Little Death by the Sea (31 page)

Maggie opened the hotel door onto a small,
clean room with a double bed shoved up against one wall, a large
armoire facing the door, a small w.c. and a bathtub. There were
even little chalk and plaster busts of cherubs and various
goddesses scattered about the room. Over the bed hung a huge,
gilt-framed oil painting of Napoleon crossing a treacherous sea—on
his way to exile in St. Helene, she wondered? The painting
dominated the room. But best of all was the set of French windows
that opened outwards onto a Paris roof with Paris pigeons and a
melancholy view of more Paris roofs. Espying the impressive dome of
Le Pantheon from her window, Maggie felt another thrill. The
pigeons cooed amiably and pecked at each other and the roof.

Maggie unpacked her few things and put a call
in to Laurent. It seemed to ring a long time before he picked
up.

“
Allo?”

“Laurent—“

“Maggeee! You are there? How was the trip,
eh?”

“It was good. Oh, I miss you! I wish you were
here with me, Laurent. How come we didn’t do this
à
deux
?”

“Ahhh,
C’est très cher, n’est-ce pas
?
Very expensive. It is best you are just there.”

“Not from where I’m sitting.” Maggie settled
back onto her bed and gazed out the tall, open French windows. “Is
everything okay there?” she asked.

“Ah,
mais oui
,” he said. “But I am
sleeping the night without you and that is not good,
cherie
.”

“Not good for me either, sweetheart. I’ll be
back soon, though. I love you, Laurent.”

“
Et je t’aime, aussi, Maggee.”

She felt happy and tired and loved.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” she said.

“Okay.”

Hanging up, Maggie committed herself to
snapping out of her exhaustion. She remembered that all the travel
books said not to give in to jet lag until it was your regular
bedtime. That was nearly a full day away. Kicking off her shoes,
she wiggled her toes and massaged her swollen feet before putting
on a pair of high-top running shoes. She wanted to be comfortable
for the ground she would need to cover and at 145F a ten-block taxi
ride, it was pretty clear she would be doing a lot of walking.

The sky was leaden with a threat of rain so
Maggie slipped into a thin cotton jacket, put a few francs in her
pocket, and left her room, locking it behind her.

She deposited her key with the sullen young
woman at the hotel desk, gave her a cheery “
au revoir
!” and
bounded down the hotel stairs with more energy than she felt.
Looking westward, she could see the grand boulevard of
Saint
Germain
but decided against taking it this time. Plenty of time
to wander all over it before she left Paris, she told herself.
Instead, she turned north onto Rue Racine and crossed to the area’s
other large boulevard,
Saint Michel
. Along the way,
Parisians appeared to be preparing for their weekends with last
minute afternoon shopping expeditions. Maggie wasn’t surprised to
see that most of those preparations seemed to involve food, the
preparing of it, the selling of it, carrying it, and eating it—all
on the busy, bustling streets in the heart of the Latin Quarter.
The buildings that lined the narrow cobblestoned streets were
ancient and jammed together. The crumbling eighteenth century
architecture was testimony to the fact that little had changed in
this neighborhood in many years. Quaint shops and frenzied
marketplaces sprang up out of doorways and alleyway entrances. Café
fronts and restaurants, one after another, heralded Greek dining,
each restaurant advertising itself as better and more delectable
than the last.
Couscous, coq au vin, pot au feu
. The scent
of baking
rillettes
and the ever-plentiful
Croque-Monsieurs
filled the air. Maggie walked past
bookstores, cinemas, art film houses, discothèques and outdoor
cafés, all jammed with young people.

She continued down the Boulevard St.-Michel
until she reached the Seine where she stopped and stared across the
river. She had passed very near to Elise’s first apartment but had
deliberately avoided going there. Not yet, she told herself. From
the Seine, she turned east and walked parallel to the city’s great
river until she came to her destination: the Cathedrale de
Notre-Dame de Paris.

The cathedral loomed magnificent and imposing
before her, its twin towers as familiar and reassuring to her as if
she’d seen them every day in Atlanta, Georgia. Her mother had taken
her and Elise to Mass here as children and Maggie had been
impressed by an exquisite feeling of the glory and power of God.
Now, standing in the square before the cathedral, surrounded by the
ubiquitous lavender sellers, pickpockets and tourists, Maggie felt
the same majesty and magnificence reaching down to her. She settled
on a cold stone bench on the parameter of the square and watched
the famous church and its patrons for nearly an hour before she
realized that, aside from her early morning airport croissant,
she’d had nothing to eat all day.

