages in France tended to be, if not out and out unfriendly, then extremely wary.

Maggie made her way through the village toward the end of the street. She had worked very hard during the train ride not to think of Delphine. But her revelation about Noel's birth made that difficult. It explained why Delphine didn't want Noel to know she was his mother—because when he did there were just a few steps from that fact to the one that had her pregnant by an officer of the Gestapo.

Maggie shivered.

Enough! I'll accept what I have to when it's time and not a second before.

She reached the front steps of the village church. It was a classic example of Norman architecture. Grim and grey with massive thick walls and a main tower pointing heavenward. The large wooden front door was recessed under a rounded archway.

She didn't go through the front door but walked around to the back following a crumbling stone wall that defined the churchyard. Except for the grumpy grocer, she hadn't seen anyone since arriving at the village. It was just after two o'clock so it was possible everyone was either still eating lunch or napping. The village was close enough—just—to serve as a bedroom community to Paris. It didn't matter. The person she hoped to talk to—whether or not he would be able to help her—would be at the church and not in some office in Paris.

The cemetery behind the church was well-tended. Each of the plots was carefully weeded and several had fresh flowers placed by them. Unlike in the States, Maggie was surprised to see that there were actual planted flowers on some graves. Many of the tombstones looked ancient. She walked around until she found graves from the 1940's.

It's not that she needed proof that Camille had died. That was a fact of history. But she knew if she could find her grave, it would tell her much more.

I should have come here first.

A breeze picked up and she buttoned her jacket against the cold. The clouds looked heavy and full but Maggie was betting it wouldn't start pouring until she was back on the train to Paris. Her tote bag was heavy. She wondered if Laurent was out of his meeting yet with the lawyer. Was he back at the apartment?

She focused on the rear portion of the churchyard. This section was not kept up. Although many of the markers dated back to the twelve hundreds, some were more recent. Suddenly Maggie spotted a simple stone marker choked with weeds. It looked unloved and apart from the rest. When she stepped closer to it, past the brambles and the nettles, she could just make out the words carved on the stone:
Camille Victoire. Mort 1944
.

Maggie knelt by the grave. So Camille
was
buried in her village. Delphine had lied about that too. A wave of sadness crashed over Maggie. This woman was innocent. This woman had been betrayed by her best friend and died a gruesome and humiliating death. Tears stung Maggie's eyes.
Delphine, how could you?

She scanned the surrounding gravestones until she found what she was now sure would be there. It was just behind Camille's grave with several plastic flowers jammed into the ground near it. The weeds were overgrown so whoever had taken the time to honor the grave hadn't done so in awhile.

She read the words carved into the stone.

Coeur Tavel.

Maggie was robbed of her breath as she recognized Amelie's last name. She squatted down and pushed the vines and overgrowth away from the marker.

Nee 1938 Mort 1978.

The birthdate matched up. The fact that she was buried next to Camille did too.

She'd found her
. Camille's daughter.

She reached out and touched the stone.

“Dead at forty,” Maggie said softly, shaking her head.

Suddenly she was aware of footsteps moving toward her. She twisted around but lost her balance and fell forward as a strong male voice boomed out close behind her.

“I've been watching you,” he said.