Circling Notre-Dame, Maggie walked westward
again, this time on the
Quay de la Tournelle Montebello
until she reached Rue Dauphine. She took a seat at a small café
called “
La Place Americaine
.” She ordered the fixed-price
menu of paté and roast beef with
pommes frites
and the house
wine, which turned out to be a flinty dry white which tasted like
bouquets of flowers without the sweetness. To her relief, the
waiter was pleasant and friendly to her.

She looked out onto the street as she ate her
lunch and wondered which of the shops was “
Chez Zouk
.” The
address she had was ll Rue Dauphine in the Latin Quarter. She
guessed that Zouk’s boutique must be only a few blocks from Elise’s
old flat. Maggie had an image of Elise, the young American artist,
walking home from art classes and stopping in at Madame Zouk’s
shop. Probably caters to the bohemian-artsy crowd, Maggie figured.
Elise’s style was definitely not Ellen Tracy.

When she finished lunch and, again,
overtipped, Maggie continued down Dauphine until she found the
shop. It was small and looked old. A heavy wooden door with ornate
carvings seemed to bar the little boutique from a curious public.
The small display window showed antique jewelry amid dark cashmere
drapes and sweeping skirts. Nice stuff, Maggie thought. A little on
the black and spooky side, maybe, but then, that’s Paris. A sign
over the door read “Chez Zouk,” with a smaller hand-lettered
placard propped in the window which read “
Ferme pour
dejeuner.”
Closed for lunch.

Maggie checked her watch. It was nearly three
o’clock. These Parisians ate late, she decided. Undaunted, she
turned and headed north on
Dauphine
until she reached the
Seine where the
Pont Neuf
crossed over to the
Quay de
Louvre
and the Right Bank. The wind had begun to pick up and
she felt the rain in the air although it wouldn’t fall just yet.
The river looked wild and angry.

She remembered Elise writing about a view of
the Seine from her first flat in Paris and Maggie wondered how many
times her sister had seen it just like it was now. Exciting and
gray and compelling. She held her rain jacket tightly around her,
the temperature seeming to dip as she walked. She hurried down the
Quay de Conti
until it turned into the
Quay Malaquais
where
L’Ecole des Beaux Arts
appeared before her. The street
where the School of Fine Arts was located was brimming with some of
Paris’ oldest cafés. Immediately south of the school, Maggie caught
her breath to see the
L’eglise St.-Germain-des-Pres
.
Originally built in the sixth century, the church and adjacent
abbey were stunning in their majesty and antiquity.

Maggie returned her attention to Elise’s
school. So this is where she went, Maggie thought, moving toward
the entrance of the school. This is where Dad sent her. And while I
was studiously trumping all my classes with A’s at the University
of Georgia, Elise was prancing through the massive stone gates of
one of the finest art schools in the world. Maggie regarded the
impressive façade of the school.

And then she had dropped out.

Maggie retraced her steps on the Quays as
they flanked the Seine and imagined her sister returning to her
flat this way. It was the most direct route to Elise’s apartment
and would have taken her by Zouk’s shop. Maggie was aware that the
most “direct route” home would not necessarily be Elise’s first
choice. Chances are, she’d stop in at one of the smoky, dark cafés
packed shoulder-to-shoulder with ponytailed young people who
subsisted on thick and harsh demi-cups of French coffee and pack
after pack of
Gitanes
and
Gaulouises
.

Maggie walked until she reached the Rue
Dauphine and then turned south onto it. She could see before she
reached the shop that the proprietor had returned.

Madame Zouk stood in the doorway of her shop,
as if expecting Maggie. A cigarette was held to her mouth and blue
smoke encircled her beautiful face. Maggie was not prepared for the
intensity of the woman’s appearance. Madame Zouk was tall and slim,
dressed in black with gray stockings and black velvet slippers. A
thin web of black velvet caught her long dark hair up and carried
it gracefully at the nape of her long pale neck. Michele Zouk ‘s
eyes were dark and almond-shaped, her mouth was full yet not too
large for her delicate and finely-boned face. The drama of her dark
eyes against her swan-white skin was startling.

Maggie approached slowly. Zouk smiled, then
dropped the cigarette gracefully at her feet, not looking to see it
fall into the deep Paris gutter. She retreated into the shop
without turning her back on Maggie.

“
Bonjour, Madame
,” Maggie said
huskily, unsure of her voice. It suddenly occurred to her that Zouk
might not know any English.

“
Bonjour, Madame
,” Zouk answered in a
light, musical voice. She smiled at Maggie and gestured her into
the interior of her shop. “You are American, are you not?”

Maggie nodded, finding it difficult to stare
at the woman so openly and not blush.

“How did you know?” she asked.

Zouk swept into the shop before her, tendrils
of her black chemise wafting behind her like fog on the air. She
moved to the other side of a counter in the shop upon which was
displayed an assortment of jewelry and hair ornaments.

“I didn’t,” she said. “I guessed.” Madame
Zouk settled herself on a stool behind the counter and looked up
into Maggie’s eyes. “How can I help you,
Madame
?...or is it
Mademoiselle
?” Her eyes danced.

“It’s ‘
Mademoiselle’
,” Maggie said,
following the woman to the counter. “Your English is so good, you
hardly have any accent at all. You are French, aren’t you?”

Zouk laughed, a warm throaty sound that made
Maggie smile.

“
Mais, bien sûr
, I am French!” she
said, shaking her head and gesturing to herself, her shop. Except
for the flawless English, the woman was the pure embodiment of
Maggie’s idea of the quintessential French woman: stylish,
beautiful, mysterious, with just a tincture of hard-earned wisdom
or sadness.

Maggie shook her head and blushed.

“Stupid question,” she said
apologetically.

Zouk smiled kindly. “You aren’t looking for
clothes today,
Mademoiselle
?”

Maggie touched her rain jacket and felt
distinctly frumpy next to Zouk.

“No,
Madame
, I am looking for you.”
Maggie rushed on in the face of the woman’s raised eyebrow. “I
think you knew my sister, Elise Newberry, and, if you did, I was
hoping you could tell me some things about her.”

As she spoke, she noticed that Zouk’s manner
had changed. The smile disappeared from her lips and her graceful
spine stiffened. Zouk brought her hands together quietly and
observed Maggie for a moment.

“You are Maggie,” she said finally.

Maggie nodded. “And you were...Elise’s
friend,” she said. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

The French woman looked at Maggie without
speaking. Then, she got up slowly and picked up another handmade
sign with the word “
Ferme
” printed on it. She walked to the
front of the store and Maggie watched her place the sign in the
window. She carefully turned the lock on the massive front door and
returned to where Maggie was standing.

“Come,” she said, leading Maggie to the back
of the store. “I’ll make tea.”

2

The man’s fingers drummed nervously on the
paint-chipped wooden desk, his fingernails bitten and scarred as if
he’d actually chewed them completely off his fingers a time or two
in the past. Burton watched Donnell’s mutilated fingers continue
their drumming and vowed to stop biting his own nails just as soon
as he had the nicotine thing kicked.

Dave Kazmaroff sat across the room—with its
single table and three chairs—and balanced a legal pad on his knee.
He’d heard all this before. A hundred times before. But they had to
keep asking. You never knew, something might get said. His stomach
growled and he glanced at his watch.

“Come on, Bob, it’s a simple question.”
Kazmaroff could hear the fatigue in Burton’s voice. Usually, it was
a feigned weariness to allow the suspect a certain false security,
to encourage him to lower his guard. Tonight, Kazmaroff doubted the
weary tone was affected.

“I told you. I told both you guys. I
told—“

“Told us what? What did you tell us?”
Kazmaroff chimed in.

“I told you that I was just walking along
and—“

“Oh, give me a break, man.” Burton tossed a
pencil down onto the table and Donnell flinched. His partially bald
head glistened with sweat. Every so often, he would reach up and
smooth the top of his bare crown with his fingers. It was a gesture
that repulsed Burton. “You were just walking along and saw this
apartment and decided to go knocking on doors. Right. Man, you
don’t start helping us out here—“ The threat hung in the air.